The Road Not Taken

by cristine.harriet.01

Ned Stark is imprisoned, and his son Robb Stark is determined to rescue him. As he confronts the brutal might of the Lannisters, Robb grapples with the immense weight of leadership and the responsibilities that come with it. His first daunting challenge arises from Walder Frey, who insists that Robb marry one of his daughters without delay. Robb Stark x Roslin Frey. Ned Lives

60. Robb XVII

Robb XVII

Robb tipped the decanter again, the dark red wine spilling into the goblet clutched in his hand. He had lost count of how many times he had filled it, but the weight of grief made each sip feel like a necessity. He sat on a cold stone bench in the godswood, the heart tree looming above him, its pale bark almost glowing in the dim light of the setting sun.

The letter had come hours ago, carried by a raven with feathers as black as the news it bore. Robb had not spoken a word to anyone after reading it. Instead, he had walked straight here. His plan had been simple: to pour a single drink for his father, and another for Jon. Two toasts to honour the dead, to steady himself for what must come next.

But grief had other plans. One drink became two, then three, and soon the decanter sat half-empty beside him. He stared into the dark surface of the wine in his cup, as if searching for some reflection of Ned's stern, steady face or Jon's quiet, determined eyes. All he found was his own haggard reflection, distorted by the rippling liquid.

The godswood had always been his place of solace, a sanctuary where he could think without the weight of all his responsibilities pressing down on him. Now it felt cold and unwelcoming, the air heavy with sorrow. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the world darkened, and the godswood grew colder. Robb barely noticed.

The sounds of Winterfell—the clatter of the kitchens, the occasional bark of a dog—felt distant, like they belonged to another life. All that existed for him now was the ache in his chest, the letter crumpled on the bench beside him, and the ever-present sting of failure. He had lost his father. He had lost his brother. And worse, he hadn't been there for either of them.

He tipped his head back, draining the goblet, the wine burning in his throat but doing little to dull the ache in his heart. He placed the goblet down beside him, the clang of metal against stone loud in the stillness.

Roslin found him there as the last light faded from the sky, her steps cautious as she entered the godswood. She stopped a few paces away, her breath visible in the cold air. "Robb?" she called softly.

He didn't turn at first, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing against a blow he couldn't dodge. His breath fogged in the cold air, his head bowed. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strained, raw from hours of grief.

"They're gone, Roslin. My father. Jon."

Roslin paused mid-step, her heart sinking at the pain in his voice. She wrapped her arms around herself against the chill as she moved closer. The godswood felt unnaturally still, the rustling leaves above offering no comfort. "Oh, Robb," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry. What happened? How—?"

Robb turned to her at last, his face a mask of anguish and fury. His hand trembled as he unfolded the crumpled letter he'd been clutching. The Lannister lion seal was smeared, his grip having worn away at the wax. He read aloud, his voice cracking with every word:

"'On this day in the year 306 of our Lord and King Tommen Baratheon, Eddard of the House Stark and Jon Snow were found guilty of treason. Lord Tywin of House Lannister, Hand of the King, spoke with the King's voice and sentenced them to death. Their sentence was carried out immediately, and both men were executed by beheading.'"

Roslin covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with shock. "Executed?" she whispered. "By Tywin?"

Robb nodded, his jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might break. "The bastard didn't even give them a trial. This—" he shook the letter violently "—this is all the justice he offers. My father… Jon… gone, just like that."

He threw the letter to the ground, his chest heaving as he tried to steady himself. Roslin knelt and picked it up, smoothing the crumpled parchment with shaking hands. She scanned the words, her own breath catching as the weight of the loss settled over her.

"Your father… Jon… they were heroes," she said softly, her voice trembling but firm. "Tywin Lannister doesn't deserve to speak their names, let alone take their lives."

Robb sank back onto the cold stone bench, his hands covering his face. "My father—he was the North. Everything I know about honour, duty, it all came from him." he said, his voice muffled. "And Jon... he was more than my brother. He was my friend, my partner in everything. And I couldn't save either of them."

Roslin sat beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. "You didn't fail them, Robb. You've done everything you could to protect your family, your people. This is Tywin's crime, not yours."

Robb's hands dropped from his face, revealing eyes red-rimmed with grief but blazing with determination. "But it wasn't enough," he said bitterly. "I wasn't there to fight for them, to stop it. Tywin Lannister took everything from me—my father, my brother—and now he thinks he can take the North."

Roslin straightened, her own sorrow giving way to resolve. "But he can't, Robb. The North will stand with you, now more than ever. The people loved your father. They will rally behind you because they believe in House Stark, in you."

Robb shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line. "It's not just about the North, Roslin. It's about justice. Tywin thinks he can butcher my family, but I swear to the gods, I'll see him answer for this. Him, and anyone else who stands with him."

