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Robb Stark had spent the whole day putting his affairs in perfect order, arranging every detail of what would be left behind once he was gone.
He had even made certain concessions, surrendering so of House Stark's long‑held privileges, including the rights to mine in certain lands, privileges he had once guarded with fierce determination.
It was a step he could not avoid. Only by doing so could he be certain that the lords who now rode in his shadow would not, the mont he drew his last breath, turn without hesitation to Clay Manderly's side.
House Stark had always been a good liege, one whose banner inspired trust and steadiness. Many were content to live their lives in peace beneath the watchful eyes of the direwolf, letting that great na shield them from the storms of the world.
Yet the truth was plain; following the Starks had never been about boundless loyalty for most. It was about having a strong, dependable figure to stand at the front, so they themselves could remain comfortable and safe behind.
Now, that banner was beginning to falter. The younger generation of northern lords had not, like their fathers, fought shoulder to shoulder with Eddard Stark, sharing the bond of brothers-in-arms. Nor had most of them marched into many battles under Robb Stark's command. Instead, they had been trapped in Harrenhal by the misfortunes of this young king's war.
Could anyone truly expect them to swell with unwavering loyalty to House Stark rely because the old n kept reminiscing about the glory and honor of the direwolf? That was wishful thinking.
The only reason discontent had not already erupted was because great lords such as Jon Umber, n of Eddard Stark's own generation, had always stood firmly by Robb's side, having watched him grow from the heir of Winterfell into the King in the North.
It was their presence that kept the situation steady, yet that steadiness would last only as long as Robb Stark still breathed.
If he were to die and place before them a Bran Stark, a boy they scarcely knew, and command them to kneel and call him "Your Grace," the task would be far from easy.
Thus, these concessions were not a matter of choice; they were inevitable.
And for now, they had worked well… at least, so it seed.
As for what might happen later… well, once a man was gone, what did it matter to him anymore?
Having finished these arrangents, Robb Stark seed to lay down a heavy burden. His spirit lifted, his mind grew clearer, and his mood was lighter than it had been in weeks.
He did not weaken swiftly as so feared. In fact, after two full days of rest, he did sothing he had not done since the day he first collapsed: he stepped out from his chamber, and the sight brought tears to the eyes of the guards who followed him.
These n were not rely soldiers in his service. They were the sworn household guard of House Stark, sons of Winterfell itself. How could they not wish, with every beat of their hearts, to see their lord's strength return, to witness so spark of recovery in the man they had vowed to protect?
But those who had seen enough of life, those who had watched death approach too many tis before, understood the truth. This was the final flare of a fading fla, the last burst of light before darkness.
More often than not, if a man simply lingered on without such a sudden renewal, it ant he still had a chance to survive, that the thread of life had not yet frayed beyond repair. But once this bright and fleeting vitality appeared… it was the surest sign that the end was drawing near.
And when that mont ca, the wisest choice was to set one's affairs in order before the inevitable.
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Snow had already settled in thick layers along the ramparts of Harrenhal. It was the sa problem Clay had faced at Riverrun: no winter garnts had been brought for the troops. Before, when only rain had fallen, the cold had been a damp, creeping chill.
Now, with snow sweeping in on the wind, the sudden flurry of white and the rciless drafts that slipped through every crack and gap struck the garrison without warning.
Although Harrenhal was vast, it had been left to decay for so long that most of its buildings had been reduced to ruins by the wars fought here across generations.
When the wind began to howl through the open spaces, the soldiers soon discovered that the stockpile of firewood they had expected to rely on was nowhere near as plentiful as they had imagined.
This was not an ordinary city, where whole houses, kept dry over the years, could be torn down to yield fine, seasoned timber. Harrenhal was a ghost castle. What few structures remained standing were little more than damp, rotting shells, their timbers soaked through by rain, their surfaces mottled with spreading mould.
Wood like that was nearly impossible to set alight. Its moisture was many tis greater than that of normal firewood, and even if one managed to coax it into burning, the flas would be small and weak, smothered beneath thick, choking smoke that made the air unbreathable.
