Chapter 10: Frustration, Fury, Backup Plans

The camp that had been hastily set up among the sparse trees north of the village of the Crossed Elms and west of one of the streams that flowed into the Gods Eye, separating them from Harrenhal, was filled with the men of the Allied Army—defeated, but gripped by a vast kaleidoscope of emotions: anger, despair, frustration, helplessness, shame, humiliation, and a desire for revenge.

Three times the usual number of sentinels had been posted, and everyone kept busy tending to the wounded, preparing meals, counting weapons and armor, and making small repairs to saddles, armor, anything. All of it done with snorts, seething rage, and curses.

The situation inside the commanders' tent was, predictably, even worse.

The humiliation, the shock of betrayal, the rage and helplessness over a triumph that had come so close it could be touched, only to be cruelly ripped away, combined with uncertainty and fear for the future. It made them reconsider the recent alliance and the value of their agreements, contrasting sharply with the adrenaline that now ebbed, as the battle faded into a bitter memory.

"AN OUTRAGE! That's what it is!" growled Mace Tyrell. Even his own sons would have sworn they had never seen their father so furious—or seen him furious at all.

"A great victory snatched from our hands just steps from the finish line!"

"And yet—replied Loras—it wasn't necessary for us to retreat! We were winning! Five more minutes and we would have taken Stannis Baratheon's head, and the battle would have ended right there." Perhaps that was what frustrated him the most.

"If King Robb had waited five more minutes to give that order," countered the Blackfish, "we would have been defeated, nothing less. The men would have broken into a disorderly rout, and half of our own would have died trampled under their comrades' feet. Forget taking Stannis' head: you would have been cut off and surrounded by all the other enemies."

"We could have done it, I'm telling you! But maybe you're too old to believe it! And yet, it was your plan!"

"That's exactly why I know it was all going wrong… boy."

Loras was about to reply hotly when Robett Glover intervened to make peace:

"There's no use sitting here blaming each other. We can consider ourselves lucky to have saved most of the army.
Stannis may claim victory, but he suffered far greater losses than we did. Including, I remind you, two-thirds of his cavalry.
And remember that the only reason he survived is because of those traitors."

"Damn Freys," growled Jason Mallister. "I knew they couldn't be trusted, but… I didn't think it would go that far."

"I, on the other hand, have always known the Brackens couldn't be trusted!" snapped Tytos Blackwood. "But was I listened to? Of course not! You all think our thousand-year-old rivalry is silly, but—"

"Competent commanders," pointed out Randyll Tarly, earning some glares, "would have been able to win, despite the betrayal. They would have come up with an alternative strategy on the fly."

"I… maybe I made a mistake," Edmure admitted guiltily. "I practically provoked Walder Frey, and—"

"Enough!" roared Greatjon Umber. "Those slimy Frey scoundrels wanted the Lannister gold we've captured, we all know it! That's been their only thought since we took it. They must've been plotting betrayal for a long time."

"And not just them," hissed Harrion Karstark, still in mourning, though his grief was beginning to be replaced by a cold rage. "The Boltons too… that damn Roose, the Lord of Leeches, has taken up the habits of his ancestors, who were the worst enemies of the Starks."

"And also the Ryswells have sided with them," confirmed Lord Tallhart.

Robb, who had remained seated until that moment, listening to everyone with his head lowered and a dark expression, suddenly stirred. He looked up.

"What? Even the Ryswells?"

Helman Tallhart nodded gravely. "After all, they've always been the family closest to the Boltons among the Northern houses… one of Lord Rodrik's daughters, Bethany, was Roose Bolton's second wife… she gave him the son Domeric, though he died prematurely…"

Old Manfrid Dustin gave a start. "Then perhaps we have another problem, my Lords—" and all eyes turned toward him—"the current Lady of my house, Lady Barbrey… the widow of my poor nephew… is also a Ryswell by birth, Rodrik's other daughter… and she has hated the Starks ever since her husband died fighting alongside Eddard during Robert's Rebellion… I fear that…"

Robb was incredulous. "You mean now—that Stannis will surely proclaim the Boltons Lords Paramount of the North in place of the Starks—Lady Dustin might declare for them?"

"It's… a possibility, I fear."

"Blasphemy!" roared Smalljon, in that moment very much like his father.

"They're turning us all against each other…" Garlan remarked painfully.

"Oh, you have NO idea how much, Garlan," added Robb, his temples beginning to pound. "Some time ago, when I went to the Westerlands, I brought Roose Bolton with me instead of Greatjon Umber because there were rumors among the soldiers… that he would send men from other houses into the vanguard first… By taking him with me, I wanted to keep an eye on him… in fact, he didn't do anything of the sort again… but now, it's clear that… I was a fool."

Greatjon calmed down. He hadn't been angry, but he had been disappointed when Robb had left without him. Now he understood the reason.

"And also, now other things are clear to me," continued the King in the North.

"For some time, we were told there was trouble in the North, a mysterious bandit who allegedly kidnapped poor Lady Hornwood… a certain Red Armor… Then, a few weeks ago, Roose Bolton, all smug, announced that he had been killed by Ramsay… his bastard."

"Well?"

