ROBB
Moat Cailin
Robb Stark watched the banners of his host ripple in the wind as they approached Moat Cailin just past midday, after almost a moon of marching.
The crossing had been slow, the marshes unforgiving, but a surge of relief washed through him when he saw her—his mother, wind-worn and travel-stained, but unmistakably herself. The feeling struck him harder than expected. Two weeks of command, of masks, of voices demanding plans and banners and decisions had worn on him, chipping away at something deep within. But here stood his mother. The sight of her steadied something inside him that had quietly been unraveling.
And beside her stood Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish—a man of hardened steel and steady judgment. Kin, yes. But more than that: a seasoned warrior, someone who had seen more battles than Robb had years. The young lord knew that wisdom was what he needed most now.
He embraced them both briefly—his mother holding him tighter than expected, his uncle more curt—before the business of war took over.
"Riverrun is besieged," Catelyn told them, her face drawn with worry. "And Tywin Lannister is camped at Harrenhal."
Robb pulled back to the maps in his head, the strategic implications crystallizing. Riverrun cut off. Harrenhal to the south, blocking any march to King's Landing.
Which meant—
"I can't reach the capital without facing Tywin in the field," he realized aloud, the weight of command settling heavier on his shoulders.
The Blackfish didn't waste time. "How many men do you have?"
"Eighteen thousand," Robb replied, already calculating odds, placements, possibilities.
Ser Brynden made a face. "Not enough. By numbers alone, the Westerlands outmatch us. Their population, their wealth—they'll field more."
"We'll form a plan," Robb said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "We'll discuss it in full at the war council."
Catelyn's mouth twisted, as if the words tasted bitter. "Lysa wouldn't send aid," she said. "I begged her, but—she's afraid. Cautious. She won't risk her son."
Her frustration was clear—and just as she took a breath to go on, Robb watched Ruyan step forward from where she had been observing.
"Tell me," she said, calm but abrupt. "Why did you seize Lord Tyrion?"
The question landed like cold water. Robb felt the temperature in the room drop instantly.
Catelyn blinked, her expression shifting from surprise to defensiveness. "He sent the assassin. He owns the dagger."
Ruyan tilted her head, and Robb recognized the gesture—she was analyzing. "When he left Winterfell, I was certain he hadn't sent the assassin. Nor owned the dagger. May I ask your reasoning?"
Robb stiffened. He could feel it—the room tightening. The shift in energies between the two women who mattered most in his life now.
"You're saying I'm wrong?" Catelyn's tone was sharp, and Robb saw her pride lashing before her reason could catch up.
"I didn't say that," Ruyan replied. "I asked your reasoning."
"Petyr—a trusted friend—named it as his."
"And Lord Tyrion denied it?"
"Of course he denied it! He's a Lannister!"
"Did he deny it because he is a Lannister, or because the logic was flawed?"
Robb's stomach sank. He saw the clench of his mother's jaw, the way her shoulders rose.
"We agreed not to act unless we had clear evidence. We needed to know more who our enemies are," Ruyan continued, her voice steady. "But you acted on your friend's word alone. You started this war before we were ready to march."
"You don't get to blame this on me! The Lannisters are our enemies." Catelyn's voice cracked.
"I don't blame you," Ruyan said. "I blame your judgment. Your actions had ripple effects. It alerted our enemies and now they didn't just react—they retaliated. Lord Stark attacked, weakening his position. Your homelands burn, and the lords who should be riding with us have to secure their homes first. Tywin Lannister destabilized the Riverlands so they cannot immediately aid your son."
His mother's face was pale with anger, Ruyan's as unreadable as ever—but each of his wife's words struck like a knife. Every point she made aligned with his thoughts of how differently things might have unfolded had the Imp not been taken. Thoughts he could scarcely permit himself to acknowledge, let alone voice aloud.
"How dare you—" His mother began, her voice trembling.
"I dare," Ruyan said, unflinching. "All your actions were emotionally driven, trusting one unverified statement over the rational testimonies and evidence we gathered. Tyrion Lannister was in the North—deep in hostile territory—did you not consider this when he was named? That even if he were bold enough to kill, it would be a fool's method?"
