The Wolfs Gambit

Jason Mallister stood at the entrance of his tent, his cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders as he stared out into the murky, rain-drenched expanse of the Wolfswood. The constant downpour had turned the ground into a thick, clinging mud that made every step a struggle, the weight of it dragging at his boots as he shifted his stance. Around him, his men moved in silence, their spirits dampened as much by the rain as by the dire situation they found themselves in.

For the past week, they had played a deadly game of cat and mouse with Jaime Lannister's patrols, the Kingslayer leading a force of three thousand heavy cavalry in an ever-expanding search for their scattered Riverlands resistance. While Jason's five hundred men—composed of light cavalry, infantry, and skilled bowmen—had managed to stay ahead of the Lannister outriders, the effort was beginning to take its toll. Supplies were running low, the relentless rain had begun to wear down even the most hardened of warriors, and Riverrun was still besieged with no sign of relief.

If something did not change soon, then the Riverlands would fall.

That much was inevitable.

A rustling from the nearby brush caught Jason's attention, and he turned sharply, hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword. A moment later, Ser Marq Piper emerged from the trees, his cloak and armor streaked with mud and damp with rain. He pulled back his hood, shaking droplets from his auburn hair as he approached with a weary expression.

"They're pulling back," Marq announced, brushing wet strands of hair from his forehead. "Lannister patrols are retreating toward their main force. Seems like they've decided the weather isn't worth the effort."

Jason let out a slow breath, nodding. "Good. That buys us some time."

Marq exhaled, shaking his head. "A day or two at most, if that. This can't last, my Lord. If Riverrun doesn't receive reinforcements soon, it's only a matter of time before they fall."

Jason clenched his jaw as he knew Marq was right. Riverrun was strong, its walls thick and its defenders brave, but the numbers were too uneven. Jaime Lannister had nearly fifteen thousand men encircling the castle.

The Riverlands had been shattered in open battle twice, and what few forces remained had been scattered, hunted down, or forced to hide like wolves waiting for their chance to strike. But even the most patient wolf could not survive on scraps forever.

He opened his mouth to reply when sudden footsteps pounded toward them. Jason turned sharply, hand tightening around the pommel of his sword once more. A boy, panting and soaked to the bone, stumbled into the clearing. Jason immediately recognized him—his squire, a lad of fifteen, face pale with exhaustion.

"My lord," the boy gasped, doubling over as he struggled to catch his breath. "A letter—" He held up a soaked parchment, the edges curling from the rain but the seal still intact. "From your son."

Jason's heart lurched in his chest as he took the letter, his hands steady despite the racing thoughts in his mind. For days, he had feared the worst. Patrek had left Seaguard with orders to muster their banners and march south, yet no word had come. Every hour that passed without news had only deepened his dread. If Seaguard had fallen—if the Freys had moved against them, using their five thousand men stationed on the south side of the Green Fork to crush their allies before they could reach the battlefield—then it was already over.

Jason broke the seal and unfolded the parchment with swift fingers, his eyes scanning the words in an instant. Then, he smiled as relief and excitement surged through him, cutting through the exhaustion that had weighed him down for weeks. The pounding in his chest was no longer dread, but exhilaration.

"My lord?" Marq stepped closer, frowning at Jason's sudden change in demeanor. "What is it? What does Patrek say?"

Jason folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the folds of his cloak. "We don't have to wait much longer," he said, a spark of fire rekindled in his voice. "The tide of this war is about to shift—and the Lannisters will not be prepared for what is coming."

Marq's eyes widened slightly. "What are your orders?"

Jason straightened, his presence commanding despite the rain-soaked exhaustion clinging to every muscle in his body. "Gather the men. We are leaving the Wolfswood."

Marq hesitated, glancing toward the encampment where their soldiers rested in makeshift shelters, too worn to expect another march so soon. "Are you sure? Where are we going?"

Jason turned to his squire. "Prepare my horse," he ordered before shifting his attention back to Marq. "We must ensure that no word of this reaches the Lannisters—or the Freys. I want every scout west of the Red Fork and south of the Blue Fork hunted down. No exceptions."

Marq stiffened at the command but nodded. "And Lord Bracken?"

"Send a raven." Jason's voice was firm, decisive. "Tell him to do the same."

Marq nodded once more before turning sharply on his heel and striding off into the rain to see Jason's orders carried out.

Jason took a deep breath, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments. The road ahead was still uncertain, the risks immense. But for the first time in weeks, he felt something new coursing through his veins.

Hope.

For the first time since this war began, Jason Mallister was no longer merely playing defense.

It was time to go on the offensive.

-X-

Robb sat at the head of the Great Hall of Moat Cailin, his hands clasped together as he listened to the murmur of voices around him. The long wooden tables were filled with lords and commanders, their faces set with deep lines of weariness and uncertainty as they discussed the letter that had arrived earlier that morning. The candlelight flickered, casting wavering shadows on the damp stone walls of the ancient fortress, its formidable towers standing as a silent guardian over the marshlands of the Neck.