"Well, I should have listened more to Maester Luwin as a boy! I just remembered that the Boltons used to call themselves the Red Kings, when they fought us Starks! I'm sure it's always been him, Ramsay, the real Red Armor! He had one of his own men killed and passed as him, so Rodrik Cassel would abandon the hunt and then he even took the credit for it…"

A chorus of astonishment rose at that insight.

"Of course!" Wylis Manderly continued. "Just as it's now obvious why poor Lady Hornwood was kidnapped, my father's cousin and now the only heir to her late husband's house… That wretched bastard must have forced her to marry him and then killed her, to inherit her lands!"

"So, they have been playing this game long before Stannis declared war on us…" Robett Glover observed.

"IT'S A SCANDAL!" Mace roared once more, unable to contain himself amidst such displays of incompetence. "Had I imagined that you weren't even capable of commanding your subordinates, Robb, I would NEVER have promised my daughter to you! What will become of us now? What kind of Lord allows himself to be betrayed this way? What kind of King allows such a thing?"

Greatjon was about to say something that everyone would regret, but Robb stopped him with a touch to his arm.

He leaned forward, his face livid with fury. Those present could have sworn they heard Grey Wind growling, even though the direwolf was chained fifty feet away.

"You are right, only an incapable man would allow himself to be betrayed like this by his subordinates. And now answer me one question, My Lord : am I mistaken, or was more than half the army we faced yesterday made up of men who, until two months ago, were your subordinates?"

And with that, he stood and walked out.

Mace's face was a mask of conflicting emotions. He stammered something, embarrassed, then shrieked:

"But… but IT'S NOT the same thing!" But Robb was already gone.

Davos Seaworth, as more and more often these days, was far from satisfied. In fact, he was furious.

He slammed his hand on the field table in his King's tent and declared, "This is UNACCEPTABLE! I will no longer tolerate this woman's presence in our camp!"
Melisandre, standing beside him, gave an impassive look.

Stannis took a breath, glancing at him sideways. "Calm yourself, Ser Davos."

"I WILL NOT CALM DOWN!" the old sailor roared. "Do you know, Your Grace, that some of our soldiers came to tell me… that yesterday morning, before the battle… Melisandre burned Edric Storm alive… sacrificed him to the Lord of Light?"

A heavy silence followed.

Davos widened his eyes. "You… did you know this or not? Did you… order her to do it? Because, depending on the answer…" He made to rip the Hand of the King pin from his chest.

"Stop and do not do something you will regret, Davos. I… NO, I did not order it. Not directly.

I did not know, in truth. However…"

"However?"

"…however, I acknowledge that Melisandre came to me, saying she had seen my defeat in the flames. And that she knew of a way to prevent it. Just as she had prevented me from being defeated by Renly, in the past. And I… I told her to do what she had to do."

"What… she HAD to do?"

"But our Lord Stannis has won," the Red Woman reaffirmed. "A sign that the Lord of Light truly accepted the offering. There is nothing more important than this."

"We won because some of Robb Stark's subordinates rebelled against him! Out of pure convenience! Do you expect me to believe that these… traitors only changed their minds yesterday morning? That they had never sent messages before to seek an arrangement?"

"Davos, the true traitors are those who do not recognize my authority. My entire army, save for the Florents and some sailors, is composed of men who once fought for other claimants. By your reasoning, they would all be traitors.

Instead, they are not traitors now—they were traitors before. And I have sworn to forgive any who return to the side of the rightful king."

"But Edric Storm was just a boy! Blood of your blood! You used him to prove to the world that Cersei's children were illegitimate… and you could have… promised him as a husband to your daughter Shireen… who cannot inherit the Iron Throne because she is female… to reunify the houses…"

"My daughter will marry someone else when the time comes," Stannis interrupted. "And her children will still carry the Baratheon name. Edric Storm was a boy, yes… just A boy.

Do you know how many boys, girls, men, women, old and young will die in the Long Night, Davos? ALL OF HUMANITY.

And I have been chosen to stop it. Only I can do it. Only I.

And I must bear the weight of the choices I must make to prevent it. If I do not become the uncontested King of the Seven Kingdoms, all of us will die. This is what Melisandre has seen, and you yourself know her magic works, so it must be true."

Davos waited a long time, while his emotionally exhausted King caught his breath.

"So, you have no intention of executing Melisandre for this crime?"

"No."

Davos remained silent and overly torn for a while, his face an everchanging mask of rage, uncertainty, delusion and sorrow. In the end, he said:

"Fine. I will let this pass, this time. But on two conditions."

Stannis looked at him intensely.

"First: as Hand of the King, from now on, EVERY communication entering or leaving this camp must first go through my hands, and mine alone;

And second: if this woman even tries something like this again, I swear on my dead son that I will kill her with my own hands. And then, Sire, you may do with me as you will."

Stannis saw that he was serious. "Granted and granted. Now leave me; I must speak with our new allies."

Several people entered the tent.

True to the exaggerated size of their family, the Freys were four: Ryman, Lord Walder's direct heir (the son of Stevron, the firstborn, who had died in battle months earlier), a man with a stupid, insignificant face; then his sons—the legitimate one, Edwyn, the very picture of arrogance, the fierce bastard called Black Walder, and their half-brother Lothar, the planner, the twelfth son of old Walder, but in many ways, the one most like him.

