Robb Stark crossed the threshold into his private chambers, where an ambient glow of warm orange emanated from the hearth, casting its flickering dance across the chamber. A solitary candle on the bedside table added its soft luminescence to the atmosphere. The bed, adorned with the pelts of beasts hailing from the North, beckoned, urging him to take refuge from the pressing thoughts of the imminent Lord's Progress. Shedding the cumbersome weight of armour and duty, even if for a fleeting moment, became a ritual of liberation.
The evening's events lingered in the corridors of Robb's mind—a complex mosaic of alliances and the delicate threads of loyalty for mother and sister, both. The visage of Sansa, her tear-streaked face and the determined expression she wore while discussing her husband, Jon, painted a poignant picture. Robb's emotions engaged in a nuanced dance, a tangle of familial responsibilities and the intricacies of love.
Slipping beneath the cosy furs, Robb released a weary sigh. The northern air, carrying the chill of the region, seeped through the robust stone walls, an ever-present reminder of the world beyond the sanctuary of his chambers. With closed eyes, he sought solace in the comforting darkness that waited to envelope him, a momentary respite from the demanding responsibilities awaiting him.
As the clutches of sleep ensnared him, Robb Stark's musings pirouetted between the imminent Lord's Progress and the distant silhouette of his erstwhile half-brother, now his brother-in-law, Jon. The upcoming comet, a celestial omen marking both their journeys, personal and political. Robb pondered the winding path that stretched ahead, fraught with challenges that would test the very resilience of the North, against a potential foe who was likely to betray their family for personal gain.
Excitement should have coursed through Robb as he contemplated embarking on his Lord's Progress. Throughout his life, he had been building towards this pivotal juncture. Approaching the age of eighteen, on the cusp of manhood, it was the time to forge connections with his bannermen. However, the prospect did not evoke enthusiasm. In truth, he faced it with a sense of dread, a sentiment compounded by various factors. Foremost among them was the impending separation from his sister and mother who were currently at crosshairs. As the most senior male in the house, it was his responsibility to keep the peace. A sense of urgency to repair the damage before it escalated was his immediate task.
Robb clung to a steadfast determination to support Jon and his sister against the impending tide of their mother's opposition. For Lady Stark aimed to maintain her children as her pack, she would need to reconcile herself with the presence of the dragon. But that would be for the morrow, for now, sleep awaited.
Come the morning, Robb summoned his mother to Sansa's solar, desiring an intimate discourse shielded from prying gazes and curious ears. The sacred tenets of House Tully—Family, Duty, Honour—demanded indelible inscription upon Lady Catelyn Stark's consciousness. The solar provided a sanctuary, free from intrusive eyes and attentive ears, affording Robb and his mother the seclusion needed. Meanwhile, Sansa, engrossed with the Master Stone Mason, busied herself with the redesign of Queenscrown Keep, contemplating materials and the practical aspects of the construction.
As Robb awaited his mother's arrival, he took a seat by the fire, a horn of ale placed on the table beside him. With the impending departure for the Lords Progress, he delved into last-minute preparations, with Last Hearth, the residence of House Umber, being his first stop. A tricky manoeuvre as House Umber was foremost affected by the changes he was to propose.
Catelyn Stark entered the room, her long blue woollen dress gliding across the stone floor, yet the tone of her footsteps were a sign of a less-than-sunny disposition.
"Sit, Mother. Have some ale," Robb invited.
Seated opposite him, Lady Catelyn's Tully blue eyes locked onto his, mirroring the shade of his own. Yet, while Robb's eyes radiated calmness, his mother's exuded a fiery intensity, reminiscent of the auburn hue of her hair.
"What is the meaning of this, Robb? You are not yet the Lord of Winterfell, and you are not yet a man grown. I remain your mother. Your authority does not extend to commanding me."
Robb, a pinch of exasperation clear, squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Mother, this is not a matter of commanding you. I merely wished to converse with you before Sansa's return, nothing more."
Catelyn's voice, a touch more composed, inquired, "What is the matter you wish to discuss?"
"It concerns Sansa," Robb revealed, noticing his mother's posture tense, her spine rigid.
Catelyn sucked in her cheeks, her question wary. "What about her?"
"Last night, after your departure, she wept. There exists no utterance or action that shall alter the course of their union. I witnessed it unmistakably. Jon may be unaware, but he harbours affection for her as deeply as she does for him. Injecting venom into her thoughts will only distance her from you," Robb said.
"She's too young to understand such things," Cat dismissed with a shake of her head.
