ARC III: THE AWAKENING OF THE DRAGONS AND THE WAR OF THE EMPIRE
Chapter 39: The Call to Arms
POV: King Robb Stark (301 AC)
The horizon over the grey waters of Moat Cailin's great canal was dim, cut by the cold mist rising from the surrounding swamps. From the eastern wall of my runic castle, I watched the slender and imposing silhouette of the *Silent Wolf*, my father's personal warship, break through the morning haze. That vessel should have brought relief and celebration with the return of my family; however, there was not a single fraction of happiness or peace in my chest.
Only a frigid emptiness, which was soon filled by an incandescent fury.
The official letter from King's Landing, sealed with the crest of the Iron Throne and signed by Queen Regent Catelyn Tully, had arrived at my solar two days ago. The document was an outrageous heresy. It accused my father, Eddard Stark, and my grandfather, Tywin Lannister, of high treason against the crown, regicide, and the cowardly murder of both Lord Jon Arryn and King Robert Baratheon.
Upon reading those absurd words, the Wolfblood—that state of berserker fury that runs through the deepest veins of our lineage—roared so loudly in my mind that I nearly shattered the writing desk with my bare hands. If not for the serene, firm, and loving presence of my dear wife, Wylla Manderly, holding my wrists and whispering words of balance in my ear, I would have marched South alone at that very instant.
Now, I could understand, if only minimally, the storm of fury that my cousin Arawyn must have felt years ago when he received the infamous letter from the Mad King demanding our family's heads. History was repeating itself, but we were no longer the same defenseless wolves of the past.
The ship finally docked at the runic stone quay of Moat Cailin. As soon as the dark wooden gangplank was lowered, the passengers began to disembark.
My mother, Cersei Lannister, and Lady Ashara Dayne descended first, keeping their heads held high with the imperial dignity that was theirs by right, but their features exhibited an unmistakable aristocratic rigidity. Right behind them came my youngest sister, Arya. Arya's face was contorted in an expression of deep frustration, with tears of anger glistening in the corners of her grey eyes.
She ran toward me, Nymeria following closely behind.
"— Robb... I'm so sorry! —" Arya exclaimed, her voice cracking for the first time. "— I couldn't act in time... I was ready to tear the throat of every single one of those Tully guards and Warriors of the Faith, but... we feared for the lives of mother and Ashara. And the Black Guards... even with all the runic power they carried, were ordered by father not to start a massacre there. We were weak!"
I stepped closer to her, placing my firm hands on her shoulders and looking at her with gravity.
"— You were not weak, Arya, —" I replied firmly. "— I do not blame you, nor do I blame the soldiers of the North. I know perfectly well the father we have. He would rather bear the weight of iron chains than allow a single drop of his wives' or his daughter's blood to be shed unnecessarily in a Southern garden. You acted wisely by securing your survival to return to the North."
Behind us, my younger siblings ran toward our mother. Little Rickon, who was now twelve years old and rapidly becoming a strong, broad-shouldered youth, wrapped his arms around our mother's waist, growling softly like the direwolf that protected him in the shadows.
I walked with slow steps toward my mother. She looked into my eyes with a cutting coldness, the dried trickle of blood on her fair neck now covered by a healing runic necklace that Ashara had given her during the voyage.
"— Robb... —" she whispered, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a pure desire for vengeance. "— That Baratheon pig is dead, but that whore of the Riverlands and her religious fanatics dared to lock your father in a dark dungeon. They violated our dignity."
"— I will make every single one of them pay in blood for this humiliation, mother, —" I declared, holding her cold hands. "— I swear by my crown and by the bronze that they will not see the end of this year standing."
"— Yes, my dear son... I know you will, —" she replied, with a cruel, satisfied smile shaping her red lips.
Minutes later, I gathered the lords and generals of my realm in the immense meeting hall of Moat Cailin.
The atmosphere inside the runic stone chamber was inflamed. Great Jon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Lord William Dustin, and Wyman Manderly debated at the top of their lungs, their voices echoing off the walls like the rumble of war drums. All the Northern lords demanded immediate and merciless retaliation.
"— Silence, lords! —" I ordered, striking the hilt of my sword against the runic oak table. — I know the moment makes the blood boil in our veins and the Wolfblood clamor for destruction, but we must act with strategy and precision if we wish to rescue my father alive."
Great Jon Umber delivered a brutal punch against the wooden surface, shattering the heavy runic wooden plank right where his iron fist struck. However, to the temporary shock of the lords less accustomed to it, the runes of healing and restoration carved into the wood began to glow immediately, reconstituting the oak's fibers within seconds until the table was perfectly whole again—after all, the Emperor had designed every piece of furniture in that fortress to withstand the brutality of the Northmen.
"— And what do you plan to do, King Robb?! —" Umber roared, pointing his massive index finger in my direction. "— Are we going to march and break those Southerners' legs once and for all, or will we sit here waiting for the runes to repair our tables?!"
