A Requiem of Ash and Stars

CHAPTER 13: WOLVES AMONG LIONS

Robb Stark wiped the sweat from his brow, lungs drawing ragged breaths in the fierce din of steel and shrieking horses. The battlefield around him stank of churned mud, blood, and the acrid tang of burned arrows. Bodies littered the ground—Northmen and Lannisters alike—while the living still fought on in desperate clashes. Near dusk, the sky streaked purple and orange, and in that half-light, Robb's forces formed a ragged crescent around the remnants of Jaime Lannister's host.

He stood in the thick of it, sword heavy in his grip, armor splattered with gore. The horse he'd ridden lay dead a few yards away, its flank pierced by a spear. All around him, the clash of arms and the roars of men locked in mortal struggle echoed across the trampled farmland. Robb's heart thundered, grief and fury fueling each breath. Word had spread that Jaime Lannister himself was here, leading the Lannister troops. If Robb could capture or defeat Jaime, House Lannister's morale might break.

Robb's personal guard was scattered, lost in the swirling melee. Summoning courage, he advanced toward the center of the fray where he glimpsed a tall man in gilded plate commanding troops. Jaime Lannister shone like a tarnished star, golden armor flecked with mud and blood. Stories abounded of Jaime's skill, and Robb's stomach tightened. He was no seasoned knight—still young, forced into this war when his father was taken. But his father's life, his family's fate, and the North's freedom all hung in the balance.

He pushed forward, weaving through pockets of fighting. Northern bannermen saluted him or rushed past. Riverlands knights joined the onslaught, seeking to pin the Lannisters against the swift-flowing waters of the nearby river. Through the haze, Robb spotted Jaime dismounting, blade in hand. Robb dismounted as well—his horse too spooked to remain in the crush of steel. The two of them locked eyes across a short distance of muddy ground.

Jaime lifted his sword in challenge, lips curved in a mocking half-smile. "Stark pup," he called, voice echoing. "I see you found your courage. Or is it arrogance?"

Robb advanced, sword raised. His breath came hot, heart pounding. "You'll pay for what your family did to mine. For capturing my father… for drawing first blood on the Riverlands."

Jaime snorted, striding closer. "I did what was needed. But come, show me what you have, boy."

They lunged. Their blades rang out like a discordant bell, sparks dancing in the failing sunlight. Jaime moved with polished grace, each strike a smooth extension of his arm. Robb parried frantically, each collision jolting his arms. The stories of Jaime's skill weren't exaggerated—he found himself driven back, forced to give ground. Mud sucked at his boots, a twisted plank from a smashed cart nearly tripped him. Jaime exploited every slip, pressing the advantage with relentless cuts.

Robb's breath rasped, sweat streaming down his neck. He needed a tactic beyond raw steel. He recalled how many whispered of Jaime's arrogance. Perhaps he could wound Jaime's pride, unbalance his composure. Between parries, Robb hissed, "How many oaths have you broken now, Kingslayer? You swore to protect the king you stabbed in the back. Then you served Robert, but you defiled that vow as well. Even your sister is—"

Jaime snarled, lashing a diagonal slash that Robb barely blocked. "Don't speak of things you know nothing about!" The blow hammered Robb's sword aside, nearly sending him to his knees.

But Robb sensed a flicker of rage in Jaime's eyes, as if the insults were digging into old guilt. He pursued that wound. "You serve no one, not truly. You have no honor, no loyalty—only your vanity. If you actually cared about your family, you wouldn't drag them into endless war to preserve your twisted secrets."

Jaime's expression darkened, his strikes growing harsher yet less precise. Robb clung to the desperate tactic, letting Jaime's anger erode his flawless technique. Still, each blow rattled Robb's bones. A shallow cut opened on his forearm. Blood trickled down, but he refused to cry out.

All around them, men fought, died, or surrendered. The center of the battlefield drew a circle around their duel, each side unwilling to interfere. Jaime pressed forward, a savage grin twisting his lips. "You dare moralize at me? Your mother abducted Tyrion, your men commit ambushes. How pure is your so-called honor?"

Robb spat back, breath ragged, "We do what war demands, but we keep our vows when it matters. You? You broke every vow. Even your precious kingsguard vow."

