Chapter 7: The Council of Wolves and the Call to Arms
The Great Hall of Winterfell, a place that had seen centuries of Stark governance, feasts, and solemn ceremonies, now thrummed with an entirely different energy. It was the coiled tension of a wolf pack scenting blood on the wind, the grim determination of a people preparing to defend their own. The heirs and representatives of the Northern houses, clad in boiled leather, mail, and furs, bearing the sigils of their ancient lines – Umber giants, Karstark sunbursts, Manderly mermen, Mormont bears – filled the long trestle tables. Their murmurs, though subdued, were a counterpoint to the crackling hearth fires that did little to dispel the chill of the grave matters at hand.
Robb Stark entered not with a flourish, but with a quiet, purposeful stride that drew all eyes. The sun, climbing the morning sky, streamed through the high windows, and he felt its power infuse him, a familiar tide of strength, clarity, and an almost divine self-assurance. He had spent an hour before dawn in the icy darkness of the crypts, Rhitta in his hands, its golden surface gleaming faintly even in the torchlight. He hadn't swung it, merely held it, letting its immense, dormant power align with his own, steeling his resolve for the day ahead. Escanor's pride was a familiar companion now, a roaring fire he had learned to bank and channel into an unshakeable aura of command.
He took his place at the head of the hall, standing before the high seat, his father's vacant chair a stark reminder of the crisis that had brought them here. Maester Luwin stood to his right, scrolls and ink at the ready. Theon Greyjoy, to Robb's surprise and against his initial inclination, had been urged by Smalljon Umber to attend, "as a guest of honor and a friend to House Stark." Robb had acquiesced, seeing it as another opportunity to observe the ironborn ward. Theon stood slightly behind Robb, trying to look important, his eyes darting around the assembly.
"Lords and Ladies of the North," Robb began, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable authority that resonated through the hall. Every conversation ceased. "I thank you for answering my summons with such speed. The news I shared last night is grave, and its implications direr still." He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the faces before him – the fierce loyalty in Dacey Mormont's eyes, the eager belligerence of Smalljon Umber, the thoughtful frown of Harrion Karstark, the placid yet keen watchfulness of Wendel Manderly.
"My mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, has taken Tyrion Lannister captive," Robb reiterated. "While some may question the wisdom of her method, her reasons were born of provocations that no house of honor could ignore." He then laid out the recent events: the fall of Bran, explicitly stating it was an attempted murder by Ser Jaime Lannister and Queen Cersei to silence what his brother saw; the subsequent assassination attempt on Bran in his sickbed with a Valyrian steel dagger.
"And now," Robb continued, his voice hardening, "I have received word from King's Landing." He held up a raven's scroll. "Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, in a brazen act of cowardice and malice, attacked my Lord Father, Eddard Stark, in the streets of the capital. Lord Stark was wounded, his men slain. This was done in retaliation for the Kingslayer's brother's capture. This is how the Lannisters answer calls for justice – with ambush and murder."
A collective roar of outrage erupted from the assembly. Smalljon Umber was on his feet, his face purple with rage. "The curs! They dare attack Lord Eddard? In his own King's city? I say we march south and teach those golden-haired cowards a lesson in Northern steel!"
"Aye!" shouted Harrion Karstark, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "Blood for blood! They wound our Lord, they try to murder his sons – these are acts of war!"
Wendel Manderly, though his expression was grim, raised a placating hand. "My lords, righteous anger is well and good, but war is a costly endeavor. White Harbor will stand with House Stark, as we always have, but we must be prudent. Lord Tywin Lannister commands vast wealth and many swords."
Dacey Mormont's voice cut through the din, clear and strong. "Prudence is wise, Lord Manderly, but honor demands action. Bear Island remembers its oath. We will follow the Stark."
Robb let the initial wave of fury and debate wash over the hall, his enhanced senses picking up every nuance – the genuine outrage, the undercurrents of fear in some of an impending conflict with the mighty Lannisters, the calculating looks from a few lesser lords perhaps weighing their options. He noted with a frown that still no raven, nor rider, had arrived from Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. The Leech Lord's silence was unsettling.
