Hadrian awoke with a jolt, the dim light filtering through the edges of his tent. The air was cold, and the sounds of distant war drums echoed faintly in the early morning. He blinked slowly, the weight of the dreams still clinging to him like a shroud. The memories were fuzzy, but the feeling of being caught between two worlds lingered—half of him still in the past, half in the present.
A voice broke through the haze. "Hadrian," the soft call came again, this time more insistent. The silhouette of a familiar figure stood at the entrance of the tent. It was a servant, his breath visible in the chill morning air. His eyes, dark and steady, fixed on him.
"Robb wants you at the war council. Now," the servant said.
Hadrian nodded, his body moving instinctively even though his mind hadn't fully caught up. As he stood, a dull ache spread across his chest. The war was never far from his thoughts, even when he slept. It had a way of creeping in, especially in the quiet moments before dawn, when everything felt more real.
The flickering of campfires cast shadows on the walls of his tent as he dressed quickly, slipping into his worn armor. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the tangles from sleep. It was the same feeling that had haunted him since the moment he'd joined Robb Stark's army—his presence here was part of a larger purpose, one he had yet to fully understand.
By the time he made it to Robb's tent, the sounds of the camp had grown louder. Soldiers moved with purpose, preparing for the next stage of the war. He could already hear the low murmur of voices, the clink of steel, the soft shuffle of boots on dirt.
Inside Robb's tent, the air was thick with tension. The council had already begun. Robb sat at the head of a large wooden table, his eyes sharp and focused, not the boy Hadrian had first met at Winterfell, but a true leader, burdened by the weight of his father's crown and the war that raged on.
"Hadrian," Robb greeted him, his voice steady, but there was something in his gaze—a recognition that Hadrian was not just a soldier among many. He was something more.
"Lord Stark," Hadrian responded, his voice rough from sleep, but he didn't offer excuses. Not to Robb. Not anymore. He took his place beside the table, observing the faces of the men gathered. There was Theon Greyjoy, standing by the fire, his eyes narrowed with skepticism. Behind him, some of the bannermen shuffled papers, ready to offer advice or demand their piece of the spoils.
The air was tense with uncertainty. It always was before a battle. Hadrian's gaze flickered to the map laid out before them. Robb's strategy was meticulous, but Hadrian knew it wasn't just about tactics. This was a war for everything, for the North, for honor, for revenge. And as always, Hadrian found himself at the edges of it all, watching and waiting.
The air was tense with uncertainty. It always was before a battle. Hadrian's gaze flickered to the map laid out before them. Robb's strategy was meticulous, but Hadrian knew it wasn't just about tactics. This was a war for everything, for the North, for honor, for revenge. And as always, Hadrian found himself at the edges of it all, watching and waiting.
Robb's voice broke the stillness as he pointed to the southern part of the map. "We need to push south. The Twins are our only way to do so."
A low murmur rippled through the tent. Hadrian's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the lines drawn across the map, the land beyond their grasp. It was clear they needed to act quickly. The longer they stayed here, the more they risked losing their momentum.
The words seemed to hang in the air for a moment, heavy and uncomfortable. Hadrian could feel the room's unease shift.
"The Freys?" Greatjon Umber echoed, his brow furrowing. "Hasn't Walder Frey sworn fealty to House Stark?"
Catelyn Stark, standing off to the side with a tense expression, answered before anyone else could speak. "He has," she said quietly, "but he is unreliable. At the Battle of the Trident, he didn't arrive until after the war was over."
The words landed with the weight of a stone. Hadrian watched the flicker of emotion pass over Robb's face—a mixture of disbelief and frustration—as Catelyn continued, her gaze unwavering.
She continued. "I sent a raven to Lord Frey before we march…,"
The flap of the tent parted. Lord Karstark entered, his tall frame casting a shadow over the council. In his wake, a young man was shoved forward—his hands bound tightly, his face pale and scruffy, though his eyes were sharp, glinting with defiance. Theon rushed and covered the map, to hide it from the spy..
Karstark's voice was gravelly as he spoke. "A Lannister spy, my lord."
The room went still. Hadrian's eyes immediately narrowed on the young man. His heart skipped a beat, and the suddenness of the interruption rattled something deep within him. He hadn't expected this—least of all now, with the weight of the coming decisions pressing on them all. His instincts flared, a silent warning that the tension in the room was about to escalate.
