When the solar door closed, leaving Robb alone with the echo of that victory, the cold mask of authority he had worn dissolved. He sank into his father's chair, the old leather creaking beneath his weight, and a tremor took hold of his hands now that the adrenaline from the confrontation had faded, giving way to a weariness that seemed to come from his soul. He had won. He had cornered one of the cleverest men in Westeros, using honor and politics as the bars of a cage. And the taste of victory was ashes in his mouth.
He looked at Tyrion's untouched wine cup on the table. A gesture of hospitality used as bait. He thought of Bran's saddle—na act of genuine compassion he had twisted into a tool of coercion. I justified my actions to Ser Rodrik and to the Imp himself with logic and prudence, he reflected, fingers drumming against the dark wood of the desk. I spoke of honor, of politics, of the North's safety. And every word was true. But it wasn't the whole truth. The full truth, the one that haunted him, was that he was playing god, moving people like pieces on a cyvasse board only he could see. The lawyer's mind felt a cold pride in the flawless execution of manipulation; the Stark soul within him felt shame for breaking the ancient law of hospitality.
This was the essence of his new condition. He was not merely a lord—he was a keeper of terrible secrets. And the next step on his shadowed path was the most dangerous yet. He needed to share a sliver of that secret, but only enough to ensure obedience. He needed to turn three men loyal to House Stark into men loyal only to him, on a mission that might place them in direct conflict with the Lady of Winterfell—his mother.
He did not summon them to the solar, the seat of political power. For what he needed, a different setting was required. More solemn. More primal. He sent a servant to fetch Alekk, Hallis, and Alyn, with instructions to meet him in the armory in tem minutes.
The Winterfell armory at night was a place of shadows and cold steel. The air smelled of polish oil, leather, and metal. The suits of armor on their stands looked like silent sentinels—Starks of old, bearing witness to the oath that was about to be sworn. Robb waited near a cold forge, the only light coming from a single torch, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls, making it seem as if the ghosts of the Kings of Winter were watching from the dark.
The three men entered, their boots dull against the packed earth floor. They lined up before Robb, their faces a mix of curiosity and unease. Alekk, the leader, was unreadable, a professional. Hallis, the youngest, looked eager, ready for action. Alyn, the observer, had his eyes locked on Robb, already sensing this was more than a simple farewell.
"Ser Rodrik spoke to you of your mission," Robb began, his voice calm but sharp in the silence of the armory. "He told you of our House's honor, your duty to protect my lady mother, and to ensure Lord Tyrion's safety." He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "But that is not the whole truth. There's a complication. A danger that only you must know—and be prepared for."
He watched them closely. "As you know, my mother has ridden south. Her grief for my brother Bran consumes her. In her mourning, she believes the Lannisters are responsible for all our ills. She sees betrayal in every shadow."
"It's her right!" Hallis said, with youthful fervor. "She is our Lady! Our duty is to die for her, not to question her!"
"Yes, you will protect her honor," Robb said, fixing Hallis with a steady gaze, his voice never rising but taking on a quiet intensity that silenced the young guard. "But from what? Bandits? Assassins? The greatest danger my mother will face on the road won't come from a knife in the dark. It will come from her own broken heart."
Alekk stepped forward, his face tense. "My lord, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Robb answered, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone, "that a chance meeting between Lady Catelyn and Lord Tyrion on the road would be like tossing a torch into a powder keg. My mother's pain may drive her to act... rashly. To see the Imp not as a man, but as the embodiment of her suffering. A confrontation between them, on the Kingsroad, would be a disaster. Tywin Lannister wouldn't care about motives. He would see only the result: his son threatened by the Hand's wife. It would be the spark that sets the forest ablaze."
Understanding—slow, terrible—began to dawn on the men's faces.
"You want us to... stop her?" Alekk whispered, the words sounding like blasphemy.
"I want you to stop a war," Robb corrected, his voice steeling. He stepped forward into the torch's circle of light. "Your mission to protect Tyrion Lannister isn't just about our House's honor. It's about actively preventing a confrontation. You are not merely bodyguards. You are peacekeepers. Your shields will protect not just the Imp's body—but the North's peace. Your loyalty to Lady Catelyn honors you. But your obedience to me will save lives. Her command would be born of grief. Mine is born of necessity."
He moved closer to them, his face lit by torchlight, looking older and more dangerous than ever. "I am not asking you to dishonor my mother. I am asking you to protect her from herself. To protect all of us from the consequences of her mourning. Your loyalty, on this mission, must be to me. To my order. Above all else."
He looked each of them in the eye. Alyn was silent, his sharp mind absorbing the greater game. Hallis had gone pale, the weight of the command crushing his simple loyalty. Alekk, the leader, wore the face of a condemned man, but his jaw was clenched in determination.
"I demand na oath," Robb said, his voice now a deadly whisper. He drew his own sword, the castle-forged steel gleaming in the torchlight, and drove it into the soft earth of the armory floor. "Here. Now. With your hand upon Stark steel. Swear to me. Swear that your first loyalty on this mission is to my order. Swear that you will take this secret to the grave. Swear it."
One by one, beneath the gaze of silent armor, the three men of Winterfell knelt. They placed their hands upon the cold blade and swore their oath in the half-light. When they rose, they were no longer mere guards. They were agents of a hidden will, bearers of a terrible burden. Robb had remade them in his own image—not as a lord, but as a strategist. And he felt the weight of that creation like lead in his heart.
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