"— Lord Manderly, —" I ignored the provocation and directed my gaze toward the Lord of White Harbor. "— I want you to prepare the entirety of our rustic runic war fleet immediately. We will sail from White Harbor with our ironclads and lay an relentless naval blockade on King's Landing. If that queen of mud refuses to release my father at the first sign of our vessels, we will open fire with our elemental cannons and turn that festering Southern cesspool into a barren, grey wasteland!"
"— Now we're talking! —" Karstark bellowed, beating his fist against his chest. "— That is the true spirit of a King of the North! Let us burn their cities!"
However, before the lords could continue with their bellows of approval, the immense and heavy double doors of iron and bronze of the meeting hall were thrown wide open with a thunderous force.
Silence fell over the room instantly as the imposing figure of Emperor Arawyn Stark crossed the threshold. He wore no heavy armor, but his mere physical presence, with his grey eyes gleaming with latent elemental power and the marks of power pulsing subtly beneath his skin, was enough to make the air in the room grow thin and cold.
All the lords of the North fell to their knees immediately before the supreme authority of the Winter Throne, and I followed them in the gesture, bowing my crowned head before my Emperor.
"— My Emperor... —" I declared, remaining on my knees. "— We were planning our offensive strategy to rescue my father and march against the forces of the Iron Throne."
"— Yes, Robb... I know perfectly well everything you were debating here, —" Arawyn replied with his calm, cold, and absolute voice, walking slowly to the head of the restored table. I looked at him with a flash of understanding. I knew that, with his powerful Greensight, he must have already foreseen and anticipated each of these catastrophic events long before they occurred. Arawyn stopped beside me, placing his hand on my shoulder and pulling me up with a firm tug. "— Do not think too much about this, Robb. There are certain inevitable events in the history of men that simply cannot be avoided through diplomacy. The South needed this push to reveal its true weakness."
Behind him, the rest entered the room: my wive, my mother, and Lady Ashara, as well as Ros and my sister Sansa, who wore dark leather garments suited for mystical combat.
"— Your naval blockade strategy is very good, Robb... —" Arawyn declared, looking at the map of Westeros spread across the table. "— But that will not be what we do in this war."
"— Then what shall we do, my Emperor? —" I asked, arching an eyebrow.
"— You will lead the entirety of our armies by land, marching directly through the Neck toward the Riverlands and, then, King's Landing, —" he instructed, pointing firmly to the kingsroad on the map.
"— But... if we do this by land, we will inevitably have to face the entirety of the combined military forces of the army of the Vale of Arryn and the Riverlands, —" I argued, analyzing the numbers. "— They have tens of thousands of men ready to defend their borders under the command of Hoster Tully and the Queen Regent."
Arawyn offered me a cold, predatory, and absolutely terrifying smile.
"— Yes, Robb... you will have to face them. And you will make sure to massacre every single one of them who dares to oppose your path."
I felt the Wolfblood pulse hard in my temples at that promise of pure elemental war. I knelt once more before him, placing my closed right fist over my heart.
"— As you command, my Emperor, —" I declared with fervor. I turned immediately to the maester of Moat Cailin, an intelligent young man belonging to a junior branch of House Manderly who was in charge of communications. — Call the banners, maester! Send the ravens to every runic castle in our lands! The North marches to war!"
The lords of the North present in the room exploded into wild war cries, banging their ale mugs and swords against the walls. The shedding of Southern blood was, without a doubt, the second thing that brought the most happiness and excitement to a Northern warrior's heart—the first being, of course, a good mug of strong ale or the warmth of a woman in their fur beds after combat.
Arawyn made a subtle gesture with his hand toward Ros. The redhead stepped forward carrying an immense polished silver tray, placing it directly in front of my mother, who sat in absolute silence.
A Black Guard from the imperial elite, whose dark armor seemed to absorb the light of the room, approached carrying a heavy dark leather sack. With a rough movement, he untied the sack's knot and let its contents roll directly onto the runic silver tray with a dull, wet thud.
It was the severed, pale, and frozen head of the young City Watch guard from King's Landing. That same recently recruited boy who, days ago in the royal garden, had dared to press his blade against my mother's neck and draw a trickle of her blood.
The green eyes of my mother shone with a cold, sickly triumph as she stared at the dead boy's disfigured face on the tray. She extended her delicate hand and touched the cold cheeks of the severed head with her fingertips.
"— I told you I would have your head delivered on a tray for that, boy... —" my mother whispered with a terrifying sweetness, turning her look of approval and eternal gratitude toward the Emperor.
Ashara Dayne observed the scene with a complicit silence, her violet eyes reflecting the same dark pride of our house. The North did not forget an offense. And the Emperor ensured that every promise of vengeance was fulfilled even before the war began.
On the following day, the military forces of the North were duly lined up before the immense runic gates of Moat Cailin.
