Read 20+ Chapter's Ahead in Patreon
"Maester Luwin, are you certain my father didn't die because of his wounds festering?"
Cold winds swept across Winterfell, carrying with them a chilling rain that struck the stone walls and towers of the North's oldest stronghold. Inside the lord's chambers, Robb Stark stood still, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight before him, yet his eyes seemed unfocused, as if lost in a distant place.
He was wearing a thick fur cloak hung over his shoulders, but it still could not bring him any warmth. The vast, dim room felt hollow, as though it were a gaping maw of some great beast ready to swallow him whole.
Standing behind the undisputed lord of the North was Maester Luwin, robed and weathered, his presence quiet yet grounded. The old man let out a weary sigh, his voice low and heavy with fatigue.
"I'm afraid so, my lord," he replied gently. "Inside Lord Eddard's body, I discovered traces of a drug I once studied during my years at the Citadel."
The old maester's gaze rested on Robb's back as he continued.
"It is a rare substance, not often seen. I specialized in the study of alchemy and potions during my training. This particular drug stimulates the mind, sharpening focus and flooding the body with energy. The more one takes, the more frenzied and euphoric they become."
Robb Stark stood in silence for a long while, as if the words weighed too heavily for an immediate response. At last, he murmured, almost as though speaking to himself.
"So all that strength and vigor my father seemed to possess when he returned… it wasn't real. It wasn't his true condition. It was that damned drug, wasn't it? In truth... he must have been terribly weak."
He sighed, the sound heavy with bitterness. His words echoed the very thought that had haunted Maester Luwin from the beginning.
When Lord Eddard Stark had finally returned to Winterfell, Maester Luwin had rushed to assess his condition the moment he received word. As a seasoned maester, long familiar with wounds of both body and spirit, he had immediately sensed that something was wrong. Eddard's unusually clear eyes and unnatural energy felt off—too sharp, too alive for a man who had endured captivity, wounds, and grief.
By the time he realized the cause, it was already too late.
Whatever final strength remained in Eddard Stark had been wrung from him by Grand Maester Pycelle's concoctions. The Lord of Winterfell had collapsed suddenly one day, and from that moment, he never opened his eyes again. His body, weakened and riddled with infected wounds, swiftly declined. He died within the walls of his ancestral home, returning at last to the embrace of the old gods.
The news struck House Stark like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky. The great host had only just disbanded. The time for rest and recovery had barely begun. And now, the lord of the North was gone.
For over a week, silence reigned in Winterfell. The great hall was empty of song and laughter, the corridors cold and hushed. Robb Stark, who had now become the Lord of Winterfell, bore the weight of leadership for the first time in its full, crushing gravity.
To the world, he might have appeared a young lord basking in newfound glory. But beneath the surface, he felt powerless before the storm gathering on the horizon.
He had only just returned triumphant, having led his forces to shatter the might of the once-invincible Lannister army. The last of the Northern lords had departed Winterfell barely more than a week ago, returning to their own seats scattered across the harsh northern lands.
Autumn had already arrived. Ravens from the Citadel had long since delivered their warnings. This season's grain yield would be crucial if the North hoped to survive the winter ahead.
Now that the armies had disbanded and returned to their holds, they were being urgently rallied for the harvest. No lord could be asked to gather his banners again on such short notice. Robb understood this bitter truth. He could not summon them back to Winterfell, even if he wished to.
And even if he tried—could he truly expect the Northern lords to believe that this was the Lannisters' doing? That his father's death was the fruit of their scheming? Could he convince them, with nothing more than Maester Luwin's word as proof, to bear such a weighty accusation?
Robb had no answer. He did not know how many would stand with him, how many would even listen.
And then there was Arya. She was still missing.
No word had come from the Lannisters, no letters, no ransom demands, nothing. That uncertainty gnawed at Robb's mind like a splinter beneath the skin. He couldn't make sense of it—who had her, and why had they not made their intentions known?
Each day, he watched his mother and sister Sansa weep until their eyes were red and swollen, their sorrow hanging over Winterfell like a heavy shroud. And in Robb's chest, a fire raged that refused to die out. The flames of grief, anger, and helplessness burned hotter with every passing hour.
He wanted nothing more than to cast aside all restraint, to once again lead the North into war against House Lannister.
To King's Landing. To the Red Keep. To carve a path through every Lannister he could find. Let blood pay for blood, and vengeance soothe the wound no justice could ever heal.
March south! March now!
Burn them! Bury them!
Only blood could pay for the blood that had been spilled!
But then came the icy downpour, a merciless reminder of the North's unforgiving reality. The storm snuffed out the heat in Robb's chest like a bucket of cold water thrown on a flame. He could no longer afford to act on emotion alone. He was the Lord of Winterfell now. Every decision he made had to serve not just vengeance but the greater good of the realm.
"Send ravens to all my bannermen. Tell them what has happened. Tell them they are summoned to Winterfell at once."
"And about their armies, my lord?" came the cautious question.
"Leave them where they are for now. Have them complete the harvest as quickly as they can."
"As you command, my lord."
