The year 282 AC saw the mobilization of a nation the likes of which Westeros had never witnessed. Following the call from the "White Wolf," Ned Stark arrived at Wolf's Gate under a heavy naval escort. The reunion between the remaining brothers was brief and devoid of warmth. They were no longer the boys who played in the godswood; they were the grieving masters of a war machine. Kaelen, now the Lord of Winterfell, stood before a host of thirty-five thousand men a mixture of hardened Northern levies and the professional Winter Guard.
"We do not march for glory, Ned," Kaelen said, his white hair whipping in the wind as they looked over the ranks. "We march for the arithmetic of survival."
The reaction of the other Great Houses was one of stunned disbelief. In Highgarden, Mace Tyrell scoffed at the "Northern upstarts," but in Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister remained silent, watching the reports of the Northern logistics with a wary eye. The Stormlands had already exploded; Robert Baratheon had raised his banners, his fury carrying him through the battles of Summerhall. However, the sheer weight of the Reach's numbers eventually told. At Ashford, the hammer of the Storm was blunted by Randyll Tarly. Robert was forced into a fighting retreat, moving north toward the Riverlands with the Royalists snapping at his heels like hounds after a wounded stag.
Meanwhile, Jon Arryn led the knights of the Vale down from the mountains. They moved with a traditional splendor that contrasted sharply with the grey and clinical efficiency of the Northern host. The two forces converged near the Trident, creating a pincer that threatened to swallow the Riverlands whole.
The momentum of the Northern march came to a grinding halt at the Green Fork. The Twins, the fortified bridge of House Frey, sat astride the river like a toll-keeper's debt. Lord Walder Frey, ever the opportunist, had closed his gates. He sat behind his high walls, hoping to sell his neutrality to the highest bidder.
Kaelen Stark did not request an audience. He did not send a maester with a polite scroll. He rode to the edge of the drawbridge with five hundred Wraith sharpshooters, their repeating crossbows leveled at the Frey sentries.
"Lord Walder!" Kaelen's voice carried over the rushing water, amplified by the stone throat of the bridge. "You have ten minutes to drop these chains. If the gates are not open by the time the sun hits that merlon, I will not just take your bridge. I will raze these towers and ensure the name 'Frey' is scrubbed from every ledger in the Seven Kingdoms. I will end your bloodline with the same clinical indifference I use to clear a forest."
The Frey archers trembled. They looked at the silver-eyed lord and the thirty five thousand men behind him who stood in perfect, silent blocks of steel. The threat was not a boast; it was a prophecy.
Before the first bolt could fly, a new banner appeared on the horizon: the leaping trout of House Tully. Hoster Tully, a man of sharp political instincts, rode between the two hosts to negotiate. He saw the fire in the North and the steel in the Vale. He knew the dragon was dying.
"There is no need for a slaughter today, Lord Stark," Hoster said, his voice tempered with diplomacy. "The Riverlands seek an alliance, not a grave. My daughters are of age. A marriage pact between our houses Tully, Stark, and Arryn would bind the Triple Alliance in blood as well as purpose."
In the shadow of the Twins, the pact was struck. Ned would wed Catelyn Tully, and Jon Arryn would wed Lysa. Kaelen, already bound to Alys Karstark, stood as the witness. He cared nothing for the romance of the arrangement; he only cared that the road to Robert was now open.
As the North and Vale moved south, they heard Robert Baratheon was in the town of Stoney Sept. He was a man hunted. The Royalist forces, emboldened by their victory at Ashford, had cornered him.
Kaelen's five thousand men from the Southern Expedition those who had survived the slaughter at King's Landing finally linked up with the main host. They were soot-stained and grim, carrying the dented shields of the Royalists they had broken.
"The King's men thought we were retreating," the Southern captain reported to Kaelen. "We were merely leadings them into the reach of the North."
The year 283 AC was the year the Triple Alliance became a juggernaut. With the Riverlands secured and the North unified, the rebel host turned its eyes toward the Trident. Kaelen Stark stood at the head of the column, the Northern Star shining on his breastplate, ready to prove that the wolf's bite was more lethal than the dragon's breath.