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Human beings have always feared their own death, for no one truly knows what lies beyond that final threshold.
It is not merely the instinct to survive that drives this fear, though that instinct runs deep within the blood of every living creature. The truer root lies in our dread of the unknown, in the shiver that comes when we face what cannot be seen or understood.
And yet here, in Harrenhal, where snow drifted lazily from a grey and silent sky, the first King in the North in three hundred years spoke calmly of his own death to the vassals who had sworn their oaths to him.
"Your Grace… is there truly no saving you? You understand as well as I do that we still need your leadership."
Jon Umber's voice was low and urgent. He had clasped Robb Stark's hand, a hand so cold and hard it might as well have been carved from stone. His grip was firm, almost desperate, and his words carried the weight of sincerity.
He truly did not wish to see this moment come to pass. Loyalty to House Stark aside, the North in its present state could not bear the collapse that would follow if their king were to fall.
Robb Stark gave a faint, weary smile at those words.
No one wishes to quarrel with fate, yet when death truly draws near, a man can feel it in his bones. There is a heaviness in the air, a certainty in the heart, that tells him the end is near.
"No… it is over. The gods are already calling me. If I linger any longer, I would be defying their will."
His tone was calm, almost detached, as though the man he spoke of was not himself at all.
Jon Umber fell silent. If Robb Stark himself had lost the will to live, then not even the mightiest Maester could bring him back.
"Do not trouble yourself with false hope. The whole right side of my body is already rotting away… I simply spared you from the sight of it."
"There is no saving me. I feel like a slab of spoiled meat left to soak in water, and in this cursed weather it only worsens."
Jon Umber remained silent and said nothing. In truth, Robb Stark's words were not wrong. If not for the damp, bone-chilling air of this cursed land hastening the infection, his strength might have carried him through.
But now, the point of return was far behind them.
"Enough, Lord Jon Umber. We do not have much time left, so let us use what we have wisely."
Robb Stark's faint smile vanished entirely, replaced by a stern and unyielding expression.
The words he was about to speak would all but determine the course of the North's politics in the days after his passing.
Originally, these instructions were meant to be given to his successor in person, but now he knew there was no hope of returning to Winterfell.
"Listen to me, Lord Jon Umber. After I am gone, you must hold out until Clay Manderly can break the siege."
"Take my crown and bring it to my brother, Bran. I also have here a sealed order… by it, I name my brother, my father's bastard, Jon Snow, a trueborn son of House Stark."
"Tell him to leave that damned Wall behind, stop gnawing on blocks of ice, and come home. He is to help Bran, guide him, and stand by his side until he comes of age and can bear the responsibilities of our house with a steady hand."
"Your Grace… this—"
"Listen to me!"
For reasons Jon Umber could not grasp, Robb Stark suddenly became agitated, his voice breaking into a harsh shout that cut his vassal off.
He closed his eyes, leaning heavily against the back of his chair, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts. Pain twisted his features, and it was plain that speaking had cost him dearly.
It was a long while before he stilled again. At last, he opened his eyes, bloodshot and weary, and fixed them once more upon the man sitting across from him, as still as a carved statue.
"I dreamed of Bran often, during the times I was lost in fever and darkness," he said quietly.
There was a rare gentleness in Robb Stark's tone. With his younger brothers, his first thought had always been to shield and protect them, no matter the cost.
"I dreamed of those days in Winterfell, when we trained together in the yard."
"He was clumsy, slight of frame, and weak of arm. He would clutch a little bow that seemed far too light to be of use, yet no matter how patiently Ser Rodrik tried, he could never learn."
"He was even worse than Arya, and she never missed a chance to tease him for it."
Robb Stark's voice was steeped in memory, his tone carrying the faint warmth of a brother's fond recollection.
Then his brow knit, and a shadow of regret crossed his face. In a low murmur, he said, "Arya… to this day, I still do not know where she has gone. In my dreams, I see her somewhere high above, and no matter how I try, I cannot reach her."
"Your Grace," Jon Umber began carefully, "while you were unconscious, the Lannisters sent a message into Harrenhal by arrow… words from Tywin Lannister himself."
"They claim that Lady Arya is now at the Eyrie."
Jon Umber studied Robb Stark's expression closely as he spoke.
He had not intended to tell Robb this at all. But now, seeing the King in the North lying there, consumed by thoughts of his younger brother and sister, knowing his life was slipping away… to let him depart with that longing unanswered would be a cruelty Jon Umber could not bear to commit.
"The Eyrie?"
Robb repeated the name under his breath, and in that instant, his mind, fogged and sluggish from illness, snapped into sudden clarity.
With a burst of strength, his thin, bony left hand shot forward and clamped hard around Jon Umber's arm.
"Tell Bran. Tell Clay Manderly. The Eyrie must not be allowed to harm Arya in any way!"
The effort of saying those words seemed to drain what little life remained in him. Aside from that fierce, almost painful grip, more a desperate clutch than a mere hold, his whole body went still, as if the energy had been wrenched from him entirely.
A long time passed before he stirred again. With visible effort, he forced his thoughts into order, his voice low but steady as he asked, "Lord Jon Umber, tell me the truth. Here in Harrenhal, how many men do we still have who can stand and fight?"
As the man who would command the Northern host once Robb fell, Jon Umber knew that number all too well.
He hesitated for a moment, his jaw tightening as he looked into Robb Stark's pale, drawn face. Then he clenched his teeth and answered, "Your Grace, within Harrenhal, still fighting beneath the banners of the North, we have two thousand eight hundred men."