Then there were Jonos Bracken, Roose Bolton, and Rodrik Ryswell.
Stannis had received them in his field chair, and they had knelt, paid homage, and sworn fealty.

Then they began to speak. Ryman sneered: "It was a great victory! The Young Wolf fled with his tail between his legs!"

Stannis frowned. "The Young Wolf is a capable commander and a skilled strategist; I recognize that. As, indeed, you should know well. After all, you fought for him for an entire year.

He lured my armies into a well-planned trap and would have won… and then he correctly decided to withdraw his army to avoid a total rout.

Do not deceive yourselves, my lords. We won a battle, but not the war. We suffered far greater losses than he did."

Ryman stopped laughing. His son chimed in: "But this only means that our intervention was truly decisive in saving you."

Then it was Black Walder's turn: "And that you still need us…"

Stannis closed his eyes. "It's true, that's the case. Your experience fighting alongside the Starks and Tullys will also be very useful in the future. The tactics they use, the characteristics of each commander, the number of troops, the type of units… Now, regarding your demands…"

"You promised us Lannister gold… or at least part of it!" Ryman quickly reminded him.

"And to us," Jonos Bracken added, not wanting to be left out, "along with the Blackwood lands, don't forget."

"And to us, you promised Riverrun… to make us Lords Paramount of the Trident," Lothar added.

Stannis was patient. "At the moment, I don't have the Lannister gold, and therefore, I can't give it to you. According to your information, half is in Harrenhal, and half in Riverrun. Harrenhal is nearby, but Robb Stark's army blocks our way. Depending on what they decide to do—surrender, retreat, or continue the war—we will decide what to do. HOWEVER…"

Four pairs of eyes sharpened at those words.

"I still cannot give you ALL that gold, or even HALF of it… it is needed for the crown."

A series of protests rose in the tent.

Stannis glared at them and didn't even raise his voice.

"Lords, do I need to remind you that you are in MY camp?" At that veiled threat, the four fell silent.

"However," he resumed, "I will still give you a portion: a QUARTER, divided again into two parts. It's not bad, if you think about it."

Ryman reflected: "Well, an eighth isn't much, but it's still better than nothing."

"Plus Riverrun," Lothar emphasized.

"Yes, plus Riverrun," Stannis was beginning to sound tired. "In fact, I will sign the royal decrees immediately, declaring the Freys as Lords Paramount of the Trident and granting the Brackens the Blackwood lands, though, of course, in practice, you will only obtain these things once the war is over."

Jonos Bracken had more to add: "Sire, I have five daughters of marrying age. I think these alliances should be sealed with marriages. Unfortunately, Lord Bolton is already married—to Walda the Fat, another daughter of Ryman, which, I admit, is quite fitting—but there are other options… one could marry Lord Ryswell's heir, Roger, and two others… well, we'll find good matches. If there's one thing the Freys aren't short on, it's relatives. Finally, the last two could be promised to lords among your bannermen… one from the Reach and one from the Stormlands."

"Granted," the King said without lifting his head from his desk. "Send me proposals, and I'll let you know if they are acceptable. You may go."

With their papers in hand, the Riverlords left, all pleased.

Stannis had the impression the last two would be more serious and less annoying. He looked Lord Bolton in the eyes.

"It's said that men of the North get straight to the point. I hope so, because I am not known for my patience, and after meeting those five, I assure you, it is wearing thin."

Roose Bolton stared at the King with his icy gaze.

"We won't waste your time, Sire. After all, there are few things we desire."

"And one of them is for you to become Lord Paramount of the North, I assume. You want Winterfell."

"Your Grace may lack patience, but you certainly have intuition."

"What else?"

"I want my sons to have good marriages," Rodrik Ryswell interjected, "and I might marry one of them to a Bracken daughter, but certainly not my eldest. Roger must marry a woman of the North to legitimize our position, and our house must become the second most important after the Boltons, also territorially… acquiring part of the holdings of our neighbors who are still loyal to that traitor Robb Stark."

"Like you until yesterday morning," Stannis reminded him, and the arrogant lord flushed red.

Roose, however, was impassive.

"Make a list of the territorial and marriage prospects, and I'll see what can be done. And you, Bolton? What else do you want… but most importantly… will you truly be able to deliver the North to me? I know that your two houses are alone up there, surrounded by a sea of men loyal to the Starks… Eddard's memory still counts for much. We might defeat Robb Stark here only to discover that his loyalists at home have ravaged your lands."

The Lord of the Dreadfort nodded, having expected that objection.

"In truth, Your Majesty, my other request addresses precisely this legitimate concern of yours.

I desire that you legitimize Ramsay Snow, my bastard, currently my only son after the death of poor Domeric, while I await for Walda Frey to grant me others."

"And how would legitimizing this Ramsay help me conquer the North?"

"You see, Your Majesty, Ramsay is… energetic, I'll admit… but not without certain subtler skills… and he has developed a certain plan… to make occupying the North easier for us. Even up there, there are houses with rivalries and envies… second sons dissatisfied with their position… houses without heirs and daughters needing to marry well… for example, he himself recently married. To the poor Hornwood widow. What can I say, the boy has strange tastes; she's much older than him, after all. So much so that she might not survive him long. But then again, if Ramsay were legitimized before her death… you understand…"

Arya had been tied hand and foot, gagged, and thrown sideways across a horse, which had first trotted quickly, then, once danger was left behind, walked at a slow but watchful pace into one of the thinner forests stretching west of the God's Eye. She thought she had recognized her captor, but she didn't want to believe it. Then, when she heard him speak in response to her muffled cries, she had no doubts left.