…
The first to arrive was the Lord of Cerwyn. A close companion of Clay and one of the most reliable bannermen in the North, the Lord's stronghold was but half a day's ride from Winterfell. The moment he received the summons, he set out without pause, and by nightfall that same day, he was already standing in the great hall, cloaked in road dust, his face solemn and lined with fatigue.
This middle-aged nobleman had grasped the situation the instant he read the message. When his eyes fell upon Robb Stark seated at the head of the long table, he did not first bow to Lady Catelyn or waste time with courtly pleasantries. Instead, he stepped forward and said simply,
"Please accept my condolences, my lord, the Warden of the North."
Castle Cerwyn stood so close to Winterfell that unless House Stark was completely obliterated, House Cerwyn would always remain its loyal vassal, bound by blood and honor.
"Winterfell welcomes you, Lord Cerwyn. I ask your pardon. I am not in the right frame of mind to offer a proper welcome," Robb murmured, his voice heavy and subdued.
The lord gave a quiet nod of understanding. They were all old acquaintances. There was no need for formality between them. Lord Cerwyn found himself a chair without waiting to be invited and sat down with a sigh. His gaze turned serious as he asked,
"Lord Robb, what exactly happened? Your letter said that Lord Eddard Stark died at the hands of the Lannisters. Can you explain exactly what happened?"
"Let me tell you," came a calm voice from behind.
It was Maester Luwin. He stepped forward and gave a concise but thorough recounting of what he had discovered. When he finished, Lord Cerwyn fell into a long silence, his brow deeply furrowed. He studied the somber faces of the Stark family seated on the dais before finally speaking.
"My lord, my lady," he began slowly, "forgive my bluntness. I do not speak from doubt, and I have nothing but respect for Maester Luwin. In truth, his name is well-known across the North."
"But the question remains. Even if the Lannisters truly are behind this, what do you intend to do about it?"
"You mean to say I should not avenge my father?" Robb's fingers tightened where they rested on the table, his voice cold and calm, like steel beneath snow.
"Of course not. But, Lord Robb, you've led men in battle. I trust you understand what kind of situation we're in. Our northern warriors have only just returned home, their wagons filled with spoils taken from the southerners. And now, asking them to turn around and come back…"
Lord Cerwyn did not finish his sentence, but he didn't have to. Robb knew exactly what he meant.
At the very least, it would take another three months before he could gather a force of sufficient strength. And that army, once assembled, would have to be even mightier than the one that had marched south the last time.
"I understand. Thank you for your counsel, Lord Cerwyn."
Robb spoke with calm restraint, then rose to his feet and left the hall.
Over the course of the following month, the bannermen of the North—great and small alike—began to gather once more within the walls of Winterfell. It had taken a full month only because many of the more distant lords had barely made it back to their own keeps when the raven arrived, bearing Robb Stark's summons. Some had not even had time to change their cloaks before they were back on the road, racing through rain and wind to heed their liege lord's call.
And yet, by the end, one man had still not arrived. A single name, glaring in its absence from the council—one that should never have been missing. Clay Manderly, heir to White Harbor and hailed across the North as a god of war.
Instead, it was Clay's uncle, Wylis Manderly, who arrived at Winterfell leading White Harbor's retinue. Wylis genuinely believed that his nephew's journey across the Narrow Sea was nothing more than a trade mission—a promising venture to secure a new commercial route for the family.
"Lord Wylis, please send word to Lord Clay as soon as possible," one bannerman urged during the gathering. "When it comes to the North's armies, aside from those directly under Lord Robb's command, it is only with Lord Clay at their head that our soldiers can feel at ease."
"Aye," another voice added. "Lord Robb is an excellent commander of infantry, no one doubts that. But for our cavalry, it is still Lord Clay we place our trust in."
"Exactly. Didn't Maester Luwin already say it? Lord Eddard was murdered by the Lannisters. Once we're done with the harvest, we'll need to march south again and make them pay."
During his time at Winterfell, these were the kinds of words Lord Wylis heard almost daily. He had not expected his nephew to hold such commanding influence over the northern host. The sheer reverence with which the nobles spoke of him caught even him by surprise.
He could sense it clearly. When these lords brought up Lord Robb's name in matters of command, it was done out of deference to the Stark family and their seat at Winterfell. But in their hearts, the one they truly revered, the one they trusted to lead them into battle, was none other than his nephew, Clay.
All Wylis could do was nod and assure them he had already sent word. In truth, he had indeed ordered a rider dispatched from White Harbor toward Essos, bearing news of what had transpired in the North.
He had to make sure Clay knew exactly what had happened in Winterfell. At this moment, within House Manderly, aside from the old lord still mired in his efforts to consolidate power at the Twins, only he and Clay remained who could truly make decisions.
During his stay, Wylis also visited his daughter, Wynafryd, who now remained by Sansa Stark's side. Her days were quiet and not particularly happy. It was not that House Stark had mistreated her, but rather that their world had been upended so violently that no one had the time or energy to concern themselves with her.
Wynafryd had little to occupy her days beyond keeping Sansa company. The two girls, now close as sisters, spent most of their time quietly together, doing embroidery and little else.
**
**
[IMAGE]
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Chapter End's]
🖤 Night_FrOst/ Patreon 🤍
Visit my Patreon for Early Chapter:
https://www.patreon.com/Night_FrOst
Extra Content Already Available