Chapter 8: The Wolf's Teeth Bare: Mobilization and the March to War
The month granted for mobilization passed in a blur of frenetic, focused activity. Winterfell transformed. The clang of Mikken's forges echoed day and night as smiths churned out arrowheads, spear points, mail, and swords, the quality noticeably improved under Robb's exacting standards and sometimes surprisingly insightful (for a lord) suggestions on tempering and design. The training yards were never empty, filled with the shouts of drill sergeants, the thud of practice shields, and the panting breath of men pushed to their limits. Robb himself, often with Ser Rodrik Cassel by his side, oversaw these drills, his presence a constant source of inspiration and, for some, intimidation. He moved with a tirelessness that astounded everyone, his days stretching from before dawn till long after dusk.
This was, in large part, thanks to Sunshine. As the sun rose, so did his energy, his mental acuity, his sheer physical presence. He could absorb logistical reports from Vayon Poole that would make other men's heads spin, identify bottlenecks, and issue clear, concise solutions in minutes. He could spend hours with the quartermasters, meticulously planning supply chains for an army of nearly twenty thousand, his mind envisioning the flow of grain, fodder, and equipment with a clarity that bordered on the preternatural. Tony Volante's understanding of efficient systems, combined with Escanor's solar-powered intellect, made him a logistical prodigy.
He practiced Snatch in subtle ways. When Mikken struggled to explain a complex forging technique to an apprentice, Robb, observing, would discreetly "Snatch" a sliver of the old smith's intuitive feel for the heated metal, not to replicate it himself, but to better understand the words Mikken lacked, then rephrase the instruction with a clarity that made both smith and apprentice blink. During the endless weapon drills, he'd sometimes "Snatch" a fraction of a particularly skilled guard's balance or a veteran's weariness, just to feel it, to understand it, pushing his own martial education forward at an accelerated pace. These were tiny, almost imperceptible thefts of sensation or fleeting skill, always carefully controlled, always to enhance his ability to lead and prepare his people.
Rhitta, however, remained his most guarded secret, resting in its cold, dark vault deep within the crypts. The temptation to bring it, to feel its divine weight in his hand as he rode to war, was immense, especially when Sunshine was strong. But the risk of discovery, the impossibility of explaining such a weapon, was too great. His Valyrian steel sword, a gift from his father forged from the same ancestral ingot as Ice, would have to suffice for now. Its familiar weight was a comfort, but it was a pale shadow compared to the Sacred Axe.
Then, roughly two weeks into the mobilization, shattering news arrived from King's Landing. Not by raven, which were too easily intercepted, but by a trusted Stark agent Robb had cultivated within his father's retinue – a man who had ridden relentlessly, changing horses multiple times, his face a mask of grief and exhaustion.
He found Robb in the armory, inspecting newly sharpened spearheads. "My Lord Robb," the agent gasped, sinking to one knee, his voice hoarse. "Dire news… the direst."
Robb's blood ran cold despite the sun's warmth within him. "Speak, man. Quickly."
"King Robert… King Robert is dead, my lord. A hunting accident… they say." The agent's eyes were filled with a terrible knowing. "And Lord Eddard… your father… he has been arrested. Accused of treason against the new King… Joffrey."
The spearhead Robb had been holding slipped from his numb fingers, clattering loudly on the stone floor. Treason. Joffrey. Lannister puppets. It had happened, just as the histories foretold. But the stark reality of it, the confirmation of his father's doom if he did not act, hit him with the force of a physical blow.
The agent continued, his voice choked, "They say Lord Stark tried to usurp Joffrey's rightful claim… that he sought the throne for himself. Lies, my lord! Vile Lannister lies! They hold him in the Black Cells."
A silence fell in the armory, so profound that the distant ring of the forges seemed deafening. Robb felt a surge of icy rage, a cold fury that was pure Tony Volante, quickly followed by the blazing, righteous indignation of Escanor. They dare? They dare accuse Eddard Stark of treason? They dare lay hands on the Warden of the North?
He mastered himself with an effort that made the veins stand out on his neck. "This agent… who brought this news… ensure he is fed, housed, and kept silent and safe," Robb ordered the guards present, his voice dangerously quiet. "No one else is to hear this from him directly. I will make the announcement."
The news ripped through Winterfell and then the North like a shockwave. Grief for King Robert, a man many Northmen had respected, quickly turned to incandescent fury at the Lannisters and the perceived injustice against Eddard Stark. The already fervent preparations for war took on a new, desperate urgency. Now, it was not just about defending the Riverlands or seeking redress for Bran; it was about saving their Lord Paramount from the executioner's block.
Robb allowed the Northern anger to build, then channeled it. He made no public pronouncements of vengeance against the Iron Throne itself – Joffrey was still the anointed King, however manipulated. Instead, he focused their wrath on the "false counselors," the "Lannister usurpers" who had poisoned the King's justice and unlawfully imprisoned Lord Stark. It was a fine distinction, but a necessary one for now.
