Roslin XX
"Mama!" Torrhen's small voice broke the silence, pulling Roslin from her swirling thoughts. Her gaze snapped to her son, who sat on the floor of the Winterfell nursery, a wooden toy soldier clutched tightly in his chubby hand. His laughter echoed softly off the stone walls, the sound a balm to her weary heart. Roslin smiled faintly, though the weight of her worries lingered, like shadows clinging to the edges of the firelight.
She loved watching Torrhen play. Here, in the warmth of the nursery by the crackling fireplace, with Grey Wind curled protectively beside him, he seemed so carefree. These were the moments she had dreamed of during her long, uncertain days in King's Landing. Back then, she had imagined safety, happiness, and a future full of such simple joys. But now, those dreams were haunted by the cold reality of their precarious existence. Every time Torrhen laughed, played, or nestled into his bed at night, Roslin couldn't escape the fear that it might be the last time.
The thought gnawed at her. She had considered sending Torrhen away, perhaps to Essos or Dorne, where a trusted family could foster him until the tides of war and peril receded. A safe haven, far from the bitter winters and darker threats of the North. But with every resolution to act, doubt overwhelmed her.
Roslin thought of the mothers before her, who had made similar choices, their intentions noble, their sacrifices unimaginable. Rhaenyra Targaryen came to her mind, the queen who had sent her three sons away, believing it would save them from the storm of dragons and swords. None returned to her before her death. The stories weighed heavily on her, filling her with dread. If she let Torrhen go, would she ever see him again? Would he forget her voice, her face? Would he feel abandoned, unloved?
Her thoughts darkened further. The halls of Winterfell, though steeped in history and tradition, felt like a prison of decisions she did not want to make. Every whisper in the corridors, every glance shared between the lords of the North, reminded her of the precarious balance they lived in. War loomed on the horizon, and with it, uncertainty that extended beyond her.
Yet here was Torrhen, untouched by her fears. He was the embodiment of innocence, the reason she endured sleepless nights and restless days. As he moved his toy soldier with a triumphant cry, Grey Wind opened one lazy eye, watching the boy as though the direwolf understood the weight of his presence.
Roslin sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "Torrhen," she said softly, her voice a mixture of love and sorrow, "what story are you telling today?"
He turned to her with a wide grin. "The knight is winning!" he declared proudly, holding up his toy soldier.
Her heart twisted. If only knights always won, she thought bitterly. "A brave knight, is he?" she asked, forcing warmth into her voice.
"Yes," Torrhen said with the certainty only a child could muster. "And he'll keep us safe!"
Roslin swallowed the lump forming in her throat, her gaze flicking to Grey Wind's watchful eyes. Let him believe that, she thought. Let him keep his innocence just a little longer.
It was late in the night when Robb finally came to bed, the faint creak of the chamber door pulling Roslin from a light, restless sleep. The room was dimly lit by the dying embers in the hearth, casting faint shadows that danced across the walls. She stirred, her gaze following him as he entered quietly, shoulders weighed down by exhaustion. In the last few weeks, their time together had been fleeting, reduced to stolen glances in passing or brief exchanges that felt more like duty than connection.
Robb had been consumed by the demands of leadership, his presence in their chambers a rarity. Most nights, he took his meals alone in his study, poring over maps and letters, meeting with the lords who had already arrived in Winterfell and writing to those still making their way through the North's harsh terrain. The great hall was constantly filled with voices—lords, bannermen, and envoys demanding his attention—but his seat at their table remained empty.
Roslin missed him, not just as her husband but as the man she had come to know and love. The weight he bore—the Lord of Winterfell, the Young Wolf—was pressing him down, piece by piece. She could see it in the tension in his shoulders, the lines forming around his eyes, the way he moved as if burdened by an invisible chain. Even when he did come to bed, it was long after she had already drifted into uneasy slumber, and by morning, he was gone again, the sheets barely warm where he had lain.
Tonight was no different. He crossed the room silently, not wanting to wake her, though she was already awake, watching him in the dim light. He shrugged off his heavy cloak, his movements slow and methodical, as though even the act of undressing required effort he didn't have. His tunic and boots followed, leaving him in only his shirt and breeches as he sank onto the edge of the bed with a weary sigh.
