Robb X
It was well past nightfall when Robb Stark finally made the weary trek back to his tent, his steps heavy with exhaustion. Five days had passed since he rejoined the war campaign, and those days had been filled with near-constant conflict. The death of Renly Baratheon had shattered the already fragile alliances across the realm, leaving the battlefield in disarray. Some lords had rushed to pledge their swords to Stannis, others had grovelled for Joffrey's forgiveness, and still others were lost in the chaos, fighting for no king at all.
The unrest was spreading like wildfire. Upon reaching the battered walls of Harrenhal, Robb had heard troubling news—houses were rising up, declaring themselves independent of any crown. Tywin Lannister, ever the strategist, had wasted no time, moving to crush these rebellions before they could rally under Stannis' banner. The Conningtons had been the first to rise. Their lord, fiercely loyal to Renly even in death, refused to bend the knee to Stannis or Joffrey. In a brazen act of defiance, he had called his banners, naming himself the rightful Lord of Storm's End.
It was a dangerous move, one that could have sparked a wider rebellion if left unchecked. Tywin had acted swiftly. With the combined might of Lannister and Stark forces, the Connington army was crushed in a brutal skirmish. Their lord had fled, his whereabouts unknown—some said he sought refuge with Stannis, others whispered he had vanished entirely, waiting for the moment to strike again.
Robb entered the tent, the flap closing behind him with a faint rustle. The weight of the day, of the campaign, pressed down on his shoulders. Every victory felt hollow, every battle leading them further into a future he couldn't quite see. The North still needed him, but now he was entwined in a war that stretched far beyond the lands of his birth, far beyond any sense of honor or justice.
He removed his gauntlets, tossing them onto a nearby table, his eyes distant. Connington had been just one of many, a single ripple in the growing storm of unrest. And more houses would follow, more blood would be spilled before the realm could settle once more. Robb felt the weight of his father's legacy, of his kingly crown, but now there was something else—an uncertainty that gnawed at the edges of his resolve.
The lines between friend and foe were blurring. He fought alongside Lannisters, in a war he had never truly wanted to wage. They had once been enemies bound by blood feud, but now he found himself fighting under their banner, trying to keep the peace, even as the peace seemed more elusive than ever.
And yet, no matter how far he marched or how many victories they secured on the battlefield, one thought remained a constant in Robb's mind: his family. They were the anchor in the turbulent sea of war, the reason he fought against the chaos that threatened to consume everything he held dear. A letter from his mother lay on his desk, its ink still fresh, but he had only managed to read the first line before the weight of it had driven him to put it down.
"We have retaken Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy is dead."
The words echoed in his mind, reverberating like a dull drumbeat. Theon, the boy who had grown up alongside him, who had laughed and trained with his brothers, who had been like a brother in all but blood, was a traitor. Robb had trusted him. He had shared his home, his family, and his very life with Theon, only to be met with betrayal when it mattered most. Robb's chest tightened at the thought, a mix of anger and sorrow bubbling just beneath the surface. How could a boy he once called a friend turn so quickly into an enemy?
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the parchment as if it were a serpent poised to strike. His mind raced with questions. How had it come to this? What had driven Theon to turn against his own? The image of Winterfell being overrun by Iron Islanders filled his mind, a place he had once known as a sanctuary now tainted with the stain of treachery. It was not just the physical walls of the castle he mourned but the very essence of family that had been shattered.
He thought of the last time he had seen Theon, the memory weighing heavily on his heart like a stone. Robb had sent him to treat with Balon Greyjoy, hoping to secure an alliance—or at least to understand his intentions. Theon had left with a fire in his eyes, a determined look that Robb had hoped meant he would succeed. But now, that fire seemed extinguished, replaced by betrayal and bloodshed.
"Maybe this is my fault," Robb thought bitterly. Perhaps if he had kept Theon closer, he could have prevented this catastrophic turn of events. If he had been a better brother, a better friend, maybe he wouldn't have sent Theon away to his doom. The weight of guilt pressed down on him, tightening its grip with every passing moment.
"No," he chastised himself, shaking his head as if to dispel the dark thoughts. Theon had made his own choices; he had forged his own path to ruin. He had to remember that. But just then, a flicker of warmth broke through the storm in Robb's heart—a memory of Roslin. What would she say to him now? She would wrap her arms around him, look into his eyes and gently tell him that it wasn't his fault. He couldn't hold himself accountable for another man's actions, no matter how close they once had been.
He missed her so much. It was a dull ache in his chest, a reminder of the love he had left behind while marching off to war. She would be well into her fifth month of pregnancy by now, and all he wished for was to feel her warmth, to hold her in his arms and forget the chaos that surrounded them. In his mind, he could picture her, radiant and strong, hands resting on her rounded belly, eyes sparkling with life and hope.
