If you recognize it, I probably don't own it. 40K belongs to Games Workshop. And GOT belongs to HBO and George RR Martin.

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"Speech"

'Thoughts'

~"AI"~

*Sound Effects*

POV/Location/Time Change.

Decisions, Decisions

Winterfell

The great hall of Winterfell had long fallen silent, its once vibrant atmosphere now a distant memory. The warm glow of the hearth flickered dimly, casting long, wavering shadows across the ancient stone walls. The last of the servants moved quietly, their soft footsteps echoing faintly as they swept up the remnants of the feast. The merry chatter of the guests, the clinking of goblets, and the hum of lively conversation had all faded into the night, leaving behind an oppressive stillness that seemed to seep into the very bones of the keep. The air was heavy with the weight of the evening's events, and the silence felt almost alive, as if the castle itself were holding its breath.

Sansa Stark, however, could not find peace in the quiet. Her thoughts raced like a storm-tossed sea, each wave crashing against the shores of her mind with relentless force. She walked swiftly through the dimly lit halls, her footsteps echoing softly against the cold stone floors. Her heart pounded in her chest, a steady drumbeat that seemed to grow louder with every step. The events of the evening replayed in her mind like a cruel tapestry, each thread a memory of Joffrey's arrogance, his insults, his dismissive sneers. Her hands clenched tightly at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she fought to hold back the tide of frustration and anger that threatened to overwhelm her. She could not remain silent any longer. She would not.

The weight of her resolve settled heavily on her shoulders as she approached the door to her father's solar. The corridor was bathed in the pale, silvery light of the moon, which streamed through the narrow windows, casting ghostly patterns on the floor. Sansa paused outside the door, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady herself, to gather the courage she needed to speak her mind. The door before her was more than just wood and iron; it was a barrier between the life she had been expected to live and the life she wanted to claim for herself. With a deep, shuddering breath, she raised her hand and knocked once, the sound crisp and final in the stillness of the night.

From within the solar, the muffled voices of her parents fell silent. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat, loud and insistent in her ears. Then, her father's deep, steady voice called out, "Enter."

Sansa pushed the door open, the hinges creaking softly as she stepped inside. The room was warm, lit by the gentle glow of a single candle on her father's desk and the faint embers of the hearth. Ned Stark sat at his desk, his broad frame stooped slightly as he finished some final papers, the quill in his hand moving with deliberate precision. Catelyn Stark stood by the window, her silhouette framed by the moonlight as she gazed out at the sprawling grounds of Winterfell. Both turned at the sound of the door, their expressions shifting from surprise to concern as they saw their daughter standing in the doorway, her chest rising and falling with the weight of her emotions.

"Sansa," Ned said, his voice soft but filled with a father's concern. He set the quill down and leaned back in his chair, his piercing gray eyes studying her face. "What is it, my daughter? You look troubled."

Catelyn stepped away from the window, her brow furrowing as she approached Sansa. "Are you unwell, sweetling?" she asked, her voice tinged with worry. "You're pale. What's happened?"

Sansa stood frozen for a moment, her throat tight, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet her parents' gazes. "Father, Mother," she began, her voice trembling but firm, "I need you to listen to me. I cannot—I will not—marry Joffrey."

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, heavy and unyielding. Catelyn's face shifted immediately, her concern giving way to confusion and then to a flicker of irritation. "Reject the betrothal?" she asked, her voice rising slightly in disbelief. "Sansa, do you understand what you're saying? Do you realize what you're asking of us? To refuse the crown prince? To turn away from such an honor?"

Sansa's jaw tightened, her hands clenching into fists at her sides as she fought to keep her composure. "I understand exactly what I'm asking, Mother," she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. "And I understand what it means. But I do not want to marry him. I cannot marry him." She took a step forward, her eyes blazing with determination. "Joffrey is arrogant, conceited, and utterly insufferable. He has no kindness, no decency, no honor. I will not tie myself to someone like him for the rest of my life."

Catelyn's expression hardened, her lips pressing into a thin line as she stepped closer to her daughter. "Sansa, you are too young to understand the weight of this decision," she said, her voice sharp with the edge of a mother's fierce protectiveness. "This is not just about you and your feelings. This is about duty—about securing our house's future. Joffrey will be king, and you will be queen. The power, the influence—it's the path that will raise our house higher than we could ever dream. You cannot throw that away because of a childish notion of romance."

Sansa felt a flare of hot anger rise inside her, and before she could stop herself, the words spilled out. "I don't care about power, or influence, or politics!" she cried, her voice breaking with the intensity of her emotions. "I care about honor, and respect, and kindness. Joffrey is a spoiled, selfish child who already acts like a king. And he's cruel. He insults our family, our people. He has no respect for anyone." Her voice faltered for a moment, but she steadied herself, her resolve hardening like steel. "I dread the day he sits the throne. The realm will crumble under him."