"Stop making such a racket, little girl! I took you alive because you'll fetch me a good ransom, but if you don't stop, it may be that a few pieces of you get lost along the way…"

It was the Hound.

Arya tripled, quadrupled her fury, her efforts to struggle and get off the horse, along with the curses and maledictions she hurled at him from under the gag.

Sandor Clegane stopped the horse and turned. "Hey! I meant what I said! Now I'll…"

"If I were you, I wouldn't do that," a young, mocking voice interrupted.

Sandor looked ahead, and as if by magic, seven armed people had appeared from the woods and surrounded him.

The speaker was a man wearing a cloak of an incredible lemon color, but now a friend of his continued, strumming a small harp instead of wielding a weapon.
"My friend is right. We're grateful you brought Squabble back to us, we were looking for her… but we would prefer if you returned her in one piece."

The Hound placed his hand on his greatsword. One against seven. He was armored, while they wore lighter protections. He was on horseback, and they were not. He didn't hate his odds.

At that moment, he heard a third voice coming from… up a tree?
"As my friend said… if I were you, I wouldn't do it," confirmed an archer with a cocky grin, aiming a nocked arrow at him while sitting on a branch six meters above the ground.

Arya and the Hound were taken to the Brotherhood's new hideout, another cave in the woods. Arya had been freed from her gag and the bindings on her feet but not her hands, while Clegane had been stripped of his weapons and armor and was walking on foot, dragged by a noose around his neck, cursing and shouting with every step.

When they arrived in the center of the hall, Arya saw Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Gendry, and Hot Pie again. The latter two looked relieved to see her alive and well, but also… disappointed? Hurt? She turned her gaze away.

"Well, Squabble, you're alive and well," observed Beric, "even though we still need to determine why you left and whether we can still trust you. On the other hand, look at what you've brought us… the Hound. A vicious killer with countless crimes to answer for before men and gods."

"I wanted to see the battle!" Arya lied. "I had never seen one before! I would have come back! I knew you wouldn't let me! But then… this brute kidnapped me! If you hadn't saved me, who knows what—"

It was too much to expect Sandor Clegane to keep his mouth shut.
"Squabble?" he said, almost with disgust. "You've grown even uglier since I last saw you, Dondarrion… maybe it's those ridiculous rumors about your deaths… but you've definitely gotten dumber. Are you all blind? This girl is the bloody Arya Stark! The sister of the so-called King in the North! Everyone's looking for her, from Highgarden to the Wall! Her ransom is worth a heap of bloody gold!"

A series of astonished exclamations filled the cave.

The most surprised of all was Gendry: "So you're really a Lady. I thought…" He seemed as shocked as he was… disappointed?

Beric nodded gravely as he leaned in to look at the girl. "Aye, I should have realized sooner. I'd seen you at court when I served Robert Baratheon and your father, the Hand of the King… but never often, nor up close…"

Thoros of Myr avoided adding anything more. He was painfully aware that, after each of his deaths, every time Beric returned to life, his friend lost a piece of himself. His personality, his memory… who knew what would remain in the end.

"So you fled to return to your brother. You must have figured we would hand you over… perhaps to the true king, Stannis Baratheon, who, like us, worships the Lord of Light. But you lacked faith in us, girl. Our interest is for the poor folk… we will sell you, yes, but to the highest bidder… to earn coin that we will give to the poor and needy. And in any case, only after consulting among ourselves. We don't like using hostages—it isn't honorable. We might still return you to your brother… if he has anything left to give in exchange, after Lord Stannis has defeated him."

"That's not true!" Arya squeaked, furious. "Robb was beating Stannis—he had to retreat because… some of his men betrayed him, switching sides in the middle of the battle! It was dishonorable!"

"The Lord of Light works in mysterious ways," Thoros reflected serenely.

"Nevertheless," Beric continued, "this changes nothing for you, Sandor Clegane. You're a criminal—you should be executed."

Sandor spat on the ground. "I reject the judgment of men and gods. Why the hell would I accept the judgment of a pack of miserable beggars? You talk big because I'm tied up, Beric! You wouldn't have the balls to face me in a fair fight!"

"You're wrong there," said the man, rising to his feet. "We still believe in trial by combat. Give this man a sword—I will face him myself. I swear, if you manage to kill me, my men have orders to let you go."

Minutes later, everything was ready, and a space had been cleared at the center. Arya watched them with hatred: she hoped they would kill each other.

Before starting, Beric performed a dramatic gesture: he dipped his sword in pitch and set it aflame, as his friend Thoros of Myr often did.

Sandor Clegane began sweating, terrified at the sight. Everyone knew he was afraid of fire ever since his brother had pressed his face into a brazier as a child.

The duel still went on for several minutes, and it was thrilling.
The Hound wasn't in the right mental state to attack properly and limited himself to dodging and parrying blows, with an occasional half-hearted counterattack. Beric, meanwhile, was unable, despite his advantage, to deal any decisive blows.

