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The hall emptied slowly, boots scraped across stone. Murmured vows of vengeance lingered in the air like smoke. One by one the riverlords and northern bannermen filed out beneath the trout banners of Riverrun, their faces carved from grief and fury.
When the great doors shut with a heavy thud, only two remained at the long scarred table. Robb Stark stood motionless at its head, one hand braced against the wood, the other resting upon the pommel of Ice. The Valyrian steel seemed darker in the torchlight, as though it drank the glow rather than reflected it.
Jon waited. For a long moment neither spoke. At last Robb exhaled, sharp and ragged. "They cut off his head."
It was not a question. Jon felt the familiar twisting in his gut. He had heard it once before. Lived it once before. In another life he had failed to stop it. Failed to save them all. "Yes," he said quietly.
Robb turned, eyes red-rimmed but dry. "He confessed to save us. To save Sansa. To save Arya. And that monster—" His voice broke into something dangerously close to a snarl.
Jon stepped closer. "Joffrey is a child with too much power and too little sense. But it was not only the boy. It was the Lannisters. Cersei. Tywin. The whole lot of them."
Robb's jaw tightened. "Then we destroy them."
Jon shook his head slowly. "Not blindly. Not foolishly."
Robb stared at him, something hard and wounded in his expression. "Do not tell me to be patient."
"I am telling you to be cold." The word hung between them. Jon moved to the table and leaned over the map of Westeros. Pins marked Golden Tooth, Casterly Rock, King's Landing. The Riverlands were marked in blue and grey now, reclaimed but scarred.
"We want revenge," Jon said. "I want it as much as you. But rushing headlong would only lead to our graves."
Robb's fingers flexed on the hilt of Ice. "They have killed our father," Jon continued. "They hold our sisters and brother. If we rush south in rage, Tywin falls on our rear from the west and we are crushed between lion and crown."
Robb closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the storm had not passed, but it had narrowed into focus. "Then what do you propose?"
Jon studied the map. "We cannot defeat the Lannisters alone," he said plainly. "Even weakened, they are entrenched in the Westerlands. And King's Landing still holds the royal treasury, the city watch, the Red Keep. If we strike at one without securing the other, they reinforce each other."
Robb nodded once. "We need an ally."
"Yes."
They began to speak names like pieces on a cyvasse board. "Renly Baratheon," Robb said first.
Jon grimaced slightly. "Eighty thousand men. The Tyrells of the Reach behind him. Most of the Stormlands. A host large enough to drown King's Landing in green and gold."
Robb walked around the table slowly. "With that strength, he could sweep aside the Lannisters in a single campaign."
"He could," Jon agreed. "But Renly is not the rightful heir. He crowns himself while his elder brother lives."
Robb's eyes flicked to him. "And does that matter?"
"It matters," Jon said firmly. "If we support Renly, we back a usurper against his elder brother. We declare that crowns are taken by popularity and might alone. What then stops another lord from doing the same."
Robb was silent. "Renly wins," Jon went on, "and what does he give us? Gratitude? Perhaps. Or perhaps the Reach whispers in his ear that the North grows too strong. That the Riverlands must be kept divided. The Tyrells are ambitious and cunning. They are just as dangerous as the lions."
Silence. Robb moved a carved wolf piece across the map, placing it near the Stormlands. "And Stannis?"
Jon's expression sharpened. "Stannis is the rightful heir," he said. "By every law of succession. Robert's elder surviving brother. Hard. Unbending. Not beloved but lawful."
"He has fewer men."
"Yes. The royal fleet. The lords of the Narrow Sea. Dragonstone. Perhaps fifteen to twenty thousand at most."
"Less than Renly."
"Yes."
Robb looked unconvinced. "Then why him?"
Jon met his gaze steadily. "Because he will attack King's Landing." He remembered in his last life how the man besieged the capital.
Robb frowned. "Renly would too."
"Not immediately," Jon said. "Renly will posture. Parade his great host. Wait for defections. He will try to win without bleeding."
"And Stannis?"
"Stannis will strike."
Jon tapped King's Landing on the map. "He knows the city. He commanded its fleet. He knows its weaknesses. If Renly dies-"
"What do you mean he dies?" Robb asked with narrowed eyes.
"I said if," Jon said recalling how the man fell under mysterious circumstances. He wondered if it would play out again this life. Stannis will not hesitate. He will sail on the capital."