Roslin wrote often, each letter a lifeline connecting him to her. She spoke of her days in the capitol, detailing Sansa's studies and her progress in needlework, the way she was slowly becoming a lady in her own right. There were bits and pieces about Tyrion and Varys, their odd conversations, and the strange alliance forming around them. But there was never a mention of Joffrey, and Robb felt a surge of protectiveness at the thought. He didn't want to imagine Roslin, vulnerable and alone in the shadow of the cruel boy-king.
But he couldn't help but think that her pregnancy must be evident by now. He had returned to Harrenhal to hear congratulations and well wishes from those who had supported him, but he also heard the sniggers and whispers that skittered through the halls like rats. Rumors tainted by envy and malice whispered that the child was not his at all but a bastard of the King. The thought twisted in his gut like a knife, and he found himself clenching his fists in frustration.
He could almost hear Roslin's laughter in his mind, see her smile brightening even the darkest corners of his heart. He longed to return to her, to protect her from the prying eyes and poisonous tongues that sought to tear them apart. Robb vowed that when this war was over, he would make it back to her, and they would build a life together—a life free from the treachery and betrayal that had become their reality.
But first, he had to confront the chaos surrounding him. There would be time for dreams later; now was the moment to focus on what lay ahead. With a deep breath, Robb pushed aside the weight of his thoughts and turned his attention back to the maps spread across the table before him, ready to lead his men into the fray once more.
It was early the next morning when Robb Stark made his way to the war council, the chill of dawn still lingering in the air. The world outside was shrouded in mist, the soft glow of the rising sun casting an ethereal light over the camp. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, the fabric thick against the morning breeze, and steeled himself for the meeting ahead.
As he entered the tent, the atmosphere shifted. The war council was in full swing, and the air hummed with tension and purpose. Tywin Lannister, a figure of commanding presence, stood over the expansive table that was littered with maps and markers, his face set in a stern expression. Clad in a fitted black jacket, he looked ready to don his armor, a reminder of the battles that lay ahead. The flickering lanterns cast shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the lines of experience etched deep into his skin.
Next to Tywin, Jaime Lannister lounged with a relaxed demeanor that seemed almost at odds with the seriousness of their discussion. He held a cup of wine, swirling the crimson liquid idly as he leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Even at this early hour, the wine was a comfort to him, a steady companion as he observed the unfolding events with a mixture of amusement and boredom.
"Lord Stark," Tywin addressed Robb, his voice carrying a weight of authority that demanded attention. "Thank you for joining us."
Robb straightened, meeting Tywin's gaze with a steely resolve of his own. "Of course, my lord," he replied, his tone measured. He stepped closer to the table, taking in the intricate maps laid before them. They depicted the shifting allegiances and battle lines that had become the lifeblood of their campaign. Dark red markings indicated the territories still loyal to Joffrey, while the faded hues of blue and green hinted at houses that had wavered in their loyalties, now uncertain in a world turned upside down by war.
"Let us get to the matter at hand," Tywin said, his voice cutting through the tension in the room as he gestured for Robb to take a seat at the table. "Thanks to Lord Stark's efforts," Tywin continued, "House Tyrell has pledged themselves to our cause. I've already written to Mace Tyrell, instructing him to gather the remainder of his forces and join us as we return to the capital."
He placed a wooden marker on the table, emblazoned with the sigil of House Tyrell—a golden rose.
Robb sat down, feeling the weight of Tywin's words. Return to the capital? The idea hit him with unexpected force, a mixture of hope and anxiety rising in his chest. His heart quickened at the thought of being reunited with Roslin. It had been months since he had last seen her, months of battle and bloodshed. The prospect of returning to King's Landing was suddenly not just about strategy but about her—the woman carrying his child.
But his thoughts were interrupted by Tywin's sharp tone, his focus pulled back to the war council. "We have received word that Stannis is gathering his forces," Tywin said, his expression unreadable but his eyes keen, sharp as ever. "The forces he gained following Renly's death were unfortunate but unavoidable. What concerns us now is his next move."
Tywin's hand moved across the map, hovering over the stretch of sea between Dragonstone and King's Landing. "Our spies report that Stannis plans to attack Blackwater Bay directly from Dragonstone." He placed another carved figure on the map, the sigil of House Baratheon—Stannis' flaming heart—now glaring at them from the sea.
"Two hundred ships," Tywin said, his voice heavy with the reality of the situation. "That's the size of his fleet, and we don't have the forces in King's Landing to contend with a naval assault of that magnitude."
Robb's brow furrowed as he studied the map. The thought of such a fleet bearing down on King's Landing was enough to unsettle even the most seasoned commanders. "And what are our options?" he asked, feeling the weight of the decision bearing down on them.
"Our only option," Tywin said, locking eyes with Robb, "is to get there before Stannis or hope the city can survive a short siege. If his forces breach the walls, they will take it. King's Landing does not have enough men to hold against Stannis and his army."