The letter lay before him, its parchment slightly crumpled from where his fingers had tightened around it as he had read it over and over again. The words offered hope—hope that his father and sisters had escaped the clutches of the Lannisters, that they were out there somewhere beyond the enemy's reach. But even as that hope burned within him, it warred with the gnawing uncertainty in his gut.

It was too convenient.

Too perfectly timed.

Most importantly, it bore no signature.

"They have escaped," one of the nobles insisted, slamming his cup onto the table. "It says as much! Lord Stark and his daughters live, and the Lannisters are left scrambling to cover their failure."

"Aye," agreed another, "they wouldn't go to such lengths to hide it if they still held Lord Eddard."

Despite the enthusiasm from some of the lords, Robb remained silent, his fingers tightening slightly as he stared down at the letter. He wanted to believe it, wanted more than anything to hold onto the thought that his father was alive, that he would see him again, that Sansa and Arya were safe.

But doubts gnawed at him like wolves at a carcass.

At the far end of the table, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, leaned forward, his sharp, hawkish gaze sweeping over the lords. His expression was as hard as the stones of Riverrun, his mouth set in a grim line. "Do you see a name on that letter?" Brynden asked, his deep voice cutting through the hall like a blade. "Do you see a sigil, a seal or anything to tell us who wrote it?"

A silence settled over the room.

Robb's own frown deepened as he looked at the parchment again.

Nothing.

No name.

No sign of who had sent it.

Only the words.

The hope.

The uncertainty.

Rickard Karstark, shook his head. "You think it's a Lannister trap?" He asked, skepticism thick in his voice.

Brynden exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "No. If the Lannisters wanted to bait us, they'd have done a better job of it." He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the wood. "More likely, they fucked up." His bluntness earned a few chuckles from the gathered men, but his face remained serious. "They botched it. Got Eddard and the girls killed. And now they're scrambling to cover it up."

The words landed heavily in the hall.

Robb felt his chest tighten as he wanted to argue, to deny it.

But the possibility was there.

A calculated move.

A desperate cover-up.

His father was a man of honor, a man who had stood against treachery and deceit. If he had tried to escape and been killed in the process, the Lannisters would want to make sure no one knew the truth until they had spun their own version of events.

That much, he could understand.

He just couldn't bring himself to accept it.

"We should be cautious," Brynden continued, his voice firm. "We wage this war as if Eddard Stark and his daughters are dead. If we go south expecting Lord Stark to arrive with men at his back, we will march straight into folly." His sharp gaze settled on Robb. "Your father is—or was—a great man. But he is not here. We have no proof that he will ever be here."

Robb clenched his jaw.

He hated it.

Hated that it made sense.

Hated that Brynden's words echoed the fears he hadn't wanted to put into words himself. Yet, at the same time, he couldn't just let go of hope. He had to believe that his father was out there, that Sansa and Arya had escaped with him. If he didn't hold onto that, if he let the darkness consume him, then what was the point of any of this?

"We press forward," Robb finally said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "We cannot count on my father's return, but we also will not dismiss the possibility that he and my sisters are alive." He looked around at the gathered men. "We fight for our family. We fight for the Riverlands. We fight for justice. Whether my father stands with us in body or only in spirit, we fight."

The lords around him nodded, some in agreement, others more hesitant. Brynden remained impassive, though there was a flicker of approval in his expression. The war was coming, and Robb knew they couldn't afford to waste time debating uncertainties.

But deep in his heart, as he clenched the letter in his hand, he prayed.

Prayed that somewhere out there, his father and sisters were safe.

"Now let's discuss what we do from here." Robb said.

The Great Hall of Moat Cailin was once again filled with the voices of the North. Yet quickly, the unity that had formed momentarily after Robb's declaration fractured. The room descending into arguments and accusations, the once-calm air now thick with tension once again.

Robb sat at the head of the table, his fingers tightening around the arms of his chair as the shouting grew louder, the voices of his bannermen clashing like steel on a battlefield.

"The Manderlys 'ave betrayed us!" The Greatjon roared, his massive fist slamming against the wooden table, making the plates and goblets jump. His face was red with anger, his thick beard bristling as he glared at the other lords. "We were to march south with twenty thousand men, yet now we sit 'ere with fifteen thousand! Where in the name of the old gods is the rest of our army? We can't do shit without 'em!"

Others quickly joined in the accusations.

"The Hornwoods, the Dustins—they should have rallied their men to our banner! Why do they hesitate?" Lord Karstark spat, his expression one of frustration. "If they have not sent their men, then perhaps they intend to wait and see which way the war turns before choosing a side."