When the initial clamor subsided, Robb spoke again, his voice cutting through the remaining murmurs like a blade. "Your anger is justified. Your loyalty does you honor. Lord Tywin Lannister will undoubtedly answer his son's capture with force. He will strike at my mother's family, House Tully of Riverrun. He will seek to punish House Stark. He has already shown his hand by attacking my father."
He stepped forward, placing his hands on the great oaken table before him. "We cannot allow this aggression to stand. We cannot allow our kin to be slaughtered. We cannot allow the Lannisters to usurp the justice of the King and act as arbiters of life and death for all who displease them."
The power of Sunshine was building within him, the sun climbing higher. He felt a surge of absolute conviction, a clarity of purpose that seemed to radiate from him, drawing the eyes and stilling the doubts of those present.
"Therefore, I say we call the banners!" His voice rang with a new, almost metallic timbre. "The North will march!"
A deafening cheer erupted, mail rattling, swords banging on tables. Even Theon looked caught up in the moment, a wolfish grin on his face.
Robb waited for it to subside. "But we will not march blindly. We will not march merely on anger. We will march with a plan, with purpose, and with the cold fury of a Northern winter."
He then outlined his strategy, his words precise, his logic unassailable, born of future knowledge but presented as astute military deduction.
"Firstly, the North itself must be secured. Moat Cailin is the gateway to our lands. It must be garrisoned and strengthened. No Southern army will pass it while it is held by true Northmen. Lord Wyman," he looked at Wendel Manderly, "White Harbor's fleet will be crucial in supplying Moat Cailin by sea and defending our eastern coasts. Can I count on your father?"
Wendel Manderly puffed out his chest. "Lord Robb, my father would sail his own ships into the fiery hells for House Stark if asked. White Harbor will not fail you. We have ships, men, and coin."
"Good," Robb nodded. "Secondly, our main host will march south. Our primary objective: to relieve the Riverlands. Lord Hoster Tully is my grandfather. His lands will be Tywin's first target. We will not let the Trident run red with Tully blood while Starks draw breath."
He then addressed the more complex issue of his father. "Lord Eddard is wounded and a virtual prisoner in King's Landing, surrounded by Lannisters. While King Robert lives, he is under the King's peace. But if that peace fails, or if the Lannisters move against him further, we must be in a position to free him and ensure the King is not swayed by false counsel or Lannister threats." He chose his words carefully, avoiding any hint of treason against Robert, focusing the blame squarely on the Lannisters.
"Logistics," Robb continued, surprising many with his detailed grasp of the subject. "War is not just about brave men and sharp steel. It is about food, fodder, supply lines, and discipline. Each lord will be responsible for provisioning his own men for the initial march, but once we consolidate, Winterfell will establish central supply depots. We will march fast, but we will march organized. There will be no pillaging of the smallfolk. We are liberators, not conquerors in the lands of our friends." This was a direct application of what he remembered of successful military campaigns – winning the hearts and minds of the populace, even if it was a concept alien to most feudal commanders.
He spoke for nearly an hour, his voice never wavering, his arguments clear, his confidence almost hypnotic. He detailed troop dispositions, marching orders, the need for disciplined scouting, and even rudimentary plans for field sanitation to prevent camp sickness, an idea he presented as "an old Northern way to keep warriors healthy," which Maester Luwin quickly endorsed with a knowing look.
As he spoke, he subtly used Snatch. When one older, more cautious lord began to voice persistent doubts about the wisdom of confronting Tywin Lannister's vast armies, Robb focused, drawing a sliver of the man's timidity into himself – a faint, quavering sensation that he instantly suppressed – leaving the lord suddenly less certain of his own objections, stammering into silence. When Smalljon Umber's belligerence threatened to derail a discussion on strategy with impatient calls for immediate battle, Robb Snatched a fraction of his aggressive energy, feeling it as a hot, impulsive rush that he banked internally, allowing Smalljon to regain a measure of composure. He was walking a razor's edge, using his powers to guide the council, not dominate it, ensuring a unified front.
Finally, he asked, "Are there any here who will not stand with House Stark in this endeavor? Let him speak now, or forever hold his peace."
The silence was thick. Then, the Greatjon Umber (who, true to form, had ridden hard and arrived in a cloud of dust and curses midway through Robb's speech, just in time to hear the call to arms) slammed his massive fist on the table, making goblets jump.
