The passage through the Neck was far harsher than any northern lord had warned. From the moment the host entered Moat Cailin, the North's great army—despite its initial burst of momentum—found itself slowing to a crawl under the crushing weight of the swamplands. What looked on a map like a narrow stretch of marsh became, in truth, an endless battlefield of mud, mist, and misery.
The causeway, generations old and barely wide enough for two wagons to pass, wound forward like a string laid over a quagmire of black, sucking mud. The air hung thick and heavy, humid enough that every breath felt like drinking warm water. There was no room on either side to pitch proper camps, and each evening the Northmen were forced to halt on the road itself, standing cold and stiff as they wrapped themselves in furs and waited for morning.
Thankfully, the swamp's warmth spared them the deadly chill familiar to northern winters. They suffered no frostbite, no freezing winds, none of winter's usual furies. But the Neck had horrors of its own. Quicksand pits hid beneath thin skins of moss. Venomous snakes slid through the muck, striking without warning. Small, brightly colored plants—beautiful at a glance—held poisons in their petals and fruit. Even the air carried the smell of rot.
It was here, surrounded by nature's ruthless hostility, that the North sustained its first losses—not from Lannister blades, but from the land itself.
Eddard Stark felt each casualty like a needle driven through his heart. He could command men, discipline armies, and rule lands, but he could not order the swamps of the Neck to behave. Against such ancient, indifferent forces, he was as helpless as a newborn, and the helplessness gnawed at him every night.
When they reached the region near Greywater Watch, the Reed family joined them—Howland Reed, quiet and unassuming as ever, accompanied by his children, Meera and Jojen. True to his earlier letters, Howland promised that should the Lannisters dare cross the Neck, the crannogmen would make them pay with blood.
Even so, despite the aid of the swamp-dwelling Reeds, it still took the host more than twenty grueling days to exit the Neck's clutches.
Eddard Stark, a man who clung to honor and duty as tightly as breath, spent the second half of those days cursing under his breath with the fury of a king. Fortunately for his dignity—only King Robert was close enough to hear his muttered complaints.
Yet the moment they finally emerged from the Neck, the world seemed to expand before them. The army, no longer constricted by swamps and narrow stone paths, surged forward with renewed vigor. But the brief relief did not last. Within two days they had left the King's Road behind entirely, redirecting toward Riverrun after receiving grim reports from the Riverlands.
The news was worse than Eddard had feared. The Riverlords, scattered and poorly coordinated, had folded before the might of the West like frightened deer before wolves. The Lannister host had swept through the Riverlands with frightening ease, as if the land itself had offered no resistance.
Even Riverrun—proud seat of House Tully—now lay besieged on three sides, penned in so tightly that its defenders could do little more than hold the walls and pray for relief.
"Hoster Tully is a damned idiot!" King Robert roared from atop his great black warhorse. Dust clung to his beard, and sweat darkened the blue velvet of his riding clothes, yet his fury burned hotter than the sun. "All I asked was that he keep an eye on Tywin's movements—not win a bloody war! Just watch them! And what does he do? He loses track of the lions and lets them surround his castle!"
He spat into the dirt.
"A thousand of his own men thrown into the meat grinder," Robert continued, "and he can't even hold them together long enough to avoid being outmaneuvered. A simple task, ruined!"
Eddard said nothing. His weariness showed in the tight lines around his eyes. He had known Hoster Tully for many years. The Lord of Riverrun had grown old, his strength fading, his judgment perhaps less sharp than before—but even Eddard had not expected things to crumble so completely.
Robert was far from finished.
"Is his brain full of the mud from the bottom of the Red Fork?" the King demanded. "Who sends Edmure—Edmure, of all people—to hold the line?! And at the front gate, no less!"
Eddard winced at that. Edmure Tully, well-meaning but impulsive, had always struggled with command.
"And now," Robert growled, "that foolish boy is captured. Captured alive! Tywin's probably dangling him from a bloody pole, threatening to carve him up piece by piece unless the old man surrenders the whole castle!"
The more Robert spoke, the angrier he became—his curses grew louder, his gestures wilder. The long march, the endless delays, and now this humiliation inflicted by Tywin Lannister combined into a rage as fierce as wildfire.
Karl Stone rode ahead, his posture rigid, eyes fixed forward, wisely pretending he heard none of it. Jon Snow followed close behind, mimicking Karl's discipline, his newly forged longsword resting at his hip.
The thunder of hooves signaled the arrival of a scouting party bearing the crowned stag of House Baratheon and the direwolf of House Stark. One of the riders called out:
"Your Majesty! Lord Walder Frey waits outside Riverrun with his sons. He has come to greet you!"
Karl no longer served as a scout himself—his duties as the King's guard took precedence—but the army had more than enough riders to perform reconnaissance. Dozens swept ahead and around the marching host at all hours.
Robert snorted sharply at the report.
"The tardy old weasel finally emerges from his den," he muttered. "Riverrun is besieged, Hoster Tully is eating loaches in his own damn castle, yet Walder Frey has time to trot out and greet me? Hmph."
Eddard rubbed his brow, the beginnings of a headache settling behind his eyes.
"Your Majesty," he said gently, "the Freys are bannermen to Riverrun. We must at least acknowledge—"
"I know, Ned," Robert cut him off, though his voice lost a fraction of its fire. "Seven hells, this is not the time for bickering. But I'll tell you this: Walder Frey will not be hiding behind his blasted walls this time. I want him—and all his sons—and all his men—with us. Marching with us. I'll not tolerate him skulking in the Twins while others bleed."
Eddard exhaled softly. At least Robert was still thinking clearly beneath the rage.
He gestured to the guards at his side, urging them to prepare. Then he slowed his horse slightly, falling half a step behind the King as duty demanded.
"Then let us go and meet him," Eddard said. "Marquis Walder Frey has come to greet Your Majesty in person. It would not do for us to delay."
---
The army pressed forward. The fields near Riverrun stretched wide beneath a cloudy sky, trampled in places by the passage of countless troops. Smoke rose faintly along the horizon—signals of camps, or perhaps the remnants of burned farms.
And there, positioned like a crooked old tree refusing to fall, stood Walder Frey himself with a gathering of his many sons and grandsons. Banners bearing the twin towers of House Frey fluttered above them.
King Robert's jaw clenched.
"That old goat," he muttered. "Look at him—standing there as if he didn't delay half the realm with his dithering."
But he straightened his shoulders and rode forward. However much he despised Walder Frey's lack of loyalty, he was still a lord of the Riverlands—and more importantly, the Twins stood between them and the future war to come. Better to have Frey open his gates willingly than force them at swordpoint.
As they neared, Walder Frey bowed stiffly, his expression a careful blend of respect and sly calculation.
"Your Majesty," he rasped. "We are honored by your arrival."
Robert forced a thin smile. "Lord Frey. I trust you are prepared to fulfill your duties to the Riverlands—and to your king."
Walder's watery blue eyes flickered. "But of course, Your Majesty."
Behind Robert, Eddard Stark watched the exchange with a sinking feeling. Frey's obedience was never freely given. Whatever came next, the Freys would be involved—and that rarely bode well for anyone.
But for now, there was only one pressing concern: Riverrun was under siege, and the Riverlands were burning.
And the war had only just begun.
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