Roslin propped herself up on one elbow, her voice soft in the quiet. "You're late again."
Robb started slightly, caught off guard to find her awake, but the surprise quickly faded as his expression softened. His tired eyes met hers, and he offered a faint, apologetic smile. "I didn't mean to wake you," he murmured, his voice hoarse from the weight of a long day spent issuing orders and navigating difficult conversations.
"I wanted you to," Roslin replied gently, her voice carrying both warmth and a hint of urgency. "I've been waiting to talk to you." Her words lingered in the quiet room, a subtle plea for connection that made him pause.
A faint, guilty smile touched his lips as he ran a hand through his auburn hair. "I'm sorry, Roslin. There's just so much to do. The lords... the preparations... everything feels as though it's moving too fast and too slow all at once."
She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm, a small gesture of comfort. "You don't have to do it all alone, Robb. Let someone else carry some of the weight."
He shook his head. "They look to me. If I falter, they'll lose faith. And if they lose faith, everything we've worked for, everything we've lost... it will be for nothing."
Roslin's heart ached at his words, at the raw determination and pain she could see in his eyes. "You've already given so much," she said softly. "More than anyone should ever have to. You're a man, not a god. You need rest, Robb. You need to let yourself breathe."
For a moment, he didn't reply, his gaze fixed on the fire's dying embers. Then he turned to her, his expression open and vulnerable in a way she rarely saw. "I don't know if I remember how to stop," he admitted quietly. "Every moment I'm not fighting or planning feels like I'm wasting time. Time we don't have."
She shifted closer, wrapping her arms around him and resting her cheek against his shoulder. "Then let this be your moment to stop," she whispered. "Just for tonight. Let yourself be Robb, not the lord. Not the general. Just my husband."
He hesitated, as if the idea itself was foreign, but then he leaned into her embrace, the tension in his frame easing slightly. She couldn't fight his battles and she couldn't lead his armies but she could be here, she could hold him not as a warrior or a commander but as a person.
The next morning, as the pale Winterfell sun filtered through the frosted windows, Roslin made a quiet but deliberate decision. After breaking her fast with Torrhen, she approached Sansa, who was seated near the hearth embroidering a combination of the Stark and Lannister sigils on a small piece of cloth.
"Sansa," Roslin began, her tone warm but determined, "would you mind spending the day with Torrhen? He adores you, and it would mean so much to me."
Sansa glanced up, her expression softening at the mention of her nephew. "Of course," she replied with a small smile. "I'd be happy to."
Relieved, Roslin knelt to Torrhen's level, brushing a strand of auburn hair from his forehead. "You'll stay with Aunt Sansa today, my little wolf," she said, her voice filled with affection. Torrhen nodded eagerly, already reaching for one of his carved soldiers to show his aunt.
With her son in good hands, Roslin allowed herself a moment to exhale. She had made the decision not just to free herself to be with Robb, but because she understood that her role as Lady of Winterfell extended far beyond being a wife and mother. The Northern lords and their people needed to see her as a figure of strength and unity, someone they could believe in as they faced uncertain times.
She found Robb in the great hall, standing over a large table laden with maps and parchments, his brow furrowed in concentration. The lords of the North and their bannermen were beginning to arrive in greater numbers, and the weight of preparation was etched into every line of his face. Steeling herself, Roslin entered the hall and approached him with quiet confidence.
"Robb," she said softly, drawing his attention. His eyes met hers, and though they still held the shadows of worry, they brightened slightly at the sight of her.
"I want to help," she continued before he could protest. "I want to stand beside you—not just as your wife but as the Lady of Winterfell. These men need to see that we are strong together. That I am someone they can trust, someone who stands for the North."
Robb hesitated, glancing down at the maps and lists before him, then back at her. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of arguing, of asking her to let him bear the burden alone. But something in her determined gaze made him nod, his lips curving into the faintest smile.
"Thank you, Roslin," he said at last. "Your presence will mean more than you know—not just to me, but to them."
