A Wolf Leaves the Den

The Great Hall of Winterfell was quieter than it had been in the past weeks, yet it was far from empty. The banners of the great houses of the North had departed, their lords and men marching home to gather their strength, preparing to return with their banners raised and swords ready.

Winterfell, once filled with the voices of great lords in counsel, now held a different gathering—the future of the North.

Robb sat at the long wooden table, his eyes moving over the faces of the heirs and children of his bannermen. Some were already men grown, others just stepping into their strength. These were the ones who would lead their houses after their fathers, the ones who would fight alongside him not just in this war, but in the years to come.

His father had done the same in Robert's Rebellion, surrounding himself with men he could trust—those who had fought with him, bled with him, and in turn had become his most loyal bannermen.

Robb intended to do the same.

His hand rested lightly on the wood of the table, his thoughts momentarily drifting between the research he had been doing in his father's study and the training he had undergone in the yards.

He had always trained with Theon and Hallis Mollen, but in these past days, his sparring had expanded. He had taken to training with these young men and women before him, learning their strengths, testing their skill, pushing them to improve while pushing himself as well.

He needed them.

Not just as warriors, but as brothers and sisters in arms.

His gaze moved over them.

Robin Flint of House Flint of Widow's Watch. A quiet, observant young man with sharp instincts and a mind that never missed details. His house had been sworn to the Starks since the Age of Heroes, and his loyalty was unquestioned.

Rodrik Forrester of House Forrester of Ironrath. Skilled with a sword and possessing the steady patience of his house's great ironwood trees. A fighter through and through, but also one who thought before he acted.

Daryn Hornwood of House Hornwood. A man who fought with controlled aggression, a relentless duelist who seemed to thrive in combat.

Harrion, Torrhen, and Eddard Karstark of House Karhold. Three brothers, each carrying their father's presence in different ways. Harrion, the eldest, was steady and unshakable. Torrhen was eager and sharp-witted. Eddard, the youngest, still had much to prove but showed promise with the bow.

Donnel Locke of House Locke of Oldcastle. Quick with his feet, quicker with his blade. He wasn't the strongest, but he made up for it with precision and intelligence.

Dacey Mormont of House Mormont of Bear Island. The only woman among them, but she stood taller than many, her confidence as sharp as the axe she wielded. There was no hesitation in her, no doubt—she fought as though she had bear's blood in her veins.

Lastly but certainly not least, was Smalljon Umber of House Umber of Last Hearth.

Robb met his gaze for a brief moment.

There was no lingering resentment between them. If anything, the Greatjon's loyalty had only strengthened after their confrontation in the Great Hall and Smalljon followed his father's example.

The Umber heir had been one of the fiercest warriors in the yard these past days, attacking his sparring partners with full force, laughing wildly when blows landed, and roaring when they didn't. He had not held back against Robb, nor expected Robb to hold back against him.

Smalljon's strength was undeniable. He fought like his father—reckless, aggressive, overwhelming—but with the speed of a younger man. He was blunt in his words, always speaking his mind, never hesitating to challenge anyone who showed weakness.

Yet, when it came to Robb, he had not challenged him once.

It was a silent acknowledgment.

A wolf had proven its teeth, and the Umber had accepted it.

They were all heirs, all future lords, but right now, they were soldiers preparing for war.

Robb exhaled, shifting in his seat as he glanced around at them. He had spent nearly every moment training, planning, and studying since the lords had left Winterfell, preparing for the march south.

They all had and soon, they would ride.

Then, the sound of measured footsteps cut through the noise.

Maester Luwin.

The old man moved with his usual quiet purpose, his grey robes swaying slightly as he approached. In his hands was a small letter, sealed and pressed with wax.

Robb straightened, eyes narrowing slightly as the maester reached him.

"My lord," Luwin greeted, bowing his head as he placed the letter before him.

Robb wasted no time. He took the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the words quickly, absorbing the message with practiced efficiency.

The first lines made his stomach tighten.

A battle had already been fought.

Theon, seated at Robb's right, leaned closer, noticing the way his expression shifted. "What is it?" He asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

Robb didn't immediately answer. He read through the letter again, committing it to memory before placing it down beside his plate. Only then did he look up. "Jaime Lannister has defeated Lord Vance and Lord Piper. Their force of five thousand was crushed," he said plainly, watching as the room fell into a stunned silence.

Some of the younger heirs exchanged nervous glances, while others leaned in with interest, eager to hear more.

"And?" Theon pressed, his brow furrowing.

"He's marching on Riverrun," Robb continued, his voice even. "Edmure is rallying what forces remain. He has just over seven thousand men with him, including the remnants of Piper's host and the forces of House Blackwood and House Bracken."

That set the room alight.

The young lords immediately began discussing the news, each offering their own opinion, some more confidently than others. "If Jaime Lannister is no fool," Rodrik Forrester muttered, shaking his head. "He'll press the attack before Edmure has a chance to properly fortify his position."

"Seven thousand men against fifteen thousand," Daryn Hornwood scoffed. "They won't hold."

"Unless Lord Blackwood is in command," Harrion Karstark suggested, stroking his beard. "I've heard he's a skilled commander."

"But if he isn't," Donnel Locke countered, frowning. "Edmure Tully is in charge."

The table fell silent for a brief moment before Smalljon Umber let out a snort of derision. "Then they're already beaten." Some of the heirs nodded in agreement, others remained quiet, unwilling to voice their thoughts.