Outside the walls, Lord Tywin's army fared better. After the rain had passed, the skies cleared for two or three days, long enough for the moisture in the forest trees, especially on the surface of their bark, to be drawn away by the sun and the wind.
The Westerlanders needed only to take up their axes, fell enough trees, and cut the logs into firewood to keep themselves warm.
Here within the castle, things were worse than beyond the walls. In truth, nowhere else in all the Seven Kingdoms was quite like Harrenhal.
That morning, Robb Stark felt a touch of strength return to him. His mind was clear, his spirits unusually bright, and for the first ti in many days he even managed to eat a small portion of mutton, tender and steaming hot in the chill of the morning.
He knew his ti was nearly spent. If his body was at its peak today since the day he was wounded, then he would spend it well. Whatever remained of his worth to his n and to his cause would be given now, while he still could.
So, ignoring every word of protest from his guards, Robb Stark gave his command. Step by step, with their support, he made his way up the worn stairs of Harrenhal's eastern gate, stairs scarred by battle, toward the battered walls that still stood against the snow and the wind.
It was here, at this very gate, that he had been struck by the arrow.
It was here that Tywin Lannister's forces had always chosen to press their assault.
The ground before the gate was broad enough to hold more troops than any other approach to the castle, making it easier for the attackers to bring their strength to bear, and far harder for the defenders to hold them back. Here, the fighting was always fiercest, and the losses always heaviest.
The two sides had wrestled for control of this gate again and again. Each ti it changed hands, the stones of Harrenhal's eastern wall were left choked with the bodies of the dead.
Even Harrenhal, built on a scale beyond reason in its pri, had suffered for it. Of its two great gates, both layered thick with wood and iron, one had already been destroyed beyond repair, torn away entirely during a retreat by Lannister troops after a successful breach.
The one that remained, though still wrapped in iron, now stood unsteady on its hinges, groaning under the strain of each passing wind.
By all logic, the Northn could have sealed this gate, and the northern one as well, with whatever debris they could find. But to do so would an sealing themselves inside forever.
Harrenhal was not Winterfell. In his own stronghold, Robb would not have hesitated to give such an order. Here, though, every man was thinking of ho. Harrenhal had already claid one king's life; no one here wished to see another fall within these walls.
Robb's gloved hand was curled around a lump of snow, freshly scooped and packed tight in his palm. The thick leather kept the cold from his skin, but there was no trace of warmth in his heart.
Everywhere his gaze fell was white, from the ramparts to the fields and the falling flakes, and the soldiers huddled close to fires that spat thick, choking smoke into the air, smoke that made it hard to breathe. They stood shivering, shoulders hunched against the relentless wind.
None dared leave the walls. The Lannisters could attack at any mont. Yet the height of the ramparts ant the wind tore at them ceaselessly, slipping through every gap in the stone. Even crouching low behind the rlons offered little shelter.
A fire in front gave only half its comfort; the heat barely touched the side turned toward the flas, while the back froze in the wind.
n sniffled constantly, their breath clouding the air, but none ca forward to speak to their king. It was not that they felt nothing at the sight of Robb Stark. It was not that they were unmoved to see their king standing among them. It was simply that the cold was too much to bear. The mont they stood up, the thin pocket of warmth they had so carefully gathered in front of their chests would be lost entirely, swept away by the wind as if it had never existed.
Without that fragile warmth, the cold would seep deep into the bones, and if sickness took hold, there was no telling whether a man who lay down at night would live to see the morning.
In these past days alone, the number of n lost not to sword or spear, but to the sickness brought on by this killing cold, had already reached a number too grim to speak aloud. Jon Umber, knowing Robb had little ti left, had chosen not to tell him, unwilling to heap that sorrow upon a dying king.
"I feel… I've failed them, Doric."
Robb Stark let out a sigh, the breath curling like smoke in the frigid air, as he spoke to the guard standing beside him, whose face was tight with worry.
