Blood and Oaths

Robb sat at the head of the largest table in the Great Hall of Winterfell, his eyes drifting across the gathered lords of the North. The hall was alive with the hum of voices, the scrape of knives against trenchers, the clinking of tankards being raised in toast. The scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and ale filled the air, but Robb barely tasted what was in front of him. His focus was on the men around him, on the leaders of the North who had come to answer his call.

This was the first time he faced them as Lord of Winterfell.

Before, he had been the heir—his father had always been there to speak, to command, to lead.

Now, all eyes would turn to him.

At his right sat Theon, grinning at some crude joke from one of the Umber men, and on his left, was his younger brother, Brandon Stark. Across from him, at the other end of the table, sat Lord Greatjon Umber, his son Smalljon beside him, a mug of ale already in hand. To their right was Lady Maege Mormont, with her daughter Dacey in place of an heir. Lord Karstark sat beside her, his stern face unreadable as he carved into his meal. Lord Bolton was further down, pale fingers delicately peeling the meat from a roast fowl, his eyes unreadable as ever. Lord Hornwood, Lord Flint, Lord Forrester, and Lord Glover rounded out the table, their voices blending into the sea of conversation.

Talk of war dominated the hall.

The Riverlands were already preparing for battle, though few believed they would hold out long without support. The lords at his table spoke of the Lannisters' strength, of the thirty-five thousand men host gathering at the border. The Old Lion himself, Tywin Lannister held command over twenty thousand men, while the Kingslayer, Jamie Lannister, commanded fifteen thousand mods. It was an overwhelming force, one that had the Riverlords scrambling to defend what they could.

"A small force of five thousand men gathered near the Golden Tooth," Lord Forrester muttered, shaking his head. "It's a smart move, aye, but what good will it do without a proper commander?"

Lord Karstark grunted in agreement. "Lord Jason Mallister could hold that pass. Even Lord Blackwood. But Piper? Vance? They'll be swept aside the moment Jaime Lannister moves."

"Aye," Lord Glover agreed. "Blackwood or Mallister would make a stand. Even that wretched bastard Bracken could hold the Kingslayer back for a time. But Piper and Vance? They're already as good as dead."

Robb remained silent, taking it all in. Their words were not just speculation—they were insight, a window into how these men thought, how they measured worth. They respected strong, proven leadership, men who knew war and command. They had no patience for weakness or incompetence. That was something to remember.

Lord Umber let out a deep laugh, slapping his hand against the table. "And ye can bet the Kingslayer will be eager for battle! That golden shit is probably grinning at the thought of riding out, his precious white cloak billowing behind him." He took a deep swig of ale before slamming the mug down. "Too bad he'll be facing Northmen soon!"

That earned a round of chuckles and murmurs of approval, though some were more reserved. Maege Mormont, despite the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, was far more focused on the details. "Jaime Lannister is no fool in battle," she reminded them, cutting into her meat. "And neither is his father. They'll make no mistakes."

Lord Bolton hummed in agreement. "Indeed. Tywin Lannister does not waste his strength in reckless charges. He chooses his battles carefully." His voice was smooth, measured, unhurried. "If Piper and Vance are crushed quickly, the Riverlands will have no buffer between them and the Lannister host. They will turn their attention north."

Robb nodded slowly, absorbing the words. He already knew the North had to move quickly, had to strike before the Lannisters could consolidate their strength. Piper and Vance might slow the Kingslayer down, but they would not stop him. He needed a plan before the lords even asked what it was.

The conversation flowed between the lords, shifting from battle strategies to supply lines, to questions of how many men could be raised and how quickly they could be ready to march. Even in the midst of war talk, there was no shortage of crass humour. Lord Umber and Maege Mormont, both loud and unapologetic in their bluntness, made comments that had Theon grinning and Smalljon chuckling. Lord Hornwood was quieter, but his rare remarks still carried their share of rough northern wit. Even Karstark, serious as he was, allowed himself a smirk or two at their expense.

Not all of the talk was about war. Some of the lords had brought their daughters, their intentions clear—introducing them to Robb, positioning them as potential wives. Robb had expected it, but even now, it felt strange to think of. He had never considered marriage beyond what duty might one day demand of him, and now he was to be a war leader, not a husband. He pushed those thoughts aside for now.

This was not just a feast.

It was a test.

They were watching him, measuring him, deciding whether or not he was truly fit to lead them. He had grown up with these men. He had met them all before, had seen them at feasts and tourneys, had watched his father rule over them with steady, unwavering strength.

But this was different.

Eddard Stark was not here.

They were looking to him now and he could not fail them.

The murmur of conversation in the hall quieted as Lord Umber set his tankard down with a loud thud, his brows furrowing as he scanned the gathered lords. His gaze settled on the empty seats where House Manderly's banners should have been.

"Hells, where's Manderly?" He asked, his deep voice carrying over the table. "Haven't seen so much as a fat finger of his in this hall. First time I've known the man to turn down a feast."