Roslin reached for his hand, her fingers interlacing with his. "Then we fight, Robb. For your father, for Jon, for the North. You won't face this alone. I'll be by your side, every step of the way."

Above them, the heart tree loomed, its carved face weeping blood-red sap as if mourning with them. But the winds that whispered through its branches carried the promise of vengeance.

"I'll tell Torrhen," Roslin said softly, her voice steady despite the weight of the moment. "He's young, and he may not fully understand, but he needs to know. In the morning, we'll bring him here together. We'll leave a token, and he can say goodbye to them in his own way."

Robb nodded, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. In his grief, he had not considered Torrhen. Selfishly, his thoughts had been consumed by his own loss, by the unbearable absence of his father and brother. His son hadn't known real death before—hadn't yet grasped its permanence. When news of Walder Frey's death had reached them the year prior, Torrhen had been largely unaffected; to him, Walder was little more than a name and a faint memory of a gruff old man. But Ned Stark and Jon Snow were different. Torrhen adored his grandfather, who had doted on him, and he idolised Jon, his stories of adventure and honour lighting up Torrhen's imagination. This would shatter him in ways the boy had never known.

"You're right," Robb said, his voice thick with emotion. "He deserves the truth. They were his family too."

Roslin stepped closer, her hand resting gently on his arm. "And I'm sorry, my love, but there's more. You need to tell your mother. Your sisters. They'll want to hear it from you."

Robb's jaw tightened, and he looked away, staring at the ground as though it might swallow him whole. "I know," he said after a long pause. "Gods, how do I even begin? My mother… this will destroy her. She's already lost so much. And Arya… Sansa…" He trailed off, his thoughts spinning wildly. "I don't know if I have the strength."

"You do," Roslin said firmly, taking his hand in hers. "You must. For them. For Torrhen. For the North. They need you to be strong, Robb, even if you don't feel it now. And when you're ready, we'll gather the lords and tell them together."

Robb exhaled heavily, running a hand through his auburn hair. He looked up at the godswood around them, the blood-red leaves swaying gently in the cold wind. The heart tree loomed above, its ancient face carved into the bark gazing down at him as if bearing witness to his pain. He found no comfort in its stoic expression, only a solemn reminder of the duty that lay ahead.

"First family," Robb said quietly. "After that… the lords."

Roslin squeezed his hand gently, her warmth grounding him for a moment in the chaos. "I'll be with you every step of the way," she promised. "You're not alone in this, Robb."

He looked at her, his grief-stricken eyes softening as he took in her resolve. In this moment, she was his strength, her unwavering love and loyalty a balm to the searing pain in his heart.

"Thank you," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "For everything."

Roslin smiled faintly, her expression tinged with sorrow but filled with determination. "We'll get through this," she said. "Together."

As they stood beneath the heart tree, the cold winds of the North swirling around them, Robb felt the faintest spark of hope. He had lost so much—too much—but he still had his family, his people, and a wife who would stand by him no matter the storm.

The Lord's private office was eerily quiet. Robb Stark stood by the hearth, his back to the room, staring into the flames as if the crackling fire could offer the words he needed to say. His hands rested on the mantle, gripping it tightly, his knuckles pale.

The sound of soft footsteps echoed behind him, and he turned to see Arya and Sansa entering the room. Arya moved quickly, her brows furrowed in confusion. Sansa followed more hesitantly, her hands clasped in front of her as though bracing for bad news.

"You wanted to see us?" Arya asked, her voice sharp, suspicious. Her keen eyes darted around the room, as if she expected a hidden threat to spring forth.

Sansa glanced at her brother, her expression more apprehensive. "Robb? What is it?"

Robb took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. He gestured toward the empty chairs. "Sit down," he said, his tone somber.

Arya's frown deepened. "Just tell us," she said, folding her arms. "What's wrong?"

"Arya, please," Robb said, his voice tinged with an uncharacteristic softness. "Sit. This isn't… it's not easy."

Something in his tone silenced Arya's protests. She exchanged a glance with Sansa before both girls moved to sit. Sansa's hands tightened around her skirts, her knuckles whitening as she perched on the edge of the seat. Arya leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her restless energy barely contained.

Robb crossed the room and stood before them, his shadow looming over their seated forms. He hesitated for a long moment, his throat working as he struggled to find the words. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and heavy with grief.

"There's no easy way to say this," he began. "Father and Jon… they're gone."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Sansa's lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came out. Her eyes filled with tears, the realisation dawning slowly and painfully. Arya, on the other hand, stiffened. Her sharp features twisted in disbelief.

"What do you mean, gone?" Arya demanded, her voice shaking. "Gone where?"

Robb knelt before them, his hands resting on his knees as he looked into Arya's fierce, tear-bright eyes. "They were executed, Arya. Tywin Lannister ordered it. They're dead."

