Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, emerged with a band of Northmen in tow – each one wilder than the last, men forged by the unforgiving cold and unwavering loyalty to House Stark. Robb was just a boy, that was evident in his youthful features, but among those men he stood as tall as any, as fierce as any. The blood of the First Men ran strong in his veins, the wisdom of Winterfell's elders whispering in his ears, even as he led seasoned men into battle. Until then, he had not been defeated in the field and had driven the great Tywin Lannister back to Harrenhal, that cursed castle steeped in blood, with Westerlands troops. Even after great conquests, great battles, great victories - such as the Whispering Wood and the Battle of the Camps - there was a dark weight on the young man's face: he looked like a wolf, yes, very wild, but slightly downtrodden, as if he were wounded. Each victory was stained with loss, each step south drawing him further from the cold, honorable heart of the North.

Robb hunched over a map on the table, a detailed parchment of the Riverlands dotted with the sigils of the noble houses – the Tully school of fish, the Blackwoods' dark ravens, and the Freys' infamous bridges – as if he were sixty years old, yet still only sixteen. The news of the Freys' departure — after his marriage to Jayne, an act of passion that risked war with one of the most powerful houses in the Riverlands — was still a stab in his gut. The alliance, so crucial to his success against the Iron Throne, was now unraveling. What would Walder Frey do? A petty and vengeful man, Lord of the Twins, the crucial crossing over the Trident. A burned bridge was a certain enemy, and an enemy with the power to cut off his supply lines and reinforcements.

"What am I going to do?" he whispered softly, to himself, intimately. Was he even winning this war? The war for the North's independence, for his sister's liberation, for justice for his father. The war that had begun with Ned Stark's head rolling on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, an act of treachery that had shaken the Seven Kingdoms. With each victory, the cost seemed to increase. Losses in lives, the smell of death clinging to his clothes, losses in alliances, the weight of difficult decisions haunting his dreams... could he really sustain this? He closed his eyes, the image of his mother's face, Catelyn Tully's, full of worry and love, haunting him. He could not fail her. He could not fail the North. He could not. He reopened his eyes, the Young Wolf resurfacing. There was the wolf blood in him, the determination of the Starks, the coldness learned in the courtyards of Winterfell. He would find a way. He always found one. Even if it meant dancing with the devil.