[The Twins, The Green Fork, First Day of the 1st Moon, 299 AC]
The great hall still stank of blood.
Robb felt it the moment he crossed the threshold, the copper-thick scent clinging to the back of his throat as his boots slipped slightly against the stone, the grooves between the slabs filled now not with years of dust and wear, but with fresh-spilled life that had not yet begun to dry, and for a heartbeat he simply stood there, taking it in despite himself, the bodies, the broken tables, the torn banners of House Frey hanging crooked and stained where men had died beneath them.
Grey Wind pressed close at his side, hackles raised, golden eyes moving constantly, the wolf's lips curling faintly as a low growl rumbled in his chest, not wild, but wary, as if even now he did not trust that the fight was done.
It wasn't.
Robb knew that before the first shout reached him.
"M'lord!"
He turned.
A young man with blood on his cheek that might not have been his own stood a few paces off, gripping his spear too tightly, his eyes searching Robb's face as though the answer to something rested there.
"Orders?" the man asked. "Do we chase them or hold here?"
Robb opened his mouth.
Nothing came.
Not at first.
Because all around him, the noise had not truly stopped, it had only shifted. Men still shouted, still moved, some laughing in that sharp, strained way that came after surviving something they had not expected to, others bent over the wounded or dragging bodies aside to clear space, and beyond it all, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of fighting still raging somewhere deeper within the castle.
And they were looking at him.
Not just the one man, but all of those who fought beside him, now relying on his direction.
Robb felt it settle on his shoulders then, heavy and sudden in a way no armor ever had.
This was not the yard.
Not the rush of a charge or the chaos of first contact.
This was after.
And the after always needed orders.
He straightened.
"No one runs ahead," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Shields up. We move together."
The man blinked once, then nodded quickly. "Aye, m'lord!"
"Pass it on," Robb added, already turning, his eyes sweeping the hall. "And get the wounded to the rear, don't leave them in the way."
A grizzled man nearby, beard matted with blood, gave a sharp, humorless snort. "They're running," he said. "Best time to cut them down."
Robb met his gaze.
"And get cut down ourselves in the dark?" he said. "Not today, lest you forget they still hold the tower on the bridge along with the second castle, this is the twins after all."
The man held his stare for a moment longer, then gave a short nod. "Aye, m'lord."
That was all it took.
The shift came quickly after that.
Men moved with purpose again.
Shields came up.
Lines began to form, not perfect or clean, but enough.
Robb exhaled slowly, forcing himself to move, to not linger in the weight of it, because there was no time for that now.
"Form on me!" he called. "We're not done yet!"
The keep had become a maze.
Corridors twisted and turned, some narrow enough that two men could barely walk abreast, others opening into chambers where overturned furniture and hastily built barricades forced them to slow, to push through step by careful step while danger lurked behind every half-open door and shadowed corner.
Grey Wind moved ahead of him more often than not, silent despite his size, the direwolf slipping through the dim light with a hunter's ease, his presence alone enough to unsettle the few Frey men who still tried to hold their ground in scattered pockets.
One such man burst from a side passage with a shout, blade raised high, only for Grey Wind to meet him first, a blur of grey and white as the wolf slammed into him, jaws closing around his throat with a wet, choking sound that ended as quickly as it began.
Robb did not slow.
There was no room for it.
"Left!" he shouted as another door burst open, a pair of Frey men rushing out only to meet the shields of the line, their momentum breaking against it as steel flashed in the tight space, the fight ending in seconds.
"Clear it!" someone called.
"Already done!" came the reply.
They moved on.
Further ahead, a crash echoed through the corridor, followed by a booming laugh that could belong to only one man.
Smalljon Umber.
"Out of the way!" the great oaf roared as he kicked in a door with enough force to tear it from its hinges entirely, sending it slamming into the wall beyond. "If you wanted to hide, you should've built bigger walls!"
Two Frey men inside barely had time to turn before he was on them, his axe rising and falling in brutal arcs that left little room for resistance.
Robb shook his head despite himself, pushing past as the rest of the line followed, stepping over what remained without pause.
