As the Tyrell party continued their journey northward, it became clear that Robb Stark commanded deep respect wherever he went. Along the roads, villagers, merchants, and even noble travelers greeted him with admiration and deference, offering him their respect as the Lord of Winterfell's eldest son. Margaery Tyrell, ever the tactician, had tried several times to engage Robb in conversation, her charm undeniable, but to her surprise, she found it difficult to capture his full attention. He was polite, but distant, always focused on the task at hand, and it soon became clear to her that something held his interest elsewhere.
Olenna Tyrell, who missed nothing, noticed the tension in her granddaughter's eyes. At their next rest stop, she pulled Robb aside, her sharp eyes studying him as though trying to solve a puzzle.
"My lord Stark," Olenna began, her voice as sharp as the winds of the North. "I've noticed that my granddaughter has taken a liking to you, but you seem rather uninterested in her. Now, that's quite puzzling, isn't it? She's the most beautiful rose in the Reach, after all."
Robb paused for a moment, then met Olenna's gaze, unflinching. "Lady Olenna, with all due respect, your granddaughter is indeed a fine lady, but my heart belongs elsewhere."
Olenna raised an eyebrow. "Elsewhere? And where, pray tell, might that be?"
Robb answered calmly, "I am already betrothed to Alys Karstark. Our fathers arranged the match long ago, and I have given my word. She is to be my wife."
Hearing this, Olenna was silent for a moment, weighing the gravity of his words. It wasn't long before Mace Tyrell, who had overheard part of the conversation, strode over, his pride swelling.
Mace's voice boomed with indignation. "Are you saying my daughter, the beautiful rose of the Reach, is not good enough for you, Lord Stark?" He folded his arms, his broad chest rising. "If I were to offer my daughter's hand in marriage to you, do you think your father, Lord Eddard Stark, would refuse? We are both Wardens of equal rank, after all. My daughter would make a fine Lady of Winterfell. I daresay your father would be overjoyed to secure such a match."
There was a long, heavy pause as Robb stood there, unfazed by the Lord of Highgarden's outburst. His calmness was palpable as he stared back at Mace Tyrell, and when he spoke, his voice was steady and composed.
"My lord," Robb began, "with all due respect, my father already received a similar offer from Lord Tywin Lannister. He wanted me to marry Princess Myrcella. A princess, and a grand daughter of the richest man in Westeros."
The weight of Robb's words hung in the air. Everyone in the party fell silent, their eyes on the young Stark lord. Even Mace Tyrell, for all his bluster, was momentarily stunned.
"But my father rejected it," Robb continued, his tone unwavering. "And I assure you, he would do the same again, no matter how powerful the offer might seem."
The Tyrell party was left speechless. Mace, whose pride had driven him to make the statement, suddenly found himself without a retort. His usual confident demeanor faltered under Robb's steady gaze. Even Olenna, the sharp-tongued matriarch, could see there was no use pushing the matter further.
Margaery, who had hoped to make a deeper connection with Robb, felt a mix of disappointment and understanding. She had seen many men fall for her charms, but Robb Stark was not one of them. He was different—unmoved by politics and alliances. His loyalty, clearly, was not something to be easily swayed.
Robb's response echoed in their minds as they resumed their journey. The North was a place of honor, and it seemed that the Starks valued their oaths and promises more than political maneuvering. For now, the conversation had ended, but the Tyrells knew that their game of alliances had not. Not yet.
As the Tyrells and their retinue arrived at the Neck, they were met with an unexpected sight: a bustling town had emerged in this often inhospitable marshland. Tall carriages, unlike anything they had seen before, lined the narrow streets, transporting people and goods northward. The carriages were designed with high, sturdy wheels, allowing them to traverse the marshy terrain without getting stuck. The sight of such engineering made the Tyrell party pause in wonder.
"What in the Seven Hells are those?" Olenna Tyrell asked, her eyes narrowing at the strange vehicles.
Robb Stark, ever patient, answered, "Those are special carriages designed to navigate the marshlands. Only a Crannogman can guide people safely across the Neck. They've developed a knack for it over generations. For a fee, they escort travelers through the swamps to the North."