Catelyn couldn't find a word to rebut her statement. Robb could stand it no longer. "Enough," he said, more sharply than intended.
They both fell silent, but the tension didn't ease. Robb could feel Grey Wind shifting uneasily beside him, sensing the hostility.
"The Lannisters are our enemies," he continued, trying to find solid ground. "That hasn't changed. But it's no use turning on one another now. We move forward."
"We are at war, things are not as straightforward as they may seem," Ruyan said, then turned to Catelyn. "Your sister named the Lannisters murderers of her husband, you told your husband to investigate the matter, and yet she hide behind her mountains."
"She is afraid!" Catelyn snapped, her voice rising. "And don't speak to me of war like it's a game you've solved on a board!"
"We are not playing games," Ruyan said calmly. "But there are more players than the ones you see. And some move pieces without ever showing their hand."
Robb shot Ruyan a look, silently imploring her to stop. He could see in her eyes that she had more to say, but she held herself back. For his sake, he knew.
Ruyan had said what he hadn't dared to. The doubts he'd hidden. About his mother's judgment. About the Vale's convenient absence.
And somehow, that made it worse.
The silence after his words hung longer than it needed to. Eventually, his mother turned stiffly and walked off. She didn't storm—Catelyn Stark never stormed—but her anger was plain in the tightness of her shoulders.
Ruyan followed after, just as composed. That left him standing with the Blackfish, stillness returning to the room like dust settling after a storm. Robb's shoulders sagged slightly as the tension ebbed, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
Ser Brynden Tully let out a slow exhale. "Your wife," he said after a moment, "is... peculiar."
Robb didn't respond right away. He sank down onto a bench, rubbing his face with one hand. Grey Wind brushed against his side, the direwolf's presence offering silent comfort.
"They clash a lot," the Blackfish knew despite only witnessing it once.
Robb gave a quiet snort. "She still hasn't forgiven her. For what happened to me." The words came out before he could stop them, heavy with the history he rarely spoke of.
Brynden raised an eyebrow. "What happened?"
Robb shook his head. "Another time." The story of his marriage to Ruyan was too complex to explain now.
The older man didn't press, which Robb was grateful for. Instead, he reached for the nearest flagon and poured two cups — not out of ceremony, but habit. He handed one over.
Robb took it, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I've been thinking of Riverrun," he said. "If we go straight to Tywin, we'll get bogged down. And we can't march on King's Landing with Riverrun under siege."The Blackfish gave a short nod. "You'll need to split the host."
"I will," Robb said. "We divide our forces. The larger host swings west, draws Tywin out of Harrenhal. It keeps him from reinforcing the siege. I want him thinking we're trying to punch through to the capital."
"And you?"
"I go west with a lighter host — faster. If we can draw Jaime out of his siege lines, we can trap him."
Brynden narrowed his eyes. "You think he'll take the bait?"
"If he sees the right bait," Robb said. "That's where you come in. You'll need to scout, probe the line. Get him to move. Jaime's proud. If he thinks he can ride out and capture me, he will do it."
The older man scratched his beard. "And who will command the decoy host?"
"Roose Bolton."
Brynden's brow arched. "That's a cold man to trust."
"I don't," Robb said. "But Tywin will believe I have. It makes the bait more convincing."
The Blackfish gave a grunt of approval. "It could work. If we move fast."
"We'll need the Twins. And Frey won't give that crossing for free."
"That old man never does."
Robb nodded once. "We hold a war council this afternoon."
He looked west, jaw set. "I won't let Riverrun fall."
Brynden didn't speak. He only nodded — like a soldier who understood what that meant.
That afternoon, the great hall of Moat Cailin was crammed with voices and banners — Glovers, Karstarks, Manderlys, Umbers, Hornwoods, Cerwyns, and more. Robb stood at the center, a map spread wide across the stone table.
He began without ceremony and told them of his plan. Murmurs rippled through the room.