"Keep moving!" he called. "Don't bunch up!"
To his right, a cluster of Karstark men moved with a different sort of rhythm, quieter, more deliberate, their strikes efficient and without wasted motion as they cleared another passage, their leader, a hard-faced man whom Robb recognized, having spent years together now through fostering, glanced toward him, recognition flashing.
"Don't chase a dying man, Robb," Torrhen Karstark said, his voice low but carrying, looking eerily like his father in that moment. "He'll waste your time."
Robb nodded once. "Then we won't."
Behind them, Ser Ellard Karstark drove the 2nd Company of the Winter Guard forward with sharp, precise orders, his voice cutting through the din as he kept his men tight and disciplined even in the narrow confines.
"Shields up! Step together! You break here, you die here!"
They did not break.
The corridor opened suddenly.
Light spilled in from ahead, pale and cold, carrying with it the sound of something different, something wider, harsher, more open than the close-quarters fighting within the keep.
Robb slowed as he reached the threshold.
And saw it.
The bridge.
It stretched out across the Green Fork like a blade of stone, narrow and unforgiving, the river far below churning dark and cold as mist rose from its surface, curling around the base of the towers that stood at either end and at the center.
And from that center tower, arrows began to rain down on them.
One struck a man near the front, punching through his shoulder and spinning him half around before he dropped with a cry.
"Shields!" Robb snapped.
The line responded, lifting in unison as more arrows followed, striking wood and iron in sharp, jarring impacts.
Ahead of them, the Freys were already falling back.
Not running, but swiftly moving with as much organization as they could muster.
They moved in clusters, shields raised, turning to strike when pressed too close, their retreat measured, deliberate.
"Fall back!" a Frey captain shouted from somewhere near the front. "To the bridge! Hold them there!"
"They're not breaking," one of Robb's men muttered.
"No," Robb said quietly. "They're choosing where to fight."
The temptation came quickly.
The moment the space opened, the moment the enemy was in sight and giving ground, men surged forward, the instinct to chase, to press, to finish it rising like a tide.
"Forward!" someone shouted.
Robb saw it, leading outside the gateway.
The narrowing of the bridge.
The height of the tower.
The angle of the arrows.
A killing ground.
"Stop!" he shouted.
Some did.
Not all.
"Stop!" he roared again, stepping forward, putting himself between them and the crossing as Grey Wind snarled beside him, the wolf's presence enough to give even the most eager men pause.
"You charge that bridge like fools, and you'll die like fools!" Robb snapped, gesturing toward the fallen. "Hold the line!"
The push faltered.
Men hesitated.
Looked to one another.
Then back to him.
Slowly, they pulled back into formation.
Shields rising again.
Breathing hard.
But listening.
They held their position within the yard leading out to the bridge, not advancing in fear of being pelted by arrows. At the front, battle still raged on, slowly, lines of men fought lines of men.
Robb exhaled, tension easing only slightly.
That had been close.
Too close.
"Robb." A voice came from behind, more men following now, swelling their ranks
He turned.
Jon approached from the side, Ghost at his heel, the white direwolf's red eyes fixed on the bridge ahead, unblinking, his stillness more unsettling than any growl.
"They're pulling back to the tower," Jon said.
"I know," Robb replied. "And they want us to follow."
Jon studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod.
"Aye," he said. "They do."
For a brief second, something passed between them.
Understanding.
Not spoken.
But there.
The shift came again.
Subtle.
But undeniable.
Robb felt it before he saw him.
Men straightened.
Voices steadied.
The line seemed to tighten without being told.
The very air seemed to run cold, as if winter had suddenly descended on them
There was only one man who could command such presence, that man, of course, being his cousin and the Warden of the North… Alaric Stark.
He pushed forward through the press, Tempest and Cinder flanking him like shadows given form, the two direwolves moving in perfect, silent coordination, their presence alone enough to part the crowd as surely as any command.
Ice rested across his back, still dripping with blood, Frey blood, no doubt, its pale edge catching what little light filtered through the smoke and mist, and his gaze went not to the men, not to the wounded, but straight to the bridge.