The party looked around, marveling at the sight. The thought of traversing the dangerous bogs on horseback had been daunting, but this method appeared both ingenious and practical. Robb, noticing their hesitation, suggested, "It's best if you leave your horses here. The locals will take good care of them, for a small payment. The carriages will make the rest of the journey far smoother."
Reluctantly, Mace Tyrell, always cautious when it came to his prized horses, agreed. After arranging a small payment, the Tyrells boarded the tall carriages, which were drawn by massive draft horses, bred for strength and endurance in difficult terrain.
As they set off, the experience was unlike any they had anticipated. The carriages moved steadily through what appeared to be open water, the road invisible beneath the marshy surface. The Crannogman driver seemed to know exactly where to go, guiding the carriage expertly through the bogs.
"How is this possible?" Garlan Tyrell asked, looking out in awe. "It feels as though we're floating on water."
Robb Stark, who was used to this part of the North, explained, "Without the help of a Crannogman, it's impossible to cross the Neck. The land shifts beneath the water, and no one knows where the paths lie except for them. To us, the Neck looks the same in all directions, but to a Crannogman, they know where the water is deep, where the land is soft, and where it's safe to travel."
Margaery looked out from the high carriage, watching the strange landscape of the Neck. Marsh reeds swayed in the breeze, and the sound of frogs and distant birds filled the air. It was beautiful in its own mysterious way, a place where nature ruled, indifferent to the political games of the South. The Tyrells were amazed not just by the scenery, but by the ingenuity of the people who had learned to live and thrive here.
Samwell Tarly, who was also familiar with this part of the North from his time as a fosterling, added, "The Crannogmen are some of the most resourceful people in the North. They might look like simple marsh folk, but they've built a way of life that lets them survive where no one else could. The fact that there's now a town here—it's a sign of how things have changed. Trade is flowing, and people are prospering under Jon Frost's rule."
The journey continued, and as the hours passed, the Tyrells began to appreciate the uniqueness of the Neck. The marshlands, once a barrier to the North, had become a thriving hub of activity. Trade moved smoothly through it, and under the watchful eye of the Crannogmen, even those unfamiliar with the terrain could travel safely.
For the Tyrells, it was a reminder that the North was not as isolated as they once thought. Jon Frost's influence reached even here, into the depths of the marshes, and the strength of the North was growing every day.
As the Tyrells and their retinue finally reached solid ground, everyone let out a collective sigh of relief. The journey through the Neck had been far more taxing than expected. Time seemed to slip away in the endless expanse of marshland, where the scenery never changed—reeds, water, and mist stretching endlessly in all directions. It was disorienting, and by the end of it, even Lady Olenna, known for her sharp tongue, had fallen silent, too wearied to offer her usual quips.
The sight of the true North, with its rugged terrain and brisk, fresh air, was a welcome change. Robb Stark, ever the attentive host, led them to the nearest town. It was a small yet bustling place, filled with traders who had also crossed the Neck in the tall carriages, unloading goods from the south and preparing to take northern products back in return.
The town was alive with the sounds of commerce, carts creaking under the weight of cargo, and the low hum of traders haggling over prices. The Tyrells marveled at the activity. Even here, in what was once considered the edge of the world, trade was flourishing. The tall carriages that had been such a novelty now seemed commonplace, with merchants and travelers alike loading and unloading their wares.
Robb directed them to a stable where they could rent horses and proper northern carriages. The North was a harsh land, and only the sturdiest of horses and carriages could withstand its brutal climate. The horses were large and strong, their coats thick and built for endurance in the cold. The carriages, too, were well-made, their wheels reinforced and built to handle snow and rocky roads.
Once they were mounted and ready, Robb led the group onto the Kingsroad, which had been recently rebuilt with solid stones, a project Jon Frost had overseen. The new road was an impressive sight, cutting a clear path through the North's rugged landscape. It was smooth and well-maintained, a testament to the strength of the northern infrastructure under Jon's rule. The Kingsroad now served as the main artery of travel and trade, allowing goods and people to move swiftly from the southern borders to the heart of the North.
As they traveled, the landscape of the North unfolded before them—rolling hills, dense forests, and distant mountains capped with snow. The air grew colder with every mile they ventured northward, but the Tyrells, accustomed to the warmer climate of the Reach, were well-prepared with furs and cloaks.