Catelyn's face tightened, her hands twitching as if she wanted to reach out and shake some sense into her daughter. "Sansa, you are speaking out of turn," she said, her voice low and warning. "You cannot let your emotions control you. You are too young to understand the complexities of political alliances. This match would bring stability to our house—power, security. You cannot simply—"

"I see the politics, Mother!" Sansa interrupted, her voice rising as she took a step closer to Catelyn. "I understand what's at stake. But I also understand that I do not want to marry a man who has no decency, no honor, and no kindness. He's not fit to be king. I would rather marry a no-name bastard like Jon Snow than tie myself to someone like Joffrey." Her voice shook, but her resolve only grew stronger. "At least Jon has honor. He is more of a man than Joffrey will ever be."

The words hit like a slap, and Catelyn's face went pale, her shock and anger visibly rising. "How dare you speak of your brother that way?" she demanded, her voice trembling with indignation. "Jon Snow is a bastard, Sansa! A boy with no name, no future—his place is not yours to envy. He's not even a true Stark."

Tears pricked at the edges of Sansa's eyes, but she held them back, lifting her chin high in defiance. "Jon may be a bastard," she said, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall, "but he's more of a man than Joffrey will ever be. He's kind, he's brave, and he's honorable. He's everything Joffrey is not."

The room was heavy with tension, the air thick with the weight of unspoken emotions. For a long moment, there was silence—utter silence, save for the soft crackling of the hearth. Catelyn's gaze locked on her daughter, disbelief mingled with a sense of wounded pride. But Sansa stood her ground, her heart resolute, her eyes blazing with the fire of her convictions.

Finally, it was Ned who broke the silence, his voice quiet but firm, his gaze unwavering as he looked between his wife and daughter. "Enough," he said, the word soft but cutting through the rising argument like a sword through the air. He stood from his desk, his imposing frame casting a long shadow across the room. "Sansa," he continued, his voice steady and calm, "I hear you. You've made your feelings known. And I will not force you into a marriage against your will."

Catelyn, who had been about to protest, stopped, her eyes flickering with a mixture of frustration and surprise. "Ned, you cannot be serious," she said, her voice tight with disbelief. "This is an opportunity we cannot afford to pass up. The throne, the crown prince—this is the future of our house. We cannot let her throw it away because of a girl's whims."

Ned turned to his wife, his expression calm but resolute. "Catelyn," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "I will not sell my daughter's happiness for political gain. Sansa has the right to choose her own path. If she feels this strongly, then we will respect her wishes. No one will force her into a marriage she does not want."

There was a long pause as the weight of Ned's words settled between them. Catelyn stood, her back straight, but her shoulders sagged with the knowledge that her husband's mind was made up. A deep sigh escaped her lips, her hands clenched at her sides. "Very well," she whispered, her voice carrying both defeat and acceptance. "We will reject the offer."

Sansa's heart swelled with relief, her chest tight with emotion. She stepped forward, her voice softening as she threw her arms around her father. "Thank you, Father," she said, her voice trembling with gratitude. "Thank you for understanding."

Ned hugged her tightly, his hand gently resting on her back. "Your happiness is what matters, Sansa," he said, his voice warm and reassuring. "We'll find another way. Someone worthy of you."

As Sansa pulled away, she turned to her mother, whose expression had softened, though a trace of sadness still lingered. Catelyn's lips trembled with the weight of her own emotions, but she nodded, her voice quieter now. "I only want what's best for you, Sansa," she said, her voice filled with a mother's love. "We'll figure this out together. I love you."

Sansa smiled through her tears, her heart swelling with gratitude for her parents' understanding, even as the weight of the road ahead pressed heavily upon her. The warmth of her mother's embrace was a balm to her frayed nerves, and she clung to Catelyn tightly, as if the strength of her mother's arms could shield her from the storm that loomed on the horizon. "I love you too, Mother," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, her heart full but still aching with the uncertainty of what was to come.

Ned Stark, ever the steady hand in times of turmoil, cleared his throat softly, drawing their attention. His gray eyes, usually so calm and unreadable, were filled with a mixture of resolve and concern as he looked at his daughter. "As per your wishes, we will cancel the betrothal," he said, his voice low and measured, each word carrying the weight of his authority as Lord of Winterfell. "But," he continued, his tone firm, "rejecting it immediately would be a grave insult to the crown. The royal family is our guest, and we must tread carefully. For the time that the royal party remains here, we must pretend that we are still considering the offer. Appearances must be maintained, Sansa. Do you understand?"

Sansa's heart sank at his words, though she had expected as much. She nodded slowly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her fingers twisting the fabric of her dress. "I understand, Father," she said, her voice soft but resolute. "I will try. I promise to try my best. But…" She hesitated, her gaze flickering to the floor before she forced herself to meet her father's eyes. "I don't trust Joffrey. I fear that he might… do something untoward towards me. And if that happens…" Her voice trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air.

Ned's expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he considered her words. He knew his daughter well enough to recognize the fear in her eyes, and it pained him to see her so troubled. But before he could respond, Sansa continued, her voice trembling with a mixture of dread and determination. "You know how Leman is," she said, her words barely above a whisper. "If Joffrey were to harm me in any way, Leman would not care that he is the crown prince. He would do what he deems is right, royalty or not. And I fear what that might mean for all of us."