The day of departure arrived sooner than planned, driven by the dire news. Ser Rodrik Cassel, his old face etched with worry and resolve, was named Castellan of Winterfell, charged with its defense and the protection of Bran and Rickon. Maester Luwin would remain as his advisor.
Robb's farewell to his younger brothers was brief but heartfelt. Bran, now walking with a slight limp but his mind sharp, clutched Robb's hand. "Bring Father home, Robb." There was a strange, distant look in his eyes that Robb was beginning to recognize as something more than just a child's fear.
"I will, Bran," Robb promised, his voice thick with emotion. "I swear it." He hugged Rickon tightly, the little boy not quite understanding the gravity of the situation but sensing the somber mood.
Then, at the head of two thousand disciplined, well-equipped men – the flower of Winterfell's household guard and the surrounding Stark lands – Robb Stark rode out from the gates of his ancestral home. The great direwolf banner of House Stark, larger than any had seen in generations, billowed above him, a stark white wolf on an ice-grey field. Theon Greyjoy, resplendent in new armor, rode proudly amongst Robb's personal guard, his skill with the bow already making him a valuable asset in scouting, though Robb's eyes often lingered on him with a carefully hidden suspicion.
The march south was a testament to Robb's meticulous planning. Unlike the often chaotic progress of other feudal armies, the Winterfell contingent moved with speed and discipline. Foragers were kept on a tight leash, supply wagons (their wheels and axles improved by Mikken under Robb's designs) rolled smoothly, and scouts, led by Theon, ranged far ahead and to the flanks. Robb himself seemed to be everywhere, riding up and down the column, encouraging his men, solving problems before they escalated, his stamina seemingly inexhaustible thanks to Sunshine. He shared the hardships of the march, sleeping on the ground, eating the same rations as his men, further endearing himself to them.
As they moved south through the bleak, beautiful landscapes of the North, other great Northern lords and their levies began to converge towards the main host, or march directly to the rendezvous at Moat Cailin. The Greatjon Umber, with nearly three thousand bellowing Northmen, met them near the White Knife. Lord Wyman Manderly sent a vast train of supplies and two thousand of his heavily armored knights and men-at-arms, led by his bluff son Ser Wendel. The Karstark, Glover, Tallhart, and Mormont contingents were also on the move. The North was truly roused.
Moat Cailin, when Robb's vanguard finally reached it after nearly three weeks of hard marching, was a grim, forbidding sight. Three crumbling, moss-covered towers rose from the stinking swamps and bogs of the Neck, guarding the causeway that was the only viable passage for an army into or out of the North. It was dilapidated, a shadow of its former glory, but its strategic importance was undeniable.
"This," Robb declared to his assembled captains, gesturing to the ancient fortress, "is the lock to the North. And we hold the key."
He immediately set his engineers and thousands of men to work, not just repairing the existing towers, but digging new earthworks, reinforcing the causeway, clearing sight lines through the reeds and bog oaks, and building sturdy new timber fortifications. His knowledge of siegecraft and defensive emplacements, gleaned from Tony Volante's obsessive study of history and warfare, transformed Moat Cailin from a crumbling ruin into a formidable bastion in a matter of days.
The Northern lords and their hosts continued to arrive, awed by the transformation of the Moat and the sheer size of the army gathering. Soon, nearly nineteen thousand Northmen were encamped around the fortress – a sea of banners, tents, and cookfires, the largest Northern army assembled in living memory. Greatjon Umber was in his element, roaring challenges and drinking with his men. Dacey Mormont and her fierce warriors from Bear Island drilled with grim determination. Wendel Manderly ensured the supply lines from White Harbor kept the army fed.
Then, Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton, arrived with the Dreadfort men – two thousand grim-faced soldiers, their banners displaying the flayed man of House Bolton. Ramsay himself was a pale, fleshy young man with wide, wet lips and eyes that held a disturbing emptiness, a chilling contrast to the veneer of lowborn courtesy he affected.
"Lord Robb," Ramsay said, bowing low, a smile that didn't reach his eyes playing on his lips. "My father, Lord Roose Bolton, sends his profound regrets that he cannot be here himself. Matters of… recalcitrant peasantry… demand his personal attention at the Dreadfort. He entrusts his loyal men and his humble son to your wise command."
Robb felt a coldness touch him that had nothing to do with the swamp air. This was the creature who would later commit such atrocities. He returned the greeting with icy courtesy. "Your father's loyalty is noted, Ramsay Snow. Your men are welcome. They will take up positions on the western flank of the causeway defenses. Ensure your pickets are vigilant." He assigned the Bolton forces a crucial, but also isolated, sector where they could be observed and where their particular brand Dothraki-style brutality (if it emerged) would be less likely to infect the rest of the army. He also subtly assigned some of his most trusted Stark rangers to "liaise" with the Bolton contingent – in reality, to watch them.