"No," Arya whispered, shaking her head violently. "No, that's not true. It can't be true. Father… Jon…" Her voice cracked, and she clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. "They wouldn't let that happen. They wouldn't just die."

Robb reached for her, but Arya jerked away, springing to her feet. "You're lying!" she shouted. "You're lying to us!"

"Arya!" Robb said sharply, standing as well. His tone softened immediately, his grief mirroring hers. "I would never lie to you about this. I swear it on the old gods and the new."

Sansa broke then, a strangled sob escaping her lips. She covered her face with her hands, her body trembling as she wept. Robb moved to her side, resting a hand gently on her shoulder.

Arya paced, her movements frantic, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "I'll kill him," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "I'll kill Tywin Lannister myself. I'll—"

"Arya, stop," Robb said, stepping toward her. "I know you're angry. I am too. But we have to think about what comes next. We can't let this consume us."

Arya whirled to face him, her eyes blazing with fury. "They were our family!" she shouted. "And they're gone because of the Lannisters! You want me to just sit here and do nothing?"

Robb's jaw tightened, his blue eyes hardening as a flicker of anger broke through his usually calm demeanor. He took a deep breath, forcing the fury back into the depths of his grief. "No," he said firmly, his voice cutting through Arya's growing storm of emotions. "We'll avenge them. But right now, that's not what they would want."

Arya froze mid-step, her fists still clenched at her sides, trembling with barely restrained fury. "Not what they would want?" she echoed, her tone incredulous and sharp. "They would want justice! They would want us to fight back! To make Tywin Lannister pay for what he's done!"

Robb stepped closer to her, his own voice rising, but not with anger—with urgency. "The dead are still coming, Arya. Make no mistake about that. Jon and Father knew it. They gave their lives trying to protect us from that threat, not so we could throw away everything on some ill-planned vengeance."

Arya's eyes flared with indignation. "Don't you dare," she hissed. "Don't you dare make this about them. You think Father and Jon would just stand by while the Lannisters get away with this? You think they'd let the real enemy"—her voice dripped with sarcasm—"walk all over us without a fight?"

"I think they'd want us to live," Robb shot back, his voice sharp but steady. "To live so we can actually fight the battles that matter. You think storming off to kill Tywin will bring them back? Do you think that's what Father wanted for you—for any of us? To die without thought, without strategy, without honour?"

Arya's face twisted with rage. "Don't talk to me about honour!" she shouted, her voice cracking. "You're sounding just like him now, talking about battles that matter and strategy while our family is dead, and Tywin Lannister is still alive. You want to sit here and plan? Fine. You can plan. I'll do something about it."

Robb stepped in her path as she turned to leave, his broad frame blocking her way. "Arya, stop," he said, his tone softening but losing none of its firmness. "We need you. The North needs you. If we're divided, the Lannisters win without lifting a sword. And if the Lannisters don't finish us, the dead will."

Arya glared up at him, her eyes blazing, her jaw set with the fierce stubbornness that reminded Robb so much of their father. "Then you fight your war, Robb," she said, her voice sharp as steel. "Sit here in your grand keep, surrounded by your lords, and make your plans. I'll fight mine."

Her words hit him harder than any blow. Robb's shoulders sagged under the weight of her defiance, his anger and grief simmering beneath the surface. "Arya—" he started, his voice soft, almost pleading.

"No," she cut him off, her tone final. "You're just like Sansa. Always waiting. Waiting for someone else to make the first move. Waiting for the perfect moment that never comes. Well, I won't."

She turned sharply. Robb stepped forward instinctively, reaching out to stop her, but she was already at the door. The slam echoed through the room as she stormed out, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.

Robb made to follow her, his frustration mounting, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned to see Sansa, her face pale but determined. "Don't," she said softly. "You'll only make it worse."

"Sansa—" he began, but she shook her head, cutting him off.

"She's not ready to listen to you, not right now. Let me talk to Alyn. She needs someone who can get through to her, and right now, that isn't us."

Robb hesitated, his hand hovering at his side as though he could still catch Arya before she disappeared completely. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and nodded, stepping back. "Maybe you're right," he admitted reluctantly. "I just… I don't want her to do something reckless."

"She's Arya," Sansa said, her voice carrying a faint, bittersweet smile. "When has she ever not been reckless?"

Robb tried to smile, but the weight of the moment was too heavy. He slumped into his seat, rubbing a hand over his face. His grief and frustration swirled together, leaving him feeling helpless in the face of so much loss. "Will you join me?" he asked after a moment, his voice low. "When I tell Mother?"

Sansa hesitated, her face clouding with uncertainty. "I can't," she said finally, regret lacing her words. "I need to speak with Tyrion, decide what we do next."

Robb frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

Sansa's gaze dropped briefly, as if searching for the right words, before meeting his eyes. "You may have forgotten, brother, but my husband and my son are Lannisters. And now Lannisters have started killing Starks. Your lords may not be so welcoming once they learn that detail."