Lord Karstark stepped forward first. "So we march on Harrenhal?"
"No," Robb said. "We split the host."
That stilled the room.
"I'll lead a detachment east to bait Ser Jaime out of his siege. Try and draw him out and break the siege at Riverrun."
"And the rest?" asked Wendel Manderly, folding his arms.
"The bulk of the army rides east —to draw Tywin's attention. He'll think that's our true push. The decoy must be large enough to provoke him."
"Who commands that host?" asked Lady Mormont.
"Lord Bolton," Robb said.
Several exchanged glances. It was Greatjon who spoke next.
"Cunning choice. Tywin might believe you gave him the lead."
Robb gave a tight nod. "He'll ride with the Glovers, Manderly, and Hornwood forces. I'll take the Umbers, Karstarks, and the rest."
There was a pause. Then Greatjon cleared his throat.
"That puts you across the Twins," he said. "And that's a toll none of us can stomach."
The name alone made the room shift.
Lord Cerwyn frowned. "Lord Walder Frey will bleed us dry."
"We'll need to cross," Robb said simply. "There is no other path."
"He may demand hostages," said Lord Hornwood.
"Or wives," muttered Lord Glover, earning a few bitter laughs.
Catelyn stepped forward then. "Let me speak with him," she said. "I know Lord Walder. He won't deny us passage outright. He'll want terms. I can… manage him."
"And if he refuses?" Lord Karstark pressed.
"He won't," Catelyn said. "He craves recognition more than gold."
The tension eased slightly.
Robb looked around the hall — older men, seasoned warriors, watching him not just as Ruyan said nothing during the council, but watched every face. He felt her gaze on him more than once — silent, steady.
"We march in three days," Robb said. "Make ready."
That night, he entered their chamber weary to the bone. His shoulders ached from command. His head, from decisions.
RUYAN
She heard his steps before the door even latched. Heavy, uneven. The gait of a man carrying too many decisions in too little time.
Ruyan didn't turn. She continued brushing her hair — each stroke measured, ritual more than vanity.
The pins she'd worn for court were set aside. Tonight, only silver — sharp, simple, functional. Like the rest of her.
"Well done," she said without looking back. "A sound plan."
He didn't answer right away — not directly. She heard the exhale, the pacing.
"It's not the battle I want to talk about," he said.
Of course not. The war was easier than the people in it.
She paused briefly, then resumed brushing. "Your mother."
He didn't reply at first. Still circling the thought, still hoping she'd soften it.
"I was certain it wasn't Lord Tyrion," she said. "Because I followed the reasoning. The circumstances. The logic."
She set the brush down — not abruptly, just with finality. She didn't look at him. Not yet.
"To her," Robb said behind her, "it feels like your judgment against hers."
She nodded once. "It is."
Silence again. Then he offered her something else — softer. "She said Aunt Lysa had changed. That she'd become… unstable. Grief, most likely."
That made her pause. Her hand still rested on the brush. The words drew a line. She followed it.
Lysa. Grief. A name.
"What?" Robb asked. "You're thinking something."
She turned then, calm. "The threat to Bran was real. That much I accept. But the assassin who followed?"
She stepped closer, the words falling into place. "Your mother received a Lannister name when grief was fresh. So did her sister. Different events. Same wound. Same direction."
"You think it was planted?"
"I think grief leaves cracks," she said. "And someone used those cracks. Whether it was truth or manipulation… I don't know yet."
She didn't say Baelish. Not yet. Not until she was sure. But the pattern had begun to show its edges.
She turned away, pulled back the coverlet.
"Robb," she said. "For this march, you must prepare for the worst outcome."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true."
He stepped closer, gentler now. "We'll get Father back. And the girls."
She smoothed the fabric once, then looked at him fully.
"I hope so," she said.
Then she slipped beneath the blankets — not as retreat, but closure. The night was done. The next move already set in her mind.
She heard him undress slowly. Felt his weight shift the bed.
"Good night," he said.
"Good night," she replied.
There was space between them. But the silence was not distance.
It was preparation.