Chapter Text
Damn the Greatjon.
He had been declared King of the North that very day. No crown yet rested on his head, yet he felt the weight of it nonetheless, threatening to crush him like trampled snow. Everything; every plan, every gambit risked so far reduced to ash in the fire of one man's tongue.
Now, a single torch flickered its light across the chamber from its bronze sconce, red light on red stone. An old table, covered in a map of Westeros. A glass window looking down on the waters of the Tumblestone which rippled with a thousand lights as lords and smallfolk alike still made merry. Wagons of northern ale from the supply train and as many crates of wine from Riverrun's cellars that his uncle Edmure could muster in so short a time had soaked the bellies of all inside the castle this day from the newly freed heir of Riverrun himself down to the meanest scullery maid. All made plain their defiance of the lions to the east and west, and the stags to the south. Fury at the ignominy that had befallen on Eddard Stark and a joyful bloodlust in the crowning of Robb if only yet in name.
Only a single drop had wet his own tongue, enough to guarantee rites had been observed and suspicions not roused. Enough to acknowledge his bannermen and the honor they had done him, whatever troubles it now brought unto them all. Not enough to hamper his wits or dull his senses. Not enough to prevent a thousand thoughts from crossing his mind in the hours since, to recognize the position that the Greatjon had now placed him in. Placed all of them. A precipice more dangerous than any of the ragged crags that a man could stumble down unto his death in the Wolfswood.
A small, short rap at the door. His wits returned to the present. For his was not the only throat that had remained dry this day. The door opened. Lady Maege Marmont stepped in, only a nod in greeting, her mane of gray more iron than silver tussling at even that small motion. One of the poorest of his bannermen in grain or gold, but made up for in leal blood and strong steel. Tonight he would test that metal in the fires of conspiracy.
A roar reached up from the river's banks and rang clear even to these great heights of Robb's tower within the walls of Riverrun. “Lannister Fuckers! I'll fuck them all with my blade, we'll see how that takes!”
“The Greatjon is still enjoying himself, if I don't miss my guess,” Robb grumbled, more fondly than he had intended.
Maege laughed. “So it would seem, Your Grace. Though if my own banners aren't matching him cask for cask and claim for claim; it's not for lack of agreement, I assure you.”
Robb snorted. Then sobered. “Robb, if you please, Lady Mormont. King Robb if you must.” Grace was for the southern kingdoms, and by the end of tonight he'd have killed that thought dead, even if nobody would recognize it was now but a corpse, with the mummery he planned to perform, the pretty paint he'd put on the dead flesh of a newborn dream. Gods, if Jon were here... but he wasn't, and would not be. His place was in the far north, now.
“Very well, my King.” Maege whispered in affirmation.
King. The word weighed heavy as a millstone. But not for reasons he once had thought it would – funny how the world worked. Once the Greatjon had made his damning declaration, the weight of things had slipped. As if the whole world had shifted beneath their feet. Even now, not a full day after the fact, he wondered why none had done so before him. The dragons had been dead for some time. The Starks had ruled in the North for as long as men sang of myths and legends. His future lady wife – whoever in particular she may yet be from among the Frey brood – came from a family that had ruled their bridge and towers for six centuries. And still they were mocked by their fellow lords for their youthful fascinations. What were the Targaryens compared to even that, ruling as they had for a mere half of that time? Or the Baratheons who were but a heartbeat in comparison. Had any lord ever bowed before a reaver of Pyke or a sellsail of the Stepstones because they seized a holdfast for a fortnight? What had once felt inevitable now felt absurd.
No, the right of conquest had fallen away like summer snows once men decided that they should. There was a lesson in that.
No – thoughts of the mad boy king nor the rival brothers who fought over the remnants of their royal sibling's carcass had not brought Robb here tonight, while his bannermen drank in his name. Thoughts on what needed to be done, however...
Another knock. And the three remaining members of his circle – still unawares of his purpose – entered together.
Catelyn Stark. Brynden Tulley. Wendel Manderly. A mother, a fish, a merman, a bear, and a wolf. The beginning of a bawdy tavern jape. He however would write the song himself, how they would play the notes and all the Gods willing, how it would end.
