Following the accord with Lord Umber, Robb understood that replicating his success was improbable across the board. He possessed a list of anticipated events, but its foresight would diminish as he continued his journey. The most momentous occurrences, unforeseeable and beyond prediction, included Robert's death, Renly's demise, and the appearance of the comet. His fervent hope was he had garnered sufficient support from the lords before Renly's death. Though not imperative, the backing of the northern lords could prove advantageous in Jon's pursuit of the Iron Throne, particularly if the wildlings' allegiance couldn't be relied upon.
Upon reaching Karhold, an austere and formidable stronghold surrounded by woods, Robb was met in the courtyard by Rickard Karstark. Rickard, a tall and gaunt figure with a stern countenance, sported a thick grey beard and matching flowing hair. Even in his own domain, he wore black chainmail and a black woollen surcoat bearing the Karstark sigil of a white sunburst.
The reception at Karhold lacked the grandeur and warmth of Greatjon Umber's welcome. Robb suspected that Lord Rickard had already received word of the purpose of his visit. Nevertheless, Robb had a task at hand, and whether or not he secured immediate support, he aimed to persuade Lord Rickard that the threat posed beyond the wall eclipsed that of the wildlings.
Lord Karstark offered no feast, citing a lack of provisions for the unexpected visit. Robb knew the visit was no surprise; it had been planned for months, and Lord Rickard was well aware of it. The man was simply being obstinate.
The pair convened in Rickard's solar, with Greywind accompanying them, to discuss what Robb perceived to be the wildling problem. Robb had been at Karhold for a day already, yet he hadn't spoken with Lord Karstark since their meeting in the courtyard. The welcome thus far had been as frosty as the weather. At least the solar was warm; a sizeable hearth cradled a welcoming fire, casting light across the room with its flames.
"Lord Robb," Rickard said, gesturing to the plain but sturdy wooden chair opposite his own, a large wooden desk separating them.
"This came a sennight ago from Lord Umber," Rickard said as Robb opened the scroll to read it.
Rickard
Robb Stark claims the King will soon die from a hunting accident, run through by a boar. This was foreseen by his sister, who he claims to be a seer. Should this come to pass, I have agreed to listen to his council. Should the next prediction come to pass, I will support his campaign. I am writing to you as I know he is riding for Karhold.
Lord Greatjon Umber
Robb's eyes scanned the letter, noting the straightforward words etched on the parchment. Rickard Karstark sat across from him, a stern figure with a countenance as unyielding as the stone walls that enclosed them. The solar, though warmed by the crackling fire, offered little in the way of hospitality.
The message from Lord Umber hung in the air, a pact sealed in ink. Robb carefully rolled the scroll and looked up, meeting Rickard's gaze. The silent exchange conveyed more than words could. The northern lords were a stoic breed, and alliances were forged in the crucible of necessity, not sentiment.
"Lord Umber has pledged his support," Rickard stated, breaking the silence that had settled between them.
"Aye," Robb replied, his voice steady. "For now, we share a common cause."
The Lord of Karhold leaned back in his chair, his eyes studying Robb's face for nuances that might reveal more than words. The game of thrones was not played solely in the south; its echoes resonated even in these colder realms.
"Your sister's visions," Rickard began, his tone measured, "are they to be our guiding light?"
Robb leaned back in his chair, pondering the implications that rippled across the continent. The scroll was returned to Lord Karstark, the parchment a vessel of fate in their hands.
"Joffrey Baratheon, a name thrust upon the throne," Rickard mused, the undercurrent of scepticism palpable.
The air in the room thickened as they contemplated the shifting dynamics of power. The unpredictable dance of politics had brought them to this moment, and the North, with its icy stoicism, watched as the realm navigated treacherous waters.
"Fealty to a new king," Robb spoke, more to himself than to Lord Karstark. "The South weaves its tapestry of kingship, and we, my lord, must choose our thread. Especially when, in truth, Joffrey Baratheon is no King. He is but the bastard son of Jaime Lannister, as are his brother and sister."
Robb's response hung in the air, a subtle challenge, the two men engaging in a verbal dance that mirrored the intricacies of the game being played in the South.
"Truth can be a double-edged sword, my lord," Lord Karstark remarked, choosing his words with a measured caution.
"Truth, treason, and the thin line that separates them," Robb replied, his gaze steady. The solar, warmed by the hearth, seemed to absorb the weight of their conversation.