Robb studied him closely. "You sound certain."
Jon held his gaze. "I am." Because I have seen it or more like heard it from the man himself but he did not say.
"If Stannis takes King's Landing," Jon continued, "the Lannisters lose the throne. They lose legitimacy. Tywin becomes just another rebellious lord in the west, trapped between us and a king who hates him."
Robb nodded his head, seeing his plan. "We hold the Riverlands," he said slowly. "We pin Tywin in the Westerlands. Stannis takes the capital."
"However," he added, "We can call on the Arryns aid which would be less costly."
Jon's expression darkened slightly, recalling how the mad woman let her family die. "The Vale is strong, yes and untouched by war. But Lady Arryn hides behind her mountains. She will not commit and hasn't for nearly 2 years now!"
"And the Ironborn?" Robb threw out.
Jon's jaw tightened. "Unreliable," he said carefully. "Balon Greyjoy dreams of crowns and salt thrones. He will not bleed for us unless he smells weakness."
Robb gave a faint snort. "We have Theon."
Jon forced himself not to react too sharply. "Hostages are not always chains," he said. "And ironborn loyalty flows with the tide."
Robb waved a hand. "Balon would be a fool to strike the North now."
Jon looked down at the Neck on the map. Moat Cailin. The thin choke point between north and south. "Fools rule the Iron Islands," he said quietly. "Let's shore up our defenses at home, brother. Send Roose Bolton back and raise a second force in the North to be on guard. The Leech Lord can guard Moat Cailin for us."
"You are over reacting, Jon," Robb smiled at him.
Jon cut him off then, "The Green Men have seen ships gathering. Fleets in the Sunset Sea. It may be nothing. But if the ironborn strike Moat Cailin while we are south…"
Robb's eyes narrowed. "You are certain?"
"As certain as one can be of tides," Jon replied carefully.
Robb considered. "I will write to the lords who were not able to send their forces with me in time and to the Mountain Tribes. We can gather up at most 10,000 men. Why Bolton though?"
"He is cautious. Cold. He will not squander men recklessly." Nor will he betray them so easily if he is far from the heart of your army, Jon thought. Hopefully he would also die against the Ironborn when they attacked.
"Fine, I will also write to Manderly to build some ships just in case."
"Good, there have also been wildlings beyond the wall. The Green say they see tribes are gathering and a king-beyond-the-wall could have been named."
"That is impossible, the wildlings have not attacked for hundreds of years."
"Better to be prepared brother. Let's not fight a three front war. We should send emissaries to them and try to broker peace with them."
Robb looked at him as if he said the most insane thing, "My lords would have my head if I ever make peace with wildlings."
"We are already convorting with Green Men," Jon smiled. "What would change if we ally with savages. The South already sees as that."
Robb sighed. "You are thinking of every shadow."
"I have seen what happens when we do not."
Robb studied him again with that searching look, as though trying to see something beneath the surface. Then Robb said quietly, "There is something else."
Jon knew what was coming.
"The Green Men."
Jon nodded slowly.
"They turned Harrenhal into a nightmare for the Lannisters," Robb said. "Men whisper that the trees themselves fought."
"They did," Jon replied simply.
Robb walked to one of the narrow windows overlooking the Tumblestone. "If we embrace them openly… if we return to the old ways…"
"The Faith will howl," Jon finished.
"And many fantical lords that keep to the Seven closely."
"Yes."
Robb looked at him. "You know what you are asking me to do, brother? Human sacrifice." The words sounded foreign in the Tully hall.
Jon did not flinch. "The Old Gods demand blood in times of war. The weirwoods remember."
"And the Seven condemn it as abomination."
Jon stepped closer. "The Faith did not save our father," he said quietly. "The boy king who ordered his death kneels before the Seven." Robb's expression darkened.
"The Green Men gave us Harrenhal," Jon pressed. "They broke Jaime's host. They turned the land against our enemies. If we mean to defeat the Lannisters utterly, we need every edge."
Robb hesitated. "The riverlords will not like blood spilled beneath their trees."
"They will like Lannister swords less."
A long silence stretched. Finally Robb nodded once, grimly. "We will take them in," he said. "Quietly at first. Let the practice spread slowly. Those who object can leave our banners."
Jon inclined his head. "And if the Faith declares us heretics?"
