The ruins of Moat Cailin, once abandoned and forgotten, had roared back to life. The dilapidated stone walls echoed with the sounds of men and metal: soldiers marching in disciplined ranks, the neighing of restless horses, and the incessant clang of hammers as blacksmiths worked tirelessly to mend weapons and armor. For decades, the fortress had stood as little more than a relic of the North's ancient past, but now, under Torrhen Stark's command, it had become the rallying point for his forces—a united army of 20,000 men.
Among them, 8,000 were men from his own house, their banners fluttering proudly in the wind, the direwolf sigil a reminder of their shared purpose. The remainder consisted of bannermen from houses loyal to the Starks, men who had answered Torrhen's call for rebellion against Joffrey Baratheon. These warriors bore the sigils of their houses with pride: the Mormont bear, the Karstark sunburst, and the Umbers' chained giant among them. This army was not just an assemblage of soldiers; it was the beating heart of the North, united under a single cause.
Torrhen stood on the crumbling ramparts, surveying the bustling camp below. His youthful face betrayed no sign of the turmoil within. In truth, his mind churned with worry. The Lannisters and Baratheons possessed numbers that dwarfed his own, as well as the resources to sustain prolonged conflict. Torrhen understood that a headlong charge into battle would spell doom for his forces. His challenge was not merely to win but to outmaneuver—to strike where his enemies were weakest and force them to the negotiating table.
He clenched his hands into fists, the weight of leadership settling heavily on his shoulders. His father, Ned Stark, had been a pillar of honor and wisdom, but Torrhen was learning that leading men to war required more than just integrity. It demanded ruthlessness, cunning, and a willingness to make sacrifices.
One thing was clear: he needed to avoid a direct clash at all costs. Torrhen's plan hinged on cunning, not brute strength. His first move would be to bypass the King's Road and find another way south. Yet, his chosen path presented its own challenges. To cross the Trident, he needed Lord Walder Frey's permission to use the Twins, a vital crossing guarded by two imposing towers on either side of the Green Fork.
The Freys were a house known for their treachery and ambition. Torrhen had heard enough tales to know that Walder Frey was no ally to be trusted lightly. His mother, Lady Catelyn, had often spoken of the man's insatiable greed and utter lack of honor. Still, there was no other viable route. The swamps of the Neck were a death trap for an army of this size, and doubling back to find another crossing would waste precious time and leave his forces vulnerable to pursuit.
Torrhen's grim musings were interrupted by the arrival of scouts bearing news: a small party of riders approached from the south. At first, Torrhen feared they might be Lannister outriders, but when the banners of House Tully and House Arryn came into view, relief washed over him.
Riding at the head of the group were his mother, Lady Catelyn Tully, and her uncle, Brynden "Blackfish" Tully. With them rode two hundred knights, one of them Ser Rodrik, who had accompanied his mother in her journey to King's Landing. The others were knights bearing the black trout sigil of House Tully, their armor gleaming despite the dirt of the road. Torrhen dismounted from the ramparts to greet them, his steps quickened by a mixture of relief and urgency.
"Mother," he called as she dismounted, her Tully blue-and-red cloak swirling around her. He embraced her tightly, and for a moment, the burdens of leadership felt a little lighter.
"Your father would be proud," Catelyn whispered as they parted. Her expression softened, but her eyes betrayed the weight of grief and worry she carried.
Brynden approached next, his weathered face breaking into a faint smile. "Torrhen," he said, gripping the younger man's arm. "Your father's strength lives in you. But tell me, lad—what's the plan?"
The reunion was short-lived, and they quickly convened in Torrhen's tent to discuss strategy. Over a hastily drawn map of the Riverlands, Torrhen explained his intentions to negotiate with Lord Frey.
"I won't march on King's Landing," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the doubt flickering in his mind. "We're outnumbered, out-armed, and far from home. A direct assault would be suicide. The Lannisters' forces are spread thin between the capital and Riverrun. My goal is to break the siege of Riverrun and free Uncle Edmure. I am planning to strike a deal with Lord Frey in order to cross the river and bypass the King's Road. Doing so will weaken their position in the Riverlands and force them to negotiate."
Brynden stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It's a sound plan, lad. But dealing with Walder Frey is like bedding a venomous snake. He'll squeeze you for every concession he can."
Catelyn nodded in agreement. "Your uncle is right. Frey is a man without honor, driven by greed and self-interest. He'll demand alliances through marriage or promises of power. You must tread carefully."
"Then I'll prepare for that," Torrhen replied, determination hardening his tone. "If he seeks marriage pacts, we'll offer him alliances. Robb, Sansa, or even myself—we'll do what we must to secure his cooperation."
The room fell silent for a moment as Torrhen's words hung in the air. Finally, Brynden broke the tension with a sharp laugh. "Your father raised you well, lad. Bold, but pragmatic."
Catelyn's expression softened as she placed a hand on Torrhen's shoulder. "You carry the weight of the North, my son, but remember you do not carry it alone. We are with you."
The next morning, the army began its march southward. The journey was grueling, the oppressive heat of summer bearing down on them as they trudged through marshy terrain and narrow trails. Scouts reported the occasional sighting of Frey outriders, but there was no sign of aggression—only watchful eyes tracking their movements.
As they neared the Twins, Torrhen called for a halt. The sight of the castle was imposing: two massive stone towers, one on either side of the Green Fork, connected by a fortified bridge. Flags bearing the Frey sigil—a pair of blue towers on a silver-grey field—fluttered above the battlements. The castle's defenses were formidable, but Torrhen knew their strength lay more in their strategic position than in the mettle of the men who held them.
Torrhen sent riders ahead to request an audience with Lord Frey. As they waited for a response, the army set up camp on the riverbank. Torrhen spent the evening in quiet contemplation, reviewing his strategy and preparing for the negotiations to come. The camp buzzed with activity as soldiers repaired gear, shared stories, and tended to their mounts. The flickering glow of campfires dotted the landscape, casting long shadows on the ground.
As the sun set, casting hues of orange and red across the sky, Torrhen stood alone by the water's edge. The weight of leadership pressed heavily on his shoulders, but he would not falter. For his father, for his family, and for the North, he would see this through. Yet, in the solitude of that moment, he could not help but wonder if the path he'd chosen—a path of alliances and negotiations—would lead to victory or disaster. Only time would tell.