"Where did you find him?" Robb asked, his voice commanding.
The Stark guard, still catching his breath from the chase, answered quickly, "In the brush above the encampment. He was counting, my lord."
Hadrian could see Robb's anger flare. His instincts told him that his friend would want to make an example of this spy. The Lannisters had crossed too many lines. Robb's hands were clenched into fists at his sides as he walked toward the captured scout, his steps slow and deliberate.
"How high did you get?" Robb demanded, his voice cold.
The Lannister scout, fear written across his face, swallowed hard before answering, "Twenty thousand. Maybe more."
Rodrik Cassel, ever the advisor, stepped forward, his weathered face betraying concern. "You don't have to do this yourself, my lord. Your father would understand."
Robb's eyes flickered for just a moment, but the anger remained. "My father understands mercy, when there is room for it. And he understands honor and courage," Robb replied, his tone hardening. "Let him go."
Hadrian watched as the air shifted. Catelyn Stark entered the tent, her eyes full of worry. The moment her gaze met Robb's, there was an unspoken conversation between them—one of regret, concern, and understanding. Catelyn was a mother, and she wanted her son to retain his humanity. But Robb was not just her son anymore. He was Lord Stark, and his decisions would affect more than just their family.
"Robb," Catelyn whispered, a quiet plea for mercy.
Robb didn't turn to look at her immediately, but his shoulders stiffened. He held himself high, the weight of leadership pressing on him, but the decision had already been made. "Tell Lord Tywin... Winter is coming for him. Twenty thousand Northerns marching south to see if he really does shit gold."
The Lannister scout, still on his knees, bowed his head in gratitude. "Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord," he said, his voice shaking as he stumbled away.
The tension in the tent didn't dissipate. Greatjon Umber, standing in the corner, grunted in disbelief. "Are you touched, boy?! Letting him go?"
Hadrian stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowed. He had seen Greatjon's temper before, but this time it would be different. Robb had made his decision, and it was Hadrian's job to ensure that the camp stood by him.
"You don't understand," Hadrian said, his voice firm. "Mercy is strength, not weakness. Not every fight is won with a blade."
Greatjon turned to face him, his massive frame looming in the doorway. "What are you saying?" he growled, his fists clenched.
Hadrian stood his ground, his voice unyielding. "He's not a boy. He's the Heir of Winterfell. And you call him 'boy' again, and you'll be the one needing mercy."
There was a moment of silence as Greatjon stared down at Hadrian, his eyes narrowed. The large man grumbled, but the anger faded. He knew better than to challenge Robb's right-hand man in front of everyone.
Robb, seeing the confrontation defuse, turned toward Greatjon. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "You call me boy again…"
Greatjon Umber opened his mouth, but Robb's eyes dared him to continue. Instead, he let out a low chuckle, as if finally recognizing the young Stark's resolve. He looked at Hadrian one last time, a grunt of approval escaping his lips before he backed away.
"Oi. You've got some fire in you, lad. But don't get ahead of yourself," Greatjon muttered before walking out of the tent, leaving Robb, Hadrian, and the others behind.
Hadrian met Robb's gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. Robb was the King, but Hadrian was the one who kept the fire burning. Robb didn't need to say it—Hadrian knew that the young Stark's strength came not just from his bloodline, but from the people who stood by him. And Hadrian would always stand by him.
The tent was dimly lit, the flickering light from a nearby fire casting shadows across the rough-hewn wooden beams. The bustle of the camp had died down for the night, but Robb Stark still sat alone, his back stiff against the crate he leaned upon. His hands, calloused and scarred, lay clasped in his lap, but his eyes were distant, lost in thought. The weight of the command he had given still hung heavy on his shoulders.
Hadrian entered quietly, his footsteps muffled by the soft earth beneath them. The firelight caught the gleam of his armor as he approached, but he made no noise, no unnecessary movement. He could feel the tension in the air, and for a moment, he said nothing—just stood there, watching his friend, his leader, with a silent understanding.
Robb didn't look up at first. He had sensed Hadrian's presence long before he spoke.
"You don't need to say anything," Robb said quietly, his voice hoarse. "I know what you're going to say."