"Let them." There was iron in Robb's voice now.
Jon allowed himself a thin breath. The reason why he was pushing for this so much was because he knew the end was near and they needed as much help as they could get, especially magical ones.
At last Jon's voice softened. "Sansa. Arya. Bran." Jon's chest tightened.
"They are still in King's Landing," Robb said. "Hostages."
Jon looked at the tiny carved marker representing the capital. ""I will not abandon them. I still have some connections of Littlefinger who can get me in quietly to the Red Keep to rescue them."
Robb's eyes burned. "Really?"
"With your permission, brother. I can take the fastest ship and try to arrive there before the siege starts."
"Good, do so and keep safe!"
They stood together in the dimming hall, two sons of Winterfell beneath the banners of the trout, surrounded by maps and blood-soaked futures.
"We write to Stannis," Robb said at last. "We fortify the Neck. We raise more men. We bring the Green Men into our cause. And we hold the Riverlands."
"Yes."
Robb extended his hand. Jon clasped it. "My the Old Gods be with you!"
"May they be with you too!"
-
Jon had just finished sealing letters to whatever last few contracts were left of littlefinger when the horn sounded from the gate tower; two long blasts, urgent but not panicked. A rider.
He knew what news they carried before they were spoken. He found Robb already in the solar, standing by the narrow window overlooking the Tumblestone, rain streaking the glass like tears. Ice rested against the wall within reach.
The messenger knelt, mud soaking into the rushes. "My lords… Renly Baratheon is dead."
Silence. "How?" Robb asked, voice level.
"Slain in his own pavilion. Some say by a shadow. Others whisper treachery. His lords are divided. Many bend now to Stannis."
The rain filled the quiet that followed. Robb dismissed the rider with a nod. When the door shut, he looked at Jon. "Just as you guessed."
Jon inclined his head slowly. "Yes." There was no triumph in his voice.
Robb studied him carefully. "So it is Stannis, then," he said as walked to the table where the map still lay pinned and scarred.
Jon joined him. Renly's carved stag had been removed from the Stormlands. In its place, Robb now placed another bare and unadorned. "Most of the Stormlords will go to him," Robb said. "They have no other choice."
"Then there is the Tyrells," Jon muttered. He hoped they were not foolish enough to ally with Lannisters once more.
Robb's mouth tightened. "Yes, that is the great question. What will they do now that their puppet king is dead."
Jon couldn't agree anymore, the battlefield has changed and the Lannister are in an even worse position than before. Would the Tyrells still toss their lot in with them?
Highgarden would want to seek a new sun to orbit. Mace Tyrell or his mother that was behind the shadows would not sit idle while the realm reshaped itself. Their armies were vast, their granaries full, their gold deep. With Reach steel behind anyone, the scales could be tipped to one side.
Jon had thought about jumping into bed with them. More like his brother as he looked at him studying the map. With Renly gone, Robb would be very appetizing. Robb Stark, or Lord Paramount of the North wed to Margaery Tyrell. Wolf and rose entwined. The largest army in the Seven Kingdoms standing beneath direwolf banners.
For a moment, Jon had entertained it seriously.
With the Reach's sixty thousand and their own strength in the North and Riverlands, they could have overwhelmed the Lannister entirely. Golden Tooth smashed. Westerlands burned and looted. King's Landing surrounded not by Stannis' grim fleet, but by a sea of green and grey.
But there lied in the problem. The Tyrells would accept nothing less than the Iron Throne for themselves through Robb.
They had backed Renly because he promised them a crown. They would not bend the knee to Stannis, not willingly. And they would not pledge their strength to Robb unless it ended with him seated upon the Iron Throne.
Highgarden would demand it no matter what. If the Reach bled for the wolf, the wolf would wear the crown. And that path was a snare. If Robb claimed the Iron Throne, everything would change. He would need to conquer all the old kingdoms.
The Vale would need to fall in line. Lady Arryn would have to be coaxed or pressured to swear allegiance. They would need to utterly crush the Westerlands not merely defeat Tywin in the field, but break his power at its root. Casterly Rock would have to fall. Lannisport subdued. The Lannister name reduced to something that could never rise again.
They would need to bring the Ironborn to heel. Balon Greyjoy would never accept a northern king ruling from King's Landing. He would smell opportunity in every southern distraction. That meant either appeasing him with concessions that weakened the realm or invading the Iron Islands outright.