Pushed into a corner, Clegane reacted with desperate strength: he struck a cutting blow, from high to low, with all his might. Beric parried, holding the flaming sword horizontally above his head.

They remained that way for a long moment, then the brutal force of the Hound, combined with the fire on the blade, broke Beric's sword in half, and Sandor's blade continued its path, cutting deep into his shoulder and chest.

Beric collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

Sandor began breathing heavily again.

"This, then, is the will of Rhollor,"-declared Thoros-"Let that man go" and then he went to attend his fallen friend.

Arya couldn't believe it. This was the worst outcome.
She was still a prisoner AND the Hound—who was drinking water to recover but would have preferred wine—had gotten away with it.

She shouted at him: "You DAMNED MURDERER! You killed Mycah, the butcher's boy! You're the one who should be dead! It was a judgment of the gods! The guilty should die!"

Sandor turned to give her a sidelong glance.
"Yes, girl, I deserve it. I killed him and a hundred others. And you know what? I don't give a damn.

In this world, there's no justice, and there's no gods, either."

But just then, as if to contradict him, Beric Dondarrion stood up, with only a scar on his body, and cast them a mocking glance.

Alive once more.

Robb Stark had moved a little away, so that his troops wouldn't see him. The last time he had been this angry, he had just received news of his father's death.

Back then, he had taken to striking a tree with his sword to vent his frustration, until his mother had arrived, sorrow in her heart, and told him not to ruin the edge of a good blade.

But now his mother wasn't there. He had sent her away himself.

He picked up a large branch from the ground and struck a blow against a trunk, shouting with savage rage. The branch snapped in two, and it was a miracle the other piece didn't bounce back and hit him.

He stood alone for a moment, catching his breath. Then he began pacing back and forth, muttering.

At that moment, he sensed someone's footsteps behind him.

"A sad sight indeed, for the King in the North..."

It was Greatjon Umber.

Robb composed himself and asked, exasperated, "What is it?"

"One of our scouts has arrived. He says that yesterday morning, before the battle, he saw something he must report to you."

"Fine," the young man sighed, resigned. "I'll hear him."

"No, I don't think that's a good idea. Not until you've pulled yourself together."

Robb frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Robb, right now I'm not speaking to you as your vassal, but as a man with a son your age: you need to snap out of it. You can't let the men see you like this. Soldiers fight poorly when they don't have confidence in their commander... or their King."

Robb was shaken for a moment. Stannis's words came back to him.

The King is alone. Always.

"Tsk! So being a King means this? Never having a moment to yourself? Never being able to feel any human emotion again?

If that's the case, Greatjon... the honor you did me, proclaiming me King at Riverrun, back then... it wouldn't be much of an honor at all."

"I didn't proclaim you King to honor you," the big man clarified. "I did it because I believed you were worthy of it. And I still do. But you need to find yourself again, Robb. Otherwise, everyone else... they won't believe in you if you don't believe in yourself first."

Robb was struck by this. "I... I don't know what to do. I swing from one extreme to the other. Sometimes I'm furious and let my emotions carry me away. Other times, I realize I'm at fault, I'm unsure, and I prefer to take advice on what to do.

My best moments came when I found a balance between the two extremes: when I had clear ideas, made a decision, and followed through. But... facing this betrayal... it's a new situation. I honestly don't know which decisions to make."

"Let me tell you something. Why do you think those four houses betrayed you?"

"Uh? I... I don't know... for power... for gold..."

"Wrong on both counts. They betrayed you because they perceived you as weak."

"What?"

"That's right. You're not ruthless enough, Robb. Do you think anyone could have betrayed Tywin Lannister? No. They were all afraid of him.

But your vassals don't fear you. Sometimes you seem more Tully than Stark.

And no one's afraid of a trout. But they might fear a wolf."

Robb bristled at that theory.

"My great-uncle Brynden is a fish, and he's scarier than many men of the North I know!" he protested. "And anyway, I AM a Wolf! I've proven myself ruthless when it was necessary!

I defeated Tywin Lannister and had him torn apart by Grey Wind! And I allowed Lord Karstark to behead Jaime Lannister when it would've been more advantageous to let him go."

"Aye, that's true, you were ruthless with the Lannisters. You had reasons to hate them.

With Stannis Baratheon, on the other hand... you went easy.

You went to negotiate with him... you offered terms you shouldn't have... you hesitated to accept the alliance with the Tyrells to avoid breaking your word to those damn Freys... You weren't as motivated, your heart wasn't in it. They all thought you were satisfied with what you'd achieved and that you'd gone soft.

There was blood in the water... and the sharks came."

"But I... I couldn't simply send thousands of men to die for... nothing! Or break my word as if it meant nothing! You accuse me of being like someone from the South, Greatjon, because of my mother, but the truth is, you'll never be satisfied!

What was I supposed to do? Favor the North and abandon the Riverlands? Run away at the sight of Stannis? Would you have respected me more then?

Or break my oaths to gain allies to take the throne? Aren't you the ones who want the North to secede and have nothing to do with the Iron Throne?

What in the hell do you truly want?"

"It doesn't matter what we want, that's what you need to understand. It matters what you want. We named you King because we trust your judgment. So make whatever decision you think is best, and we'll follow you.