"Sansa is nigh on twenty-two years, and this marks her third union. She comprehends her desires and intentions. I doubt she entertains any inclination to heed your notions about Jon's honour," Robb said.
Catelyn scoffed, her retort swift. "Robb, don't be absurd. I am her mother; naturally, she values my approval."
"The Sansa of fifteen might have coveted your sanction. The woman of her twenties finds it inconsequential," Robb rebutted.
"If her mind is so resolute, why are we embroiled in this discussion?" Catelyn's voice rose, a tinge of frustration in her tone.
"Because, mother," Robb's voice dipped into a near-whisper, "Jon Snow, your good-son, is, in truth, King Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name. In a few short years, he'll mount a dragon and claim the Iron Throne. The words you speak border on treason."
Catelyn's countenance registered disbelief. "You believe he would have me executed?"
"He'd be well within his rights, aye. Yet, I doubt he would. His love for us runs deep, and, in some small measure, I suspect he harbours affection for you as well. Not that you've earned it."
"I won't be dictated to by some bastard dragonspawn!" Her voice, a venomous growl, carried anger. "If he won't kill me, what power does he truly possess?"
"He could bar you from laying eyes on your grandchildren," Robb declared, wielding the most potent weapon at his disposal, a statement that halted his mother in her tracks. "You may despise it, but he will sire your grandchildren."
"Over my dead body!" his mother said. "He wouldn't dare forbid Sansa from allowing me to see her children."
"Sansa would stand by Jon, even above you. He is her kin. The Tully motto is Family, Duty, Honour. Sansa will honour her family, and Jon is paramount. She will fulfill her duty as a Queen and maintain honour as court permits. You are outmatched." Robb's words hung in the air, and Catelyn looked deflated. "Had you married Prince Rhaegar, you'd have tread the same path as Sansa."
Catelyn sighed, her acquiescence evident in the subtle nod. "I suppose."
"Will you put this matter to rest?" Robb asked. "I am set to depart for the Last Hearth in a few days. I won't tolerate hearing of Sansa's tears caused by your deceit and venomous words. If you desire a role in the lives of your grandchildren, you must embrace Jon as their father."
Catelyn adjusted herself in her chair. "Very well, for your sake and the sake of my future grandchildren. Though I find it hard to believe Sansa would alter her views of Jon solely based on his name. It's too abrupt."
Robb rolled his eyes. "Have you not absorbed anything they've disclosed to us? They've lived, loved, and undergone life's trials in ways you and I could scarcely fathom. Sansa needed Jon when she was at her lowest. They forged a bond. He was her saviour, not me, you, or Father—Jon. An unassailable connection was formed."
"Still, Jon has forsaken her. Surely she must see he harbours no affection for her," Cat said.
"Jon raised an army and waged war for her. Sansa swore to Jon that if he fell in battle, she would forsake her own life. He journeyed north to shield her, to shield us. Though born a Targaryen and raised a Stark, you underestimate your own impact on him. Family, duty, honour—these are the principles Jon lives by."
"Alright, for your sake, I won't meddle in their marriage. I won't compel her to forsake her intentions for the consummation. If my instincts prove right and yours wrong, the consequences will be on your shoulders."
"Agreed, mother. I'll bear the consequences," Robb acknowledged, raising his horn of ale. "Perhaps we should check on how Sansa is faring with the Master Stone Mason."
A turn of the moon later, Robb and his retinue, now sixty strong Stark soldiers, concluded their journey to House Umber. Last Hearth, was positioned north of the Last River, east of the Kingsroad, south of the Gift, and west of the northernmost tip of the Wolfswood. Here, the air carried a sharper chill, and summer snows were more frequent. The landscape a harshness of which Winterfell lacked, as did its inhabitants.
Last Hearth, configured in a rough triangle, extended approximately three hundred feet atop a hill, commanding a vista just below the Gift. The land plummeted sharply from the castle's perimeter, forming an almost vertical face to the southeast. The winding ascent from the north offered the most practical route to the castle. While the hill's elevation gifted the castle with natural defensibility, its prominence also functioned as a stark emblem of House Umber's dominance.
From the hill's base, Robb scrutinised the twenty-foot curtain walls that enclosed the castle. His vantage point revealed a tower projecting less than six feet from the northern wall.
Two Umber soldiers welcomed him and his men at the castle's gatehouse, a ten-foot entrance facing east. Upon crossing the threshold, he noted the terrain within the castle sloping gently from west to east.
A cluster of structures nestled against the south wall, likely housing kitchens, stores, stables, and kennels. The forge occupied the easternmost point of the southern wall. At the western end of the north wall stood a substantial building, presumably the hall where Lord Umber hosted meals and entertained guests.
