The hall of the Twins was heavy with the smell of roasted meat, cheap wine, and the faint mustiness that always clung to Walder Frey's ancient stones. Dozens of torches flickered along the walls, throwing restless shadows over the long tables where Northmen and riverlords sat shoulder to shoulder. Laughter and clattering dishes mixed with tension—everyone knew this gathering was only a distraction from the looming war.
At the high table, Robert Baratheon was already growing impatient. He looked nothing like the heroic king ballads sang of—his beard had grown wild from days of travel, and his huge frame strained the chair beneath him. But his presence still carried undeniable weight, enough to silence the room the moment he raised a hand.
Walder Frey, perched stiffly on his chair like an old crow, had just finished showering Robert with exaggerated praise.
"Your Majesty is very wise. Truly wise! This old man can only admire such brilliance!" he declared, lowering his wine cup and even clapping softly. If not for the gout that glued him to his chair, many suspected he would have sprung up theatrically just to impress the king further.
Robert was unmoved.
"Enough." He waved a hand sharply, irritation rising in his voice. "What I want is not flattery. Tell me—what has Tywin been doing recently?"
The old lord's forced smile froze. The hall quieted as Walder Frey coughed deeply, hacking up phlegm before finally continuing.
"Your Majesty guessed correctly," he said at last, wiping his lips. "Tywin Lannister is no fool. He has left only a token force to continue the siege of Riverrun. The rest of his armies have scattered throughout the Riverlands."
A murmur rippled through the Northmen, their expressions tightening.
"And," Walder added grimly, raising a bony finger toward the south, "there may very well be Lannister spies just across the river from us—even now."
That caused more than a few soldiers to straighten in their seats.
Walder continued in his croaking voice. "Riverrun, as everyone knows, can be held with merely two hundred men. Any more than that only speeds the consumption of their food stores. Tywin understands this. He does not wish to take Riverrun quickly—he wishes to starve it."
He paused, squinting as if he had just remembered something.
"Oh, yes, Your Majesty… I nearly forgot. Because the Lannisters have ravaged the entire Riverlands, the local lords are overwhelmed. Many are unable to send reports or scouts. They can only hide behind their walls and pray for survival."
He leaned back with a sigh.
"So all the information we have—everything I just told you—is nearly two weeks old."
Those words hung in the air like a cold fog. Every lord at the high table stiffened, exchanging meaningful glances.
If their intelligence was that outdated, then they were marching into a battlefield they did not understand.
Roose Bolton's calm voice broke the silence. "The most urgent matter," he said, "is to determine what Tywin is planning."
Howland Reed nodded, his expression grave. "Indeed. We must ascertain the situation in the Riverlands as quickly as possible. Without accurate intelligence, every decision we make is reckless."
That sparked a chain reaction. One by one, lords voiced concerns.
"We must rest the men. If we push them further, we'll be no better than Edmure Tully and his foolhardy charges!"
"Our supplies are already thin. We need to address that immediately."
"We didn't have time to gather enough food on the march. We can't keep going like this."
"Can supplies be brought from King's Landing?"
"Following the King's Road to the Trident may work…"
"Or the Blackwater River—though with the current state of the Riverlands, that may be impossible."
"That city is bursting with mouths to feed—King's Landing survives on imports itself!"
"Then we take supplies locally. The Riverlands are far richer than the North."
"That is workable…"
"But without knowing the Lannisters' movements, all of this is pointless!"
The discussion quickly devolved into overlapping voices. A simple dinner had transformed into a chaotic war council.
Below the high table, small conversations died as soldiers leaned forward, listening intently. Even the youngest squires understood that the situation sounded increasingly dire.
Jon Snow, seated beside Karl Stone, felt a knot forming in his stomach. He glanced toward Karl, hoping to read his reaction.
Karl, however, remained calm. His dark eyes were steady, his expression unreadable.
"You should listen closely," Karl said quietly without looking at him. "Analyze their words. I want your thoughts tomorrow morning—your own judgment and solutions."
Jon blinked, startled. He had not expected to be assigned work. A moment ago, he had simply looked at Karl, and suddenly the man had handed him responsibility.
Yet beneath his confusion, excitement bubbled. Karl was asking for his opinion on matters of war. That was something far greater than he had ever imagined when leaving the North.
He straightened, turning his full attention to the lords above. Maybe being Karl Stone's attendant wasn't such a bad fate after all. And the South—dangerous as it was—felt undeniably alive.
At the high table, Robert's patience finally snapped. He slammed a meaty fist onto the table, jolting plates and goblets.
"Enough!"
The hall fell silent again. Every pair of eyes turned toward the king.
Robert pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly before he spoke.
"I understand the situation now," he said, voice low but firm. "It comes down to two tasks—simple enough even a drunk could understand."
He raised two thick fingers.
"First, we rest here and secure supplies."
"Second, we find out what tricks old Tywin Lannister is playing."
The lords nodded one after another.
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Robert leaned back heavily, his expression darkening.
"Then that is what we will do."
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