There were murmurs of agreement and Lord Glover frowned. "It's not like House Manderly to ignore a call to war."

"Unless they've no stomach for it," Lord Forrester muttered, tearing a piece of bread from his trencher.

"They've never been Northmen," Lady Mormont added bluntly. "Their blood is from the Reach. Their hearts might be loyal, but the South's softness doesn't wash out easily."

Lord Karstark stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It's not a coward's choice to stay behind. White Harbor is the richest port in the North—losing it would be as bad as losing Winterfell itself. Manderly's no fool. He knows it."

The discussion grew louder, each lord offering their own thoughts, until a new voice silenced them all.

"They are not here," Robb said, his voice even but firm, "because I gave them a task."

The table stilled and the lords turned to look at him.

Lord Umber was the first to break the silence, his eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity. "And what task is that, my lord?"

Robb set down his own cup, meeting their gazes without hesitation. "Lord Manderly is working with House Reed to find a way past the Green Fork—one that does not rely on the Twins or the Ruby Ford."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then, whispers spread through the table. Respect flickered in the eyes of some of the older lords. Others exchanged glances, weighing his words.

Lord Bolton, who had remained silent until now, leaned forward slightly, his pale fingers steepling together. "A bold move," he said smoothly. "And a cautious one. You would see us avoid the Freys entirely?"

"I would see us avoid relying on uncertain allies," Robb corrected. "House Frey is known for its opportunism. Walder Frey will not act against us without cause, but he will not risk his men without benefit either. If another path presents itself, one where we are not beholden to his gates, I mean to take it."

Lord Karstark nodded slowly. "You think the Freys will betray us."

Robb shook his head. "I think the Freys will do whatever benefits them most. That alone makes them unreliable."

"Aye," Lady Mormont grunted. "Walder Frey would sell his own daughters if it got him a place at court. We're better off not needing his bridges."

Lord Forrester, who had been thoughtful, now leaned back in his seat, arms crossing. "The Ruby Ford would take us far from Riverrun."

"That's exactly why we can't use it," Robb said. "When the Lannisters march on the Riverlands, Riverrun will be their first true target. Tywin Lannister will strike for the heart of the Riverlands as soon as he can. I won't let us be too far west when that happens."

More murmurs of approval.

Lord Umber grinned, raising his mug. "Clever lad. Won't be led around like a horse to water, that's clear enough."

Lord Bolton, however, remained watching him. "And the Mountain Clans?" He asked. "They are absent as well."

Robb met his gaze. "For the same reason. They are performing a task I have given them." The revelation sent another ripple through the gathered lords. Some nodded in approval. Others, however, looked concerned.

"They have five thousand men between them," Lord Hornwood pointed out. "That's no small number to have missing."

"We'll not be missing them," Robb said, his voice steady. "I've spent the last week studying the maps, the records, the ledgers of every House in the North. I know exactly how many men we can raise, how fast we can raise them, and how to muster a host greater than what we'll lose in the Clansmen. The North is vast, and raising an army takes time, but I have ensured we will not be wanting for numbers."

Silence fell again as the lords exchanged glances.

For the first time, there was no hesitation in their gazes. Only respect.

Lord Karstark nodded approvingly. Lord Glover, too, sat back, watching Robb with an expression that was no longer just measuring, but acknowledging. Even Lord Bolton, ever unreadable, gave a slow, deliberate nod.

Robb had seen the doubt in their eyes when he had first sat at the table.

Now, it was gone.

The murmurs of approval from the gathered lords had barely begun to fade when Lord Karstark spoke, his voice measured but carrying the weight of expectation. "You've thought ahead," he said. "That much is clear. But what of command? Have you given thought to how this army of yours will be led?"

The question hung in the air for only a moment before Robb answered, his voice steady. "I have," he said.

The lords leaned in, waiting.

"Lord Karstark," Robb continued, turning to the elder lord, "you will command the left flank. Ser Wylis Manderly will serve as your second."

Lord Karstark nodded, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips. "A fine choice," he murmured. "Wylis isn't as bloodied as the rest of us, but the Manderlys have a strong force and good men. He will be bloodied proper quickly enough."

Robb gave a brief nod in return before shifting his attention. "Lord Bolton," he said, meeting Roose Bolton's unreadable gaze, "you will command the right flank. Lady Mormont will be your second."

There was a pause, then a slow nod from Bolton. "As you command, my lord," he said smoothly. "A wise decision. Lady Mormont's warriors are as fierce as any in the North."

Lady Mormont gave a sharp nod, her arms crossed. "I'd rather lead the flank myself," she muttered, "but I'll not let any Bolton men show me up."

A few chuckles rumbled from the table, but Robb did not waver. "I will command the centre," he said next, his voice firm. "Lord Forrester and Lord Umber will serve as my seconds."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Robb continued, his eyes scanning the table. "Lord Glover," he said, turning to the broad-shouldered man seated near the middle of the table. "You will lead the vanguard."

