This is murder. I demand blood for blood!"
The roar echoed against the stone walls of Winterfell's Great Hall, where banners of the direwolf hung between burning torches. Lord Medger Cerwyn stood red-faced before the assembled northern lords, his fist striking the oak table hard enough to rattle goblets.
"My men were butchered in the night like cattle!" he continued. "They were sworn men under Stark protection. This was no brawl between drunk levies. It was calculated killing."
Across from him sat Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, his pale eyes unreadable. His sigil—the flayed man—hung discreetly behind him, pink and white against the hall's darker banners. His voice, when he spoke, was soft enough that the room instinctively quieted to hear it.
"Your men were found trailing mine beyond the eastern camp perimeter," Roose said calmly. "When confronted, they drew steel. They were… unsuccessful."
A faint pause.
"They died as men do in war."
Medger Cerwyn's knuckles whitened. "Stabbing a man from behind is not war. It is murder."
Roose's thin lips curved almost imperceptibly. "If they were stabbed from behind, perhaps they should have been facing forward."
The insult hung heavy in the air.
Around the table stood the power of the North—Greatjon Umber looming like a mountain, Rickard Karstark grim-faced and watchful, Maege Mormont solid as granite, Galbart Glover silent with folded arms. All eyes gradually turned toward the high seat at the head of the table.
There sat Robb Stark.
The Young Wolf.
The matter was not simple. It was, in truth, born of his own command. Days earlier, Robb had quietly instructed Cerwyn to keep watch upon Bolton movements. House Bolton had bent the knee to House Stark for centuries, yet history was not easily forgotten. Before the coming of the Andals, the Boltons had skinned Stark kings and worn their hides as cloaks. Only after a brutal siege generations ago did they swear permanent fealty to Winterfell.
And now, with Eddard Stark imprisoned in King's Landing and Robert Baratheon dead from a hunting "accident," opportunity tempted ambitious men.
Robb rose slowly. Grey Wind, seated at his side, lifted his massive head and bared his teeth slightly, sensing tension.
"Killing demands justice," Robb said evenly. "Blood answers blood. That is the law of the First Men and the law of the North."
He turned his gaze directly upon Roose Bolton.
"Lord Bolton. Deliver to me the man who led the attack. I will judge him myself beneath the heart tree."
The hall fell silent.
Roose's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He had expected hesitation. He had expected a boy uncertain of authority. Instead he found iron.
Inwardly, he recalculated.
For months he had considered possibilities. The Iron Throne now held Joffrey Baratheon—a cruel child backed by the wealth of House Lannister. Tywin Lannister commanded the largest host in the realm. If the North fractured under weak leadership, Bolton ambition might rise again.
But this Robb Stark did not look weak.
Roose inclined his head slightly. "As my liege commands."
It was not surrender. It was postponement.
Robb felt faint disappointment. An open refusal would have given him cause to make an example. Still, compliance in public reinforced his authority before the bannermen.
He let his gaze sweep the hall.
"Our purpose," Robb continued, "is not to quarrel among ourselves while my father faces execution in King's Landing."
At the mention of Ned Stark, fists tightened around cups. Many in this hall had ridden with him during the Greyjoy Rebellion, when Balon Greyjoy declared himself king and was crushed by Robert and Ned together. Loyalty to the Starks was not mere politics; it was memory.
"If we tear at each other," Robb said, "the lions will devour us."
He paused.
"To prevent further bloodshed between sworn houses, I will establish a war court."
Murmurs rippled immediately.
"A what?" Greatjon Umber demanded.
"A tribunal," Robb clarified. "A body empowered to enforce a unified code of conduct for all northern forces. Theft, murder, desertion, unauthorized violence between banners—these will be judged by common law, not by private vengeance."
Karstark frowned. "Our men answer to us."
"They still shall," Robb replied. "But when banners march as one host, they will obey one standard."
He gestured to Maester Luwin, who produced a parchment.
"These articles define camp conduct, chain of command, treatment of smallfolk, and discipline in the field. No house may remove any provision. Additional rules may be added within their own ranks, but none may contradict this code."
Bolton's pale eyes flickered briefly. Discipline centralized under Stark oversight would weaken opportunities for quiet manipulation.
"And who enforces this?" Glover asked.
Robb did not hesitate.
"Maege Mormont."
A stir moved through the chamber.
The Lady of Bear Island stepped forward.
Maege Mormont was broad-shouldered, iron-grey haired, and bore scars earned in skirmishes against ironborn raiders. She wore no silk, only leather and fur. Bear Island had few men; its women learned to fight as necessity.
"A woman?" one lesser lord muttered unwisely.
Greatjon's booming laugh silenced him. "I've seen Mormont women gut ironborn twice your size."
Robb allowed a faint smile.
"Bear Island has never bent to pirates," he said. "Lady Maege's son serves in the Night's Watch at the Wall. Her brother Jeor commands it."
At the mention of Jeor Mormont, several heads nodded. The Lord Commander was widely respected.
Maege's gaze swept the hall. Few met it for long.
"I will judge fairly," she said bluntly. "And if any man dislikes that, he may test my steel."
The matter settled itself.
Robb descended one step from his seat and inclined his head slightly to her. It was subtle, but powerful—a king acknowledging strength rather than merely demanding obedience.
Inwardly, he reflected on a memory only he possessed. When first greeting Maege days earlier, she had clasped his forearm hard, testing him as warriors do. He had returned the grip with controlled force. Surprise had flashed across her weathered face. Respect had followed.
Now she knelt briefly—not as a defeated rival, but as a commander accepting charge.
"I will carry out your justice," she said.
Robb placed a hand upon her shoulder. "Rise, Lady of Bear Island."
The lords exchanged glances. The Young Wolf had not only resolved the dispute—he had expanded his authority over the army. Discipline, justice, unity.
He returned to his seat and addressed them once more.
"If any house finds this unacceptable," he said calmly, "you may depart Winterfell at dawn. Return to your castles. Guard your own lands."
His voice hardened.
"But know this. Should you abandon the North in its hour of need, I will remember."
The warning needed no embellishment.
Rickard Karstark grunted approval. Greatjon thumped the table. Even Roose Bolton remained silent, calculating anew.
The hall gradually eased into lower murmurs as wine was poured again. Yet beneath the surface, something fundamental had shifted.
Robb Stark had not merely demanded vengeance.
He had taken command.
Grey Wind rested his massive head upon Robb's knee, golden eyes scanning the chamber.
Beyond the walls of Winterfell, thousands of northern soldiers drilled in the cold wind, unaware that the shape of their command had just changed.
Far to the south, in the Red Keep, lions sharpened claws.
But in this hall of stone and history, the wolf had bared his own teeth.