Hadrian crossed his arms over his chest and stepped closer, his gaze steady and unwavering. "You think too much, Robb. It's what you do best, but sometimes, you need to let yourself breathe."
Robb finally lifted his head, meeting Hadrian's eyes. There was a storm in those young eyes, a storm of indecision and pressure that few could ever understand. It was the storm of a king, and for a brief moment, Robb's face betrayed his youth. He was still a boy in many ways, despite the weight of his title.
"I know what I have to do," Robb said, his voice quiet but resolute. "But it's hard."
"I'm with you. I always have been." Hadrian said, his voice low but full of conviction.
Robb looked at him, something like gratitude flashing in his gaze. There was a quiet understanding between them, something born from months of shared struggle and loyalty. Hadrian had been more than just a warrior at his side—he had been a rock, someone Robb could trust when the weight of the world felt unbearable.
"I'm glad you're here, Hadrian," Robb admitted, his voice thick with the weight of those words. "I don't know what I'd do without you. You've been more than just a soldier—you've been... a brother to me. I need you in this."
Hadrian met his gaze without hesitation. "I'll fight with you, Robb. For as long as you need me. I owe Lord Stark everything. And I swear to you, if it means seeing this through, I'll stand beside you until my last breath."
A rare, small smile tugged at Robb's lips. It was the first sign of warmth he had shown all day. "You have my faith, Hadrian. And my trust. I don't doubt you, not for a second."
The words hit Hadrian deeper than he expected. It was more than just loyalty—it was a bond between them, forged in the fires of conflict and tested through every trial they had faced. The North had a way of shaping its people, of testing them in ways that made them stronger. And Hadrian, standing beside Robb now, felt like he was part of something much larger than himself.
"It's an honor to fight beside you, Robb," Hadrian said softly, his voice steady and sincere. "Wherever this leads, I'll be there. You're not alone."
Robb's expression softened, the weight of the crown momentarily forgotten. He nodded, a deep appreciation in his eyes.
"Thank you," Robb whispered. "Truly."
The two men stood there in the quiet of the tent, a quiet understanding passing between them. They didn't need to say more. There was nothing else to be said. They were bound together, not just by blood, but by shared purpose. And that was enough.
Outside the tent, the sounds of the camp drifted in on the wind, but inside, there was a quiet strength that held them together—a promise made, a trust given, and a bond that could not be broken.
Hadrian knew, deep in his bones, that this was only the beginning. But with Robb at his side, he knew they would face whatever came with unyielding resolve.
The Battle of Whispering Woods
The war had been brewing for months, and the time for diplomacy and negotiation had passed. Robb Stark stood before his assembled bannermen, his face grim, eyes narrowed with a mixture of resolve and youthful uncertainty. His enemies were not just the Lannisters in the South, but the threat of a fractured realm, and the battle ahead would decide the fate of the North.
Hadrian stood beside Robb, his posture rigid and poised. The last six months had changed him in ways that even he hadn't fully realized. He was a marksman now, quick with a sword, and now he was no longer a stranger to the taste of battle. More than that, he had become a leader in his own right, guiding the younger men of the Stark army, pushing them to be better, to fight with more precision, more discipline. His loyalty to Robb was unwavering, and he would fight for the North until his last breath.
The cold winds of the North were biting, as the camp buzzed with the final preparations for battle. Horses were readied, weapons sharpened, and the men filled with the anxious energy of those about to march into war. Robb stood before them, his voice ringing out with authority.
"Today, we fight for our homes, for our families," Robb said, his tone firm. "The Lannisters will know the strength of the North. We'll show them that they will never break us."
Hadrian glanced to the side, his sharp eyes scanning the surrounding area. The Lannisters had been scouting their movements, and Hadrian could sense their approach. His fingers itched for the bow that rested by his side, the familiar weight comforting. He was ready. More than ready.
Grey Wind and Padfoot paced restlessly nearby, their growls low and threatening, matching the tension in the air. Robb stood tall, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, staring into the distance, as if he could already see the coming battle in his mind.
"Are you ready?" Hadrian asked, stepping closer to Robb.
Robb gave him a tight nod. "As ready as I'll ever be."
"Good," Hadrian said, his voice steady. "Then let's make sure they never forget who we are."