The mention of Leman brought a flicker of pride and unease to Ned's eyes. Leman's adoration for Sansa was no secret within the walls of Winterfell. Out of all his siblings, Leman had always held a special place in his heart for Sansa, his protectiveness over her bordering on fierce. Ned knew his son well—knew the fire that burned within him, the unyielding sense of justice that guided his actions. If Leman believed, even for a moment, that Joffrey had wronged Sansa, there would be no stopping him. The consequences of such an act, no matter how justified, would be catastrophic.

Catelyn, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, her expression a mixture of concern and resolve. "Ned," she said, her voice firm but laced with urgency, "we must inform Leman. You know his temper. If he finds out from someone else, or if he senses that something is amiss, he will act without thinking. We cannot risk that."

Ned sighed deeply, running a hand through his dark hair as he weighed his options. The room felt heavy with the weight of their dilemma, the flickering light of the hearth casting long shadows across the stone walls. He turned to Sansa, his gaze softening as he took in her tear-streaked face. "Sansa," he said gently, "I will speak to Leman. He needs to know the truth, but he must also understand the importance of restraint. We cannot afford to provoke the crown, no matter how justified his actions might be."

Sansa nodded, though the fear in her eyes did not abate. "I trust you, Father," she said quietly. "But please… make him understand. I don't want him to do something reckless on my account."

Ned placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his touch steady and grounding. "I will make sure he understands," he promised. "But you must also promise me, Sansa, that you will be careful. Joffrey is unpredictable, and we cannot underestimate him. If he makes you uncomfortable or if you feel unsafe in any way, you must come to me or your mother immediately. Do not try to handle it on your own."

Sansa swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion, but she nodded again. "I promise, Father," she said, her voice trembling but resolute.

Catelyn stepped forward, her hands reaching out to gently cup Sansa's face. "You are stronger than you know, my sweet girl," she said, her voice filled with a mother's love and pride. "We will get through this together. But you must be brave, and you must be cautious. The game of thrones is a dangerous one, and we cannot afford to make missteps."

Sansa leaned into her mother's touch, drawing strength from her warmth. "I will be brave," she whispered, her voice steady despite the tears that threatened to fall. "For our family, I will be brave."

Ned watched the exchange between his wife and daughter, his heart heavy with the weight of their situation. He knew the road ahead would be fraught with danger and uncertainty, but he also knew that they would face it together, as a family. He turned to Catelyn, his expression grim but determined. "I will speak to Leman tomorrow night," he said. "He needs to know the truth, and understand the stakes. We cannot afford to let our emotions dictate our actions."

Catelyn nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Be gentle with him, Ned," she said. "You know how protective he is of our family. How strongly he feels."

Ned's expression softened, and he reached out to take Catelyn's hand in his. "I will be gentle," he promised. "But I will also be firm. Leman is a man now, and he must learn to temper his impulses with wisdom. This is a lesson he cannot afford to ignore."

As Ned turned to leave the solar, his mind already racing with the words he would say to his son, Sansa reached out and caught his arm. "Father," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you. For listening to me. For understanding."

Ned turned back to her, his gray eyes filled with a father's love and pride. "You are my daughter, Sansa," he said, his voice steady and warm. "Your happiness and safety will always come first. No matter what happens, know that I will always stand by you." 'Even if I have to remind the realm what happened the last time a daughter of the Starks was taken from Winterfell' He vowed to himself.

Sansa's eyes filled with tears once more, but this time they were tears of gratitude and relief. She threw her arms around her father, holding him tightly as if she could draw strength from his presence. Ned hugged her back, his hand gently resting on her head as he pressed a kiss to her hair.

When they finally pulled apart, Ned gave her one last reassuring smile before turning and striding out of the solar, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floors. Catelyn and Sansa stood together in the quiet room, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, casting a warm, golden light over them.

"Come, my dear," Catelyn said gently, taking Sansa's hand in hers. "Let us retire for the night. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but for now, we must rest."

Sansa nodded, allowing her mother to lead her out of the solar and down the dimly lit corridors of Winterfell. The castle was quiet, the only sound the soft rustling of the wind outside and the distant howl of a wolf in the night. As they walked, Sansa felt a strange sense of calm settle over her. She had spoken her truth, and her parents had listened. The road ahead would not be easy, but she was not alone. She had her family, and together, they would face whatever challenges lay ahead.

Robb Stark sat in the dimly lit solar of the Old Tower of Winterfell, his furrowed brow illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle. The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the hearth and the soft rustling of parchment as Robb shuffled through the documents spread across his desk. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each more troubling than the last. The news that his father, Eddard Stark, had been offered the position of Hand of the King had left him in a quandary. On one hand, the honor and influence that came with the role could greatly benefit the North. On the other, King's Landing was a viper's nest, a place where loyalty was a rare commodity and betrayal lurked around every corner. Robb's stomach churned at the thought of his father navigating the treacherous politics of the capital, where even the most well-intentioned actions could lead to ruin.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his auburn hair as he stared at the ceiling, trying to weigh the risks and rewards. The North needed a strong voice in the south, but at what cost? Could he ensure his father's safety in a city where even the walls seemed to whisper secrets? Robb's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, sharp tapping at the window. He turned his head sharply, his eyes narrowing as he saw the silhouette of a raven perched on the ledge, its beak tapping insistently against the glass.