They would need to subdue the Stormlands. Renly's former lords might bend to Robb if he triumphed, but Stannis would not. And Stannis would fight. Hard. Relentlessly. A lawful claimant pushed aside would not simply fade into obscurity.
Then there was Dorne. Patient, proud Dorne. The Martells would not commit lightly. They would bargain. They would wait. And if they sensed weakness, they would move in their own time.
It would not be one war. It would be five. Five fronts. Five kingdoms to cajole, threaten, or conquer. Years of blood. And by the time they secured the south…The great enemy would be at the Wall. Jon's jaw tightened slightly at the thought.
The realm did not have the luxury of endless civil war. That was why the Tyrell path, however tempting, was poison. Yes, with Highgarden they could win everything. But in winning everything, they would lose the time they did not have.
Stannis, by contrast, offered something simpler. Legitimacy. Also Stannis was committed. He somehow knew about the Great Enemy and would help to fight it. Pouring all his resources to defeating it.
Jon remembered the man's rigid sense of justice. His grim determination. His refusal to bend even when it would have been easier. Of all the claimants in the realm, Stannis alone would take a warning about a greater enemy seriously.
Renly would had laugh it off. The Tyrells would weigh its political value. Balon would ignore it entirely. The Lannister would keep trying to kill them.
So it was better to stand beside a lawful, iron-willed king and end the southern war swiftly than to chase a crown that would drag them into endless conquest.
-
The days after Renly's death passed beneath a sky that seemed unable to decide between storm and sun. It wasn't only the death of one of the Kings in this war that had everyone on edge.
The Green Men were coming! Whispers moved through the courtyards and along the battlements like drifting mist. The Riverlords watched the northern banners uneasily; the northern lords watched the riverbanks and tree lines with a bit of eagerness.
When the Green Men emerged from the river mists again, it was no longer silent figures slipping through shadow, it was a host. Not an army in the southern sense of banners and drums, but something older. Stranger.
They crossed the river at dawn, water swirling around their knees, reeds whispering against bark-bound greaves. The men on the walls watched in uneasy silence as ranks formed along the banks beneath Riverrun's towers.
A hundred Initiates marched at the fore. They were young boys and girls with heads shaved save for braided locks threaded with bone and leaf. Their cloaks were woven from river grass and dyed in mottled greens and browns. Some carried spears of ash wood. Others bore curved knives of dark iron etched with symbols few in the south could read.
They moved with discipline, but their discipline was not drilled into them with shouted commands. It was quiet. Intent. As though they listened to something beneath the earth and kept time with it.
Behind them came the Watchers. Ten of them. These were older men and women whose faces bore lines carved by wind and sun. Their eyes seemed unfocused at first glance, yet unnervingly aware upon a second look. Small charms of carved weirwood hung from their necks. Some carried staves crowned with antler prongs wrapped in copper wire.
When they passed beneath the walls, trees creaked and levees rustled in the wind in greeting. Whispers spread quickly: green magic.
The Watchers were said to draw upon the power from the land, not the spells and rituals like the red priests of the east, but communicating with soil, water, and root. They could make trees walk, call mists across the land, flood river beds, or make vines like serpents.
Whether all of it was true mattered less than the belief.
Behind them came the Wardens. Larger in number, perhaps twenty in total and they drew the most stares. They wore no antlers. No visible charms.
Their eyes were different. Some were pale as winter sky. Others deep and moss-dark. They walked among animals who padded silently at their sides; lean, scarred beasts whose gaze met men's eyes without fear.
Warg-blood. The word passed through the gathered lords like a chill. These were not mere woodsmen playing at old tales. These were skinchangers, men and women who could step beyond their flesh and see through the eyes of beast and bird. Scouts beyond scouts. Spies without equal.
And finally came the Speakers. Only seven of them. They walked last and slowest, robes stitched with leaves of red and white. Each carried a staff carved entirely from weirwood, its surface etched in spirals and faces.
Their eyes were milk-pale. Blind, some whispered. No. Seeing elsewhere.
It was said the Speakers could kneel before a heart tree and hear the breath of the Old Gods in its leaves. That they could seek blessing or warning before battle. That blood offered at their request did not go unanswered.