Robb took his seat at the centre of the head table, his expression composed but edged with the gravity of the moment. Roslin seated herself beside him, her posture poised and dignified, as she had practiced in the privacy of their chambers. She knew how much appearances mattered now. As the lords of the North began filing into the great hall, she let her gaze move across the gathering crowd, silently testing her memory to put names to faces. Most of the men present had already been at Winterfell for Arya's wedding, or had arrived in the weeks since Robb's call for the banners to assemble. Others had sent their sons to gather their armies while they themselves remained in the castle. Still more were yet to arrive, delayed by distance or duties.
Roslin's gaze fell upon a lively cluster near the left side of the hall, where the Greatjon Umber stood, his booming laughter cutting through the din of conversation. His towering presence was commanding, his voice rising with unrestrained exuberance as he exchanged loud remarks with his sons. Beside him were Smalljon, broad-shouldered and grizzled, and Alyn Umber, the youngest, now Arya's husband. The three men gestured animatedly, no doubt discussing battle strategies or regaling one another with tales of their might and readiness for the conflicts ahead.
Just behind them trailed Arya, her steps deliberate but stiff. By her side walked Alys Karstark, Smalljon's wife, her hand cradling her noticeably swollen belly. Alys was speaking earnestly, her face bright with the glow of impending motherhood. Arya, however, seemed only half-listening, her eyes darting around the room as though searching for an escape.
Arya's gown of deep red, trimmed with thick fur, was elegant and well-made, bearing the colours of House Umber. Yet it hung on her like an ill-fitting suit of armour. Her discomfort was evident in the way her hands fidgeted, tugging at the sleeves or brushing against the fabric as though it burned her skin. Her frown was subtle but telling—a mixture of frustration and resignation that made Roslin's heart ache.
While Alyn himself seemed content to let Arya maintain some of her independent spirit, his father, the Greatjon, was not so accommodating. He was a man of staunch tradition, with firm, unyielding views on what it meant to be the wife of a Northern noble man. He had made his expectations clear, and Arya, despite her fierce defiance, was clearly feeling the weight of those demands. It was in the way her shoulders squared against an unseen pressure and the tightness in her jaw, as though she were biting back sharp words.
Roslin's gaze softened as she observed Arya, trailing behind the Umber men like a reluctant shadow. She glanced at Alys, who seemed at ease with her role, one hand protectively on her growing belly as she leaned in closer to Arya, her words lost in the hall's growing clamor. Roslin wondered if Alys was trying to reassure Arya, or perhaps offer her guidance on navigating this world of obligations and expectations.
Arya's eyes flicked up briefly and caught Roslin's across the room. For a moment, they simply looked at one another, and Roslin offered a faint, understanding smile. It was a small gesture, but she hoped it conveyed what words could not—that Arya was not alone in her struggle. Roslin, too, had been forced to grow into a role that felt constraining and foreign, and she knew the quiet pain of bending to the will of a world that expected something other than who you truly were.
The hall continued to swell with activity, the hum of voices rising as more lords and their retinues entered, their presence turning the gathering into a bustling tide of Northern might. Roslin's gaze moved attentively over the crowd, silently naming faces, banners, and sigils as they passed.
Her attention was drawn to the imposing figure of Lord Harrion Karstark as he entered the hall. The young lord—known to many as Lord Harry—cut a striking figure, tall and broad-shouldered, his movements deliberate and assured. On his arm was his wife, a petite woman with pale blonde hair and delicate features, her expression serene despite the formidable atmosphere of the gathering.
Harry's father, Lord Rickard, had finally succumbed to a lingering illness that had plagued him for two years, leaving Harrion to take up the mantle of leadership. Roslin noted how his sharp eyes scanned the hall, taking in the other assembled lords with a calculated gaze that spoke of both confidence and caution. When his eyes landed on his sister, Alys, and her husband, Smalljon Umber, his expression softened briefly. Harrion inclined his head in acknowledgment, a subtle but warm gesture to his kin before he continued further into the room to take his place.
