When Winter Comes

It was the coldest night of his life, the night he spent before marching south.

His last moments in Winterfell were spent alone in his father's solar. The bed was neatly done and Robb lay next to the fireside, watching as the embers burned midway to the ground. The fire was warm and provided him with comfort. Yet even as he was surrounded by the cold, an inferno gnawed at his bones. He was brimming with liquid fury, and the flames demanded a sacrifice in the form of King Joffrey Baratheon, the son of the Queen dowager.

He received a letter by Sansa's hand but with the Queen's words. According to the Queen, his father was a traitor and as the new Lord of Winterfell, she ordered him to bend the knee to the new king.

In response, he called the banners.

Robb Stark would go to King's Landing to free his family from Joffrey but the one thing standing in his way was Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock along with his son, the Kingslayer, and sixty thousand men.

The challenge only added fuel to his anger.

Now he was far away from home where he felt the pungent stench of the South. Encamped in Moat Cailin, Robb prepared to move farther down with twenty thousand men of his own.

But the men trusted Robb as is. Their loyalty stemmed more from his imprisoned father than from him.

With whatever training he had amassed in seventeen years, he devised a plan. Bait the Old Lion at the Green Fork and capture the Golden One at Riverrun. It was a risky proposition but there was not much Robb wouldn't do.

Later, when he was alone with his maps and free of judging stares, he wondered. How far would he go to win this war?

The answer came from across the sea.

Chaos ensued in the Moat as his men woke up to the sound of horns. An unknown force approached them bearing a Silver Rose on their flags.

A fat and greasy man with yellow hair had come before him. The man's name was as ridiculous as the orange dress he was wearing. Magister Illyrio Mopatis. Robb would have laughed at the man if it were not for the five thousand soldiers accompanying him. The Company of the Rose they called themselves.

Sellswords from Essos, northern exiles because they refused to bend the knee to Aegon the Conqueror more than three hundred years before.

The Magister worked on their behalf and had an offer. But the choice was made for him. Those five thousand men could help him win the war as much as they could aid him in losing it before fighting even begun.

Whatever provocation from Robb's part could trigger the other side to attack. It was an option he couldn't afford since his own men stemmed from honor while Tywin could always just supply more with his gold.

Robb asked what the price was, and the Magister smiled as a self-satisfied hunter does.

He had him.

The Magister knew it. Robb knew it. He couldn't very well let his men know too.

In the morning, he knew he would have to explain his decision to men who already questioned every decision he made. Robb tried to access his tent and mull over potential answers. He needed to find a way to make this partnership work.

But without warning, the fat man had taken him by the shoulder, dragging him across camp to a faraway carriage.

"He's here to see the merchandise!" The Magister bellowed at the men guarding the carriage.

Robb didn't know what he expected to see.

Would she have wings on her back? Would her eyes gleam with madness? Perhaps she would breathe fire upon seeing him. Maybe an assassin was waiting instead, hoping to drag a dagger across his neck.

He expected many things, but not a frightened young girl.

She must have been sleeping because she stood up brusquely at the sight of him, grabbing several sheets with her and covering herself with them. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes wide with terror, eyes so blue they bordered on purple. Pale hair and skin blended with the white sheets covering her small frame. She whimpered, and he felt revulsion pool at his stomach.

Robb stormed out of the carriage and vomited into a bush behind his tent.

Inside, he gathered maps and pawns, wine and glass, all of them to accompany him through the night. He planned and drank to reach the point where he couldn't remember agreeing to a marriage with a young girl, the direct result of an incestuous dynasty.

Somewhere between the pawns and the wine, the lines blurred among the kingdoms. Yet his mind remained clear, stubborn and refusing to yield to the alcohol. If anything, the wine had drowned out the fire burning inside of him to reveal a deeper truth, so disturbing he wasn't sure he had the courage to acknowledge it.

It is in the darkness of the tent he realized there wasn't much he wouldn't do.

If uniting his family meant marrying Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of the Mad King himself, so be it. He would get those five thousand men for a price and would willingly spend an entire lifetime paying it back.

Aye, he would do that and burn stars for candlelight if need be.

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