With a final nod, Robb mounted his horse, and the army began its march toward the Lannister position. Hadrian was at Robb's side, his eyes focused, scanning the landscape ahead. The tension was palpable, but there was something else too—anticipation, the electric pulse of soldiers preparing to face the enemy.
The battle was a frenzy of chaos, blood, and steel. Robb Stark and Hadrian fought like men possessed, cutting through the Lannister forces with precision and fury. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and iron, the ground beneath them soaked with the crimson stain of death. Grey Wind and Padfoot, ever at their sides, howled as they tore through the enemy ranks, their ferocity unmatched by any human warrior.
Hadrian, in the midst of it all, was a sight to behold. His skills with a blade were honed to perfection, but it was his other abilities, the ones few knew of, that made him a force to be reckoned with. His senses were razor-sharp, able to perceive even the slightest shift in the air. His body moved fluidly, instinctively, as if he had become part of the battle itself.
But it wasn't just the weaponry he wielded that made him dangerous. It was his mind. He saw through the chaos, understood it, and used it to his advantage. The enemy, for all their numbers, didn't stand a chance.
As the battle pressed on, Hadrian's eyes scanned the battlefield with intense focus. He could hear the roar of men clashing, the screams of dying soldiers, but there was one sound that cut through the noise—a footfall behind Robb. A Lannister soldier, sneaking up behind his king, ready to strike.
Without hesitation, Hadrian's hand shot out, fingers brushing the ground beside him. A spear—a discarded weapon, forgotten by the chaos—was lying mere feet away. He didn't need to think. His body moved with fluid precision as he grabbed the shaft and twisted it in his hands. The moment the spear was in his grasp, he turned and launched it in a single, seamless motion.
The weapon flew through the air, cutting through the noise like a sharp breath. It moved with deadly accuracy, its tip gleaming in the dim light before it struck its target. The spear pierced the Lannister soldier's face with a sickening thud, driving through the man's skull with such force that he crumpled to the ground, dead before he hit the dirt.
Robb's head snapped around just as the soldier fell, his eyes wide with surprise and confusion. Hadrian was already there, moving toward him, his gaze locked onto the now-lifeless body of the would-be assassin.
The battlefield seemed to slow in that instant. Robb's breath was heavy, his sword still raised, as he looked from the soldier to Hadrian. His face was a mixture of gratitude and disbelief. He didn't speak at first, as though still processing the quick turn of events.
"You saved my life," Robb finally said, his voice low, his eyes scanning the fallen soldier. The gratitude was evident, but there was something else in his expression—a flicker of respect, perhaps even understanding, as if he realized just how close he had come to losing everything.
Hadrian nodded once, his expression unreadable, though his heart was still pounding from the adrenaline. "It's my job to protect you, my lord."
Robb studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, his gaze sharpening with renewed focus. The war wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
"We push forward," Robb declared, his voice carrying the weight of a leader ready to lead his men through whatever came next. "No more distractions."
Hadrian's gaze swept the battlefield once again, his mind already calculating their next move. The Lannisters would not stop. But neither would they.
The battle was winding down, the sounds of clashing steel and dying men echoing across the blood-soaked field. The Starks had fought hard and with ferocity, pushing the Lannisters back. The once confident golden lion had been reduced to a retreating pack, their pride slipping away with every step. Robb Stark, riding high on the charge, stood with his back straight and his sword in hand, but his eyes were focused, calculating.
Hadrian stood beside him, a shadow on the field, moving like a wraith as he felled Lannister soldiers with ruthless precision. He didn't revel in the carnage—he understood the necessity of it. His bond with Robb had grown deeper in these months, a friendship forged through war and shared purpose. Hadrian's role was simple: to fight, to protect, and to follow.
"Jaime Lannister's here," Hadrian muttered, his eyes scanning the battlefield. Robb's gaze flickered to him, recognizing the tone.
"I know," Robb said, his voice calm but tinged with a quiet fury. "I won't let him slip away again."
The Starks moved with purpose, pushing toward the heart of the Lannister forces where Jaime was known to be. Robb, focused and determined, led the charge. Hadrian fell in behind him, his every movement purposeful. He had trained for this, honed his body and mind to perfection. But even now, with his skills sharp as ever, there was something different about this battle. It was personal.