The great doors of the hall swung open once more, heralding the arrival of those who had come to Winterfell within the last day. Robb, ever the dutiful ruler, held court daily to formally welcome the new arrivals and hear their oaths of loyalty or their reports of readiness for the campaign ahead. It was a tradition that reinforced the bonds between the Stark name and their bannermen, one that Roslin quietly admired for its effectiveness in maintaining unity in such precarious times.
First among the day's arrivals was the towering figure of Lord Wyman Manderly, his considerable presence commanding attention as he strode into the hall with an air of joviality that belied the seriousness of their gathering. At his side were his two sons, Ser Wylis and Ser Wendell, their expressions a blend of pride and duty as they walked slightly behind their father. Flanking them were Lord Wyman's two granddaughters, each a striking young woman in her own way.
Roslin found her gaze drawn to the girls, particularly the younger, Wylla. With her bright green hair—a vibrant hue that seemed almost otherworldly against her pale skin and the grey furs she wore—Wylla stood out like a splash of spring in the wintry hall.
When they reached the dais, the entire family bowed low in deference to Robb and Roslin. Lord Wyman's booming voice filled the space as he greeted them warmly. "My lord, my lady," he said, a smile breaking through his thick beard. "Winterfell stands proud once more. Manderly swords and ships are at your service."
Robb nodded, offering a few words of thanks, but it was Wylla who drew Roslin's full attention. The young girl stepped forward, a bashful smile playing at her lips as she clutched something small in her hands.
"My lady," Wylla began, her voice soft but steady as she addressed Roslin directly. "I—I made this for your son, Torrhen."
With that, she extended her hands, revealing a small, carefully crafted toy soldier sewn from scraps of cloth and stuffed to be soft enough for a child to hold. The detail was impressive for something so simple; it bore the Stark direwolf embroidered on its chest, its tiny sword stitched with precision.
Roslin's heart warmed at the gesture. She leaned forward to take the toy, her fingers brushing against Wylla's as she accepted it. "Thank you, Wylla," she said, her voice tinged with genuine gratitude. "It's beautiful. Torrhen will treasure it."
Wylla blushed at the praise, her cheeks turning a delicate pink as she dipped into another graceful curtsy. She murmured a soft "Thank you, my lady," before retreating to stand beside her family. The Manderlys were an impressive sight—Lord Wyman's immense presence, flanked by his well-groomed sons and granddaughters, offered a mix of strength and civility. Wylla's sister leaned in to whisper something, and the two shared a soft giggle, their youthfulness a refreshing contrast to the somber mood that hung over Winterfell at the present moment.
As the Manderlys took their leave, a steady stream of other lords and bannermen followed, each pledging loyalty and offering words of support. Maege Mormont entered next, her armour-clad daughters trailing behind her like a formidable shield wall. Roslin had heard of the Mormont women's fearlessness in battle, but seeing them in person, with their broad shoulders, steely gazes, and weapons strapped to their backs, was awe-inspiring. Even the youngest, Lyanna, a girl of barely fifteen, carried herself with the confidence of a seasoned warrior. Maege offered a curt nod to Robb and Roslin before taking her place among the Northern lords.
Then came Lord Galbert Glover, a steady presence with his brother, Robett, who was his heir. Both men looked tired but resolute, their journey from Deepwood Motte evident in the weariness etched into their faces. They exchanged pleasantries with Robb and Roslin, expressing their gratitude for the hospitality of Winterfell and reaffirming their fealty to House Stark.
Finally, the herald's voice echoed once more through the hall, capturing the attention of all who remained. Robb leaned toward Roslin, his voice low but tinged with finality. "These are the last to arrive. The final Northern banners. This is everyone."
Roslin nodded, her heart sinking with the weight of those words. This was the sum of their strength, the collective power of the North gathered beneath one roof.
The herald cleared his throat and announced the final guests with ceremonial flourish. "Presenting the Lord Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, with his wife, the Lady Tyta Bolton, and their daughter, Lady Alyssa Bolton."
The room fell silent, the weight of anticipation settling over the hall like a heavy blanket. All eyes turned toward the great doors as Roose Bolton entered, his pale, unsettling gaze sweeping the gathered lords and ladies with a predator's calculated detachment. He moved deliberately, each step measured, exuding an eerie calm that was somehow more menacing than any show of force. His presence seemed to draw the warmth from the air, leaving a chill that prickled at the skin, as if the winter winds had followed him indoors.