Jaime's eyes flickered with fury and shame, and for a heartbeat, he hesitated. That was all Robb needed. Summoning strength, he twisted his blade in a feint, drew Jaime's sword wide, then lunged. Jaime barely recovered, sending a punishing elbow into Robb's ribs. Pain flared, nearly driving the air from Robb's lungs. He coughed, stumbling, vision blurring. Jaime raised his sword for a finishing blow.

Robb mustered a final surge of will. He ducked under Jaime's descending blade, hooking his foot behind Jaime's ankle. Jaime lost balance on the slick mud, sliding precariously. Robb reversed his grip, hammered the pommel into Jaime's visor. The golden knight toppled sideways with a grunt, dropping to his knees. His sword fell from his hand, mired in the mud. Before he could recover, Robb's blade pressed to his throat.

A hush fell across that section of the battlefield. Lannister troops seeing Jaime's plight began casting aside weapons, their morale shattered. Northern and Riverlands soldiers roared triumph, surging forward to secure the field. Jaime glared up, breath ragged, pride flickering in his eyes, but he knew he was beaten.

Robb's heart thundered. He wanted to see Jaime pay for all House Lannister had wrought. But a swirl of reason overcame that bloodlust. If Jaime died, Ned might be lost forever. Better to keep him prisoner. He hissed a breath, stepping back. "Yield, Lannister."

Jaime seethed, but at last gave a curt nod, eyes blazing. "I yield, for now."

Robb motioned for guards. "Take him. Four men at all times. Gag him if needed. He's as slippery as an eel."

The soldiers obeyed, hauling Jaime upright, disarming him thoroughly. The Kingslayer spat curses, but was too dazed from exhaustion and the blow to resist. As the rest of his force crumbled, Lannister officers signaled surrender. The day belonged to Robb.

He let out a shaky breath, letting the tip of his sword drop. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving him trembling. He scanned the field, noting the cost: swaths of fallen men, some moaning for aid, others lifeless in the mud. Victory, but at a steep price. He prayed the North and Riverlands men felt it worth the toll. In capturing Jaime, they might force House Lannister to release Eddard Stark, or at least negotiate.

Nightfall approached swiftly. Robb gave orders to gather the wounded, bury the dead, and secure prisoners. He ensured Jaime was placed under guard, locked in a makeshift pen with multiple watchers. The men nodded with grim resolve. None wanted the famed Kingslayer slipping away.

Thus ended a bloody day: The Wolf caged the Lion. But as Robb trod back to his camp, he knew the hardest battles lay ahead. War was far from decided. The realm bled from a thousand cuts, and Ned remained captive in King's Landing. If the Lannisters refused to trade, or if cunning overshadowed honor, all might still be lost.

He trudged on, thinking of how the realm had come to this savage pass. Ned had told him, once, that war was easy to begin but far harder to end. Now, carrying the title King in the North, Robb felt that truth weigh heavier than any blade.

He would soon gather his lords in council, a council that would bristle with arguments about Jaime's fate, Ned's freedom, and the North's next moves. But for a moment, he allowed himself a single breath of relief: Jaime Lannister was bested, at least for now.

The soldier in Robb wanted to collapse onto a pallet and sleep. The King in him remained awake, mind racing with strategies for tomorrow. When morning came, he'd have to face every demand, from his mother's tearful pleas to the lords' ambitious war plans.

He prayed the old gods would guide him. And he prayed for Ned's life.

He prayed for the North.

He prayed for an end to the madness.

Robb lifted his eyes to the darkening sky, murmuring a silent vow: he would not let the North break under him. He'd do better than that.

He had to.

He was King.

He was all they had.

He forced himself onward, into the star-dappled gloom.

He prayed it would be enough.

He prayed, too, that somewhere, across the sea, other fates might intertwine to save them all.

A new day dawned with a chill wind sweeping through the battered farmland, rustling the remains of tents and banners. Robb woke to the ache of bruises and the echo of a thousand half-remembered nightmares from the battle. Outside his pavilion, the camp stirred in subdued bustle. Lannister prisoners huddled in penned enclosures, guarded by armed Northmen. The smell of cooking fires mingled with damp earth.

He washed quickly in a basin, wincing at the sting of his bandaged wounds, then dressed in a simpler tunic. He had to hold a council with the lords of the North and Riverlands. They'd gather in a large canvas tent near the orchard that had served as a field hospital. Jaime Lannister's capture would be the main topic. Robb steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation with his mother, who insisted on trading the Kingslayer for Ned.