Robb's frown deepened, but before he could respond, Sansa stepped closer and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "This is something you need to do alone," she said quietly.

Robb stared after her as she left, her words lingering in his mind. He slumped back into his chair, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. He didn't relish the thought of facing his mother with this news—another blow to her already battered heart. But Sansa was right. It had to be done.

Robb's heart pounded in his chest as he stood outside his parent's chambers. His parents had given up the lord's chambers years ago, when Robb had taken up the mantle of lordship, but even now, Robb occasionally felt like an intruder as he slept in what had once been his parent's bed.

He raised his hand to knock,and before long his mother's voice called from inside, soft but clear. "Come in."

Robb pushed the door open, stepping into the familiar room, but today it felt different—heavier. His mother was at the small table by the window, carefully lighting two candles, her movements slow and deliberate. It was a nightly tradition she had kept for years: one candle for Bran, one for Rickon. The flickering flames danced softly in the dim room, casting a warm, golden glow over her tired face. She had always believed that the light of the candles would guide her sons home, wherever they were.

His throat tightened, and he felt the weight of the news he was about to deliver. How could he tell her? How could he tell her that Ned, the man who had always been her protector, her strength, had died?

"Mother…" Robb's voice faltered as he approached her, his heart heavy with the burden of the truth.

She turned toward him, her hands still holding the lit candles. She looked at him with a soft, knowing smile, but there was a sadness in her eyes—an understanding, as if she had already sensed something was wrong.

"What is it, Robb?" she asked, her voice gentle, but it trembled with the weariness of so many long days.

Robb swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. "Mother…" He paused, the weight of his words choking him. "I don't know how to say this, but… Father and Jon, they're gone."

Her hands froze, the light of the candles flickering as her gaze locked onto him, her face draining of colour. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating, as if the very air itself held its breath.

"What do you mean?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, as though she feared speaking the words aloud would make them real. "What do you mean, they're gone?"

Robb's heart cracked as he watched his mother's face twist with disbelief, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She didn't need to hear the rest; she already knew, in that quiet way mothers always knew, that this was not some passing storm—this was a wound that would never heal, a loss so profound that it would forever change the shape of their family.

"They were executed, Mother," Robb said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to sound steady. "By Tywin Lannister."

Catelyn staggered back slightly, as though struck by an unseen force. Her fingers gripped the back of the chair near the window, the candles she had so carefully lit moments before flickering wildly in their holders. For a long moment, she didn't speak, her back turned to him. The shadows from the flames played against the walls, their erratic movements mirroring the chaos in her heart.

When she finally turned, her face was a mask of grief, tears spilling silently down her cheeks. She averted her gaze, unable to meet Robb's eyes. "You know," she began, her voice trembling, "it's been six years since your brothers went missing. Six long years since Bran and Rickon disappeared."

Robb blinked, startled by her sudden change of subject. He had expected outrage, anger at the Lannisters, or even sorrow at the deaths of her husband and Jon. Instead, her mind had gone to Bran and Rickon—the other wounds she carried, the ones time hadn't healed.

"I've spent more time looking for Rickon now than I ever had with him," she continued, her words spilling out like a confession. "I held onto hope for all those years, believing they were alive, that they were out there somewhere trying to come home to me. And now…" Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, choking back a sob. "Now, all I can think is that maybe they're better off dead."

Robb felt as if she'd struck him. "Mother," he said, his voice urgent, pained. "Don't say that—"

"At least then," she interrupted, her voice thick with grief, "at least then, they'd be with him. With their father. With Jon. My babies… my babies would have their father to watch over them again." Her shoulders shook as she turned her face away, her hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the table. It was as though voicing the thought had unleashed a torrent of guilt and pain that she could no longer hold back. "Does that make me a bad mother, Robb? To wish that they were gone just so they wouldn't be alone?"

Robb stood there, silent, his throat tight and his chest heavy. He didn't know what to say—what could he say to ease the weight of grief crushing her? The words wouldn't come, but his heart ached with the need to console her.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the crackling of the candles. "I think I will be with them again soon."

The quiet devastation of her words made Robb's blood run cold. He stepped closer, kneeling beside her and gripping her hands tightly. "Don't say that," he said firmly, his voice breaking slightly. "Don't even think it. You have family here, Mother—family that needs you. Torrhen needs you. The girls need you. I need you."

She shook her head faintly, her tear-streaked face still turned away. Robb pressed on, his voice softening. "Father and the boys—they'll still be there when your time comes. But not yet. They wouldn't want you to give up on us, on yourself."

Catelyn finally looked at him, her eyes red and brimming with tears. "Forgive me, Robb," she said, her voice faltering. "It was only the rambling of an old woman. I'm sorry to burden you with such thoughts."