"The realm is a tapestry of secrets and half-truths," Lord Karstark continued. "As lords of the North, our loyalty is to the land that stretches beneath the cold shadows of the Wall."
"The Wall, standing silent guard against both wildlings and now the army of the dead," Robb mused, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the wooden armrest.
Rickard Karstark leaned forward, his eyes locking with Robb's. "A hundred thousand wildlings to the north, who you and your family wish to lead through the gates of Castle Black, and a boy with uncertain lineage sits the Iron Throne. Treachery weaves its tendrils through every corner of Westeros."
"Yet we must navigate these treacherous waters," Robb said, the firelight flickering in his eyes. "Our choices will resonate through the North, and the realm will watch how we tread."
"It seems your sister may possess the gift of sight, after all. However, one cannot discount the possibility that the death of King Robert was orchestrated to lend credence to these fanciful claims, for your own ambitions."
"And what ambitions do you suspect, Lord Karstark?" Robb inquired.
Rickard offered a nonchalant shrug. "Perhaps to amass an army sizeable enough to claim the Iron Throne? Or perchance, to push for northern independence with the aid of the wildlings?"
"Aye, I confess, there is an opportunity to place a northerner upon the Iron Throne. One with a legitimate claim," Robb acknowledged, a subtle smile playing on his lips.
"This raven brought tidings only this morning." Lord Karstark said.
Robb sighed, the weight of responsibility etched on his features. "Sansa has seen paths through the darkness, paths we may choose or reject. The wildlings are a threat, but the true enemy lies beyond the Wall. The dead are stirring, and we must be prepared." he said, accepting the second scroll, and unfurled the parchment. The news within unfolded like a dark omen, the inked words a solemn herald of shifting tides.
"The Game of Thrones never rests," Lord Karstark remarked, his voice heavy with the weight of unfolding events.
Lord Karstark
It is with deepest regret, we write to you to announce the death of King Robert Baratheon. His life taken from us as a result of an accident while hunting boar. His trueborn son and heir, Joffrey Baratheon, will ascend the throne. You are invited to Kings Landing to swear fealty.
Long live King Joffrey Baratheon
Grand Maester Pycelle
Robb read the contents twice, his eyes absorbing the news of King Robert Baratheon's demise. The words echoed through the quiet solar, filling the room with a sombre melody.
"King Robert is dead," Robb finally spoke, the gravity of the words lingering. "A hunting accident."
"Accident or not, the realm quivers with uncertainty," Lord Karstark observed, his gaze unwavering.
Lord Karstark raised a bushy eyebrow. "And who might that be?"
"Now is not the time to reveal our hand, Lord Karstark. There are many others whose claim surpasses that of the false King, including King Robert's own brothers. But, for now, we would ask the northern Lords to remain free of the burdens of southern politics and cast our eyes north. Of course, as you can see, my sister has been proven correct in her sight."
The tension in the room thickened as suspicions and uncertainties floated between them like unspoken shadows. Lord Karstark, however, had his reservations. "How can I believe you had no hand in the death of our King? I hear Lord Greyjoy was in the capital on your command, or at least that of your brother. Or cousin, I forget."
"I can assure you, Lord Karstark, Lord Whitestark is indeed my cousin," Robb affirmed, attempting to dispel the doubts that circled the air. "Lord Greyjoy was assessing the blacksmiths of Kings Landing. If we are to beat the army of the dead, we must arm ourselves with dragonglass. We need smiths who have specialist skills. The smith we have procured was an apprentice, trained by no less than Tobho Mott himself. He will be best equipped to transform the dragonglass into weapons against the army of the dead. Once he has succeeded, he will train other smiths to forge weapons."
Yet, even as Robb painted a picture of necessity, the shadows of suspicion persisted in Lord Karstark's eyes.
Lord Karstark's scrutiny continued as he questioned Robb about the origins of dragonglass, his sceptical tone cutting through the dimly lit chamber. "And where do you find this... dragonglass? Or whatever you call it," he inquired.
"It is also known as obsidian. It is one of the few ways to kill Whitewalkers. The others being fire and Valyrian steel," Robb explained, his words carrying the weight of impending danger. "There is an abundance of dragonglass on Dragonstone. Skagos also holds deposits, but not in the volume of Dragonstone. Men from the Night's Watch are already mining it from the island, with the permission of Lord Stannis. Although I doubt he will be amenable for much longer." A sigh escaped Robb's lips, revealing the complexities of alliances and resources.