"They're retreating to the tower," Robb said as he approached.
Alaric did not look at him. "Good."
Robb frowned. "Good?"
Alaric's eyes remained fixed ahead.
"Better there than scattered, makes it all the easier to wipe them out in one go," he said.
Robb followed his gaze.
To the narrowing stone.
To the tower beyond.
Something in the way Alaric said it made his skin prickle.
As if this… All of it…
Was exactly as it should be.
"Advance!" Ser Desmond Manderly's voice rang out as he brought the 1st Company of the Winter Guard into position, his men forming a solid shield line at the fore, their movements practiced, precise despite the chaos around them.
"Slow and steady!" he called. "Let them come to us!"
To the left, Ser Ellard and Torrhen Karstark aligned their men alongside them, the 2nd Company locking shields with the first as the Karstark levies filled the gaps, their formation tightening into something solid.
Robb took his place among them, Grey Wind at his side, feeling the weight of it settle again, but different now.
Not uncertain, but focused.
"Forward," he said.
And this time, they moved as one.
The push from the bridge entrance was brutal.
Not the wild clash of before, but something more controlled, more deliberate, the North advancing step by step as the Freys fought to slow them, turning again and again to strike, to hold, to buy time for those falling back.
A Frey knight held the final doorway leading outside, his armor dented, his shield splintered, but his stance unyielding as he met the first rush with a shout that turned into a snarl.
"Not one step further!"
He died for it.
But not quickly.
And not easily.
Robb saw it.
Felt it.
The cost of holding ground against something that would not stop.
And then they were through.
The bridge loomed before them.
Narrow.
Exposed.
Deadly.
The Freys were already crossing, their retreat losing shape now, discipline fraying at the edges as some broke into a run, others turning to fire arrows or throw whatever they could to slow the advance.
"Back!" one of them shouted. "Back to the tower!"
They made it.
Most of them.
Not all.
A man slipped, falling hard as a spear struck his back, his body rolling once before going still.
Another turned too late, cut down before he could take more than a step.
But the rest…
They reached the tower.
The heavy doors began to close.
"Archers!" Ser Desmond shouted. "Loose at will, give those Frey bastards hell!"
Arrows flew.
Some struck.
Some did not.
But it was too late.
The doors slammed shut with a heavy, final sound.
Bolts dropped into place.
And just like that…
The fight stopped.
Not ended.
Paused.
Robb stood at the edge of the bridge, chest rising and falling as he stared across the stone at the tower that now held what remained of the Frey defense on this side of the river.
"They've locked themselves in," he said.
Beside him, Alaric did not move.
"No," he said quietly.
Robb glanced at him.
Alaric's gaze never left the tower.
"They've chosen where they'll make their stand."
Robb looked back.
At the narrow crossing.
At the tower.
At the castle beyond, still waiting.
And for the first time since the gates had broken, he understood.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
This… Was only the beginning, beyond that tower still lay the second castle, holding the main force of the Freys.
Another gruelling assault awaited them.
Taking his mind off of matters yet to happen, Robb caught movement in the sides of his vision, and on the side of the bridge and under using small barges, there floated the cranngomen, the very men who helped kick start this assault.
'Thank the gods they're on our side.' Robb mused as he tore his attention from them back to Alaric, like many around him, awaiting orders for their next move, and they hadn't waited long.
Alaric then turned to them, "Let the bastards sweat, we hold the first castle completely now, reform the ranks and let the men rest, sundown is upon us, tomorrow in morning hours, we'll continue our assault, let the cranngomen do what I sent them to."
All of the captains and commanders nodded, leading the men back into the castle, leaving a force to guard the bridge entrance in case of any would-be attempt at a sortie, though Robb was sure there would be none, for it would be downright suicidal to try.
As he walked back to the castle, Grey Wind, Jon, and Ghost at his side, he couldn't help but steel himself for the battles to come, for he knew there would be many more.
'This is only the beginning, and I intend to see this till the end alongside you, cousin,' he thought, casting one last glance at the tower and the castle looming behind it.