"You're not a burden," Robb said softly, his hands tightening around hers. "You never could be."

She offered him a faint, weary smile before pulling her hands free. "There is something that must be done," she said, her tone steadier now, though the pain lingered in her eyes. "You should write to Castle Black. Ask if they would be willing to send their bodies home. Your father was the Lord of Winterfell, and he should be buried as such, in the crypts with his ancestors."

Her gaze flickered to the flickering candles, as though drawing strength from the steady flames. "And Jon… he may not bear the Stark name, but this was his home. It's where he belongs."

Robb nodded solemnly. "I'll see to it."

For a moment, there was silence between them, broken only by the soft crackle of the candles and the faint rustling of the winter wind outside. Catelyn exhaled deeply, as if summoning all her remaining strength.

"Now," she said, her voice quieter but resolute, "I think I would like to be alone."

Robb hesitated, reluctant to leave her in this fragile state, but he recognised the determination in her expression. He stood slowly, bending down to kiss her forehead. "If you need me—if you need anything…."

She gave him a faint nod, "I know" she said, her hands folding in her lap as her gaze returned to the candles. Robb lingered for a moment longer, watching her, before turning and stepping quietly out of the room.

As he closed the door behind him, the full weight of his own grief pressed down on him. He leaned against the wall outside, drawing in a ragged breath. Inside, he could still see the faint glow of the candlelight spilling out beneath the door. The thought of his mother sitting there, lighting a flame for each of the lives they had lost, was almost too much to bear.

But Robb straightened his shoulders. There was work to be done, promises to keep, and a family still to protect. Whatever grief he carried, he would have to set it aside—for her, for Torrhen, for the North. He could mourn later, when the fight was done.

The following morning dawned cold and gray, the skies heavy with the weight of the storm brewing both within and outside Winterfell's walls. Robb stood in the great hall, dressed in his lord's armour, his doublet embroidered with the direwolf of House Stark. He looked every bit the Young Wolf—commanding, unyielding—but his eyes betrayed the grief he carried.

The gathered Northern lords murmured among themselves as the hall filled. Wyman Manderly's bulk dominated a corner, his booming voice subdued for once. Lord Bolton sat near the center, his pale blue eyes cold and calculating, while Maege Mormont and Greatjon Umber exchanged grim nods of understanding. They knew this was not a council called for strategy; this was a moment of reckoning.

Robb let his gaze sweep across the hall, ensuring every man and woman present had stilled. The whispers quieted as his presence demanded their attention. Roslin stood discreetly at his side, her hands clasped in front of her, her face drawn with worry but steadfast. She had offered him quiet strength before they entered, and he carried that strength with him now.

"My lords, my ladies," Robb began, his voice carrying clearly over the assembly. "I have summoned you here not for war plans or council, but because I owe you truth.Yesterday, a raven arrived from Castle Black."

He paused, his throat tightening, but he forced himself to continue. "My father, Eddard Stark, and my brother, Jon Snow, have been executed by Tywin Lannister."

A collective gasp echoed through the hall, followed by a wave of outrage. Maege Mormont slammed a fist against the table, and Greatjon surged to his feet, his booming voice rising above the cacophony. "The lion grows too bold! Tywin Lannister thinks the North will kneel to his butcher's games?"

Others joined the outcry, their anger like a fire threatening to consume the hall. Robb raised a hand, commanding silence. Slowly, the voices subsided, though the rage simmered in every set of eyes that stared back at him.

"They died as Starks," Robb said, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. "They were executed as traitors by Tywin Lannister, but we will remember them as heroes. Their deaths will not be in vain. We'll make sure of it." His gaze swept over the gathered lords, his words carrying the weight of the loss he felt in his heart, but also the determination to honour their sacrifice.

"Heroes whose deaths must be avenged," growled Maege Mormont, her voice like a war drum, hard as iron, every syllable edged with the steel of her own grief. Her fist slammed down onto the table, and the other lords muttered their agreement, their anger building in the air like a storm on the horizon.

"And we will," Robb promised, his own hands gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled force. "But we must be smart and united in this. If we attack the Lannisters with all our strength, if we rush to battle in a blaze of fury, we may not have enough men left to face the real enemy—the dead."

The room fell into an uneasy silence. The weight of Robb's words lingered in the air, thick and heavy with the realization that they weren't just fighting for vengeance. They were fighting for survival. Robb's eyes scanned the hall, seeking their understanding.

"But if we wait too long," a voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. It was Alyn Umber, stepping forward from the back of the hall, his normally quiet demeanor replaced by a fierce urgency. "If we wait, the Lannisters will come for us here. We'll be trapped within Winterfell, caught between the Lannisters' swords and the dead. When the dead do finally reach us, we'll either all be long dead or hopelessly outnumbered, with no chance to fight back."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the lords, but it wasn't without dissent. The Smalljon, Alyn's brother, shot him a venomous look, his face twisted in disapproval. Alyn was the second son, a man whose opinions were often brushed aside in favor of his older brother's voice. But Alyn wasn't backing down now. He stood tall, eyes fierce, his posture unyielding as he met his brother's glare.