Robb Stark froze, as if the words had struck something deep within him.
He opened his mouth as though to speak, but no sound came. His lips moved silently, cracked and dry, and at last all the weight of his emotions poured out in a single, heavy sigh.
"Ah…"
"Those who have survived are all true warriors," Robb said quietly. "They are the seed from which the strength of the North will grow again. Protect them well."
"Your Grace, Lord Clay…"
The Lord of Last Hearth trailed off, as though the words he wished to speak were trapped in his throat.
In Westeros, there was no such thing as a throne passed down by abdication. Yet history was littered with tales of lords whose strength overshadowed their kings, of banners bending to the will of those who were not crowned.
And now, with the situation as it stood, once Robb Stark passed from this world, Bran Stark, just a boy, would never be able to hold the weight of the Stark name on his own.
If it truly came to be that Clay Manderly broke the siege and freed the Northern men trapped here in Harrenhal, and then escorted Robb Stark's body back to Winterfell…
Clay's renown would soar to its peak. And young, bewildered Bran Stark, facing such a powerful commander right before him, would have no foothold to stand firm.
With the might of House Manderly at his back, the possibilities that could unfold were plain enough, and every Northern lord had already run the calculation in his own mind.
Sometimes it is not a question of desire, whether a man wishes to take power or not, but of the tide of events pushing forward until there is no choice left except to step into the role.
Perhaps no one would dare snatch the crown of the King in the North straight from the head of that boy, Bran Stark, and set it upon his own brow. But claiming the child was too young, and seizing full control over the armies and governance of the North in his stead… that was entirely possible.
Most of the Northern lords were trapped here in this damp, shadowed fortress of Harrenhal, cut off from any clear knowledge of the world beyond its walls. Yet the shape of what was to come was as certain as iron driven into wood—it could not be pried loose.
So when Robb Stark, moments ago, had used the voice and authority of a king to bestow upon Jon Snow the name of Stark, it was, in truth, a gift for Bran: an elder brother of full age who could stand beside him when the time came.
Look now at the hand Winterfell would hold if Robb Stark were to die.
A ten-year-old acting castellan, about to become the ruler of both the North and the Riverlands.
A lady of the house, ruled more by her heart than by strategy, who lacked the decisiveness to steer the fate of a kingdom.
A castle nearly hollow of defenders, its strength scattered far afield and not in its own grasp.
And beyond its walls, though they could not yet know it, stood a formidable commander, Clay Manderly, holding more than thirty thousand men under his command.
If, in such a situation, there were no one to stand by Bran Stark and shield him from Clay Manderly's looming pressure, then the direwolf banners of the North, for a long time to come, would be no different from the lions of Lannister before Tywin took power: proud in name but empty of power, a sigil without any true worth.
Moreover, winter was coming. In the long memory of House Stark, every harsh winter had claimed between a fifth and a quarter of the North's people. That meant there was no telling whether the two remaining male Starks, both barely ten years old, would even survive the cold to see another spring.
That was why an adult male of the Stark bloodline mattered more than anyone wanted to admit.
If it weren't for the certainty of fierce resistance in the future, Robb Stark might have been tempted, from the very beginning, to pass his crown directly to Jon Snow. In his heart, he knew that for the good of the North, that choice would have been the soundest one. Yet he also understood, all too clearly, that it was not a command he could give… not without tearing apart the fragile unity that still held his bannermen together.
"All right. I know what you're trying to say…" Robb's voice came out rough with irritation, though he quickly realized he had to speak plainly. Forcing down the hot, restless ache that burned from the wound along his right side, he drew in a slow breath, steadied himself, and met their eyes.
The King in the North tried to smooth his facial expression before continuing. "Speaking from the heart, I do not believe Clay would do anything to harm the North. I do not believe he would ever lay a hand on Bran. He wouldn't… he wouldn't do that."
"Speaking from reason, there is no one among you who could match Clay Manderly's skill on the battlefield. Not one. And because of that, if you truly mean to oppose him, you must never let that clash happen on the field of war."
"Clay Manderly has no cause to turn against Winterfell. My own ancestors welcomed the Manderlys into the North. For that alone, if he were to rise against us, the entire North would stand against him."
Jon Umber found himself at a loss, unsure how to meet Robb's words.
If he was being honest, a part of Robb's thinking still carried a young man's naïve faith, the kind that had never been ground down by the harsher truths of politics and power.
Take what Robb had just said… Jon Umber could never bring himself to believe that Clay Manderly would care about some centuries-old tale of how the Manderlys had once been given safe harbor in the North.
Had it been only decades ago, perhaps within a lifetime or two, then maybe, just maybe, that old debt might still carry weight.
Of course Jon knew the story of how House Stark had granted the Manderlys White Harbor. But the reality now was different. Under Clay Manderly's hand, the family had carved out a new stronghold for themselves, with the Twins as its beating heart.
And with that, it was no longer even clear whether the Manderlys should be thought of as a Northern house at all, or a Riverlands one. To think such a man could be bound by stories from the past… Jon knew it would mean little, if anything.
"Yes, Your Grace," he said aloud at last in agreement.
Because, in truth, whether he agreed or not made no difference. There was one thing Robb Stark had judged with perfect clarity: once he was gone, there would be no one left who could stand against Clay Manderly.
No one at all!
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[Chapter End's]
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