Hadrian had always believed in the cause, but seeing Robb lead with such conviction, with such heart, filled him with pride. This wasn't just a fight for survival—it was a fight for justice, for honor, for family. And in that, Hadrian felt a sense of duty that went beyond mere loyalty.
The Starks fought through the remnants of the Lannister forces, their shields and swords flashing in the sunlight. Robb was at the head of it all, his sword slashing through the chaos like an avenging angel. Hadrian was beside him, his movements fluid and deadly, his longblade cutting through the Lannister ranks with calculated precision. Padfoot was at his side, the direwolf's growl echoing as it tore through the enemy forces.
And then he saw him.
Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, moved like a predator among sheep. His golden armor gleamed, streaked with blood, and his sword was a blur of deadly precision. Northern men fell before him, one after another, their cries of defiance extinguished with a flash of steel. Even surrounded by chaos, Jaime's presence was magnetic, a force that demanded attention.
Hadrian's grip on his sword tightened. Robb's banner flew high over the battlefield, the direwolf of Stark defiant against the Lannister lion. But it was clear that Jaime intended to make a statement, to carve his legend deeper into the bones of the North.
Not if he had anything to say about it.
Hadrian began to move, his stride purposeful as he cut through the chaos toward Jaime. He sidestepped a charging soldier, slashing across their midsection without breaking stride. His focus was singular, his heartbeat steady as he closed the distance.
Jaime noticed him. Of course, he did. The Kingslayer's eyes locked onto Hadrian's, and for a moment, the battlefield seemed to fall away. They were two warriors, born of blood and war, and they understood what was about to happen.
Hadrian raised his sword in a silent challenge.
Jaime smirked, his confidence as sharp as his blade. He spun, cutting down another Northerner with ease, before turning fully to face Hadrian. "I remember you, child. You were at Winterfell, your one of the Stark wards. Have you come to play hero?" he called, his voice carrying even through the din of battle. "You'll find that I'm a bit different than the other soldiers you've fought here today."
Hadrian didn't respond. Words wouldn't win this fight.
Jaime lunged first, his sword slicing toward Hadrian's side with the speed of a viper. Hadrian parried, the clash of their blades ringing out like a bell. Jaime pressed the attack, his strikes relentless and precise, but Hadrian met each one with calculated precision, his feet moving with a dancer's grace.
The battle raged around them, but the two warriors may as well have been in a world of their own. Hadrian's style was a blend of northern grit and something more fluid, almost foreign. Jaime's strikes were powerful and disciplined, the product of years as one of the realm's most feared swordsmen.
"You're good," Jaime admitted, circling Hadrian with measured steps. "But skill alone won't save you."
"Neither will arrogance," Hadrian replied, his voice cold as winter's breath.
Jaime attacked again, this time with a flurry of strikes meant to overwhelm. Hadrian gave ground, his blade moving in tight arcs to deflect each blow. Then, with a sharp twist of his wrist, he forced Jaime's sword wide and countered with a strike of his own, catching the edge of Jaime's shoulder armor. The Kingslayer grunted, but his smirk didn't falter.
"Not bad," Jaime said, shifting his stance. "But not good enough."
The fight wore on, each man testing the other's limits. Jaime's skill was undeniable, but Hadrian had learned from battles fought in blood and fire. He waited, watching for the moment when Jaime's confidence would lead to a mistake.
It came when Jaime attempted a high strike, a move meant to cut through Hadrian's guard. Hadrian anticipated it, stepping inside the arc of the blade and slamming his shoulder into Jaime's chest. The force sent the Kingslayer stumbling, and Hadrian pivoted, bringing his sword low.
His blade found its mark, slicing deep into the back of Jaime's leg. The Kingslayer cried out, dropping to one knee as the strength in his leg gave way. Before he could recover, Hadrian struck again, disarming him with a sharp twist that sent Jaime's sword clattering to the ground.
Hadrian pointed his blade at Jaime's throat, his breath coming in controlled, even bursts. The Kingslayer glared up at him, defiance burning in his eyes even as blood seeped from his leg.
"Go on," Jaime spat. "End it."
Hadrian stared at him for a long moment, the weight of the choice heavy in the air. Then he stepped back, lowering his sword.
Hadrian said coldly. "You're worth more to us alive, than dead."
Before Jaime could reply, Robb and his bannermen surged forward, surrounding the fallen Kingslayer and hauling him to his feet. The battle was won, and Jaime Lannister was their prize.