The tension in the room thickened, a mix of frustration and urgency. Robb's gaze shifted from Alyn to his older brother, then to the rest of the gathered lords. He saw the uncertainty in their eyes—the divide between those who wanted swift vengeance and those who knew the harsh reality of the war they were facing.

"We cannot afford to be divided, my lords," Robb said, his voice cutting through the rising tension in the room. He stood tall, his gaze moving over the gathered lords with an intensity that commanded attention. "Alyn's right, we need to move quickly, but we also need to be strategic. We can't let blind fury drive us into a situation where we're wiped out before we even face the real threat. The only way we'll survive to fight the true enemy—the dead—is to force Tywin Lannister to retreat south."

Alyn nodded in agreement, his strong features set with determination. He had said his piece, but he wasn't about to back down. Still, Lord Bolton, always the cynic, raised a questioning brow, his voice dripping with skepticism.

"And how, exactly, do you intend to do that, Lord Stark?" Lord Bolton asked, rising slowly from his seat. The older man's voice carried the weight of experience, his posture casual but imposing, as if daring Robb to come up with something more than just a plan based on anger. "Tywin Lannister will not simply turn on his heels and run home just because you want him to."

Beside Lord Bolton, his son Ramsay wore a grin so wide it seemed to stretch the lines of his face. There was something unnerving in the way he smiled—like a predator sizing up its prey.

"Not when he sees victory on the horizon," Ramsay chimed in, his words laced with venomous anticipation.

Robb's jaw clenched, but before he could respond, Roslin spoke up, her voice cool and composed despite the rising tension.

"Forgive me, Lord Bolton," she began, her eyes fixed on the older man, "but if I am not mistaken, Tywin Lannister is not the king." Her words hung in the air for a moment, silencing the room. "King Tommen remains in King's Landing, and while Tywin may think his victory is close at hand, the fact remains that King's Landing itself is vulnerable. The king is still a child, and his heavily pregnant queen, with only a small garrison to defend the city, is no match for a concerted effort."

Lord Bolton's eyes narrowed, and he gave a soft chuckle, "What exactly are you suggesting, Lady Stark?"

Roslin didn't hesitate. "I'm suggesting we don't engage Tywin directly at all," she said, her voice firm with the weight of conviction. "We don't need to go to war with the Lannisters right now. What we need is to make Tywin think King's Landing is in danger."

The lords in the room exchanged skeptical glances. The idea was bold—risky, even—but it seemed to be taking root. Robb, still standing, looked to Roslin for clarity.

"And how do we make Tywin think King's Landing is in danger?" Robb asked, his brow furrowed in thought.

The Smalljon, always quick to vocalize his thoughts, grinned and replied before anyone else could. "Oh, it's obvious, isn't it? She's suggesting we attack King's Landing, take the capital itself."

A few of the lords chuckled, some out of disbelief, others with the bitter taste of the impossible. But Roslin shook her head, her expression calm but resolute.

"Of course not," she said. "Why would we exchange one battle for another? Moving our forces south would leave Winterfell even more vulnerable. We need to be cleverer than that. What we need is a way to make Tywin believe the city is on the brink of revolt."

The room fell silent, and Lord Bolton raised an eyebrow in mock curiosity. "And how would we do that, exactly?"

Roslin's eyes sparkled with a quiet confidence as she continued. "Because all we need are the people of King's Landing. The common folk, the ones who are starving, who are suffering. They're fighting a war they don't understand, and their children are sick while the king and queen indulge in lavish feasts and gifts for their unborn twins. If we can offer them an alternative—someone who represents a break from the Lannister tyranny—Tywin will be forced to react."

A few of the lords in the room exchanged glances, their minds working through the strategy. There was a kernel of truth in Roslin's words. King's Landing was a powder keg, and all it needed was a spark.

"But what alternative?" Ramsay Bolton scoffed, his voice dripping with mockery. "The common people of King's Landing are hardly going to listen to the Starks. You'd need more than a few promises of food to stir them into action."

Before Roslin could respond, a voice interrupted from the doorway.

"Daenerys Targaryen."

The room fell silent at the name. Robb's heart skipped a beat as he turned to see none other than Tyrion Lannister standing in the doorway, a knowing look in his eyes. The dwarf had a way of entering rooms unnoticed, but this time his presence was commanding. His voice, as always, was calm but filled with the weight of a carefully calculated mind.

"Daenerys Targaryen," Tyrion repeated, stepping further into the room. "She is your alternative."