Nobody spoke. The smell of conspiracy stank along with the smell of wet stone and stale parchment. Its thickness could not be denied any longer. Very well.
“I cannot rule the Riverlands. Not as its King. Not as part of my Kingdom proper. To do so would bring us all to ruin.”
His mother looked shocked. Betrayed. It was not an expression he hoped to see across her face again. Mormont and Manderly stoic and unsure, but keeping their peace. They had named him King, they would allow him to speak his piece. A glint of understanding played in the eyes of the Blackfish, faint in the torchlight. He caught them. To him foremost, the most likely ally, he continued on.
“You know I speak truth, Uncle. I cannot rule Riverrun from Winterfell. I cannot hold a realm that is half Andal and half First Men. I cannot have a Kingdom that is forever cleaved between the Old Gods and the New, down the middle like a gutted calf. It cannot be done.”
He pointed at the map with one finger, gloved hand roaming across dyed silk and stabbing at the pale blue lines, like veins: the Trident. “At some point the Northmen will refuse to send their sons and daughters into the Riverlands, generation one after another, no matter what the Stark in Winterfell demands. Not season after season. They will not tolerate a Sept to rival Baelor's rising in a northern capital. What friendships we now build in this cohort will be soiled, turned rank and festering.” Robb felt his voice curdle as well, anguish that he saw no light down this path.
He nodded to Wendel Manderly, second son of his most powerful bannerman and now a member of his honor guard. “I hold no ill to my mother's Gods, nor those of White Harbor. But there is a difference between familial love and a large and prosperous trading port, respecting old rites... and to mix water and oil in equal measure across the whole land and be disappointed in the result.”
Maege nodded.
“There is another option, Robb,” Catelyn interjected into the silence as they all digested his sour words. “The Riverlands are always in danger of invasion from within and without, it is true. And vast distance will not encourage blood to be shed. But the Lannisters must be defeated, must they not? No longer a matter of choice, now that we've carved two Kingdoms out from under them. One crown, what is one more?”
It was not just him then, from whom the burden of so-called treason to the Targaryen legacy had fallen away like a silk cloak on a maiden's wedding night.
But Robb shook his head. “It cannot be done, mother. I cannot rule Westeros from Winterfell for all the reasons mentioned before, but magnified as if by Myrrish glass.” He swallowed. “And I cannot rule from King's Landing. Wolves melt in the south – my grandfather proved it. My father... he proved it, too.” His eyes hardened. “To take the Iron Throne would be a death sentence. If not on me, then my one-day son. His own son at the very last. A First Man? A follower of my father's Gods? They would never have me.”
His mother moved to speak again, but the Blackfish reached out and took her arm. Gentle, but firm. Of all of them, he had come dressed as if for war, the torchlight glinting off his gauntlet that held his mother's words. Now he made his own first thrust for his new liege.
“The King is not wrong,” he said after another moment, addressing no one in particular. “The Riverlands cannot be held from the North. Mayhap today. Mayhap even tomorrow. But eventually we would be consumed if not by lions then by a million ants.” Now though his gaze turned to Robb. “That said, you are part Tully. You have our look; I have faith that you have some part of the words as well, my King.”
A voice that did not insult but did not waver. Like castle steel it did not bend.
Robb nodded solemnly. “I did not bring you hear tonight to lament my hardships. Only to acknowledge that we sit on a blade's edge, and we have much to do to ensure we do not slip and bleed.” He let out a sharp growl of a chuckle. “Or at least, any more than we need to, to claim our prize.”
He shook his head to clear it.
“No, we must secure our futures, even if not as one. As allies, as friends. As fellows.”
“Oh, Robb,” Catelyn said a moment later, her voice full of hidden horror. For what mother did not know her own son? “You don't mean to make Edmure, King.”
Robb looked at her and nodded, face long and solemn. Ned Stark's son through and through. “I do. Not yet. Not while Tywin still prowls through half the Riverlands. Not when any fracture among us now could swallow all of us whole.” He looked around at the group. “Not a word of this must be whispered outside this room. Not to anyone, and not even to Edmure himself. Especially. Not yet.”