"You think he will require us to swear fealty for the dragonglass?" Lord Karstark questioned, probing the potential costs of this newfound resource. Robb nodded in confirmation. "Well, he can fuck right off. We'll mine the damned stuff on Skagos, if we must."
A wry smile played on Robb's lips as he acknowledged Lord Karstark's determination. "I'm glad you can see the way forward. Will you support our decision to escort the wildlings south of the wall?" The question lingered in the air.
Lord Karstark rose from his seat, moving towards the hearth that crackled with warmth. The flickering flames cast shadows on the stern lines of his face as he exposed his back and hands to the fire, seeking solace from the biting chill. "What use is it to bring the wildlings south?" he questioned, his voice a low rumble.
"The Night's King raises men from the dead as creatures to use in his army. They have no way nor will to understand anything other than his command, which is to kill more people. Those who are killed are further added to the army of the dead. Thus the army grows ever larger," Robb explained, his words carrying the weight of impending doom. "The Night King brings storms and freezes everything around him. The wall may keep him back for a short while, but once the Bay of Seals freezes, he'll navigate around the wall. Which puts Karhold in a vulnerable position. If he adds the wildlings to his army before he reaches the wall, he will be unstoppable. But if we add them to our army, we have a chance."
"Why is that?" Lord Karstark's brows furrowed.
"The longer we have to prepare, the better the chance we have to survive," Robb replied. "We can use them to help restore the wall to full capacity. They can assist with the crops to feed the North during the winter. If we do nothing, Sansa tells me the army of the dead will cross the wall in six years. The Southron kings will be too busy squabbling amongst themselves about an iron chair to give a shit about the North. By the time they do, Westeros will have already perished."
Rickard rubbed his hands and resumed his seat. "Does your sister have any other visions? Ones likely to take place sooner rather than later."
Robb nodded. "Lord Renly will not be amongst us for much longer. He will die, the blame being shouldered by a woman called Brienne of Tarth. That is if events play out as in Sansa's dreams."
"Why would they differ?" Lord Karstark appeared puzzled, his eyes reflecting the scepticism of a man trying to grasp the elusive threads of fate.
"Sansa has glimpsed the future, and unless alterations are made, certain events will unfold beyond our control. Some are fated, while others may be influenced. Nevertheless, any changes will still steer us toward a different destiny across the realms. You see, Sansa was to be betrothed to Prince Joffrey, but the engagement crumbled after my father's execution for treason." Lord Karstark stared at Robb, surprise etched all over his face. "Lady Margaery was joined in matrimony to Lord Renly. He vied for the Iron Throne, just as did Lord Stannis." "But Lady Margaery won't wed Lord Renly." Lord Karstark nodded, signifying his grasp of the implications. "That doesn't mean Lord Renly won't meet his end. I believe he will. The motives behind Lord Stannis' act remain unchanged. The fate of Brienne of Tarth is uncertain. She was present and held accountable for Renly's death. However, Stannis and his red witch were the true perpetrators. Blood magic, not Lady Brienne's sword, was the cause of Renly's demise."
Lord Karstark inquired, "When?" "In Sansa's vision, it was five turns of the moon from now," Robb replied. "Yet again, something you cannot prove you had no hand in," Lord Karstark shook his head. Robb laughed. "How about a red comet and the birth of three dragons?" Lord Rickard, like Greatjon Umber, looked flabbergasted. "Dragons are dead, boy." "Aye, they are, for now. Come the turn of two moons, then there will be three. Born in Essos, all under the command of Daenerys Targaryen, the youngest daughter of the mad King." "What are her intentions for these dragons?" Lord Karstark looked visibly shaken.
"She wants what she believes is rightfully hers—the Iron Throne. If need be, she'll take it by fire and blood," Robb declared. He hadn't been told that Daenerys was going to do anything outlandish; she most likely died before she could even fight for the throne. However, he felt some embellishment of the story was required. After all, Daenerys burned the Tarlys for not bending the knee. Should they have survived the long night, there was nothing to suggest the Daenerys would knock on the door of the Red Keep and ask nicely for Cersei Lannister to hand over the Iron Throne.
"A red comet, you say?" Lord Karstark added. Robb nodded. "Alright, when a red comet adorns the skies, and news from the east relays that of the birth of three dragons, you have our support for the wildlings. As long as they are amenable to the ways and laws of our lands." "They have been told it is a condition. They will not have to kneel to Joffrey or whoever has their arse planted on the Iron Throne. But then again, neither will the north. Not until one of our own sits there," he said with a twinkle in his Tully blue eyes. "If the wildlings help feed the north and prove no bother, would you support the man we would seat upon the Iron Throne?"