But be decisive. Be convinced of what you're doing. No one wants to follow someone who does things halfway. Right or wrong, you not only need to be convinced, but also give that impression! Men don't respect indecision, Robb!"

Robb fell silent for a moment at that blow. "I... I really wanted to beat Stannis, but... more than anything, I wanted to go back to the North, not take the Throne... My father died when he went South. As did his father before him. Maybe..."

"Let me tell you something about your father. We all respected him, but do you know what he was called?

The Quiet Wolf.

And do you know why? Because unlike most of your ancestors, he was calmer, more reflective, brooding.

Yet, even he knew that when you decide to do something, you do it! Do you think Roose Bolton would have ever rebelled against him? Ha!"

"But..."

"And as I told you, your father wasn't the best example of what it means to be a Stark. He made mistakes as Hand of the King.

He should have used all that power, without scruples. If he hadn't spared Cersei Lannister's children... he'd still be alive today.

And now, let me ask you a question.

Do you think all the Starks were always honorable sons of bitches?

Hell, no!

The Starks were beasts, boy. Real Wolves.

They lived in a hostile land, and when they wanted something, they took it.

They defeated the Bloody Others, damn it!

And since then, eight thousand years have passed! The only house to last that long, across the entire continent. Maybe the entire world.

And in those eight thousand years, they subdued, one by one, all the other clans—and mind you, we're talking about real bands of killers—like the Glovers, the Reeds, the Boltons... and the Umbers.

They defeated them one by one and forced them bow their heads and swear fealty. Do you imagine what that means?"

Robb was petrified.

"One of your ancestors, Cregan Stark, at the end of the Dance of Dragons, descended upon King's Landing to fight for Rhaenyra... only to discover she had already lost, and her brother had killed her. But when the new king was betrayed and poisoned by his former allies, do you know what he did? He stayed as Hand of the King and had the culprits executed! The murderers of the very man he had come to fight!

He was Hand of the King for only one day, and he achieved more in that single day than most men do in a lifetime! They still call it the Hour of the Wolf.

That's WHO the Starks were!"

Greatjon removed the leather patch covering the fingers of his left hand, which he had lost.

"I began following you when you had my fingers ripped off by your beast.

You need to become that man again.

No one fears a trout.

If you want them to fear you… be a wolf."

Robb stood still for a moment that felt like an eternity. In the distance, Grey Wind howled at the last moon of the morning.

The young King closed his eyes, then reopened them. His gaze was fierce.

"Bring me those scouts. I'll hear them"

Arya Stark was miserable. To be honest, that was her normal now.

She couldn't remember a single truly happy day since her father had been arrested in King's Landing.

But she forgot one important thing: things can always get worse.

A sentry rushed into the cave to speak with Beric and Thoros. They spoke quietly for a while, and Thoros, in particular, seemed impressed.
Then they gathered their men and went to greet their guests.

Everyone was present, even Gendry. Ever since he had discovered Arya Stark's identity, his attitude towards her had changed. He seemed oddly formal, as though the bit of commoner still left in him (even now that he was a knight) was ashamed of having treated a noble so naturally and now sought her forgiveness (and that infuriated Arya). At the same time, he had snuck up to her to ask why she hadn't told them the truth earlier, and to reiterate how sorry he was that the Brotherhood would now sell her. Yet he also seemed sad for some mysterious reason of his own.

And then the procession arrived. Six men wearing long crimson robes and hoods, followed at the rear by a stunningly beautiful woman. Her hair was an incredible shade of red, her eyes green, and she wore a long, low-cut red gown and a green gemstone around her neck. She exuded superiority and nonchalance.

Thoros stepped forward: "This humble Red Priest, Thoros of Myr, is honored to welcome a Priestess of R'hllor. I am pleased to inform you, Melisandre, that we are all faithful to the Lord of Light here, and we pray for the victory of Stannis Baratheon, the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms."

Melisandre thanked him: "You have my gratitude, Thoros of Myr. The Lord of Light is pleased to have faithful followers even here."

"May I ask how you managed to find us?"

"I saw you in the flames."

"Ah! Then… you have been blessed by our Lord with great powers… though even this humble former non-believer has been granted gifts… gifts I still do not fully understand, I must admit."

Melisandre seemed genuinely interested: "What gifts?"

When they explained that Beric Dondarrion had already been resurrected SEVEN times when Thoros had given him the kiss of the dead, Melisandre appeared very surprised. It was bizarre to see surprise on her face, which always seemed so sure of itself and utterly controlled.

"I did not think such a thing was possible… evidently, our Lord has great plans for you, Beric Dondarrion."

Then she inspected every member of the Brotherhood one by one, lingering briefly on Gendry, who turned the same color as her dress. Arya was irritated, for some reason.

As if reading her thoughts, Melisandre approached her (she was tied up and seated on the ground) and examined her. "And who is this little one?"

"A deserter of ours, guilty of betrayal. No one of importance," Beric cut in quickly.

They had yet to determine if Robb Stark would pay a higher ransom, so they were in no rush to reveal her identity.

Melisandre stared into Arya's eyes for a long moment, and Arya feared she had guessed who she really was.

"You, too… have an important destiny, little one. I don't know yet what it is, but it is certain to be significant."