Margaery Tyrell, though quiet for most of the journey, took in the sight of the North with curiosity. "It's nothing like I imagined," she said, her breath misting in the cold air. "It's...wild. Untamed, but beautiful in its own way."
Robb smiled at her words, his affection for his homeland clear. "The North has its own beauty. It's not for everyone, but those who understand it learn to love it."
The group continued their journey towards Moat Cailin, Jon Frost's seat of power. It lay further to the north, a fortress built by Jon himself, standing as a symbol of the North's rising influence. The road ahead was long, but with each passing mile, the Tyrells grew more intrigued by the North, and by Jon Frost, the man they had heard so much about but had yet to meet.
The journey was still arduous, but the anticipation of reaching Moat Cailin kept them going. The tales of Jon's achievements—his rise from a simple northern bastard to one of the most powerful lords in the realm—played on the minds of the Tyrells. They had heard of his wealth, his strategic mind, and his ability to unite even the most disparate factions in the North. As they pressed on, the Tyrells couldn't help but wonder what awaited them at Moat Cailin.
As the Tyrells and their entourage continued their journey into the North, the serene beauty of the landscape was suddenly shattered by a gruesome sight that caused a collective gasp to escape their lips. Lining the road, at the edge of a clearing, were the rotten bodies of several individuals, their limbs twisted and contorted in a horrific display. The foul stench of decay hung heavily in the air, a stark reminder of the grim reality that lay behind the imposing façade of the North's rugged beauty.
Robb Stark, who had been riding at the front, halted his horse, turning to face the shocked expressions of the Tyrells. "This," he said, his voice steady but somber, "is the punishment for treason and the gravest of crimes in Jon's lands. It's called blood eagle, and it is not to be taken lightly."
Lady Olenna's lips pursed in distaste as she surveyed the macabre scene. "Is this truly the law of the North? To display the bodies of the damned like this?" she asked, her tone incredulous.
Robb nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Yes. Jon believes that fear can deter crime. The sight of this serves as a warning to all who enter his lands. He seeks to maintain peace through strict justice. No one wants to suffer the fate of those who have crossed him."
The rest of the Tyrells remained silent, their eyes wide with disbelief. Margaery, who had been captivated by the idea of the North and its raw beauty, felt a chill run down her spine as she took in the grisly sight. "Surely there are other ways to instill order," she murmured, glancing at her father.
Mace Tyrell, always keen to protect his family, scowled at the sight. "This is barbaric," he said, shaking his head. "A lord should inspire loyalty, not fear. What kind of ruler resorts to such measures?"
Robb's expression hardened at their words. "You do not understand our ways. The North is not like the Reach. Our people have suffered too much from betrayal and treachery. Jon has united the North by making it clear that crime will not be tolerated. This punishment may be harsh, but it is effective. Since he took power, there has been little unrest."
As they continued on, the somber atmosphere weighed heavily upon the party. The contrast between the beauty of the North and the harsh realities of its laws was jarring. Samwell Tarly, who had been quietly observing, spoke up. "You must understand, my lord, that while this may seem brutal, the North has always valued strength and justice above all. It's a different culture."
"Different indeed," Lady Olenna replied, her voice sharp. "But I must wonder if there is no better way to inspire loyalty among your people, my lord. Will they truly follow a leader who rules with fear?"
Robb offered a faint smile, although it did not reach his eyes. "In the North, it's not just about fear; it's about respect. The people know that Jon will protect them fiercely, and they appreciate the peace he has brought. It's a harsh land, and sometimes harsh measures are necessary."
As they rode on, the bodies of the blood-eagled criminals receded from view, but the haunting image lingered in the minds of the Tyrells. The North was a place of stark contrasts—beauty intertwined with brutality, loyalty challenged by fear. With every passing mile, they grew more aware that they were entering a land governed by its own rules, far removed from the politics and games of the South.
The image of those who had met their gruesome end would serve as a stark reminder of the consequences of defiance—a lesson they would not soon forget as they approached Frostmore, and the man who ruled with such a fearsome reputation.
Author's Note:
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