"That," Lord Glover said darkly, "would make them cowards."

The voices overlapped, rising in volume as the lords of the North let their tempers flare.

"They would not dare betray the Starks, not after all our history together!"

"They may not be traitors, but they are damned fools if they think they can sit this war out!"

"We should send men to demand they march! Or else, we name them for what they are—cravens!"

"They are cowards at best, traitors at worst!"

Robb opened his mouth to speak, but his words that followed were drowned out in the uproar. His fingers curled into fists against the table as the shouting continued, the weight of it pressing down on him like the heavy stones of Moat Cailin itself. His patience was wearing thin, but he knew he had to keep control, had to assert himself before this turned into something worse.

Still, the voices grew louder.

"Silence." His voice was firm but not raised, his tone carrying a quiet authority.

But no one heard him.

The sight made him frown, gaze narrowing in anger.

He pushed himself to his feet, his chair scraping back against the stone floor. "Enough!" His voice rang through the hall like a warhorn, cutting through the chaos with the same sharpness as steel. The room fell into sudden silence, the lords turning to him, some still red-faced from shouting, others muttering amongst themselves. Greatjon, who had been mid-sentence, closed his mouth, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he turned his full attention to the young Lord of Winterfell.

Robb let the silence stretch for a moment, allowing his gaze to sweep over the room. He met the eyes of each lord at the table, his expression firm and unyielding.

"The men who are not here," Robb began, his voice steady, "are not traitors. Nor are they cowards. They are carrying out my orders."

A murmur swept through the hall, confusion evident on the faces of the assembled lords. Roose Bolton, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, now leaned forward slightly, his pale eyes unreadable. "And what orders would those be, my lord?" His voice was smooth, calculating.

Robb straightened his shoulders. "I suspected from the beginning that House Frey would do what House Frey always does—play both sides and wait for the most profitable opportunity to present itself. I sought to ensure that we will not be caught unprepared for their demands."

Many of the lords nodded grimly, understanding the truth of his words. The Freys had a long history of opportunism, of shifting alliances to serve their own benefit. No one at the table trusted them, and no one had expected this war to be any different.

"That is why I sent Lord Manderly and Lord Reed ahead of us," Robb continued. "While we marched here to Moat Cailin, they have been searching for a way across the Blue Fork through the marshes. And they have found it."

The room was utterly silent now, every pair of eyes fixed on Robb.

"Five thousand men, led by Wylis Manderly, during the time we marched have already been ferried across the river," Robb revealed. "They have met up with Patrek Mallister and his force of a thousand men from Seagard. Together, they are prepared to move to secure Riverrun."

There was a beat of silence, then the first murmurs of understanding rippled through the hall. Greatjon let out a short, gruff laugh of approval. "Clever wolf," he muttered under his breath, but in the silence of the room it was clearly heard.

Roose Bolton, for his part, remained impassive, though there was a gleam of interest in his pale eyes. Ser Brynden Blackfish, who had been quietly watching from the side, merely folded his arms across his chest, an approving nod his only reaction.

Lord Glover leaned forward. "And the rest of our forces?"

Robb met his gaze, already prepared with the answer. "The remaining fifteen thousand men will march south with me to the Twins. We will hear what terms the Freys offer. No doubt they will be ridiculous, but it will make sure everyone—especially the Lannisters—believes I am there, that I am leading my entire force."

"And if the terms are acceptable?" Lady Mormont asked.

"Then we agree," Robb said simply. "With the five thousand men already across, our force will swell to twenty-five thousand, and we will strike on three fronts." He gestured to the map laid out on the table before them. "Five thousand men will liberate Riverrun. Five thousand will secure Harrenhal." His voice hardened. "The remaining fifteen thousand will move along the Kingsroad, drawing Tywin Lannister's attention."

Greatjon grinned. "A fine strategy, lad."

Lord Karstark, who had been brooding silently for much of the meeting, finally spoke up. "And if the Freys demand too much as they will?"

Robb did not hesitate. "Then we proceed without them." His voice was resolute, unwavering. "The five thousand already across the river will still march for Riverrun. Another five thousand will stage a mock siege of the Twins, keeping the Freys locked in place, unable to move. Meanwhile, the remaining ten thousand men shall move south along the Kingsroad to draw Tywin's attention."

Bolton tilted his head slightly, studying Robb with a calculating look. "A bold strategy," he mused.

Robb met his gaze evenly. "It will work."

There was a pause before Roose finally inclined his head. "Then let us make sure it does."

Robb looked around at the gathered lords, taking in their reactions. Some still looked wary, others were nodding in approval. He had given them something concrete, a strategy with purpose. He had shown them that he had prepared for this, that he had accounted for their doubts and uncertainties.

This was the war he had to fight, and he would not stumble before the first battle had even begun.

"We march south," he declared, and this time, there was no argument.