"How can a northerner have a claim to the Iron Throne?" Lord Karstark asked.
Robb, sensing something close to victory, thought it wise to share a morsel of information. "King Robert claimed the Iron Throne under the laws of succession, not conquest, am I right?" Lord Karstark nodded. "I believe so." "King Robert's claim was because of his Targaryen blood. Now, imagine a man with the blood of the First Men and the blood of the dragon. One of sound mind and noble disposition. A leader and a warrior. A man who knows how to command and be a King," Robb said.
"No such man has existed in the realms of men. But if you can find such a man, aye, I will support his claim. Even if he has dragon blood," Lord Karstark agreed. Robb held his hand out. "I should have an agreement in writing, would we shake hands on it, cousin." Lord Karstark took Robb's hand and shook it. "I'm not saying I believe you. But if the events transpire as you say, what man am I to deny the knowledge of a seer?"
With the accord forged between two noble houses, Robb found a renewed sense of assurance in his overarching mission. The anticipated bastions of resistance, namely Houses Umber and Karstark, surprisingly yielded to the weight of his persuasion. In contrast, there lingered an intuition that Lord Bolton might be more pliant to his cause. It wasn't an expectation of belief or genuine commitment from Lord Bolton, but rather a shrewd understanding that the man would feign agreement, especially in the wake of the endorsements from Lords Umber and Karstark. Robb, astute in his political acumen, acknowledged that Lord Roose Bolton harboured no desire for his prolonged stay at the foreboding Dreadfort, and he sensed a multitude of motives conspiring in the shadows.
The Dreadfort stood as a formidable bastion, its stout walls rising defiantly with triangular merlons resembling jagged stone teeth, a silent menace to those who approach. Towering structures of formidable strength, its massive towers loom ominously against the skyline.
Within the chilling ambiance, the Dreadfort harboured its infamous reputation. Whispers of torture chambers echoed in the corridors. Tales of a room where flayed skins of enemies were hung, a grisly tapestry including even the Kings in the North, lending an air of malevolence to its very stones.
If the murmurs swirling in the shadows held any truth, Roose Bolton stood on the precipice of losing not just his abode and title but his very head. This foreboding destiny propelled Robb to anticipate a swift concurrence, urging him to hasten towards House Hornwood. The clandestine whispers, validated by Sansa, concerning the Bolton illegitimate scion and his grisly proclivities, especially the perverse enjoyment derived from hunting humans, demanded veiling from the Warden of the North. Or, at least, the illusion Robb sought to maintain in Roose's eyes. With Ned Stark already privy to the malevolent exploits of Roose and Ramsay, it was left to Sansa to orchestrate their impending downfall.
Upon arrival, Robb was not welcomed in the courtyard by the lord of the Dreadfort, instead, he was escorted into the great hall within. Which was a dim, foreboding expanse, filled with a perpetual haze that swirls from torchlight. Rows of flickering torches, held by skeletal hands jutted grotesquely from the walls. Long tables stretched out before a raised dais crowned by a high table, where shadows dancing eerily across the uneven surfaces.
From a side room, emerged Roose Bolton, a man of unassuming physicality, possessed a body that defies classification—neither portly, slender, nor brawny. His complexion was ashen, almost translucent. His visage, plain and unadorned, devoid of facial hair, and carried no distinguishing features except for his peculiar eyes, a shade paler than stone and darker than milk.
Despite his unassuming appearance, Roose Bolton was known to harbour a profound and remorseless nature, his implacable demeanour earning him a reputation for cold cunning. A man of few words, Roose possessed a small, soft voice, rarely elevating its volume. Those within earshot were compelled to listen attentively, the quietude falling upon them as he spoke.
A servant approached Robb, bearing a silver platter adorned with the customary offering of bread and salt—a traditional guest rite signifying the sanctuary granted to guest and host throughout the duration of the visit. Robb winced at the irony of accepting guest rights from a man who would orchestrate Robb's own demise by exploiting the very trust symbolised by bread and salt. Despite his awareness of its hollowness in the company of such a devious character, Robb dipped the bread into the salt and consumed it with a wry smile.
"I've arranged chambers for your use. My men will see to your chest in your quarters," Roose spoke in his disquietingly muted voice, leaving Robb unsettled. The recollection of his past miscalculations in an alternate timeline haunted him.