Moments later, he arrived to find the lords assembled, some perched on crates or stools, others standing. Torches ringed the tent's interior, offering meager warmth against the wind. The mood felt tense. Catelyn sat near the center, face drawn with restless worry. Lords from the North—Karstark, Umber, Mormont—and from the Riverlands—Blackwood, Mallister, and others—whispered in anxious knots. Their eyes flicked up as Robb entered.

He settled into a chair at the head of the group, brow furrowed. "We meet again," he began quietly. "Though we won a great victory, we lost many good men. We cannot forget that cost." A hush followed. He inhaled. "Now, to the matter of Jaime Lannister."

His gaze flicked to Catelyn, who clasped her hands tight, knuckles white. She wasted no time, voice tremulous. "He must be traded for your father, Robb. Every minute we delay, Ned suffers. The Lannisters will respond if we show them we have Jaime."

One of the Riverlords, Lord Mallister, shook his head. "Or they might not. Their vantage could be that we need Ned more than they need Jaime. They could promise a swap, then renege. Meanwhile, we lose our greatest leverage."

A wave of agreement rose among the Northmen. Lord Karstark added, "I recall how the Lannisters betrayed the Riverlands' trust, sacking our villages under false truces. They might do the same if we release their golden son."

Catelyn's voice cracked. "You speak of him as a pawn, but Ned is no mere pawn. He's my husband, your father. Or do you forget that?"

Robb's chest tightened. He understood her anguish, but he was King now, forced to weigh the realm's needs. "Mother, no one forgets. But I cannot gamble on a simple exchange. Jaime is a valuable hostage. If we give him up hastily, the Lannisters might mock us, keep Father locked away or harm him anyway."

She rose, eyes shining with tears. "How can you be so cold? You talk as though Ned is replaceable. I cannot do that. I need him."

Robb swallowed the knot in his throat. "I want him freed too. But we must be strategic. Perhaps if we gather more hostages or secure more alliances first… only then do we negotiate. Rushing might doom Father."

Catelyn's tears slipped free, her voice turning raw. "I remember when you were a boy, so eager to please your father. Now you speak like a warlord."

He clenched his fists under the table. "I am a warlord, Mother. That's what this war has forced me to be. I hate it, but it's truth. Let me handle the diplomacy."

She opened her mouth to protest, but the firm stares of the lords around them dissuaded further outburst. She sank back, trembling. A murmur of sympathy spread, though none openly sided with her. All recognized the grim logic: Jaime was too precious to trade away too soon.

Robb exhaled, raking a hand through his unkempt hair. "We also have no fresh word on my sisters, or how they fare in King's Landing. Some say the younger one vanished, the older remains betrothed to… to that boy-king. We just don't know."

A pained hush followed. Then Lord Umber cleared his throat. "Your Grace, we must also speak of winter's approach. The North's harvest might be short if the men remain out in the field. We need a plan for fresh supplies."

Lord Blackwood, from the Riverlands, added, "Our fields are scarred, but we're replanting. Next season's yield might help feed the North if we hold back the Lannister raiders. But if war continues, everything might burn."

Many lords chimed in, each with a perspective on supply lines, the state of roads, or the presence of bandits. Robb's head ached from the barrage. War was not just swords and banners—it was logistics, farmland, alliances, morale. He ground his teeth, listening.

Eventually, the discussion turned to the next steps in the war. Some insisted on marching south to King's Landing, forcing the city to yield Ned. Others argued for striking the Westerlands, Tywin's seat of power, to break House Lannister. Still others advised consolidating, letting the North and Riverlands rebuild under Robb's kingship so they could strike from a position of strength later. The debate raged, voices rising. Robb massaged his temples, wishing Ned were here to counsel him.

As tempers flared, he lifted a hand, voice firm. "Enough. I appreciate your counsel. Give me time to think. We must not rush into another battle without being sure of victory. For now, remain vigilant, secure our position, and care for the wounded. We'll meet again in a day."

Though frustration simmered, the lords bowed or inclined their heads. The council adjourned, men filtering out in small knots. Catelyn lingered, face set in sorrow. Robb gave her a quick glance, then averted his eyes, too drained for another fight. She left, chin trembling, her footsteps heavy.