“Surely there is another way,” his mother continued. “We could-”
“We cannot.” Robb interrupted, his first act of rebuke in his Kingship. “If Bran were still... if Bran had not fallen, then mayhaps we could arrange something. But there are only three who still carry the Tully name.” He shot a look at his uncle, whose face now more resembled stone than a man. “And all unmarried. No heirs.”
“Rickon-”
“Rickon is a babe. The Riverlands won't follow him. And he must be my heir for the nonce anyway – a situation which must be remedied as well.”
He stabbed the map a second time. Then slashed it across the Gods Eye. “Uncle, you must hold Tywin to a stalemate. Raid or skirmish however you can – I defer to your tactical wisdom in these matters, but keep the eastern army hale and whole.”
The Blackfish nodded. He still had words to say, that much was clear. But just as clearly he would not say them here. On the dawn, mayhap. Robb steeled himself for that discussion still to come. And he had not even broken the most contentious of his plans this evening. Those would wait until there were successes that would make them fertile to bear fruit. Until then, he would not touch them.
Instead, he turned to Maege. “We need allies. You must go to Dorne – a lady warrior is respected there. Valued. We do not need them to fight for us, and with the leagues between us we will not make promises we cannot keep. But even an agitated Dorne will force the other crowns in the field to take note. Stannis and Renly both will have to keep one eye on their rearguard.”
Maege once more spoke no words, only offering a bowed nod.
Robb frowned, eyes losing focus as he stared into mysteries of statesmanship yet unraveled. Those that could not be cut by a good blade.
“I do not know the Dornish ways. Find out what they want and you may offer it within our ability to give. We have ironwood. We have timber and stone and steel and pelts. Mayhap in a moon's time we'll have the head of Tywin Lannister.” He tried to jape, but it fell flat in its sincerity. He kept his eyes away from his mother. “You may offer Sansa.”
A gasp. He could not acknowledge it at the moment though. Could not think as a brother rather than a King. Instead, he turned back to his other bannerman.
“You must send word to your father – envoys to Essos as quickly as he can. Whoever he thinks is best; I'm sure he has an eye on those free cities and ideas to woo them if need be better than I could suggest. However, on this I am resolute: a Manderly must be in Bravos in my name.”
“For gold?” Wendel asked. A moment later he whispered. “For sellswords?”
Robb shook his head. “I will not bring Essos swords to kill Westeros men for as long as our foes respect the same. But we must know if Lannister or Baratheon cloaks are making moves across the sea, and we must have an emissary of our own at hand of sufficient status to match them word for word.”
Wendel bowed low; or as low as he could manage, stout as he was and wrapped up in a seafoam doublet. His loyalty though was not so lacking, nor his ability.
“You have less to offer beyond the same trade I mentioned before. Coin is needed. If all goes well, mayhap less so. And while I will not employ sellsords, make whatever contacts you can among the sellsails. We may have need of them.” Robb's look turned pensive. “How long would it take to produce a Royal Fleet of our own, do you think? Based out of White Harbor?”
Wendel spread his hands. “In truth, the dockyards of White Harbor alone could provide you with a dozen galleys within a dozen moons. Though trade would suffer for it. However, the true issue with naval power; alas, is as much one of sailors and captains than it is of keels and oars.”
Robb paused, puzzling the issue over before speaking again. “And we could not take men from the merchant fleet to start? There are fisherman and sailors both who hail from the North.”
The Mermen shrugged his broad shoulders, his hint of a second chin wobbling slightly as he did so. “In time, yes. But such men impressed and then put to sea against the Royal Fleet or the Redwynes... or even the Lannisters?” He grimaced. “I am sorry, Your Grace, but I would favor spending the coin on sellsails than green keels and even greener boys.”
Robb did not correct the honorific, such was his focus for the nonce. His own expression mirrored that of his vassal. Then he braced himself, such news was what it was.
“Thank you for your honest assessment, unfortunate though it is. I will strive to always appreciate faithful news. Very well, make contacts with the sellsails and we shall see if we will have need of them in time. No coin, yet.”
“Understood, Your Grace.”
Now, at last, he turned to his mother. For the first time, she looked at him seeing a King, and not a boy, her son, trying to rescue his father. All that remained of that were two ghosts. One on the banks of the Trident and another in the city controlled by their foes.
“Mother, you are to go to the Twins.”
Catelyn blinked.