The room was stunned. Tyrion stood tall despite his stature, his eyes flicking to Robb as if he were waiting for a reaction.

"Think about it," Tyrion continued, his voice steady, eyes glinting with the sharpness of his mind at work. "The people of King's Landing are suffering. They are hungry, cold, and sick. They've lived under the Lannisters' boot for too long, and they're starting to see the cracks in the kingdom's fragile order. They don't care about the games of power being played by the rich and the noble—they care about surviving the winter and feeding their families. Daenerys Targaryen is known to them as the breaker of chains, the one who freed the slaves of Essos and gave hope to the downtrodden. They've heard whispers of her, the Dragon Queen who is said to care for the common people, who seeks justice and freedom. The people of King's Landing want a leader who will give them more than just empty promises of power. They want change."

Tyrion paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the lords in the room. Robb could see them processing the idea, turning it over in their minds. Even Lord Bolton, who was never quick to agree with anything, was listening carefully now.

"She has landed at Dragonstone this morning," Tyrion continued, his voice lowering as if to ensure his next words carried the gravity they required. "This is the moment. We send food, medicine, supplies to King's Landing—everything the Lannisters have been hoarding for themselves. We don't just send it with our seal. We send it with a message, a message from Daenerys Targaryen, their new queen. We'll offer the people of the capital hope—real hope, not the lies they've been fed for years. They'll know they are not forgotten, and more importantly, they'll know someone else is looking to claim the throne—someone who will care for them."

"Then we wait," Tyrion finished, his lips curling into a slight smirk as though he had already seen the outcome in his mind. "We wait for the news to spread through the city. The whispers of a new hope, of a queen who will restore justice. It will be enough to sow doubt in Tywin's mind. He's already stretched thin with his forces. If he thinks King's Landing is on the verge of revolt, he'll be forced to pull his troops back to defend it. He won't be able to risk the city falling into chaos while he's out in the field."

Robb's heart hammered in his chest. It was risky—more than risky—but it was their best chance. If they could draw Tywin south, they would have a shot at dealing with the real threat: the dead. But they would need to be quick. Every hour counted.

"So, we send word to Daenerys," Robb said, his voice firm, the weight of the decision settling on him. "But it must all be done carefully. If Tywin doesn't bite, we need to be ready for a counterattack."

Roslin was silent for a moment, her gaze fixed on him, before she shook her head. "No," she said, her voice steady but resolute. "We cannot simply send word. Daenerys is a Queen, and her support is not something we can take for granted. We need her, not just for her name, but for her strength. We need her dragons, her army. If we're going to stand a chance, we must meet her, in person."

Robb looked at her in surprise, his brow furrowing. "Ro, you can't... I can't... I won't lose you too."

The plea in his voice made her pause, but only for a moment. She reached for his hand, the familiar touch grounding her as much as it did him. "You won't lose me, Robb," she said softly. "But I am the Lady of Winterfell, and I cannot stand by while this decision is made without our full commitment. We need Daenerys as an ally, not just a message on parchment. I will go to her. I will speak with her, make her understand that our cause is her cause."

He stared at her for a moment, the rawness of their shared grief still so fresh in his chest. He understood why she wanted to go. He knew that her mind was already made up, that there would be no dissuading her. And yet, the thought of sending her away, alone, into a world so full of danger—his world now, the world where everything had already begun to unravel—was unbearable.

Roslin turned back to face the room, her back straight, her presence commanding even in the midst of such grief. The lords and ladies, the soldiers, all waited in tense silence as she addressed them. "I leave today," she announced, her voice carrying with an authority that made even the most seasoned warriors listen. "Lord Tyrion, will you join me?"

Tyrion Lannister, who had been quietly observing the exchange, now stepped forward with a sly grin. "I'd be a fool to miss such an opportunity, Lady Stark. How could I possibly turn down a journey that promises both peril and adventure?"

Roslin inclined her head, acknowledging Tyrion's words with a faint smile, though her mind was already far ahead, weaving through the treacherous path that lay before them. She understood the risks—better than most. The journey south would be perilous, and aligning with Daenerys Targaryen was no small gamble. But it was one they could not afford to ignore. The stakes were far too high.

Before Robb could respond, a cold voice cut through the hall like the lash of a whip.

"Am I the only one who remembers the last Targaryen King to sit on the Iron Throne?" Lord Roose Bolton's words carried a deliberate, venomous edge, his pale eyes narrowing on Roslin. "You speak of this Daenerys as though she is salvation itself, but have we forgotten what her father did to House Stark? To the North?"

The room grew tense, and Roslin turned to face him, her expression unreadable. Bolton's lips twisted into a faint sneer as he continued, his tone dripping with condescension. "You may not know this, girl, because despite your efforts to make us forget, you are not a Stark. You are not even a Northerner."