Robb stayed behind, alone in the tent, the torches crackling. He sighed, letting the exhaustion wash over him. The war might devour them all. If only he had a single, clear path. But no—Ned's plight, the North's needs, and the realm's fracturing demanded more than one plan. He needed time to weigh each possibility, to consider the least harmful choice.

He left the tent and moved through the camp. Soldiers gave respectful nods, praising "the Young Wolf" for capturing Jaime. But each cheer reminded him of how precarious their position was. War could turn on a single betrayal or a single unlucky stroke. He recalled Theon Greyjoy's betrayal in the past, how that stung. The realm's trust was a fragile thing.

He headed toward another part of the camp, seeking Talisa. She was a foreign healer who had come to the Riverlands to help casualties of war, but their bond had grown in the weeks since. Some said it was a foolish entanglement, that he should keep an alliance with the Freys. But Robb bristled at the idea of being forced into a marriage he never wanted.

Near the edge of camp, he was intercepted by none other than Catelyn herself. Her tear-stained face bore tension. "Robb," she said, voice low. "We must speak of your duty to the Freys. You forget you swore a vow—"

He drew a tight breath, anger flickering. "A vow you made for me when we were desperate. I never freely agreed."

She stiffened. "What if they bar us from their crossing next time? We need the Twins."

He shook his head, lips pressed together. "We'll find another way if we must. I'm not your pawn to trade. I've grown, Mother. I've seen betrayal and death. You can't simply marry me off. That might have worked before, but not now."

She glared, fresh tears brimming. "This is bigger than you. It's about the North's survival, alliances. Walder Frey is known for petty vengeance. We can't afford to offend him."

Robb's voice sharpened, an edge rarely shown to his mother. "Your so-called alliances also allowed Father to ride south, got Sansa betrothed to Joffrey, ignoring the boy's cruelty. You scorned my half-brother Jon since childhood, driving him away when we might need his loyalty. You let your grief and anger overshadow logic. Enough. I'm not defying the Freys out of whim—I'm doing it because war demands a choice. I can't be shackled to a Frey bride I don't love, who might hamper the realm's future." He paused, glaring. "Besides, you have no right to blame me alone for the crossing. We both know Walder Frey manipulates any advantage for profit. We'll handle him. But I won't be forced."

Catelyn's tears slipped free. "So you blame me for everything? You forget I lost my father, my daughters' fates are uncertain—"

He cut her off softly. "I empathize. But your decisions led to chaos. My father is in a cell, perhaps because we lacked caution early. The war is now my burden. Let me carry it my way. I can't do that with you undermining me at every turn."

She recoiled as if struck. Silence stretched. Then she whispered, "You are not the boy I raised."

He exhaled a tremulous breath. "No, the war changed me. I must lead. You must trust me. That's all I can say."

Without waiting, he stepped around her, forging on toward the area where Talisa tended the wounded. He left Catelyn behind, tears on her cheeks, words unspoken. It seared his heart to be so harsh, but necessity demanded it. He was King, not a boy.

Reaching Talisa's tent, he found her wrapping bandages on a soldier's arm. She glanced up, reading the turmoil in his face. "Robb," she said gently. "Are you hurt again?"

He shook his head, voice hoarse. "Just tired of war, of arguments, of being a piece on the board. I needed to see you."

She led him aside, letting him vent his frustrations. He told her of his mother's insistence on the Frey marriage, of how he'd defied it, how guilt gnawed at him for yelling at her. Talisa listened, steady and calm. She dabbed a cloth at a smear on his cheek, offering comfort. In her presence, he could let the facade of unwavering kingship drop for a moment, show the raw edges of heartbreak and fear.

They lingered in companionable silence until a runner arrived, breathless, bearing a letter. "Your Grace," he said, bowing. "This arrived by raven, from Essos. It's signed only with initials. The scribe who read it out said it mentioned conquering Slaver's Bay. They recognized the handwriting from a previous letter from Jon Snow. Should I…?"