Behind him walked Lady Tyta Frey, Roslin's elder sister. Once known for her robust frame and earthy beauty, Tyta had transformed over the years. Time, it seemed, had polished her features, giving her an understated yet undeniable elegance. Her face, though still familiar, now held a quiet refinement, a grace that was both regal and grounded. The years had been kind to her, but they had also weathered her in ways Roslin couldn't fully understand.
Tyta's life at the Dreadfort had always been shrouded in mystery. Her letters, though frequent, were often vague—carefully worded and never revealing the full truth of her existence under Roose Bolton's roof. Roslin had long wondered about the woman her sister had become, but any attempt to pry into her life was met with more silence than answers.
In Tyta's arms was a small bundle, wrapped tightly in black cloth—the somber colours of House Bolton. The infant's tiny face was barely visible, but Roslin could see the soft rise and fall of her chest, the peacefulness of her slumber. Alyssa Bolton—Tyta and Roose's sole child—lay nestled against her mother's breast, blissfully unaware of the fragile undercurrents pulling at the edges of her family.
The presence of the child, so small and innocent, should have been a moment of tenderness—a beacon of hope in a world hardened by violence and bloodshed. But as Tyta stepped forward, her eyes meeting Roslin's with a quiet, almost haunted expression, the air between them thickened. The baby's arrival, instead of symbolising joy, felt like a delicate flame struggling to stay alight in a storm.
As Roslin's gaze lingered on her sister, another figure emerged from the shadows behind them, unannounced by the herald. The man's mere presence caused a ripple of unease through the room. Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of the Dreadfort. He moved with a swagger that contrasted sharply with his father's composed menace, his leering smile a mask for something far darker. Ramsay's eyes roamed the hall with unsettling amusement, as though he saw it all as a game—a board upon which he could play his cruel tricks. His very appearance was jarring, his dark hair unkempt and his clothing just a shade too ragged for the occasion.
Tyta paused briefly as she approached the high table, her grip tightening on Alyssa. Roslin could see the slight tremor in her hands, a telltale sign of her nerves. As their eyes met, Tyta offered a small, wavering smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. Roslin returned it with warmth she didn't entirely feel, determined to be a steadying presence for her sister despite the growing discomfort Ramsay's presence cast over the hall.
When they reached the dais, Roose bowed with that chilling, perfunctory grace of his. "My Lord," he said, his voice smooth and flat as a frozen lake. "Lady Stark." He inclined his head toward Roslin, the gesture devoid of warmth but laden with formality.
Tyta stepped forward, dipping into a shaky curtsy. "My Lord," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "My lady," she added, glancing at Roslin. There was a flicker of gratitude in her gaze, as though she took some comfort in having her sister here in this moment.
Roslin's eyes dropped to the tiny bundle in Tyta's arms, her expression softening. "And this must be Lady Alyssa," she said, her voice warm despite the unease in her chest. "She's beautiful."
"Thank you," Tyta replied, a faint blush touching her pale cheeks. For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them, and Roslin wished she could reach out, pull her sister into a comforting embrace, and shield her from the shadows that loomed so close.
Ramsay remained a step behind, his presence a dark stain on the tableau. His gaze flicked briefly to the high table, his lips curling into a smirk that sent a shiver down Roslin's spine. Robb's posture stiffened beside her, his jaw tightening as he stared at the bastard with thinly veiled disdain. Yet Ramsay seemed unbothered, as though he relished the tension he provoked.
"Welcome to Winterfell," Robb said at last, his tone clipped but courteous. His words were addressed to Roose, though his eyes flickered briefly to Tyta.
"Winterfell is as welcoming as ever," Roose replied, though there was no sincerity in his voice. His pale eyes flicked briefly toward Ramsay before returning to Robb, the exchange unspoken but heavy with meaning.