Then she stood and turned to the two leaders of the Brotherhood. "I have found what I was looking for. One of you will be very useful to our god, the Lord of Light… and I am willing to pay a considerable price to take him with me."

Arya feared they meant her.

"Who?" Beric asked.

Melisandre pointed at Gendry. At first, he looked bewildered, as if he couldn't quite believe they really meant him.

But all his companions, those he had come to know as friends in recent weeks, were on him in an instant, grabbing his arms and holding him down.

"Hey! What… what are you doing? Guys!"

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!" Arya shrieked, but it was useless.

The Red Woman opened Gendry's shirt one button at a time, something that left him both perplexed and excited, especially when she passed a hand over his chest.

Then, with Arya's horror, the Red Woman drew a dagger, aimed it at Gendry's now-bared chest, and… inflicted only a small wound with the tip.

She watched the blood trickle onto the blade, examined it with interest, then touched a drop with her finger and tasted it.

"As I thought: King's Blood. I will pay you immediately and leave with this boy," she concluded, ignoring Arya's cries of protest.

King Robb Stark stormed into the tent where all the officers were still gathered, having exhausted their rage, accusations, and options. Most of them noticed his change, though they didn't immediately show it.

"My Lords," began the Young Wolf, "I have just received word from one of our scouts that the Red Woman in Stannis' service, yesterday morning… burned Edric Storm, Robert's bastard, alive as a sacrifice to their god to ensure victory!"

"Monstrous!" Lord Mooton exclaimed, amidst the horrified cries of the others.

"Yes, Stannis is as mad as a horse, we already knew that. So what does this change for us?" Randyll Tarly retorted, always focused on the practical matters.

"Perhaps nothing... or perhaps everything. Stannis Baratheon has found himself in worse situations than the one we face now. And what did he do? He wrote. He sent ravens to all the Seven Kingdoms, revealing Cersei Lannister's infidelity... that her children were bastards, unworthy of the throne."

Edmure frowned. "So, you mean to say…"

"That we will do the same! We'll send ravens to every corner of the continent, from Sunspear to the Wall... and we'll tell the truth.

That Stannis worships a foreign god and honors neither the Old Gods nor the Seven.

That a witch who practices dark magic controls him like a puppet.

That he is a kin-slayer who had his own brother murdered using that dark magic.

That he burns people alive like the Mad King.

That he performs human sacrifices to demons to secure victory.

That the men who follow him are nothing but turncoats, traitors, and oathbreakers... and that if it weren't for such betrayals, he would have never won a single battle.

And we'll conclude by saying... that Robb Stark of Winterfell, betrothed to Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden... victor over Tywin Lannister and Balon Greyjoy and savior of the Riverlands... is more worthy than him to rule the Seven Kingdoms.

And that all those who abandon the pretender who worships a false god will be forgiven and spared."

Silence fell over the room. It was, in fact, an obvious solution.

"Yes, it could work…" Marq Piper conceded.

"Could? It will certainly work," Lord Tallhart enthused.

"And then, of course," the Young King continued, "we will send ravens to the North to warn my brother and my mother about the threat of Ramsay and the chance that they will try to stir up other houses against us... and we'll inform them of our suspicions. Rodrik Cassel must recruit at least another two thousand men."

"Aye, and we'll do the same with the Riverlands," Brynden added. "Those traitors made up more than half our armies, it's true... the only ones who haven't sent their men back to the fields... now we know why... but this can work to our advantage. There is relative peace; many have planted new crops... we will spread word to our veterans to remain vigilant... not to openly take up arms, but to remember our guerrilla tactics... to be our eyes and ears... to hide their harvest and fodder when Stannis's men pass through... to starve his enormous army while aiding us... for as long as possible."

Edmure nodded. He didn't particularly like the direction the discussion was heading, but it was still better than total war.

"Fine," Garlan interjected, who usually supported Robb, but now was challenging him "But then, practically? We'll need to give the men something to do, no? What do you plan to do, Your Grace? Attack? Retreat? Divide?"

"And now that they have those traitors," Lord Tarly added, "they know our forces and our tactics well... and despite suffering more losses, they still outnumber us."

Robb studied the large military map on the table.

"On the other hand, I have spoken with Stannis, and now he has debts with those traitors... so, we also know their goals... We know they crave the Lannister gold: half is here at Harrenhal, the other half at Riverrun... if we stayed here, they would try to face us again... too risky.

We will do what we've always done: deceive the enemy. We'll feign retreat. After all, it's what they expect us to do.

Though I defeated him, I'll borrow a page from Tywin Lannister's book: a part of our forces will entrench themselves inside Harrenhal with provisions for a year..."

"I see!" Loras exclaimed, beginning to understand the strategy. "So, they will be forced to split their troops to besiege the fortress if they want the gold..."

"Exactly," Robb continued, pleased that the younger Tyrell son agreed for once.

"Then we'll pretend to retreat toward Riverrun and do the same there: leave some of our men behind, to force them to divide even further…"

"I'm starting to see a pattern," Jason Mallister commented.

"A brilliant strategy, indeed" Lord Glover added.

"And then, we'll split our remaining forces, including all the cavalry, into five units—fast and mobile.