This guard had been with him since Winterfell, had followed him through battle after battle. In that ti, the man had grown into soone of few words, his silence weathered and solid like the stone of the North. At his king's words, he only shook his head and answered softly, "Your Grace, don't trouble yourself with such thoughts. They are here because they choose to be."
Robb Stark gave the faintest shake of his head. Whatever he, Robb Stark, had done in his short life, the generations to co would decide for themselves how to judge it. He neither had the power to shape that verdict, nor the desire to try.
What he felt now was only regret… regret that so many fine warriors of the North, n of steel and courage, were not falling in the clash of battle where their nas might be rembered, but were instead slipping quietly into death in this biting wind and snow.
This, to him, was not a warrior's death. This was death without honor, death without a na.
At least, that was how Robb Stark saw it.
"How long has it been, and the Riverlands are already this cold? Has winter truly co? I wonder… what does Winterfell look like now?"
His gaze lingered on the world before him, turning whiter by the hour, and his heart swelled with thoughts he could not quite put into words.
Their generation had been children of sumr. From the day they were born, they had never truly known what the old words ant: Winter is coming.
He was still lost in that thought when the deep, heavy blare of a horn rolled across the castle.
Its sound was bleak and sharp, filled with a chill that could crawl beneath the skin, a sound that carried fear.
Thin and wasted as his body had beco, Robb Stark's hand still moved instinctively toward the sword at his hip the mont he heard it.
But his fingers found only emptiness. His body could no longer bear the weight of a sword.
Even so, his muscles tensed out of sheer habit, and his voice rang out, firm and sharp:
"What's going on? Have the Lannisters begun their assault?"
That horn just now… it was the Northern army's call, the one they sounded whenever enemy forces were sighted, a sharp warning ant to rouse comrades to arms.
Yet the problem was plain: Robb Stark was standing right here atop the castle wall, and even with snow falling thick in the air, he could still make out the field beyond. The Lannister camp showed no signs of violent movent, no sudden surge of troops.
If a full-scale assault were coming, then why could he see nothing at all?
Doric, the guard at his side, was just as puzzled, though the horn kept blaring again and again from sowhere southeast of the castle, each cry raw and piercing. Other than the impossible idea that the horn-blower had drunk himself senseless, the only explanation was that a true enemy threat had been sighted.
But where in the gods' na would Northern soldiers have found any wine?
So what was really happening out there?
"Your Grace, this is dangerous. You must return to the keep at once," Doric urged, already thinking ahead, ready to rush the King of the North back to the lord's chamber in the King's Pyre Tower.
That, at least in theory, was the most defensible place in all of Harrenhal, for the enemy could only reach it if every last defender in the fortress had already been cut down.
"Get out of my sight. You go see what's going on and report back to . I'll be waiting for you in the tower ahead. Just leave two guards and go."
Once, not so long ago, Robb Stark would have driven a boot into the man's chest to make his point.
But now, even trying to tense the muscles in his legs was an effort, and he could not lift his feet higher than his knees. His strength had bled away to almost nothing.
"Your Grace…"
"GO! If the Lannisters truly break through, none of us will live to see another day. Do your duty! You're a warrior, Doric!"
He lifted his hand and pushed at him, though the shove was little more than a brush, all the force gone from his arm.
This was the most dangerous ti for them, with soldiers huddled together for warmth, watch lines loosened by the cold, and vigilance dulled. If the Lannisters struck now and managed to gain even the smallest advantage, they could tear open a gap in the defenses before anyone could rally.
Inside the fortress, the North still had only two thousand eight hundred n, and the number of those truly fit to fight was certainly less than that.
With so few, there was no hope of eting the Lannisters in another great clash of steel and blood.
Harrenhal was too vast. With too few defenders, it ant that the fortress they had guarded for months would be left with stretches of wall entirely unmanned. In a place this open to the wind, once Tywin Lannister unleashed a full assault, there would be no holding the line.
There would be only defeat!
The Lannisters must not be allowed inside!
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[Chapter End's]
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