As the Boltons moved to take their seats, Roslin couldn't help but watch her sister closely, her eyes lingering on Tyta's every movement. The difference between them was striking—while Tyta walked with a quiet composure, her face impassive, there was an air of tension about her, something fragile beneath the surface. She moved behind her husband, Roose, but not in step with him—almost as if she was trying to maintain some distance, a gap between herself and the man who had claimed her as his wife.
And then there was Ramsay. The way he hovered just behind Tyta, so close that she must have felt his presence intimately—his body almost brushing against hers with every step. Roslin's heart tightened as she watched them. If the rumours about Ramsay's behavior were true, if the tales of his cruelty and manipulation had any merit, then her sister's life at the Dreadfort was one Roslin couldn't even begin to comprehend.
Ramsay's gaze never strayed far from Tyta, his eyes dark with an intensity that bordered on obsession. It was the kind of look a man gives when he believes he is entitled to everything he sees—and Tyta, though married to his father, seemed to be no exception. Roslin's heart ached as she imagined her sister's life in that grim place. To live under the same roof as two such men—Roose, with his cold, calculated cruelty, and Ramsay, whose sadistic nature had earned him a reputation even in the halls of Winterfell—must have taken a toll on Tyta.
Robb rose from the table with a commanding presence, his tall frame emanating strength and determination. The quiet murmur of the hall immediately ceased, all eyes turning to their Lord. He extended his hand to Roslin, a gesture both respectful and unifying. She accepted it gracefully, rising to stand beside him, her presence lending quiet support to his authority.
"My Lords," Robb began, his voice firm and resonant, carrying effortlessly across the great hall, "My Ladies. My wife and I are deeply grateful for your presence here today. To those who remained with us following my sister Arya's wedding, I thank you for your patience and loyalty. And to those who have only just joined us, I commend your haste in answering my call."
The lords and ladies nodded, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and reverence. Robb's tone shifted slightly, becoming more personal, almost confessional. "I wished to speak to you all now, as Northerners," he said, his blue eyes sweeping across the room. "In the coming days, my uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, will arrive with the strength of the Riverlands at his back. Their numbers are significant, and their loyalty to our cause is unwavering. But if I may speak plainly—and I hope you will forgive my honesty—they are not Northerners."
A ripple of chuckles and nods moved through the crowd, an acknowledgment of the age-old pride in Northern identity. Robb allowed the moment to settle before continuing, his expression growing grave.
"The threat we face is unlike any we have known," he said, his voice hardening. "It will not stop, it will not tire, and it will not bargain for peace. The enemy I speak of is death itself, and it comes for us all. The White Walkers are marching south, and if we do not stand united, they will destroy everything we hold dear—our homes, our families, our very lives."
For a moment, there was a charged silence, broken only by the crackling of the great hearths. Then came a voice, tinged with disbelief and faint amusement. "White Walkers?" Harrion Karstark called out from his place among the gathered lords, his tone almost mocking. A few others murmured their skepticism, exchanging wary glances.
Robb's gaze snapped to Harrion, his expression unyielding. "Aye, White Walkers," he replied, his voice sharp and cutting through the murmurs. "You've heard the tales, I'm sure—legends meant to frighten children. I once thought the same. But my brother, Jon has seen them. He has fought them. They are real, and they are coming."
The hall fell silent again, the weight of his words pressing down on the gathered lords and ladies. Robb stepped out from behind the table, releasing Roslin's hand as he addressed the room with a growing intensity.
"I do not expect you to believe me because of stories," he continued. "I expect you to believe me because of the loyalty we owe to one another as Northerners. The Night's Watch has confirmed their presence beyond the Wall. They have seen the signs—the frozen bodies, the unnatural storms, the terror etched into the faces of survivors. And when they come, they will not care for our banners or bloodlines. Stark or Karstark, Manderly or Glover, Umber or Bolton—it matters not. They will come for us all."
Robb's words hung in the air, heavy with foreboding. He straightened, his gaze sweeping across the faces of those gathered. "But we are Northerners," he said, his voice rising with conviction. "We have faced worse odds and harsher winters than any other. We do not falter. We do not run. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, because that is who we are. That is what makes the North strong."
The room stirred with murmurs of agreement, heads nodding as his words began to resonate. Even Harrion Karstark looked less amused, his brow furrowing in thought.