Structures adorned the western curtain wall, likely serving as high-status apartments. While the primary approach was from the north through the east gatehouse, a gate also existed in the west.
The keep claimed the southwestern corner of Last Hearth, measured around forty feet square, adorned with a parapet.
In the courtyard, Greatjon Umber loomed, a colossal figure poised to extend his welcome. Towering at an imposing seven feet in height and over half as broad, he bore sandy-blond hair, now fading to a distinguished white, complemented by a matching beard. His hands, akin to hams, lent credence to the tales of his fearsome prowess on the battlefield.
"Robb Stark," he bellowed, his voice resonating in an unmistakable deep bass.
"Lord Umber," Robb acknowledged, Greywind at his side.
"Is that your wolf, boy?" Greatjon inquired.
"Aye, he's my wolf, and I'm no boy," Robb retorted.
"Hmm, we'll see about that," Greatjon scrutinized Robb from head to toe. "Tonight, we feast in the great hall. I'll have you guided to your chambers, where you can recover from your journey. The feast commences after sundown. I trust you have a taste for ale."
Robb grinned. "Indeed, Lord Umber, I do."
Robb had been forewarned about the extravagant indulgences of Lord Umber and his legendary capacity for ale consumption. To Robb, such tales had appeared almost whimsical. However, the morning after the feast, his recollections were scarce. A pail, brimming with remnants of the food and ale imbibed the previous night, stood beside his bed. His head throbbed as if subjected to a hammer's relentless assault.
In the solace of his chambers, next to a crackling hearth, Robb partook in a modest morning repast. Greasy bacon and bread, accompanied by watered-down mead, constituted his meal. As his belly found satisfaction, the ache in his head relented somewhat—a promising sign, given the impending meeting with Lord Umber to discuss Jon's plans for the Gift.
Their rendezvous occurred in Lord Umber's solar, a sombre and dimly lit chamber adorned with stone walls and a grand fireplace. A diminutive window offered scant illumination, and the scarcity of books further accentuated the room's austere ambiance. A substantial wooden desk dominated the space, with the sizeable Lord Umber seated behind it.
Greatjon's voice, as coarse as the winter winds that swept through the North, cut through the air with blunt precision. "Is your father ready to shuffle off the mortal coil?" His reputation for directness preceded him.
Robb's response was a slow shake of the head. "Not that I'm aware of."
"Why then, lad? Shouldn't you be embarking on your progress after you claim the title of Lord of Winterfell? Something's amiss."
"Winter is coming. If anything happens to my father..."
"Enough with the excuses, lad. Speak true. Why traipse to every house in the North? Something stirs."
"The wildling problem," Robb said.
"You're touring the entire north to tackle the wildling problem? What's that got to do with Lady Dustin? I bet she's never met a wildling in her entire life," his deep voice resonated through the room. "Stop fanny faffing with me. Is this to do with that so-called half-brother of yours? The one who turns out was Brandon's whelp. Your father gave him Queenscrown."
Robb nodded. "It's both. Queenscrown is to be the capital of the Gift."
"Your father has no say in the matters of the Gift. It belongs to the Night's Watch," Greatjon said.
"Aye, 'tis true. My father and Jon are working with the Night's Watch to resolve the wildling problem."
Greatjon eased back into his chair, taking a moment before rising and fetching a pitcher of ale to the desk. The last thing Robb desired was another drink, but he understood the necessity of enduring whatever lay ahead—even if it meant nursing the most formidable hangover in all of Westeros. With a hearty thud, Greatjon placed the ale-filled pitcher on the table, filling his own horn to the brim and passing another, equally full, to Robb. Settling back into his seat, Greatjon made himself comfortable, slamming his enormous hand onto the table with a resounding bang. Robb, startled, gave an involuntary jump, cursing his pounding head.
Greatjon erupted into a booming laugh. "You were sayin'? We've been fighting the wildlings for thousands of years. Only now the Warden of the North wants to do something about it? What does he think he can do sitting in his castle? I mean, I love your father, don't get me wrong. But what the fuck does he think he can do?"
"The wildling raids have grown more frequent of late. Is this not true?" Robb asked.
"Aye, it is."
"Do you know why there have been more wildling raids?"
Greatjon frowned and scratched his head. "They're usually too dead to speak by the time we get the chance to ask 'em," he burst out laughing. Robb wanted to roll his eyes, but instead, he took a small sip of the ale, pretending it to be more.
"They're on the run," Robb said.