Robb rose from his chair and crossed the room, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor. He opened the window, the cold night air rushing in as the raven hopped inside, its beady eyes glinting in the candlelight. Robb reached for the small scroll tied to the bird's leg, his fingers trembling slightly as he unfurled it. The message was brief but damning, written in the coded language of his spies. As he read, his heart sank, and a cold knot of dread formed in his chest.

The raven had brought news from King's Landing—news that painted a grim picture. Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, had been seen passing a vial of suspicious liquid to Lysa Arryn mere days before Jon Arryn's death. The former Hand of the King had been investigating something in the weeks leading up to his demise, particularly around the brothels of Flea Bottom, where Robert Baratheon was known to frequent. Even more troubling, Jon Arryn's office had been ransacked and cleared out on the very day he died. The spy had managed to recover a single crumpled sheet from Arryn's journal, with one word scrawled across it in hurried handwriting:

*"GOLD?"*

Robb's mind raced as he pieced together the implications of the message. This was no mere coincidence. Jon Arryn's death had been no accident, and the involvement of Petyr Baelish—a man Robb had once thought neutralized—suggested a conspiracy far more dangerous than he had anticipated. He had been complacent, too confident in his own position and the threats he had already neutralized. But now, the board had been upturned, and the game had changed.

He clenched the letter in his fist, his jaw tightening as he made his decision. There was no other option. His father would have to accept the position of Hand of the King. They needed to uncover the truth, and they needed to do it quickly. Robb grabbed his cloak and strode out of the solar, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls of Winterfell as he made his way to his father's office.

As he approached the door, he saw Maester Luwin exiting, the old man's face lined with worry. "Ah, Robb!" Luwin said, his voice tinged with relief. "I was just about to look for you. Your father needs to speak with you. It's urgent."

Robb nodded curtly, his expression grim. "I was coming to see him," he said, his voice low and steady. Without another word, he pushed open the door to his father's office and stepped inside.

The room was warm, lit by the soft glow of the hearth and a few scattered candles. Ned Stark sat behind his desk, his broad frame hunched over a letter, his face etched with concern. Catelyn Stark stood by the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her blue eyes filled with unease. Both turned as Robb entered, their expressions shifting to a mixture of relief and apprehension.

"Robb," his father said, looking up as he entered. "Have your ravens brought any word about the death of Lord Arryn?"

Robb hesitated only a moment before stepping forward. He handed his father the message he had just received. "Yes, Father. I was coming to speak to you about exactly that."

Eddard unfolded the parchment and read it in silence. The fire crackled, the only sound in the chamber.

After a long moment, he set the letter down. "Your Aunt Lysa believes the Lannisters were behind Jon's death," he said grimly. He lifted the letter he had been holding and passed it to Robb. "She sent me this."

Robb took the parchment and scanned its contents. Lysa Arryn had fled King's Landing with her son, taking refuge in the Eyrie. Her letter was frantic, filled with accusations against the Lannisters. She insisted that Jon had been murdered, that the queen and her family had been behind it. Robb didn't want believe it at all. His aunt couldn't be trusted. Especially if she was as close to Baelish as he suspected.

Robb frowned, his mind working rapidly. "The Lannisters…" he muttered. "Gold…" His thoughts returned to the message from his spy. Could it be?

His father studied him. "You seem to have already been considering this possibility."

Robb exhaled, steadying his thoughts. "Yes. My ravens tell me that Lord Arryn's death was not natural. He had been investigating something—something about the king's bastards. He spent weeks in the brothels of Flea Bottom, looking for… something. Then, suddenly, he dies, and his office is ransacked the same day. Someone wanted to bury whatever truth he had uncovered." He tapped the parchment. "My agent found only one clue—Jon Arryn had often been heard talking about something related to Gold in the weeks leading upto his death."

His mother inhaled sharply, while his father's expression turned to stone.

Robb straightened. His next words were heavy, but necessary. "Father, I believe you should accept the position of Hand of the King."

His mother stiffened. "Robb, you cannot mean that."

"I do," he said firmly. "We need to get to the bottom of this."

Catelyn turned to Eddard, her face tight with worry. "Ned, no. The South is no place for you. It is no place for any Stark."

His father's jaw tightened. "Robert is my friend. If he is in danger, I must go."

Robb stepped forward. "Father, this is more than just a danger to Robert. If Jon Arryn was murdered, then someone—perhaps the Lannisters, perhaps someone else—is playing a dangerous game. If we do nothing, the North will be left in the dark. We won't know what moves are being made until it's too late."