"Stand with you, boy?" he bellowed, his voice like a rockslide. "The Starks have been Wardens of the North for eight thousand years! My fathers have always stood with yours, and I am no less a man! Who here is craven enough to deny the Young Wolf when he calls the pack to hunt?" He glared around the room, daring anyone to speak against Robb. "To an Umber, loyalty is not a choice, it's our damned blood! I'll follow you south, lad, and we'll shove those Lannister lions up Tywin's own arse!"
His crude but passionate declaration broke the tension. One by one, the other lords and ladies rose, pledging their swords, their men, their houses.
"Karhold stands with Stark!" declared Harrion.
"Bear Island stands with Stark!" cried Dacey Mormont, her hand on her sword.
"White Harbor stands with Stark!" boomed Wendel Manderly.
The acclamations grew, a rising chorus of Northern loyalty. "Stark! Stark! The Young Wolf! The Warden of the North!"
Robb felt a surge of genuine emotion, distinct from Escanor's pride. This was the loyalty of his people, hard-earned by generations of his ancestors, and now, by his own resolve.
"Then it is decided," Robb declared, his voice ringing with the authority of the sun at its zenith, for it was now close to noon. "Return to your keeps. Gather your forces. We rendezvous at Moat Cailin in one month's time. From there, the wolves go to war!"
The council dissolved into a flurry of activity, lords and ladies eager to depart, their minds already on mobilization. Robb spent the next few hours in individual conferences, assigning specific roles. The Manderlys would indeed see to naval logistics and coastal defense. The Umbers and Karstarks would form the vanguard. The Glovers and Tallharts would be the solid center. Dacey Mormont and her fierce warriors would be part of his personal guard.
He deliberately gave Theon Greyjoy a prominent, if carefully managed, role. "Theon," he said, drawing him aside. "You are a skilled bowman and rider. I name you captain of my personal scouts, to ride with my vanguard. Your eyes will be my eyes." He needed Theon where he could see him, and where his skills could be utilized, all while testing his loyalty under the pressures of war. Theon puffed up with pride, eager to prove himself.
The absence of Roose Bolton was addressed. "Lord Bolton sends his regrets," Maester Luwin informed him later, presenting a coolly worded scroll that had finally arrived. "He is… indisposed with matters of justice in his own lands but assures House Stark of his unwavering loyalty and will send his levies under the command of his son, Ramsay Snow, as soon as matters permit."
Robb's eyes narrowed. Ramsay. He knew that name. A cruel, sadistic monster. So Bolton sends his bastard attack dog instead of gracing us with his own reptilian presence, Robb thought. "Inform Lord Bolton that his son and his men will be expected at Moat Cailin. And that their… punctuality… will be noted." The threat was veiled but clear.
That evening, as the last of the Northern lords departed, leaving Winterfell to the disciplined hum of war preparation, Robb stood on the battlements, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The immense power of Sunshine receded, leaving him with the familiar residual strength and the cold, clear mind of Tony Volante. The die was cast. An army of nearly twenty thousand Northmen would soon march south under his banner.
He thought of his father, wounded and alone in King's Landing. He thought of his sisters, caught in the heart of the enemy's den. He thought of Catelyn, her rash act having lit the fuse to this continental war. He thought of Bran and Rickon, safe for now in Winterfell, but for how long if the North faltered?
And he thought of the powers that now resided within him. Sunshine, a gift of unimaginable might. Snatch, an insidious tool of subtle influence. Immortality, a guarantee that he, at least, would see this through to its bitter end. And Rhitta, the Sacred Axe, waiting in the darkness of the crypts, hungry for a war worthy of its divine power.
This was not just a war for the honor of House Stark or the safety of the Riverlands. This was the beginning of a larger conflict, one that would reshape Westeros. And Robb Stark, the reborn mafia boss, the Warden of the North, the secret wielder of a god's power, would be at its heart.
He looked towards the south, a grim smile on his face. "Tywin Lannister," he murmured to the gathering darkness. "You have no idea what's coming for you."
The Young Wolf was leading the pack to hunt, and their fangs were sharp.