"Jaime Lannister!" Robb's voice rang out, full of authority. The Kingslayer looked up, his gaze locking with Robb's, his expression unreadable.
"I'm not going to let you die," Robb said, his tone colder than Hadrian had ever heard it before. "Not like this. You're coming with us, alive or dead."
Jaime's lips twisted into a smirk, the arrogance of the lion never fully leaving him. "You think capturing me will change anything?" he spat. "You've already lost. All of you."
Hadrian stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the Kingslayer. He could sense the smugness, the arrogance still hanging on Jaime like a cloak, but there was something different in the air now. The arrogance was brittle, crumbling. The Lannisters had underestimated Robb, underestimated the North. And now, they were paying for it.
"I don't think you understand," Hadrian said, his voice low, but carrying a weight that made Jaime's eyes narrow. "You're not the one in control here anymore. We are."
Robb's sword remained at his side, but his posture was commanding, unyielding. "You're coming with us, Lannister. Whether you like it or not."
Jaime's golden hand twitched, and for a moment, Hadrian thought he might try to fight. But then, the Kingslayer let out a bitter laugh. "You think I'm afraid of your banners?" he mocked. "You think you're winning?"
Hadrian's gaze hardened. "You're not in a position to make demands, Kingslayer. You're our prisoner now."
The Lannister soldier, still seething with anger, sneered up at Hadrian. His pride was all he had left, and he clung to it like a desperate man fighting against the inevitable. "You think this will change anything?" he spat, his voice thick with disdain. "You're nothing but a boy playing at war. The Lannisters—"
"Silence." Hadrian's command rang out, cutting the man off mid-sentence. His gaze was unrelenting, and the Lannister soldier fell silent under the weight of it. Hadrian wasn't just a boy playing at war. He was the one who had stood against impossible odds and come out on top. And this man—this Kingslayer—was now nothing more than a pawn in a game he could no longer control.
As the tension between them stretched thin, something unexpected happened. The soldiers surrounding Hadrian began to chant. It started low, a murmur that spread from one soldier to the next. A slow, rhythmic beat that echoed across the field.
"Hadrian! Hadrian! Hadrian!"
The chant grew louder, more urgent, as the men's voices swelled in unison. They were no longer just soldiers fighting a war; they were rallying behind something greater. Behind the boy who had defeated the Kingslayer.
Hadrian stood still, his expression unreadable, though something flickered behind his eyes. A mixture of disbelief and pride. He had never imagined his name would carry such weight—would be shouted with such fervor. It was humbling, overwhelming, and for a fleeting moment, the war, the bloodshed, the endless struggle... it all felt worth it.
Robb's voice cut through the chant, his words filled with pride. "Look at that," he said, his gaze never leaving Hadrian. "The boy who defeated the Kingslayer." There was a grin on Robb's face now, his earlier tension melting away as he looked at Hadrian with admiration. "You've earned their respect, Hadrian."
Hadrian didn't respond immediately. He turned his gaze back to the fallen Kingslayer, who now looked even smaller under the weight of his defeat. The Lannister soldier's arrogance had been shattered in a single moment, and Hadrian was the one who had dealt the blow.
But as the chant continued to echo in his ears, Hadrian felt the weight of what this moment meant. This was no longer just a battle. This was the turning point. The North was starting to see him not just as a boy—a nameless shadow in the background—but as something more. Something they could rally behind.
Hadrian allowed himself one brief glance at Robb, whose expression was filled with pride, and then turned his attention back to the war. The battle was won. The war was not.
The war camp was quiet for a moment as the weight of the decision hung in the air. The firelight flickered across the faces of the lords gathered around Robb Stark, casting long shadows that seemed to reflect the tension in their eyes. The winter air bit at their skin, but none of them seemed to notice. Every man had come to a crossroads—now it was time for them to choose a side.
Jonos Bracken, an older, seasoned knight from the Riverlands, stepped forward first, his voice clear and commanding. "The proper course is clear," he said, his tone heavy with authority. "Pledge fealty to King Renly and move south to join our forces with his."
Robb's face hardened, his jaw tightening. He was no stranger to these discussions, but this one felt different. There was more on the line than just strategy. This was about the future of his family, of the North.