His mother shook her head. "And what if you do go? What if you are caught in this web of lies? The last thing we need is for you to be dragged into the South's treachery."

Robb's voice was steel. "Mother, we're already in it. Whether we like it or not."

Silence fell over the room.

Eddard Stark rubbed a hand over his face, deep in thought. "If I go, the North must be secure. Robb, you would have to rule in my stead."

Robb nodded. "No father, I need to go with you. You'll need me. Leman can take over your duties while we're gone."

Eddard looked to Catelyn, then back to his son. "So be it. If we do this, we will need to tread carefully. There are too many questions, and too many knives hidden in the dark."

Robb met his father's gaze. "Then we'll need to start sharpening our own."

"Father," Robb said, his voice filled with resolve, "whatever happens, We will all stand by you. The North will stand by you. We will uncover the truth."

Ned nodded, his expression softening as he looked at his son. "Thank you, Robb," he said, his voice filled with pride. "Together, we will see this through."

2 weeks later

The two weeks had passed in a blur of preparation and quiet tension, the air in Winterfell thick with the unspoken weight of impending change. The Stark family had spent their days in a flurry of activity, each member preparing for the journeys that would soon take them in different directions. The royal party was set to depart for King's Landing, accompanied by Ned and Robb, while Tyrion Lannister, Jon Snow, and Benjen Stark would ride for the Wall. The castle, usually a bastion of warmth and familiarity, now felt like a ship on the edge of a storm, its inhabitants bracing for the tempest to come.

In the quiet hours before dawn, Robb Stark found himself in the dimly lit chamber he shared with his twin brother, Leman. The room was sparsely furnished, its stone walls lined with tapestries depicting the history of House Stark. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room as the two brothers sat across from each other, their faces illuminated by the warm glow. Lupa, Leman's ever-present direwolf, lay curled at his feet, her golden eyes half-closed but alert.

Robb leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his expression serious. "Brother," he began, his voice low and measured, "I don't expect much trouble in King's Landing, but…" He hesitated, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words. "I have this feeling—this gnawing sense that something bad is going to happen. Something—"

"Big," Leman interrupted, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to echo in the quiet room. His piercing gray eyes locked onto Robb's, and for a moment, the twins simply stared at each other, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Leman's face was grim, his jaw set in a hard line. "I've been feeling the same. The air is heavy with it, like the calm before a storm. We need to prepare… for war."

Robb nodded slowly, his expression hardening. "Yes," he agreed, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "We need to start preparing those weapons. The time for secrecy is running out."

Leman's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. "I've already sent my orders to the foundries," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "With our current stockpile and the move to full-time production, we'll be ready sooner than we thought."

Robb's eyes narrowed slightly, his mind racing as he processed the information. "How many?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Four hundred castle, six hundred mounted, and another two hundred in production," Leman replied without hesitation. His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to it, a hint of the fierce determination that lay beneath his stoic exterior. "We'll have more by the time the snows fall."

Robb exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cool morning air. "Good," he said, his voice firm. "We'll need to reveal them soon anyway. The North must be ready, and our enemies must know that we are not to be trifled with."

The twins fell silent for a moment, the weight of their conversation settling heavily over them. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold reality of their situation. Robb and Leman shared a look, their bond as twins allowing them to communicate without words. They both knew what was at stake, and they both understood the sacrifices that would be required.

Finally, Leman broke the silence, his voice softer now but no less resolute. "Stay safe, Robb," he said, his gaze unwavering. "And take care of Father. King's Landing is a pit of vipers, and he'll need you by his side."

Robb nodded, his expression solemn. "I will," he promised. "And you… keep Winterfell safe. The North looks to us now, more than ever."

Leman rose from his seat, his movements deliberate and unhurried. Lupa stood with him, her massive form stretching as she shook out her fur. "I'll hold the North," Leman said, his voice a low growl that seemed to reverberate through the room. "No matter what comes, Winterfell will stand."

With that, Leman turned and left the chamber, Lupa padding silently at his side. Robb watched him go, a sense of pride and unease warring within him. He knew his brother's strength, but he also knew the challenges that lay ahead. The North would need more than strength to survive what was coming—it would need cunning, unity, and resolve.

Outside, the courtyard of Winterfell was alive with activity as the various parties prepared to depart. Horses whinnied, men shouted orders, and the clatter of steel and leather filled the air. Leman made his way through the chaos, his presence commanding enough to part the crowd without a word. His destination was clear: Jon Snow, who stood near the stables, adjusting the straps on his saddle.

Jon looked up as Leman approached, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of determination and sadness. "Are you really sure you wish to do this, Jon?" Leman asked, his voice carrying a rare note of vulnerability. "Your home is here. Your family is here. In Winterfell."

Jon straightened, his expression resolute. "I have to do this, Leman," he said, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. "I want to do this. I'll always love all of my siblings, and I'll especially miss our sparring sessions. But I've made my decision, brother. This is the path I've chosen."