“If Lord Frey was chomping at the bit before, he will give us no more time now that one of his get stands to be made queen. Better to summon his daughters forthwith unto us than to be whittled down by his nagging and his four thousand pikes.”
His lady mother's expression said many things about Lord Frey, none of them pleasant.
“Bring a dozen of his daughters and granddaughters to Riverrun if that many are even worth consideration – test them hard. And I will vow I will wed and bed the one of my choice from among them and be done with this.”
He would have a few tests of his own, too. If twice in two generations the Stark of Winterfell was to be born in the south, he would be sure - he must be sure - to put his Northern brethren at ease.
She spoke again, though not in rebuke. “You do not have to act so soon, Robb... my King.”
Robb smiled, a small shadow of the boy he had been a day ago slipping through. “I should hope I am always Robb to you, mother.” But he shook his head nonetheless, Tully curls shaking on top of a solemn Stark face. “I must go west, as soon as the western of the hosts is reformed and ready. I cannot have the Freys hanging over my head. And mayhap I will be like father and ensure my lady wife has an heir as I ride back to war.”
His mother failed to fully hide a grimace at that, and he remembered what else his father had done while riding to war. He would not allow this to linger between them anymore. Jon should be here, but he was not. It was all done. It would not haunt them any more than the Freys... but that was another talk for another time.
“You must also free Arya of her obligations. If... when we find her, we can not afford the luxury of a double bonding.”
“Walder will not take such a slight without cost.”
Robb hissed, clenching his hand tightly. “If Lord Frey is not satisfied with a crown, he will soon find out how unsatisfied I am with him.” He took a calming breath, turning to look out the window, to revelers beginning to part, unseen in the darkness.
“But I did not mean it that way. Offer him an alternative. Point out that we-” He paused, choking. “We do not know where Arya is. If she is still alive. It is, afterall, the plain truth.” A hollow laugh. “Promise him betrothals among my bannermen for all the daughters you bring, minus she that I choose for myself.” He paused, the second conspiracy he had not yet laid out whispered on his lips. He spoke the barest of them, that not even the Blackfish noticed.
“From among my northern bannermen. I'll find worthy husbands for Frey brides.”
Catelyn nodded, quickly, her expression tight and unreadable. Perhaps the Tullys were just pleased to see that brood being sent out of the Riverlands. They may not see it in quite that light soon enough, he feared.
Robb looked at the map a final, third time.
“Edmure must go south. To the Reach. He must promise whatever he must to keep Reach swords from turning on us. A Reachwoman for a wife. Lady Paramount of the Riverlands without a single blade raised for us – whatever must be done. Kiss two of the Flower's cheeks or four of them if we must. We will respect Reach neutrality, but we must not have their grain and swords in Lannister hands.”
“Nor the Baratheons,” the Blackfish rumbled lowly.
Rob nodded. “Nor the Baratheons.”
Final arrangements were made. The first conspiracy was writ. The second conspiracy remained still sealed, a secret known only to one.
“If you must send Theon,” the Blackfish advised as the final possible alliance was discussed, “then send him back with knowledge that the garrisons along the coast are ready and strengthened. That you trust Theon as a brother but... respect the might and strength of the Ironborn enough not to simply open your coasts to them.” The Blackfish looked as though he had eaten something rotten. Well what of it, he was certain his own expression closely matched it.
To have such things need be pointed out to him, even dressed in honey, left a bitter taste. Still, the words rang true.
“I will.” Robb replied after a pregnant pause. Then he pushed his case once more, though in truth there were no further disagreements “But to have the Westerlands harried from the sea is not a swing of the sword we can afford to ignore.”
“So long as we don't hold the sword by the blade,” the Blackfish finished for them both.
“Very well, I concede the point,” on this, the King yielded. His mother still looked unhappy, but the middle path had been reached. “An offer of alliance, but not a blind one. If Lord Greyjoy does not accept it, he will not find the Stony Shore fat nor idle.”
Things came to an end. All but the most youthful Bannermen were at last beginning to stumble back towards their camps to mimic the dead. The higher lords to their chambers within the keep, the rest to tents of oiled skins. But for a single pair of milk pale eyes, none noticed four most leal to a restored Kingship parting in silence to downy beds.