Robb's chest tightened. "No, give it here." He took the parchment, dismissing the runner. He read by the lamplight, hand trembling. The letter detailed how Jon had split his forces to conquer Yunkai and Qarth, forging alliances across Essos. No explicit mention of any hidden ancestry—just the vague knowledge that Jon's path was to liberate slaves, gather an unassailable host, and eventually help in Westeros. The letter also contained a note that Jon had heard of Ned's capture, that he was striving to gather the might needed to break the Lannisters if the realm was too divided to rescue Ned itself. And a gentle reminder: if the realm continued fracturing, the White Walkers would come upon them unprepared.

Robb felt a surge of emotion. Jon—his half-brother, or so the world believed—was far away yet working to save them all in a different way. He stared at the letter, feeling both pride in Jon's achievements and shame that he, Robb, flailed in petty war. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes. "Talisa, read this, please. Let me know if I'm not imagining its tone."

He handed it over. Talisa skimmed it, brows knitting. "He's forging a formidable empire. He promises eventual aid, but only once he's certain. He also warns about the real threat beyond the Wall, which the realm is ignoring."

Robb nodded, voice subdued. "He's right, you know. We're so caught in this Lannister war, we forget the legends from the North. My father always said winter was coming. If the old stories hold true, the White Walkers are more than myth."

Talisa touched his arm. "Then perhaps your brother's efforts will help unify. Don't belittle your own war. If you hadn't fought, Jaime would run rampant, the North would be subjugated. You protect your people while Jon does the same in his sphere."

He let out a shaky breath, tears threatening. "I only wish I'd done better by him. We parted with so little closure. I never stood up to mother's scorn. If he's truly forging that greatness, I'm proud. I also feel unworthy."

Talisa's eyes softened. "Then become worthy. Rule with heart and mind. Let this letter fuel your resolve."

He stared at the parchment. Then, with trembling hands, he fetched quill and paper. "I'll write him back. Thank him, and… ask his advice. Even if he's across the sea, I want him to know I honor his efforts."

He spent some minutes drafting a brief missive:

Jon,

I received your letter. Words fail me to express my gratitude for all you do, even as we're so far apart. Father remains captive, the realm fractures, but we fight on. Know that I stand by you in spirit. When the day comes, I'd gladly unite our forces to protect the realm from winter's terrors. Forgive me my past failings as a brother. I vow to be better.

—Robb

He pressed his seal into the wax, tears glinting in his eyes. Then he folded it carefully. "Talisa, please gather a few lords to witness a second document—my will. If I die, I want the North to maintain stability." He paused, inhaling. "I want to mention Jon, vaguely, as a friend or ally. That if the worst befalls me, the North's regency might consider him a potential partner. But keep the specifics quiet."

Talisa agreed, eyes reflecting admiration. "I'll find the lords you trust. Not the Boltons, you said?"

He gave a small grim nod. "I suspect Roose Bolton's loyalty is tenuous. Best to exclude him. We'll gather Mormont, Karstark, and two Riverlords. That should suffice."

So they prepared. Robb called those lords quietly, had them read and sign his will. It formalized that if Robb died, a council of Northern lords would govern until either a clear Stark heir emerged or an ally could help secure them. It left open the possibility of forging alliances with certain unknown powers. The lords seemed perplexed but complied, trusting their king's caution.

At last, Robb set the sealed will in a strong chest under guard. Then he slumped onto a bench, Talisa at his side. The camp bustled outside, the hush of men settling to rest after a brutal day. He leaned his head back, letting the tension ease.

He recalled how Ned would approach problems with patient calm, how Jon had left for reasons unspoken. He recalled Theon's betrayal. Sansa and Arya's uncertain fates. But at least a measure of hope flickered: Jaime Lannister was in chains, giving leverage. The north's fields might survive another season if they planned well. And somewhere across the sea, Jon labored to gather unstoppable strength, potentially to break the cycle of conflict once and for all.

Robb let the thought anchor him. He was King, forging a new path for the North. Mistakes had been made, tragedies endured, but he would push forward. War demanded no less. He gazed at Talisa, drawing comfort from her presence, then lifted his eyes to the camp's torches beyond. Another day had ended in blood and tears, but tomorrow might hold a glimmer of salvation.

He prayed so. And in that silent plea, he felt the faint stirrings of faith in his family, scattered though they were. Maybe one day, their paths would unite to heal a realm teetering on the brink.

For now, he held fast to that slender hope, letting it guide him into the uncertain morrow.