Leman sighed, his broad shoulders sagging slightly under the weight of his emotions. "So be it," he said, his voice heavy with resignation. "But don't you dare die on us, Jon. Or I swear…" He trailed off, his voice cracking slightly as the words caught in his throat.

Before Leman could finish, Jon stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace. The two brothers stood there for a moment, their bond as strong as the walls of Winterfell itself. "I'll try not to get into too much trouble," Jon said with a faint smile, his voice muffled against Leman's shoulder.

Leman chuckled softly, the sound rough but genuine. "You'd better not," he said, pulling back to look Jon in the eye. "Or I'll ride to the Wall myself and drag you back here."

Their moment was interrupted by a dry, sardonic voice. "What an emotional scene," Tyrion Lannister said, his tone laced with mockery but his eyes betraying a hint of genuine respect. "I almost feel like crying."

Leman turned to face the Imp, his expression hardening once more. "Save your tears, Lannister," he said, his voice cold but not unkind. "You'll need them for the Wall."

Tyrion smirked, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Touché, Stark," he said. "But don't worry—I'll keep an eye on your brother. Someone has to make sure he doesn't get himself killed."

Jon rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a small smile. "I'll be fine," he said, his voice firm. "Take care of Winterfell, Leman. And take care of yourself."

Leman nodded, his expression softening once more. "Always," he said. "Now go. The Wall awaits."

The crisp morning air bit at Leman's face as he turned from the north gate, the thunder of Jon's departing horse echoing in his ears like a fading drumbeat. Winterfell's courtyard churned with chaos—servants darted between carts laden with provisions, stableboys wrestled skittish horses into harnesses, and guards barked orders over the clatter of steel and creak of wagon wheels. The Stark banners snapped defiantly above the south gate, their direwolf sigils rippling in the wind as if eager to chase the shadows gathering beyond the castle walls. Leman's boots crunched over frost-rimed gravel as he strode toward the royal convoy, his breath misting in the pale dawn light. There, amid the ordered frenzy, stood his answer to the vipers of the south: His Vlka Fenryka.

The Blood Claws were not soldiers—they were a force of nature. One hundred men armored in plates of blackened steel etched with runes of warding and vengeance, their cloaks the gray of storm clouds, their faces hidden behind snarling wolf-masked helms. They moved with the silent precision of predators, checking straps, honing blades, and securing round shields painted with crimson pawprints—a mark of their first blood spilled in House Stark's name. At their center loomed Björn, called The Bear, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the morning sun. Seven feet of muscle and scarred resolve, his armor bore the dents of a hundred battles, his two-handed greatsword slung across his back like a scythe waiting to reap a harvest of fools. The air around the Vlka Fenryka hummed with lethal intent, a wolfpack's stillness before the hunt.

As Leman approached, the Blood Claws dropped as one to a knee, their armored knees striking the earth in a thunderous crack that silenced the courtyard. Servants froze mid-step; even the horses stilled their whinnying. Björn inclined his helmed head, the gesture deeper than submission—it was covenant.

"My lord," the captain's voice rumbled from behind his wolf-mask, deeper than winter's frost.

"Up," Leman commanded, his voice cutting through the cold. Not a request—a reminder. *You kneel to no one, not even Death itself.* The Vlka Fenryka rose as a single entity, their eyes glinting like sharpened steel through their helms. Leman stopped before Björn, the top of his own head barely level with the captain's collarbone. Yet it was Leman who seemed to tower as he reached into his cloak and drew forth a dagger—its blade forged from dragonglass, its hilt wrapped in the faded leather of their father's old hunting glove.

"Björn," Leman said, pressing the blade into the man's gauntleted palm. "When we took back the Wolf's Maw from the raiders, you held that pass for a whole day with six men. When the Mountain Clans thought to test the North's strength, you returned their chieftain's head in a basket of his own bones." He closed the giant's fingers around the dagger, his voice lowering to a growl only Björn could hear. "This task is greater."

Björn's helm tilted, the wolf-mask's empty eyes boring into Leman's. "Name it my Lord and it shall be be done."

Leman's gaze flickered to the royal wheelhouse where his father stood speaking with Robert Baratheon, the king's booming laughter at odds with Ned Stark's grave silence. "The South is a festering wound. Every smile hides a knife. Every cup may hold poison. My father trusts honor to shield him. Robb thinks cleverness will suffice." He turned back to Björn, the ghost of a snarl in his voice. "You will be their shield. Their shadow. Their teeth. Whatever it takes."

The Bear's grip tightened on the dagger. Behind him, the Vlka Fenryka shifted, a ripple of anticipation through the pack.

"You'll have no armies to command there except your brothers," Leman continued. "No walls to hide behind. Only whispers and lies and Lannister gold. If it comes to it…" He paused, the unspoken truth hanging between them like an executioner's axe. 'Burn the Red Keep. Drown the Lion in his own blood. Let the South choke on its schemes.'

Björn's answer came not in words but in action. He tore open the collar of his armor, exposing the thick scar that ran from collarbone to breastbone—a mark taken defending fighting against an entire bandit camp alone. Pressing the dragonglass dagger's edge to the scarred flesh, he drew a thin line of crimson.