When the entire host stood assembled beyond Riverrun's gate, the yard fell silent.Robb descended the steps in full armor, Ice across his back. Jon walked at his side. The Riverlords gathered behind them; Edmure Tully foremost, flanked by Mallister, Blackwood, Bracken, Piper, and Vance. Their expressions ranged from guarded curiosity to open disapproval.
"You are welcome beneath our banners," he said. "If you stand with us."
"Thank you," Amergin bowed his head. "We have fulfilled out pact. We have been eagerly awaiting this day to once again please the Old Gods and bring balance upon the land."
Robb did not flinch beneath the weight of so many watching eyes. "Make yourselves at home."
Jason Mallister stepped forward before he could stop himself. "My lord," Mallister said, voice tight with restraint, "with respect—these… practices… are not of the Riverlands."
Galbart Glover's eyes flicked toward him sharply, but Mallister continued. "The Faith of the Seven holds sway here. Our smallfolk kneel to septons, not trees."
Edmure shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sure we can all get along."
"There are already rumors of animals slain beneath heart trees. And…more," Blackfrey snorted.
"The Old Gods are older than the Seven," Jon said. "Their presence here predates every sept and septon in these lands."
"That may be," Mallister replied stiffly, "but my people do not follow them. And they will not take kindly to human sacrifice performed in their fields."
The word hung like smoke. Human.
Robb's expression did not change. "No sacrifices will be taken from unwilling subjects," he said firmly. "We are not reavers." But he did not deny sacrifice outright. That omission was not lost on anyone.
Tytos Blackwood, who had always kept a godswood even in his Riverlands seat, stepped forward. "The Old Gods have as much claim here as the Seven," he said coolly. "My house has kept them for centuries."
"That is why your house has always been heathens," a Bracken chortled nearby.
Tension crackled. The Green Men stood unmoving through it all.
One of the Speakers stepped forward slowly. Her blind eyes turned toward the gathered lords. "The rivers remember," she said softly. "Blood has soaked these lands long before lions came west. The trees do not demand faith. Only balance."
Theomar Smallwood could only sigh. "My smallfolk will not see it so poetically."
Jon stepped forward then. "We do not ask your smallfolk to kneel," he said. "But understand this, Tywin Lannister would have burned these lands to ash without hesitation. The boy king beheaded my father. The Faith did nothing."
Silence. "The Old Gods at least answer," Jon finished quietly.
Clement Piper spoke up then. "And what is the price of that answer?" he asked.
Jon did not look away. "Blood." The word was simple. Unadorned. Uneasy murmurs spread again.
Robb raised his hand, and the yard stilled. "We are at war," he said. "And not merely with lions. The realm fractures. Winter comes. If ancient powers stand ready to aid us, I will not refuse them out of southern discomfort."
He turned to the Riverlords directly. "Your lands were ravaged. Your people slaughtered. Where were the Seven then? Did septons raise walls? Did prayer stop Lannister steel?" None answered.
Robb's voice hardened. "These men and women stand with us. They bring skills no southern army possesses. Watchers who can cloud a battlefield. Wardens who can scout leagues unseen. Speakers who can read omens before we march."
He let the implication settle. "This is not heresy. It is survival."
The Riverlord bowed stiffly, though dissatisfaction lingered in his eyes.
"We will obey," Stevron Frey said carefully. "But unrest will grow if this goes too far."
"It will not go too far," Robb said. Jon did not contradict him.
That evening, the Green Men established themselves in Riverrun's godswood.
The Initiates set about carving small weirwood idols, placing them at the edges of campfires. The Watchers walked the perimeter of the castle walls, murmuring beneath their breath as they traced unseen lines in the dirt.
The Wardens loosed their animals into the surrounding woods.
By nightfall, reports were coming in from their new scouts: birds were flying strange patterns over the river crossings. Deer had begun heading into low marshes. Fog rolled in thickest along the western approach, the direction of the Golden Tooth.
The Riverlords noticed. So did the men. Some crossed themselves in fear. Others watched with dawning respect.
Jon stood beneath the heart tree long after dark, observing as one of the Speakers knelt before its pale trunk. A small bowl of blood rested at its roots. Animal. For now.
The Speaker's fingers brushed the carved face in the bark. Leaves rustled though no wind stirred. Jon felt it again, that hum beneath the world. The sense of something ancient leaning closer.
Whether the Riverlands liked it or not, the old ways had returned to their soil. And it would decide the outcome of this war.