The resonance of Greatjon's laughter echoed in the grim solar, its dark walls absorbing the mirth like shadows consuming light. "From who? Ice spiders." His amusement, a rough symphony, lingered like a haunting melody in the dim-lit chamber. "You've been listenin' to too many tales from that Old Nan of yours. I'm a big man, but that woman can spin a yarn so great that she terrifies the shit out of me. I'll give you that."
Robb's hands found the sturdy surface of the desk, and he rose, confronting Greatjon in the dimness. "You are not listening to me, my Lord." His measured words carved through the laughter's fading echoes. Beside him, Greywind, the direwolf, stirred with a silent intensity, teeth revealed.
Greatjon's mirth subsided into a grave nod. "Go on. I'll listen; you talk." The room seemed to absorb his laughter, leaving only the weight of impending words.
"I'm not certain if you've caught wind, but my sister Sansa is a seer," Robb said.
"Aye, I've heard whispers. She foretold the demise of Jon Arryn and your direwolves," Greatjon remarked. Robb nodded. "What's that got to do with the wildlings?"
"She's glimpsed more than just the fate of direwolves and Jon Arryn. In the next moon or so, news will reach us of the death of King Robert. A hunting accident, slain by a boar."
"That's remarkably specific." Greatjon said, arching an eyebrow, downing a substantial gulp of ale. "I still fail to see the connection to the wildling problem."
"Her visions go on for six years into a future, which will lead to the same ends if we don't do something about it. And if we don't, none of us will survive," Robb declared, his voice carrying the weight of impending doom.
"And this relates to the wildlings?" Greatjon re-filled his horn of ale, Robb putting his hand over his own when Greatjon offered him the pitcher.
"They are crucial to the future and our survival. Right now, in the far north, the army of the dead is stirring. As they stir, they kill every living creature in their path. That creature then becomes another soldier for their army. Every dead man, woman, child, and animal is currently being raised from the ground. When the Night King has added them to his army; he will recruit the wildlings."
"Good! Less for us to deal with," Greatjon nodded appreciatively.
"I don't think you understand the implications, my Lord."
"Oh I do, lad. Let him have them. There's a big fucking wall between us and the north," Greatjon frowned.
"Aye, that there is. But that wall is surrounded by sea. Water freezes, they can cross over the ice. Once the Bay of Seals has frozen solid, which house do you think will be the first to fall to the army of the dead?" Robb posed the chilling question.
"So, what would you have us do?" Greatjon asked.
"Slow their army down, until we get a King on the Iron Throne who actually gives enough of a fuck about the north to help us," Robb smiled.
"Sounds like a good plan." Greatjon took another slug of ale, while Robb took a sip of his. "You think King Joffrey will care about the north?"
"Joffrey isn't King Robert's son. He and his brother and sister are all Jaime Lannister's bastards."
Greatjon looked horrified. "Are you telling me the Queen has been fucking her twin brother?"
"Aye, that she has. She's been passing them off as King Robert's children. He's too drunk and ignorant to notice, or care. Jon Arryn found out, which is why he was murdered," Robb said. "No, Joffrey will be of little use. We need a King who will fight for the north. One who has a claim to the Iron Throne."
"And your sister knows of such a man?" Greatjon asked.
Robb nodded. "She does. But it will take time to put him on the Iron Throne. There will be wars after Robert dies. Until the time is right, the north must stay neutral. Instead, we will prepare for the army of the dead."
"So, what about the wildlings?"
"We halt them from joining his damned army. The fewer souls feeding his ranks, the better chance we've got at a bloody victory. The Wall needs every sodding inch manned. Every man, woman, and child old enough to hold a weapon must train. Be it for a fight or to fend for themselves."
"Hold on a moment." Greatjon scowled. "I won't have the women in the fray."
"And why the bloody hell not?" Robb shot back. "Arya's the second best swordsman I've ever crossed blades with, and she's only twelve. Arya's a crack shot with a bow, and Sansa's learning to swing a sword. If the Stark lasses can, why not other northern women?"
"It's just not bloody proper," Greatjon thundered.
Opting not to irk Lord Umber any further on the matter of women, Robb shifted the conversation. "There's but one way to keep the wildlings from swelling his damned army. We bring them south."
"YOU... WOULD... DO... WHAT?" Greatjon's voice reverberated through every damn corridor of the keep.
"We bring them south, settle them in the Gift. Let them work the land. Use their men and women to bolster the Wall's defences. They can lend their hands to rebuild every bloody fortress along the Wall. Their taxes will fund the effort and provide coin for greenhouses to feed us all come winter."