"By the Old Gods and the New," Björn intoned, his voice a landslide of conviction, "by the blood of the First Men in these veins, By the very life you have granted me, my lord, I vow: No blade shall touch Lord Stark's heart while mine still beats. No poison shall taint Lord Robb's cup while my hand steadies it. Let the South come with all its tricks. We are the Wolfswood's shadow, We are the Russ —they will choke on it."

A chorus of growls rose from the Vlka Fenryka, their hands striking their breastplates in unison—*boom, boom, boom*—a war drum's rhythm.

Leman nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching in grim approval. He turned to the pack, raising his voice to a whip-crack decree. "The Kingslayer smiles like a summer knight. The Spider's whispers taste like honey. Remember this: In the South, even the air is your enemy. Trust no one. Watch everyone. And if the Lion bares his claws—" He paused, locking eyes with a dozen masked warriors. "Rend him."

The Blood Claws' roar shook the courtyard, a feral promise that sent crows scattering from Winterfell's towers. As the convoy began to roll forward, Björn sheathed the dragonglass dagger at his hip and mounted a warhorse that looked like a pony beneath his bulk. The Vlka Fenryka fell into formation around the Stark contingent—not as guards, but as a storm circling its eye.

Leman watched them go, his hand resting on Lupa's massive head. "Keep them safe, brother," the direwolf's amber eyes seemed to say.

"Oh, I will," Leman murmured. "Or we'll burn the South to cinders."

High above, the direwolf banners snapped once more, their song a promise carried on the wind.

Robb Stark couldn't help the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched the Vlka Fenryka fall into formation around the Stark contingent. Leave it to Leman to make a spectacle of their departure. The Blood Claws moved with a precision that bordered on the unnatural, their blackened armor glinting like shards of night under the pale morning sun. Each step they took was deliberate, each glance from behind their wolf-masked helms a silent promise of violence. Robb had seen them train in the Wolfswood, had watched them dismantle entire squads of seasoned Stark guards in mock battles. They were not just soldiers—they were a force of nature, a storm given flesh and steel. And they were Leman's.

Robb's amusement faded slightly as he considered the implications. Leman's theatrics were not just for show; they were a message. To the North, they were a reminder of House Stark's strength. To the South, they were a warning: *We are not prey.* Robb's hand tightened on his reins as he glanced at his father, riding beside King Robert. Ned Stark's face was calm, but Robb could see the faint crease of worry between his brows. His father was a man of honor, not theatrics, and the presence of the Vlka Fenryka was as much a shield as it was a statement. Robb couldn't help but feel a flicker of pride. Leman had always been the more aggressive of the two, the one who understood that sometimes, a show of force was necessary to keep the wolves at bay.

Ned Stark rode beside Robert Baratheon, his thoughts a whirlwind of pride and unease. The Vlka Fenryka were a sight to behold, their presence commanding attention even from the most jaded of the royal party. Ned had seen them in battle, had watched them hold the line against overwhelming odds during the one of their expeditions. They were Leman's creation, born of his son's relentless drive to protect the North. Yet, their presence here, in the heart of the royal convoy, felt like a double-edged sword. They were a shield, yes, but also a provocation. Ned could feel the weight of curious and wary glances from the southern lords and knights. The Lannisters, in particular, seemed to regard the Blood Claws with a mixture of disdain and thinly veiled apprehension.

"Those soldiers, those Vlka Fenryka, look quite impressive, Ned," Robert said, his voice booming with approval. The king's eyes gleamed with the admiration of a warrior who recognized strength when he saw it. "Your boy Leman knows how to train men, I'll give him that. They look like they could tear through an army without breaking a sweat."

Ned nodded, his expression thoughtful. "They are loyal to House Stark," he said carefully, "and fiercely protective of their own. Leman has always had a gift for inspiring such loyalty."

Robert chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to echo across the open plains. "Aye, he takes after you in that regard. But gods, Ned, they look like they've been carved from the Wolfswood itself. I wouldn't want to cross them on a dark night."

Ned's lips twitched in a faint smile, but his eyes remained troubled. The Vlka Fenryka were a statement, one that would not go unnoticed in King's Landing. He could only hope that their presence would deter rather than provoke.

Cersei Lannister sat in the royal wheelhouse, her sharp green eyes narrowed as she watched the Vlka Fenryka through the window. The sight of the black-armored warriors filled her with a simmering disdain. They were brutes, nothing more—northern savages playing at being soldiers. Yet, there was something about them that unsettled her. The way they moved, the way they watched everything with those cold, masked eyes. It was as if they were always waiting for the command to strike. She turned to Jaime, who rode beside the wheelhouse, his golden armor gleaming in the sunlight.

"Do you see them, brother?" she asked, her voice low and venomous. "Stark's little pets. They think themselves so fearsome, so untouchable."

Jaime's gaze flickered to the Blood Claws, his expression unreadable. "They're well-trained," he admitted, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. "I'll give them that. But they're still just men. Men can be killed."