The silence stretched longer this time.

Lord Glover gave a slow nod, his expression neutral, but the tension at the table had thickened.

Robb could feel it before he even looked across at Lord Umber.

The Greatjon had said nothing.

But his silence spoke volumes.

His jaw was tight, his massive hands curled into fists on the table, his breath slow but deep. The muscles in his neck twitched, the only sign of the battle waging behind his eyes.

He had expected the vanguard.

No, he had assumed it and Robb had given it to Glover.

All eyes were on the Greatjon and Robb.

The tension hung in the air like a drawn bowstring, stretched to its limit, ready to snap.

"For thirty years I've been making corpses out of men, boy," the Greatjon growled, his voice like distant thunder. "I'm the man you want leading the vanguard."

Robb hid his satisfaction as best as he could. This was precisely what he had wanted—a challenge, a moment to prove himself. The respect he had earned with his planning was not enough. To cement his command, he had to show strength and there was no one better to prove it against than the Greatjon himself.

Calmly, without hesitation, he replied, "Galbart Glover will lead the van." The lords exchanged glances. Some looked to Umber, others to Robb, interest flickering in their eyes. This was a test—a battle of will, not steel.

The Greatjon's voice rose, a growl that carried through the hall. "The bloody Wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover." Then his tone shifted. The rage remained, but it was quieter now, dangerous. He leaned forward, his massive hands flat against the table. "I will lead the van," he said, low and firm. "Or I will take my men and march them home."

The threat settled over the table like a heavy snowfall.

Robb did not flinch.

Instead, he clasped his hands before his face, elbows resting on the table as he stared at Umber, his expression unreadable. The other lords waited. Some hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. Others looked to Robb, watching for his reaction.

The sound of other tables continued around them, the clatter of plates and murmurs of conversation unaware of what was about to unfold.

Then Robb spoke. "You're welcome to do so, Lord Umber." He rose to his feet. "And when I am done with the Lannisters, I will march back North, root you out of your keep, and hang you for an oathbreaker."

The chatter in the hall began to quieten. People were noticing now, turning toward the high table, heads tilting, conversations falling away as the tension became palpable.

Greatjon's roar of outrage shattered the silence. "Oathbreaker, is it?!"

His plate clattered to the floor, shoved aside as he shot to his feet, his massive frame towering over the table. The sound of benches scraping echoed through the hall as other lords stood in reaction—some instinctively reaching for weapons, others simply unsure of what was about to happen.

Some, like Lord Karstark and Lady Mormont, stood ready, their hands at their belts. Lord Bolton, however, remained seated, watching silently.

The Greatjon sneered. "I'll not sit here and swallow insults from a boy so green he pisses grass."

His hand went to his sword.

Steel whispered as it began to slide from the scabbard.

Theon was on his feet in an instant, his own blade already half-drawn, his expression hard, ready to defend Robb.

But he was not the first to act.

Grey Wind moved.

The direwolf leapt onto the table in a blur of grey fur and snarling fury, trenchers and goblets clattering as he bounded across the feast.

Then he was on Greatjon.

The hall erupted in shock as Grey Wind's teeth clamped down on Umber's hand, his massive weight slamming the lord back onto the ground. A pained cry tore from the Greatjon's throat, a mix of rage and agony as he struggled, but the direwolf held him pinned.

No one moved.

The only sound was the snarl of Grey Wind, the Greatjon's heavy breathing and then…

A sickening snap.

A tear.

A guttural cry.

Grey Wind's head lifted, something red and jagged hanging from his jaws.

The Greatjon clutched his hand, breath coming in harsh gasps as blood dripped onto the stone floor.

Grey Wind paced back around the table, circling toward Robb's side, the Greatjon's severed finger still caught between his teeth.

Robb did not move.

The other lords watched, stunned, waiting.

Then, calmly, Robb spoke. "My lord father taught me that it was death to bare steel against your liege lord," he said, his voice measured and unwavering. "Doubtless, the Greatjon only meant to cut my meat for me."

A beat of silence.

Then, slowly, the Greatjon rose. His face was twisted in pain, his breath heavy, his missing finger still bleeding—yet there was something else in his gaze now.

He was watching.

Not just Robb—the others.

The way they looked at him.

The way they looked at Robb.

Robb had not flinched.

Not begged.

Not backed down.

A shift passed through Greatjon's expression but it was not anger.

It was amusement.

He kicked his chair away, scowling as he looked at the young lord, then at the direwolf still chewing on his finger. Slowly his frown turned to a mad grin as he took a deep breath. "Your meat," he rumbled, holding up his bleeding hand, missing its finger, "is bloody tough."

Laughter.

A deep, booming, belly-shaking roar of laughter.

Then, as if released from tension all at once, others joined in.

The hall was full of it.

Theon smirked and sat back down, shaking his head.

Lady Mormont chuckled into her cup.

Even Lord Karstark allowed a rare smirk.

Robb let the laughter wash over him.

He had won.