His words hung in the air, a challenge laid bare for all to see. The murmurs in the hall stilled to a strained silence as Bolton turned his cold gaze to Robb. "But you, my lord... You must remember. Your grandfather and your uncle burned alive at the hands of the Mad King. This dragon queen is his daughter, born of his blood. Do you think her loyalty lies with the wolves of Winterfell?"

Robb's jaw tightened, but before he could answer, Roslin stepped forward, her back straight, her voice clear and steady. "You speak of blood, Lord Bolton," she said, her eyes locking with his unflinchingly. "But the bloodshed of the past will mean nothing if we do not face the enemies of today."

Bolton raised an eyebrow, his amusement barely concealed. "And you believe this queen will spare the North from her flames?"

"I believe that the army of the dead will not care for your history lessons, Lord Bolton," Roslin shot back, her voice sharp but controlled. "And I believe that if we do not seek allies where they can be found, there will be no North left to burn."

The hall erupted in murmurs, a tide of voices rising and falling as the lords and ladies of the North exchanged wary glances. But Roslin's gaze remained unflinching, locked on Bolton's cold, calculating eyes. She drew a steadying breath, her voice firm as she spoke.

"You speak of the Mad King as though his sins are Daenerys' to bear, but I see no madness in her actions. This is a queen who has freed slaves, who has broken tyrants, who seeks to bring order to a fractured world. Are we so bound by the past that we will reject our only chance to survive the future?"

Her words hung in the air, the silence deafening for a heartbeat before Bolton's dry, measured voice broke through. "A future where we are little more than tools to her ambition. And what happens, Lady Stark, when the Dragon Queen no longer finds us useful? Will you still sing her praises when Winterfell burns beneath dragonfire?"

Roslin stepped forward, her voice cutting like steel. "We need her dragons, Lord Bolton. Without them, we cannot face the dead. And I do not speak only of survival for ourselves but for our children. You are a father—surely you wish to see your daughter grow to adulthood? This alliance may be her only chance."

Bolton's pale eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a faint sneer. "Or it may be her death sentence. Tell me, Lady Stark, what comfort will your words bring when the North lies in ashes and the Dragon Queen's shadow looms over us?"

Roslin's spine straightened, her voice rising to meet his skepticism. "I will not sit idle while the enemy closes in. I will go to Dragonstone myself. I will meet Daenerys and make our case. This is not a suggestion, Lord Bolton. This is final."

Her words silenced the murmurs, the weight of her resolve commanding the room. "You are correct about one thing," she continued, her voice unwavering. "I am not a Northerner by birth. But I am a Stark by choice, by marriage, and by duty. I am the wife and mother of wolves, and I am your lady—not some girl for you to dismiss."

The room was deathly still. Bolton's jaw tightened, and he stepped back, his expression unreadable as he retreated to stand beside Tyta, his wife, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. Tyta's face betrayed no emotion, but her gaze lingered on Roslin, a flicker of something unspoken passing between the two women.

After a long moment, Robb's voice broke the silence, steady and commanding. "Thank you, my lords and ladies. You are dismissed."

The lords began to file out, their expressions varying between quiet respect and thinly veiled doubt. As the last of the room emptied, Roslin let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. Robb moved to her side, his eyes searching hers.

As Robb watched his wife turn to prepare for her departure, something inside him twisted, a feeling he couldn't quite place. He knew this was the right decision, but he also knew that every moment they were apart, the world grew darker, the stakes higher. He watched her walk away, her silhouette framed by the torchlight, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the weight of his responsibilities crushing him.

"Please," he whispered under his breath, but it was a prayer to the gods who had taken so much from him already.

The next hours passed in a blur of final preparations. The news of Roslin's departure rippled through Winterfell, and though most lords understood the necessity of her journey, it was clear that no one took it lightly. She was the heart of Winterfell now, its steady hand and its guiding light. Sending her away was no small thing.

As she stood at the gates of Winterfell, ready to leave, Robb stood beside her, his face a mask of stoicism that barely concealed the turmoil within. "You'll return to me," he said one last time, his voice steady, even if his heart wasn't.

Roslin turned to him, her eyes softer than they had been in days. She reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "I will," she promised, her voice firm, but with a warmth that made his chest tighten. "But for now, the North needs you. And Winterfell needs you. Look after Torrhen, don't tell him I'm gone until the morning."

With a final, lingering kiss, Roslin turned, her cloak billowing out behind her as she mounted her horse. Tyrion was already on his own mount, his grin never fading as he waved Robb off.

As they rode off into the distance, Robb stood at the gates, watching them disappear into the snow. He could feel the weight of his world shift again, the knowledge that more was at stake now than ever before pressing down on him. He would keep Winterfell safe. He would protect the North. And he would see his family avenged.

But as he turned to head back inside, he couldn't shake the feeling that the world, for all his careful plans, was slipping further and further out of his grasp.