"My uncle's banners will swell our ranks," Robb said, his tone resolute. "But it will be the North that holds the line, the North that decides whether this winter becomes our last. I ask you now, not as your lord but as your kinsman, as a son, as a brother, as a husband and as a father—will you stand with me? Will you fight for the living?"
The room erupted in shouts of affirmation, the lords and their retainers pounding fists on the tables, their voices echoing off the high stone walls.
The room erupted in a cacophony of shouts, fists slamming against the wooden tables, the sound carrying throughout the great hall like a thunderclap. The force of their collective resolve seemed to shake the very walls of Winterfell, as the Northerners—lords, ladies, and their retainers alike—roared their affirmation. The fierce unity of their response filled the hall, echoing with the ancestral power of a people who had survived centuries of winter, war, and bloodshed.
But just as the last of the shouts began to fade, a voice cut through the noise—a deep, cold voice that stilled the room with its calm authority.
"Forgive me, my Lord," Lord Roose Bolton's pale, unflinching gaze swept over the room as he stepped out from the crowd. His expression was one of cool calculation, his voice measured, as though he were accustomed to speaking in ways that made even the most powerful pause. "But word is that Tywin Lannister is only a few days from making landfall at Eastwatch. His fleet is already on the move, and from there, he intends to storm Castle Black. Then, when he has the Wall under his control, he will come for us. What good will we be in this war if Tywin Lannister and his armies cut us down before the so-called dead even pass the Wall?"
The room grew unnervingly quiet, the murmurs of the lords fading into hesitant silence as Roose Bolton's words took root. There was no denying the truth in what he said. Tywin Lannister—widely known for his ruthlessness and the iron hand with which he ruled—was indeed on the move. His fleet, bolstered by the might of House Velaryon, would soon reach the northern shores, and his sights were set firmly on the North. Robb had made it clear that they would face the threat of the dead, but Bolton's words struck a more immediate and practical concern: How could they fight for survival against the White Walkers when the living threat of Tywin Lannister was drawing nearer with every passing day?
Robb's jaw clenched, his brow furrowing as he turned his gaze to Lord Bolton, weighing his words carefully. A sharp tension settled in the room, and Roslin could feel the shift in the atmosphere. While the Northerners had rallied behind Robb's declaration, Bolton's reminder of their precarious position was a reminder of their vulnerability—not only to the Walkers but also to the Lannisters, who were never far from making war with the North.
"How long do you think we can hold Winterfell, my Lord Bolton?" Robb's voice was calm, but the edge of concern was palpable. He had already made plans to unite the North against the undead, but now the threat from Tywin loomed just as large. His eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of dissent or doubt among his bannermen. "Do you think my father and brother will give up the Castle without question?"
"Of course not," Bolton said, his gaze never leaving Robb's. "But Tywin's army is seasoned, he will find no difficulty facing the men of the Night's Watch and then have no doubt he will come for us."
The tension in the hall deepened, lords exchanging uneasy glances. The weight of the decision hung in the air—whether to devote all their efforts to the coming war against the undead, or to split their forces to face the imminent threat of Tywin Lannister's invasion. It was a choice that could cost them dearly, either way.
"We have no choice but to face them as they come," Robb continued, his voice gaining strength as he addressed the room. "But we will do it on our terms. The dead may come, but we will stand against them—just as we stand against the Lannisters. We will not falter."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, though there were still furrowed brows and anxious looks exchanged. Lord Bolton, ever the pragmatist, nodded slowly but said no more, his cool demeanor unshaken despite the tension.
"We are Northerners," Robb said, his voice rising once more, "and we will hold Winterfell. We will hold the North. Whether it be against Tywin Lannister's armies or the White Walkers, we will face them. And when we do, we will make sure that the North stands."
The words hung in the air, resolute and powerful. For a moment, the uncertainty that had crept into the room was pushed aside by the raw, unwavering determination of the Northerners, their loyalty to Robb Stark and their homeland shining through.
The lords nodded, some with more conviction than others, but the choice was made. They would face both threats, whatever the cost.