Robb remained silent, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight as he absorbed the discussion. His mind was already calculating the odds—and the reality was grim. Jaime Lannister was too aggressive a commander to waste time. He had already defeated Piper and Vance; there was no reason to assume he wouldn't do the same to Edmure. The numbers alone painted a clear picture.

Edmure would lose.

Riverrun would fall.

The lords of the North weren't wrong in their assessments, but their conversation revealed something else—their inexperience. Most of them parroted the opinions of their fathers, repeating the same knowledge they had been taught, but few of them had the understanding to think beyond what they had heard.

They saw numbers.

They saw names.

They saw tradition.

But war wasn't tradition.

War was a living, breathing thing—unpredictable, ruthless, cruel.

Robb's fingers idly traced the rim of his goblet as the discussion continued around him keeping his thoughts to himself. They didn't need to know his thoughts, didn't need to know that he had already accepted Riverrun's fall as a likely possibility.

Nor did they need to know the rest of the letter, the part that detailed the progress of his secret plan. Lord Manderly, Lord Flint of Flint's Fingers, and Lord Reed had continued their work, quietly charting a hidden path through the marshlands of the Neck.

If they succeeded, then the North's passage south would not be dictated by House Frey.

But that was knowledge for him alone.

Robb had made it clear in his letters to them—no mention of their progress was to be shared.

Not yet.

He needed every advantage he could get, and secrecy was its own weapon.

So he said nothing.

Instead, he leaned back in his seat, listening, taking in the words of those around him. His bannermen's sons were strong, eager, and intelligent—but they still had much to learn. But they would learn, just like Robb would continue to.

X-

The mud clung to Robb's boots, thick and wet from the last night's rain as he made his way toward the foot of the Great Hall steps. His cloak, heavy with damp, billowed slightly behind him in the cool morning wind.

Bran sat waiting, his young face set in an expression far too serious for his age, his eyes flickering with both pride and uncertainty. Beside him, Rickon clung to Maester Luwin's robes, half-hidden behind the old man's form, his little hands clenched into fists. Hodor stood behind them, watching silently, a great presence of strength and simplicity.

Robb crouched down before Bran, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"You are the Castellan of Winterfell now," he told him, his voice steady, though he could feel the weight of his own words settling on his chest. "While I am away, you will rule in my stead. Hallis Mollen and Maester Luwin will guide you, but Winterfell will look to you, Bran. I know you will do well."

Bran swallowed but nodded. "I will."

Robb gave him a small smile, ruffling his hair as he had done so many times before.

Then, he turned to Rickon.

The little boy shrunk away, pressing himself further behind Maester Luwin's robes, his lip quivering, his eyes dark with grief.

Robb's chest tightened.

He knew why Rickon wouldn't meet his eyes.

Their father had gone south. He never came back.

Sansa and Arya had gone south. They were prisoners of the Lannisters.

Catelyn had gone south. She had yet to return.

Now, Robb was leaving too.

To Rickon, it was abandonment. He was too young to understand the war, too young to grasp duty or honour. All he knew was that his family was disappearing one by one and deep down, Robb hated himself for that. He wanted to comfort him, to promise that everything would be alright, that he would return—but the words caught in his throat because he didn't know if they were true.

Instead, he forced a sad smile and turned to Maester Luwin, who had been watching him carefully. The old man, always perceptive, must have seen the struggle in his eyes, because he placed a reassuring hand on Robb's forearm.

"You are your father's son, my lord," Luwin said, his voice soft yet full of certainty. "He would be proud of the man you have become."

Robb exhaled, bowing his head in quiet gratitude. "Thank you, Maester."

Luwin's pale blue eyes gleamed with something almost reverent. "We will see each other again soon." His voice held no doubt, only confidence in Robb's victory.

Robb gave him one last nod before turning toward the courtyard.

The lords of the North were already waiting.

They stood near the stables, a sea of banners and steel, their great warhorses shifting restlessly beneath them. Robb spotted Greatjon Umber, his broad figure towering over the others, Maege Mormont, clad in her bear-fur cloak, Galbart Glover, Gregor Forrester, Rickard Karstark, Roose Bolton, and countless others. Every great house of the North was here, their banners swaying in the crisp morning air.

Beyond them, just outside the gates of Winterfell, thousands of soldiers stood assembled, stretching far beyond the eye could see.

It was a sight that stole the breath from his chest.

Awe-inspiring. Intimidating.

This was his army.

This was the North.

A deep rumbling growl caught his attention, grounding him.

Robb turned and found Grey Wind at his side, the great direwolf standing as tall as a man's waist. His golden eyes gleamed with something ancient and knowing, as if he could sense the momentous occasion. Robb reached down, fingers brushing through the thick grey fur, drawing strength from his companion.

He closed his eyes and a breath.

When he opened them again, the hesitation was gone.

Without another word, he mounted his horse, taking his place at the head of the gathered nobles. With a flick of the reins, he led them through the gates of Winterfell, past the thousands of soldiers who were waiting for him. As he passed through their ranks, his expression was unreadable, his shoulders squared, his eyes sharp with purpose.

In his mind, he made a silent vow.

A vow to his father.

To his sisters.

To the North.

'The Lannisters shall pay the price for their actions. I'm coming father and I shall bring with me blood and winter to the south.'