At the Trident Crossing encampment, Robb returned to camp carrying both fury and unease.
He had believed that Stannis would be forced to compromise in the face of his overwhelming military strength.
At the very least, he had expected the man to soften his stance.
Yet Stannis had acted as though he held all the cards.
The encounter left a dark shadow hanging over Robb's mind.
Before he could make sense of it, however—
By late afternoon, Edmure Tully arrived at the crossing with a hastily assembled force from the Riverlands.
He also brought news that immediately sank Robb's mood to its lowest point.
"The Lannisters!"
"It's Kevan Lannister!"
Covered in dust from the road, Edmure stood inside Robb's command tent and reported what he had discovered.
"He led a western army and seized Harrenhal before we could get there!"
"What?!"
Surprise flashed across Robb's face, but he quickly regained his composure. "Uncle Edmure, how many men does he have?"
Edmure shook his head.
"The scouts estimate at least seven or eight thousand. If we hadn't spotted them first, they might have attempted to cross the river as well."
Standing beside Robb, Roose Bolton listened silently. A gleam flashed through his pale eyes.
Tywin has finally moved.
Looks like my plans need to accelerate as well.
At that moment, Robb turned toward him. "Lord Bolton, gather all the lords immediately. We need a council."
Roose suppressed his thoughts and bowed.
"As you command, Your Grace."
He left the tent at once.
Before long, nearly every major lord from both the North and the Riverlands had assembled.
Even Black Walder and Rodrik Harlaw attended.
Once they learned that Harrenhal had fallen to Kevan and heard the news concerning Stannis, a fierce argument erupted.
"We must retake Harrenhal immediately!"
The Greatjon's roar shook the tent.
"Before all the King's Landing forces arrive, we capture Kevan Lannister and force Tywin to surrender!"
"Retake it with what army?"
Lord Blackwood shot back coldly.
"We've only just arrived. The men haven't even caught their breath yet. A reckless assault will only cost lives."
Lord Bracken glanced at Blackwood with open contempt.
"We've only just arrived? And Kevan hasn't?"
"If we don't crush the Lannisters while we still have momentum, should we wait for the southern armies to arrive and let you handle them yourself, Lord Blackwood?"
"You—!"
The two Riverlords immediately fell into another heated quarrel.
The North was no better.
Some wanted to deal with Stannis first. Others wanted to strike the Lannisters.
Every lord had his own opinion.
None would yield.
The command tent became complete chaos.
As evening approached, Robb sat at the head of the table with a deeply furrowed brow.
Listening to the endless arguments, his frustration grew stronger by the minute.
His gaze swept across the assembled lords.
Roose remained silent throughout, like a statue detached from the proceedings.
Only the subtle movement of his eyes revealed that his mind was anything but calm.
"Enough!"
Robb slammed a hand onto the table and rose to his feet.
The authority of a king instantly silenced the room.
"Of course we're taking Harrenhal back." His eyes swept across every face present. "But I must save Rickon first."
"He's my brother. He carries Stark blood. I will not leave him in the hands of a madman and a witch.
We wait no longer.
Tomorrow at dawn, the entire army breaks camp and marches on Saltpans.
Once Rickon is rescued, we'll return and make Kevan Lannister pay back Harrenhal with interest."
Silence followed.
Many of the lords still harbored doubts. Yet with their king's decision made, they could only obey.
At that moment, Grey Wind suddenly rose from beside Robb's chair.
The direwolf had been lying quietly at his master's feet. Now a low growl rumbled from deep within his throat.
The fur along his neck stood on end.
His yellow eyes locked onto a dark corner behind Robb.
The shadows there seemed unusually thick beneath the flickering candlelight.
"Grey Wind?"
Robb called out in confusion.
The direwolf responded with a sharp, desperate bark.
Then he lunged.
At the exact same moment, the darkness moved.
The shadow twisted.
Stretched.
A vaguely human shape separated itself from the corner.
Its form was made entirely of darkness that reflected no light. The face resembled Stannis Baratheon.