Cersei's lips curled into a sneer. "Men like that are dangerous. They're loyal to a fault, and they have no sense of subtlety. They'll be a problem if Stark decides to use them against us."

Jaime's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, his fingers drumming against the pommel. "Let them try," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "The North may have its wolves, but We are lions. And lions don't fear wolves."

Ser Barristan Selmy rode at the head of the royal guard, his keen eyes taking in the Vlka Fenryka with the practiced gaze of a seasoned warrior. He had seen many soldiers in his time, from the golden knights of the Reach to the hardened sellswords of the Free Cities. But these men were different. There was a ferocity to them, a primal edge that set them apart. They moved like a pack, their actions synchronized, their focus unwavering. Barristan could see the discipline in their ranks, the way they positioned themselves to protect the Starks without being told. It was a level of loyalty and efficiency that even the Kingsguard could admire.

Yet, Barristan couldn't shake the feeling that their presence was a harbinger of trouble. The North had always been a land of harsh truths and sharper blades, and the Vlka Fenryka embodied that spirit. They were a reminder that the Starks were not just another noble house—they were a power unto themselves. Barristan's hand tightened on his reins as he considered the implications. King's Landing was a city of shadows and secrets, and the arrival of the Blood Claws would only add fuel to the fire.

Robb's thoughts drifted back to the task ahead as the convoy rolled on. The Vlka Fenryka were a shield, yes, but they were also a distraction. Their presence would draw attention, and that would work to his advantage. While the southern lords focused on the black-armored warriors, Robb and his ravens would move in the shadows, uncovering the truth behind Jon Arryn's death and the schemes of Baelish and the Lannisters. He glanced at his father, riding beside Robert, and felt a surge of determination. The North would not be caught unprepared. Not this time.

A/N Well as it turns out, plans don't work at the best of times. This chapter should have been posted last Sunday, But I felt the need to change a few bits, after which I realised that I was deviating off-topic. i also got into a bit of a rabbit hole creating background Lore for the protheans for my other Fic Mass Effect solaris. so that caused another delay.
This is the stark's departure from winterfell done. and were officially entering into the meat of the story. Also, as you might have noticed, I did a massive time skip last chapter. this is because I have ideas about what happened in the years, but not the words to put them to paper in a way that made sense. It would be like minor snippets. so I decided to just skip that part and add in stuff when we get there, along with the snippet that gives some background.

A glimpse of the past

Battle of The Wolf's Maw:

The Battle of the Wolf's Maw is remembered as the first undeniable proof of the ruthless efficiency and indomitable spirit of the Vlka Fenryka. It was during this skirmish that the legend of their unwavering resolve began to take shape, their deeds forever etched into the annals of history.

A bastard of House Drumm, a minor Ironborn lord with grand delusions of vengeance, had gathered a significant force of raiders, driven by the unyielding desire to punish the North for past transgressions. From their refuge deep within a valley surrounded by sheer, unscalable cliffs, they launched brutal raids on isolated settlements, striking under cover of darkness before vanishing like ghosts into their stronghold. Their sanctuary was all but impregnable, accessible only through a single narrow pass.

Leman Russ, ever wary of such threats, tasked his most trusted warrior, Bjorn, with uncovering the origins of these attacks. Bjorn, along with three of his pack-brothers, set out under the cover of night, tracking the raiders through the snow-laden wilderness with the practiced ease of hunters born to the hunt. It did not take them long to discover the Ironborn's lair—an ill-guarded fortress of rock and ice, its defenders overconfident in their natural defenses.

Recognizing an opportunity, Bjorn made a bold decision. He sent one of his men back on horseback to inform Leman Russ of their discovery, while he and the remaining warriors took it upon themselves to hold the pass. Though outnumbered and cut off, they would not allow their prey to escape.

A blizzard unlike any other descended upon the land that day, turning the valley into a frozen abyss. Hours passed, then an entire day, and the storm only worsened. Leman Russ and his reinforcements battled against the fury of the elements, their advance slowed to a crawl by howling winds and snowdrifts as deep as a man was tall. The warriors feared the worst—that Bjorn and his small band had been overwhelmed or frozen to death, their valor wasted in the face of impossible odds.

Yet, when they finally arrived at the mouth of the valley, their fears proved unfounded. Bjorn and his warriors still stood, battered but unbowed. The narrow pass was choked with the bodies of slain Ironborn, their frozen corpses littering the ground in gruesome testament to the ferocity of their last stand. The defenders had held for a full day and night, their strength and endurance defying all reason, cutting down more than a dozen foes with nothing but their weapons and their unbreakable will.

With Leman Russ and the Vlka Fenryka now at their back, the tide turned into a slaughter. The warriors of Fenris swept through the valley like the storm itself, moving with relentless precision. The Ironborn, already bloodied and demoralized, found themselves trapped with no hope of escape. What had once been their sanctuary became their tomb as the Vlka Fenryka hunted them down, eradicating them one by one until not a single raider remained. It was that day that The pass earned the name the Wolf's maw.