Tywin's hand swept across the map again, tracing the vulnerable coastline. "If Stannis wins, he will take the throne. Every house that ever aligned with Renly, every lord who ever questioned Joffrey's claim, will flock to his side."
The stakes were clear. Stannis wasn't just another contender for the throne; he was the greatest threat the crown had faced yet. If they didn't act swiftly, the entire realm would fall into chaos.
"And what of Blackwater Bay itself?" Robb asked, his thoughts racing ahead. "If we can't outnumber his fleet, is there a way to outmaneuver it?"
Tywin's eyes flicked to Jaime, who had remained silent, observing the map with a careful eye. "Our spies report that Stannis will approach by night," Tywin said. "If we get there first, we can use the defenses around the bay to our advantage. But time is not on our side. We have to move now."
"We march on King's Landing," Tywin said, his voice firm, the decision final. "The Tyrells will meet us there, and we will be ready for Stannis when he arrives. But understand this: if we fail, it's not just the city that will fall. It's the entire realm."
Robb glanced at the map again, his gaze lingering over King's Landing, then back to the sea. The stakes had never been higher, but one thing was certain: he would fight not just for his house, but for Roslin, for the future of their child, and for the hope that maybe, just maybe, peace could be found in the chaos of war.
"And what of the Iron Islands?" Jaime interjected, his finger tracing the outline of the small islands off the west coast of Westeros on the war map laid before them. "Balon Greyjoy may be short-sighted, but he is a dangerous foe. The Iron Islands boast the largest fleet in the realm."
Tywin's demeanor shifted, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Leave that to me," he said, confidence radiating from him like a well-crafted armor. "I will deal with the Greyjoys and ensure that their ambitions are curtailed. We cannot afford to be distracted by their petty raids when Stannis poses such an imminent threat."
Robb's brow furrowed. "We should send men north," he proposed, his voice firm. "Ten thousand, or so. My father may have taken back Winterfell, but many Northern keeps are still held by the Ironborn. They will not sit idle while we're preoccupied down here."
Jaime let out a sharp laugh, the sound echoing in the tense air. "Give an army to Ned Stark?" he scoffed. "We're fighting a war down here, boy. We need every man we can get. Your father is secure in Winterfell; why should we divert our resources?"
Robb's eyes hardened, and he leaned forward, his voice lowering but gaining intensity. "And do you think the Northern lords in that army will continue to fight for your King if he allows their families to be terrorised by pirates? If we leave the Iron Islands unchecked, their raids will only grow bolder. Every town they sack, every family they terrorise will create resentment that festers like a wound. They won't fight for a king who abandons them."
Tywin observed the exchange, his expression inscrutable as he weighed the potential fallout of Jaime's dismissive attitude. "The North has always been fiercely loyal, but loyalty is a two-way street," he said slowly. "If the Ironborn are allowed to run rampant, it will not just affect the North; it will embolden every other house that feels slighted or neglected."
Jaime shrugged, clearly unconvinced. "And what do you suggest we do, Robb? Send half our forces north to play games with the Greyjoys while Stannis bears down on us? You're young; you might not grasp the complexity of war yet."
Robb clenched his fists, the tension between them palpable. "I may be young, but I understand loyalty and honor—things you seem to overlook in your pursuit of power." He paused, forcing himself to breathe and temper his anger. "If you don't think the Northern lords will side with a man who lets their families be slaughtered, you underestimate them. They will rally behind whoever can protect them and their homes."
Tywin leaned back, a calculating glint in his eyes as he assessed the young Stark. "Very well, we shall send a contingent north. But make no mistake, Robb, our priority remains the capital. We'll send 2,000 men. You must understand the balance of power; we cannot afford to weaken ourselves too much."
Robb nodded, relief washing over him but tempered with a sense of foreboding. "I understand, my lord. But we cannot let the Ironborn go unchallenged. I want those 10,000 men ready to march north as soon as we've dealt with Stannis."
Jaime rolled his eyes but held his tongue, perhaps sensing the weight of Robb's resolve. The North had always been a land of strong wills and even stronger loyalties, and Robb's determination was a reflection of that spirit.
Tywin straightened, the glimmer of respect flickering in his gaze. "Then it is settled. We will draw up plans for both fronts. But know this, Robb: you will have to bear the responsibility for whatever consequences arise from splitting our forces."
"I understand," Robb replied, his voice steady. "But if we are to win this war, we cannot do it with one hand tied behind our back. We need to be willing to fight for every part of the realm, not just the parts we can easily see."
Tywin nodded, his expression inscrutable, yet there was an undeniable shift in the atmosphere. As Robb sat back, the enormity of the decision settled on his shoulders, but he felt a flicker of hope as well. Perhaps, together, they could turn the tide of the war—not just against Stannis, but for all the families who relied on them, from the icy reaches of the North to the warm shores of the South.