In its hand was a sword forged from shadow itself.
Without a sound, it thrust directly toward Robb Stark.
Everything happened too quickly... Far too quickly for anyone to react.
A wet sound echoed through the tent.
The killing blow never reached Robb. A massive gray body threw itself into the attack.
Grey Wind.
The loyal direwolf tackled his master aside and took the strike meant for him.
The shadow sword pierced straight through his heart.
Blood erupted.
Grey Wind collapsed to the ground with a mournful cry.
"Grey Wind!"
Robb's agonized scream tore through the tent. Only then did the assembled lords snap out of their shock.
"Monster!"
The Greatjon roared and charged forward with his greatsword.
The other lords, terrified by the unnatural assassin, drew weapons and attacked as well.
Blades sliced through the shadow.
Though they encountered no resistance, each strike tore away wisps of black smoke.
Under the relentless assault, the creature began to destabilize.
Then—
Bang!
Like a burst bubble, it exploded into countless strands of dark mist and vanished.
Heavy breathing filled the command tent.
Everyone stood shaken and pale.
"That was... a shadow assassin?"
They stared at Grey Wind's lifeless body lying in a pool of blood. Then they looked toward the now-empty corner.
Their faces were filled with shock and the relief of surviving.
"Gods above... is it over?" A young lord asked shakily.
"Damn sorcery!" The Greatjon spat on the ground. "By the gods, I'll flay Stannis alive for this!"
Robb knelt beside Grey Wind. His hand rested on the direwolf's cooling fur.
Pain and rage filled his eyes.
"Stannis..."
"I'll make you pay for this in blood."
But at that very moment—Just as everyone believed the danger had passed. Just as tension finally began to ease.
Another shadow stirred beneath the candlelight.
The darkness at Robb's feet suddenly came alive. A flat, carpet-like silhouette sprang upward.
A second shadow assassin.
Clutching a narrow black dagger, it struck from below at an angle no one anticipated.
The blade drove directly into Robb's heart.
Time seemed to stop.
Robb's body froze.
He lowered his head and stared in disbelief at the sliver of pure darkness protruding from the gap in his armor.
The shadow rapidly unraveled and vanished.
But the death it delivered could not be undone.
"Ugh..."
His eyes widened.
He instinctively pressed a hand against his chest, trying to stop the blood.
It was useless.
All color drained from his face. His tall body swayed... Then he collapsed backward.
Roose caught him before he hit the ground.
"Your Grace!"
"Robb!"
Cries of horror and grief erupted throughout the tent.
Robb's life was slipping away.
His vision blurred.
Faces surrounded him.
An endless procession of memories flashed through his mind. Gradually, only three faces remained clear.
"Rickon... Bran... Sansa..."
"Rickon's captive... Bran cannot father children... only Sansa... Sansa..."
Though he stood on death's threshold, his mind remained strangely lucid. In the end, every thought centered on Sansa.
'No.'
'I can't die yet.'
'There's one last thing I have to do.'
Gathering every remaining ounce of strength, he forced himself to focus.
The noise around him returned.
His trembling hand seized Roose's arm.
"Listen..."
Each word came with a fresh surge of blood.
"My... heir... is... Sansa..."
"Sansa Stark..."
"The North... all the northern armies..."
"Give them... to... Galon..."
"Galon Glover..."
"Let him avenge me..."
"Lead them... home..."
The moment the final words left his lips, the bright blue eyes that had once mirrored the northern sky lost all light.
Robb Stark, King in the North, was dead.
For a moment, absolute silence filled the tent.
Then came the wails.
Grief swept through the camp like a storm.
Roose lowered his head and stared at the king's lifeless hand still gripping his arm.
For the first time, something stirred in his pale, emotionless eyes.
His carefully laid plans had been thrown into chaos.
Yet beneath that frustration—Beneath the disruption—Burned an overwhelming sense of triumph.
He knew.
The opportunity he had been waiting for had finally arrived.
__________
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