We were mobilizing a regular standing army of fifteen thousand men from our total strength of twenty thousand elite runic soldiers, leaving a defensive garrison of five thousand men to guarantee the full protection of the internal borders of the North and the Neck against any surprise counterattack coming from the Riverlands.
Those Northern warriors looked nothing like the common peasant soldiers the South usually recruited for their stupid wars. They stood in absolute silence, like statues of stone and iron under the thin snow that was beginning to fall. Each man wore heavy black plates of runic steel armor, whose magical markings glowed faintly with a blue-ice tone. Slung over each soldier's shoulders were the modern, lethal runic repeating rifles that Arawyn had developed in his industrial laboratories, alongside heavy elemental cannons of runic bronze dragged by warhorses protected by runic steel chainmail.
At the vanguard of that immense combat line, four colossal warriors positioned themselves.
Knowing of the imminent bloody
confrontation against the Southern armies, Lord Mag the Mighty had sent four of his best and most loyal giant warriors to fight directly under my military command in this campaign.
Those giants were no longer the wild, uncouth creatures from when my cousin Arawyn conquered them in the lands beyond the Wall. Arawyn had designed and forged complete plate armor of runic steel of colossal proportions specifically for them, covering their immense bodies against any attack of common arrows or spears.
In each giant's hands rested their new and devastating runic weapon: the Imperial Halberd. That weapon resembled an immense, broad-tipped spear, but possessed a large curved steel hook at the back of the blade and a sharp bronze point at the base of the mystic oak shaft. The engineering of that rustic weapon provided the giants with an even more destructive reach in open ground, alongside an absurd versatility to disrupt infantry lines and pull down Southern knights with mechanical ease.
Beside me, on the strategic command line, stood the veteran generals of the Northern standing army: Great Jon Umber, Rickard Karstark, and Lord William Dustin.
Alongside them marched the young Roderick Dustin-Martell, son of William Dustin and Princess Elia Martell. Roderick possessed the black hair and Dornish features inherited from his mother, but his physical structure and warrior temperament were entirely molded by the rawness of the North; he was my great childhood friend, and his desire to prove his worth in combat was tireless.
My siblings Sansa and Tommen Stark also marched in the vanguard of the army. The presence of young Tommen, only twelve years old, brought me some surprise; his docile, gentle, and peaceful nature never seemed to match the cold brutality of a war campaign. However, I knew perfectly well that my younger brother would not disappoint our family in combat. He was a true Stark and had been trained exhaustively since childhood by the firm hands of Ros and the implacable lover of Arawyn, who was definitely not a nice woman in her teaching methods if the stories of the eagle are real.
Beside us, our direwolves walked in silence. My wolf, Grey Wind, displayed his grey coat bristling with excitement. Sansa's she-wolf, Lady, kept herself elegant and watchful right beside her mistress. And Tommen's direwolf, Firefox, drew everyone's attention with his thick coat of a brilliant coppery-red tone.
Why a direwolf has the name of a red garden fox is something no one should ask me...* — I thought with an amused smile. In the end, when analyzing names like "Lady" or the ridiculous name "Lord Marshmallow" that Ros wanted to give to Arawyn's wolf, Tommen's name Firefox sounded perfectly reasonable and imposing for the beast that protected him.
Even without the physical presence of my brother Bran on the march, I knew perfectly well that he would be watching us, guiding and protecting us through the grey Southern skies. Looking up, I could see dozens of crows with intelligent eyes accompanying us through the dry branches of the Neck's trees. Bran had been spending the last few months in constant training with the Reeds in the depths of the Greywater Watch swamp and with a secret tutor Arawyn had brought him from the depths of the extreme Far North. His warg and Greensight abilities had reached almost unbelievable levels.
Before we gave the official signal of departure, I said goodbye to Lady Ashara, Arya, and young Rickon, who would remain in the safety of Moat Cailin to manage the supplies and the army's rear guard in conjunction with the remaining garrisons.
My mother, Cersei Lannister, fervently insisted on marching along with the army toward the South. She had promised to return to King's Landing to see the complete destruction of the Tully Queen and the fall of the Red Keep, and she would make sure to fulfill that promise under our wings. I saw no problem with her presence in the entourage; my mother was an extremely intelligent woman and knew perfectly well that she should leave the tactical and logistical decisions of the war entirely under the responsibility of the army's generals.
As I gave the signal and we began our march toward the South, I watched the immense runic stone structure of Moat Cailin gradually vanish behind me, swallowed by the swamp's cold mist.
I felt a familiar shiver run up my spine, and the polished bronze hilt of my runic sword felt colder under my leather-gloved fingers. I knew that this military campaign would not be some small dispute over land or an ordinary Westerosi summer war. The North had many influential allies in the lands of the South, but it possessed an infinitely larger number of heretical enemies ready to defend the mud of King's Landing with their insignificant lives.
That war would be immense, destructive, and relentless. But it did not matter how strong the armies of the South thought they were under their golden armor and expensive summer silks.
Winter was coming for each of them anyway, and we were the heralds of its darkness.