"Thank you, Lord Bolton." Robb said.
"Join me. My solar is considerably warmer and more inviting. I believe there's much to discuss." Roose guided Robb up to a room that, indeed, radiated a welcoming atmosphere. Brimming with books, a substantial desk, and leaded windows, it wouldn't have seemed out of place at Winterfell. The fire in the stone hearth burned brightly, casting an orange glow that warmed the walls.
"Take a seat, Lord Stark," Roose invited. Robb settled into a sturdy wooden chair positioned by the fire, while Roose occupied the seat opposite.
"Please, Lord Bolton, call me Robb. I'm not Lord Stark yet, I hope it stays that way for some time yet."
"Hmm," Roose emitted a sound that hovered between a chuckle and something more mysterious, leaving Robb uncertain as to which one.
"Hmm." Roose emitted a sound that could be mistaken for a chuckle, yet Robb couldn't discern whether it carried mirth or distaste. "I've received much correspondence from Houses Umber and Karstark, concerning your visit."
"I expected that to be so," Robb said.
Roose lifted what appeared to be a carafe of wine, though Robb knew Roose wasn't one to indulge. "Water or wine?" he inquired. Choosing to keep his wits about him, Robb opted for water, and so did Roose. "So your father wishes to let the wildlings stay south of the wall while the threat to the north is dealt with," he surmised.
"Aye, that is the gist of it all," Robb confirmed.
"And if I refuse?" Roose questioned.
"I am not here to seek your permission."
"Then why exactly are you here?" Roose's lips curled into what might be seen as a smile on anyone else, but on Roose Bolton's face, it looked sinister.
"I am here on good faith to warn you of such a decision. I know the north is fickle when it comes to wildlings, and rightly so. My father wishes for there to be no revolt amongst his bannermen. The wildlings will enter a pact with the north. We also wish for the north to remain neutral in the wars for the Iron Throne. We cannot decimate the northern forces when we have the army of the dead knocking on our door. The southron kings will not help us when the long night comes." Robb knew his words were futile, but he played a game with the Lord of the Dreadfort. If he didn't protest, Roose Bolton would know something was amiss. However, Robb was aware he had to act stupid; he needed to accept the deal as soon as Roose made it, even if it seemed premature.
"I have heard of the premonitions of your sister. What did she say about me?"
"You will not live to see the winter. Within hours of your wife birthing you a trueborn son, you will be betrayed, and you will all die," Robb warned.
"And if I acquiesce?" Roose asked.
"Your fate rests in your own hands," Robb intoned, his voice a murmur with an undertow of menace. "A word of caution, my Lord. My father is well aware of the deeds of your bastard, Ramsay. I'd advise you to let my father mete out the punishment for such transgressions. If you comply, your house may stand a chance to endure the winter. If not, you, your wife, your unborn son, and your bastard will all meet your end before the white raven takes flight." Robb reclined, intertwining his fingers in a mimicry of Roose's own demeanour.
"I shall contemplate your counsel regarding my bastard," Roose responded. "I won't rebel against House Stark for permitting the wildlings to migrate south. After all, they will settle in the Gift, a fair distance from my domains. It doesn't directly impact my kin."
"Will you align with the accord of Houses, Umber and Karstark? We only engage in the war for the Iron Throne if a northerner ascends to it," Robb inquired.
Roose's smile, never reaching his pale eyes, unfolded with a subtle malevolence. "Why, of course."
"We then have an accord," Robb declared. "I have the agreement prepared. You merely need to peruse it and append your signature." He extended the parchment to Roose.
Without perusing the contents, Roose dipped the quill into the inkwell and inscribed his name onto the document. "How long do you intend to linger?" he inquired.
"I wished to acquaint myself with the countenances of my prospective bannermen and finalise this agreement. I can depart if my presence is burdensome. My journey home is lengthy, and I yearn to return," Robb admitted.
"Then we will not detain you here any longer than necessary," Roose said with a smile that, for the first time, Robb suspected might be genuine.
"I shall be gone on the morrow," Robb declared, rising from his seat.
"Food will be sent to your chambers. My man, Edbert, will escort you. If I do not see you before you leave, I bid you good fortune, Lord Robb."
"And you, Lord Bolton," Robb replied, through gritted teeth. With that, Robb departed, leaving Roose alone in his solar, comforted by the knowledge that he wouldn't have to endure more than one night in the hideous castle with its despicable lord.