With the army fully assembled and Moat Cailin secured, Robb called a final war council within the newly repaired central tower. The mood was grimly resolute. News of Tywin Lannister's brutal campaign in the Riverlands had reached them – villages burned, smallfolk slaughtered, Riverrun itself threatened.
"Lord Tywin moves against my grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully, with fire and sword," Robb told the assembled lords – Greatjon Umber, Harrion Karstark, Wendel Manderly, Galbart Glover, Helman Tallhart, Maege Mormont (Dacey's mother, who had arrived with the main Mormont contingent), and Ramsay Snow among others. "He seeks to draw us into a confrontation on his terms in the Riverlands. Meanwhile, my father languishes in a Lannister dungeon, and a Lannister puppet sits the Iron Throne."
He laid out his daring strategy, one that made several of the older lords blink but drew nods of appreciation from the more aggressive commanders like Greatjon.
"We cannot fight a war on two fronts with a single host," Robb declared. "Nor can we afford to be bogged down in a protracted siege. Therefore, we will split our forces."
He looked directly at Ramsay Snow. "Ramsay, your father Lord Roose is known for his cunning and his discipline. I will entrust a significant portion of our infantry, some six thousand men including your Dreadfort levies and contingents from Houses Hornwood and Cerwyn, to his command when he joins us, or yours in his stead for now. Their task will be to march east, to engage Lord Tywin's main army, to harry him, to delay him, to make him bleed for every step he takes in the Riverlands. It will be a hard, dangerous task, requiring skill and patience." He was giving Roose (and Ramsay) a vital role, but also one that would keep them away from his own main force, and hopefully, where their actions could be somewhat contained or at least observed by other Northern lords within that contingent.
"While Lord Tywin is occupied," Robb continued, his eyes blazing with an inner fire, "I will take the cavalry, our best heavy infantry, and the swiftest of our foot – some twelve thousand men – and strike west. Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, commands another Lannister army besieging Riverrun. We will fall upon him like a winter storm. We will break his siege, free my grandfather's castle, and capture the Kingslayer himself if the Gods are willing!"
A roar of approval went up from the Greatjon and Dacey Mormont. It was a bold, aggressive plan, aiming to neutralize one Lannister army quickly while bogging down the other.
"Once Jaime Lannister is dealt with and the Riverlands secured," Robb concluded, "our united forces, along with our Tully allies, will then turn our attention to King's Landing and the matter of my father's freedom and the King's justice."
Logistics, troop movements, and command structures were finalized. He would personally lead the western strike force. The sheer audacity and clarity of his plan, combined with the almost palpable aura of command that radiated from him (thanks to the ever-present Sunshine), swayed any doubters.
The day before they were to march south from Moat Cailin, Robb Stark addressed the entire Northern host. He stood on a makeshift platform before the newly strengthened central tower, the massive Stark direwolf banner snapping in the wind above him. Nineteen thousand Northmen stood assembled in the muddy fields, a forest of spears and banners under the grey sky.
The sun was high, though veiled by clouds, but Robb felt its power at his zenith. He drew upon Escanor's pride, not the arrogance, but the absolute, unshakeable conviction, and let it infuse his voice.
"Men of the North!" he cried, his voice, magically or divinely amplified, carrying to the furthest ranks. "You are the sons and daughters of the First Men! The blood of heroes flows in your veins! For eight thousand years, House Stark has led the North, and for eight thousand years, the North has stood strong, a bulwark against darkness, a bastion of honor!"
A roar went up from the army.
"Now, that honor is challenged! Our Warden, my father, Lord Eddard Stark, a man whose integrity is renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms, has been falsely accused and imprisoned by traitors and usurpers! His life hangs in the balance!"
Another, angrier roar.
"The Lannisters of Casterly Rock, drunk on their gold and their arrogance, have attacked our kin in the Riverlands! They burn, they pillage, they murder! They seek to impose their tyranny upon free men! They have underestimated the North! They have forgotten who we are!"
He drew his Valyrian steel sword, its polished surface gleaming dully in the overcast light. "We march south not for conquest, not for glory, but for justice! For our Lord! For our families! For the North! We will teach these Southern lions the folly of waking the wolf! Show them our teeth! Show them our fury! For Winter is Coming, and we are its storm!"
The response was a single, deafening, primal roar that shook the very foundations of Moat Cailin. Spears were brandished, swords raised, shields hammered. "ROBB! ROBB! THE YOUNG WOLF! STARK! WINTER IS COMING!"
Robb watched them, his heart swelling with a fierce pride that was all his own, yet magnified by the power within him. These were his people. His army. And he would lead them to victory, or die trying – though Ban's immortality made that latter prospect a complex one.
The next dawn, under a sky that threatened rain, the great host of the North began to move. Two mighty streams of men, horses, and wagons flowed south from Moat Cailin, crossing the Neck into the war-torn lands of the Riverlands. The Young Wolf was on the hunt.