And they will be commanded... one by me, one by Greatjon Umber, one by my uncle Brynden, one by Randyll Tarly, and one by Garlan Tyrell."

The commanders exchanged satisfied looks. They could not argue with those names.

"And their deputies will be, respectively... Jason Mallister, Marq Piper, Loras Tyrell, Robett Glover, and Harrion Karstark. Allies must learn to cooperate and compare different leadership styles."

Though initially surprised, the present lords noted that he had paired individuals with differing characters and approaches, balancing each other.

"And we will torment Stannis Baratheon with coordinated attacks!" Robb continued, raising his voice. "We will strike and disappear like ghosts, turning his presence here into a nightmare!
And the first target…"

He pointed to a spot on the map. Stone Hedge. Tytos Blackwood was delighted.

"…will be the ancestral seat of those traitorous Brackens! Let them discover the price of betrayal! We will ravage their lands, raze their castle to the ground, and take all of Lord Jonos's family hostage! If he doesn't want harm to come to them, he will have to order his troops to retreat and fight us no more."

The attendees were shaken. They had never heard the Young Wolf speak like this. Greatjon was beaming.

"They wanted to divide us? Well, we will divide them! And after the Brackens, it'll be those Frey scum's turn...

Stannis Baratheon wants to play dirty? Then we... will play dirty!"

Arya could not remember the last time she had been this furious. She had had to remove some names from her list—like Joffrey, Cersei, and Ilyn Payne—without being able to kill them herself. And now she had added new ones: Melisandre, that damned witch who had taken Gendry away for who knows what purpose. And so, Beric and Thoros, for selling him to her.

But now she had more pressing problems: the Brotherhood was meeting to decide whether to sell her to her brother Robb or to Stannis. Escaping would not be so easy this time. And…

...and then, a large hand covered the mouth of the sentry, and a dagger slashed his throat from side to side, without making a sound. A tall, hulking figure emerged from the shadows. It was the Hound, without armor or boots. He pressed a finger to his lips and approached, starting to cut her bonds.

"Shhht! Little girl, I know you don't like me. Let's make this clear: I don't like you either. But you've got one advantage: I'll only sell you to your brother. Because I know the only reward Stannis Baratheon would ever give me is burning me alive, and I don't like fire. So, don't make a sound and come with me, okay?"

After the strategy had been established, the officers' mood had improved, and now everyone was busy moving back and forth making preparations.

Each of them had also gone to address their own troops, to shake them out of their torpor and depression, and promise them vengeance.

In all that productive chaos, Mace Tyrell approached Robb and signaled that he wished to speak with him.

"A-hem," began the Lord of Highgarden, "this morning, certain things were said—by both of us, I want to emphasize—that…"

"Let's not think about it anymore, Lord Mace."

"Very well, that is exactly what I wanted to hear… Your Grace… because I just have one small amendment to make to the plan you've developed to turn the situation around…"

Robb was skeptical. "And what would that be?"

"That, unlike Walder Frey—who, I do not doubt, only agreed to let you marry his daughter after the war ended, so he could back out of the arrangement in case things went poorly—I am actually putting everything on this alliance…

And thus if— ahem—something were to go wrong… for example, if you were to—Seven forbid—perish in battle… we would be left empty-handed."

"I understand your concern, but that will not happen."

"I don't doubt it. But as an additional guarantee… I need you to do something for me."

"And that is?"

"You will marry Margaery as soon as possible and consummate the marriage. That way, the agreement will remain valid, no matter what might happen to you in the future."

"What? But Lord Mace, be reasonable. We are in the middle of a war."

"IT IS PRECISELY because we are in the middle of a war that I am telling you this," the Lord retorted sharply. "If you do not marry my daughter, you will not have our support."

Robb remained silent for a moment, trying to cool his temper.

After all, it was a reasonable request. But he would not simply yield the point.

"Very well, Lord Mace. I will do it. But on three conditions."

"Which are?"

"First: I will marry her at Riverrun. It is the only place nearby with a Godswood… and second, tied to the first, I will marry her with a dual ceremony: both of the Andals and the First Men. I will not disown my father's Gods."

The Lord looked displeased.

"And the third?"

"After we have consummated the marriage, you will send Margaery back to Highgarden. As my wife, I do not wish to risk anything happening to her either."

Author's Note:

In these weeks, i've been writing like a madman. There were so many ideas popping in my head and i had to change my plans and divide many of them into more chapters than originally planned.

The next chapters will feature even more pov's than before, since many different things that will have an impact later in the story will happen in parallel.

We'll get to see Ramsay's plot for the North (some things inspired by the latest books, some my original ideas) and Bran's struggle to keep the country together.

We'll see Arya wandering with the Hound in the war-torn Riverlands

And we'll keep exploring Sansa's story at the Vale

Also, we will understand how every action has a consequence, sooner or later, and some are unexpected or unpredictable, even

Robb here and for a while in next chapter will seem oddly indecisive, considering what he's been through already. But truth be told, that's his whole arc in the fanfiction. To not only to learn how to ask for advice, but also how to seem convinced of any decision, at the same time. Which is a mark of a true leader.

This fiction is about war, but wars are fought with more than just swords

But i can promise you will see more battles, just not in the immediate future

Enjoy the alliances and political intrigue that has always characterized this world