Greatjon slammed his ham-sized fist on the desk. This time, Robb held his ground, anticipating this vehement response. "Do you grasp what they inflict upon our women? Upon our children?" Greatjon growled. "They're nothing but raiders, rapists, murderers. Cannibals. They—"
"They are people, much like you and me. They speak the common tongue," Robb interjected.
"Insolent, wild, lawless. They'd never bend the knee to any King on the Iron Throne."
"We won't ask them to," Robb replied, leaning back, resting his elbows on the wooden armrests, fingers laced together.
"Ha!" Greatjon laughed, devoid of any mirth. "No King would suffer them occupying the Gift without swearing fealty. I say bring them south, and put an end to the lot of them."
"Mance Rayder has rallied the wildlings into a single, colossal force. A hundred thousand strong, they march upon the Wall as we speak."
Greatjon Umber paled momentarily, then shook his head. "Nonsense."
Robb handed Lord Umber a scroll. "This missive is from Lord Commander Mormont." Greatjon read the scroll and looked back at Robb.
"Are you certain?" Greatjon inquired.
"Every wildling settlement, deserted. My father executed a deserter who swears he witnessed the Walkers. His companions, Ser Waymar Royce and Gared, remain missing. His account echoes the tales circulating among the wildlings. The number of deserters from the Night's Watch is growing, all sharing the same ominous narrative," Robb declared.
"It's utter fucking madness, that's what it is, utter fucking madness." Greatjon muttered, shaking his head vehemently. "I'll not have them setting foot on my land."
"The wildlings are to be settled in the Gift. My father and Lord Commander Mormont have reached an accord to that effect. Jon is journeying beyond the Wall to negotiate with Mance Rayder. The wildlings will adhere to the laws of Westeros. They'll toil the fields, guard the Wall. Once the threat of the dead is quelled, they shall return north of the Wall. Except for those who may have kin here and wish to remain. Sansa insists they'll respect Westerosi laws. They won't kneel, but that doesn't mean they won't stand for the North."
"I don't fancy it," Greatjon grumbled, shaking his head disapprovingly.
Robb's tone softened, though the resolute edge remained. "Think of it not as a threat, Lord Umber, but as an opportunity. An opportunity for unity, for the North to stand as one against the impending darkness. The winter will be harsh, and I seek to shield our people from its harshest blows. The glass houses will provide crops, and together we can face the challenges ahead. I implore you to see the bigger picture, the safety and prosperity we can secure for our people. A rising tide lifts all boats, my Lord."
Robb's brows furrowed with a touch of frustration. "It's not about whims, Lord Umber. It's about survival and cooperation. Sansa's insights are not to be dismissed lightly. The unity we forge now is our best chance against the gathering storm. It's not a matter of liking or disliking; it's about embracing a shared destiny for the North. The future demands our collaboration, not discord."
Greatjon grunted dismissively. "Survival, unity, and shared destiny. Fancy words, boy. What guarantee have we that these wildlings won't turn on us once the threat beyond the Wall is dealt with? You Stark lads have a history of trusting too easily."
Robb leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "The guarantee is in our collective interest. A divided North will crumble, and we'll all be swallowed by the Long Night. The wildlings know the real enemy now, and they'll be as much a part of saving the North as any of us. Trust is a rare commodity, but necessity forges alliances."
Greywind, sensing the tension, growled low, adding an eerie undertone to the conversation.
Robb's piercing gaze met Greatjon's, and the tension hung thick in the air like the scent of an impending storm. "I'll grant you one more foresight, one that the gods themselves will unfold. In four turns of the moon, a blazing red comet will streak across the heavens. Across the Narrow Sea, three dragon eggs will hatch, cradled in the hands of Daenerys Targaryen. If these omens manifest, will you lend your support to Sansa's wisdom and her visions?"
Greatjon's response was gruff, his voice laden with defiance. "And what if I choose otherwise?"
"Then you'll join the countless dead by the time winter descends, just like the rest of us," Robb retorted, a dark determination flickering in his eyes.
Greatjon's laughter echoed through the room. "Dragons have been extinct for over a century. This tale is so fanciful that I'll entertain your wager. Aye, if word reaches me of Daenerys Targaryen hatching three dragon eggs across the Narrow Sea amidst a red comet, I'll throw my weight behind the wildling cause."
"And if such tales fail to materialize?" Robb inquired.
"I won't incite rebellion, but I won't obstruct those who do," Greatjon declared, lifting his ale for a hearty gulp.
"Fair enough," Robb acknowledged with a smile. If Sansa's visions proved true, the Umbers would stand by their side. The uncertainty lay in how other lords would respond to the impending challenges. But that concern was for another day.