"Renly is not the king," Robb replied firmly, his voice carrying the weight of his father's honor.
Jonos Bracken seemed taken aback. "You cannot mean to hold to Joffrey, my lord. He put your father to death."
Robb's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't make Renly king," he said, as though the answer should have been obvious. "He's Robert's youngest brother. If Bran can't be Lord of Winterfell before me, Renly can't be king before Stannis."
A murmur ran through the men, and Jonos Bracken's face twisted into a scowl. "Do you mean to declare us for Stannis?" he asked, the incredulity clear in his voice.
Galbart Glover, a grim man with years of experience on the battlefield, spoke up in agreement. "Renly is not right! If we put ourselves behind Stannis..." His voice trailed off, but his meaning was clear—Stannis may be Robert's older brother, but his cold, calculating nature wasn't one the North could easily rally behind.
The men around them shifted uneasily, but it was Greatjon Umber who, as always, cut through the murmurings with his bellowing voice. He raised his sword high, pointing it toward the heavens like a beacon.
"My Lords!" Greatjon roared, his booming voice silencing the others. "Here is what I say to these two kings. Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine from some flowery seat in the South? What do they know of the Wall or the Wolfswood? Even their gods are wrong! Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we bowed to and now the dragons are dead!"
The Greatjon swung his sword around, pointing it directly at Robb, his grin wide and full of defiance. "They can keep their red castle and their metal chair, There sits the only man I mean to bend my knee too." he bellowed. "The King in the North!"
As the Greatjon bent to one knee, sword in hand, a roar of agreement spread across the camp. Robb rose from his seat, the weight of his newfound title settling over him. His shoulders squared, his back straightening as the men around him chanted.
"The King in the North!" Greatjon's voice was filled with pride, the words like a battle cry that rang through the camp. "The King in the North!"
Rickard Karstark, a stern man with a deep sense of duty to his family, stepped forward next. He didn't hesitate. "I'll have peace on those terms," he said, his voice steady. "They can keep their Red Castle and their iron chair too." He knelt before Robb, his own sword held high. "The King in the North!"
Theon Greyjoy, Robb's closest friend, his voice thick with emotion, spoke next. "Am I your brother, now and always?" he asked, his eyes fixed on Robb.
"Now and always," Robb replied, his voice strong but laced with the weight of the promise.
Theon drew his sword, his expression resolute, and bowed deeply to Robb. "My sword is yours in victory and defeat, from this day until my last day."
One by one, the northern lords bent the knee, each of them swearing loyalty to Robb Stark. It was more than a formality. It was a bond, forged in the fires of war, a bond of blood, of honor, and of the North itself.
Hadrian stood slightly apart from the others, watching the ceremony unfold. He had fought beside these men, bled with them, and lost men who would never return. His eyes remained steady, his face unreadable. But as each man swore fealty to Robb, Hadrian felt a weight in his chest—one that had been building ever since he had set foot in the North.
Finally, Robb looked to him, a curious glint in his eyes. "Hadrian?" Robb's voice was soft but demanding.
Hadrian met his gaze without hesitation, his voice calm and measured. "The King in the North," he said, bowing slightly, his expression unchanged. "You have my sword, Robb, in victory and defeat." His eyes gleamed with an intensity that made it clear that he wasn't just speaking out of duty; he meant it, down to the very marrow of his bones.
The lords around them cheered, their voices a chorus of unity. The call rang out once more.
"The King in the North!" They chanted, their swords raised in the air.
Robb's gaze lingered on Hadrian for a moment longer, a mixture of gratitude and curiosity in his eyes. Hadrian was not one for grand speeches, and Robb understood that. Still, he knew the value of Hadrian's loyalty. It was worth more than the fealty of any noble.
As the celebration of Robb's new title reached its peak, Catelyn Stark stood apart from the crowd, her expression weary. She had seen this moment coming, but still, it struck her differently—hearing the men call Robb their king. Her son. She knew the road ahead would be long and fraught with danger, but she also knew that Robb had the strength to lead them.
The wind whispered through the camp, and for a brief moment, the song of the North seemed to fill the air. The King in the North.
That's Chapter 4 of A Crown of Ice and Fire. Thanks for reading! Time is flying by and it'll pick up soon. As will Hadrian's magic. Please leave a review and let me know what you think.