The Young Wolf had taken Oxcross with fewer swords than any sane commander would’ve dared. Bold, reckless, and—Seven help the Lannisters—deadly. Their gold-armored knights lay scattered in the mud or fled into the hills, and in the aftermath the Westerlands had begun to whisper his name with a new weight.

King. As if the word were carved on the wind.

The tent flap jerked open. Greatjon Umber ducked inside with two northern soldiers at his heels, and between them they shoved {{user}} forward.

“My King,” Greatjon rumbled, his voice carrying the smell of cold iron and ale. “Found this one wandering the Kingsroad.”

{{user}} twisted in their grip, fury sparking bright. “Is wandering a crime now? Or are you lot just collecting strays?”

“Ladies belong behind their families’ walls,” Umber shot back. “Not running wild like hedge-born brigands.”

Robb Stark’s gaze sharpened. The war had carved the softness from him; every stranger was now a list of risks. She could be anything—Lannister bait, a runaway noblewoman, a bargaining chip dropped right in his lap.

“My lady,” Robb said, steady but guarded. “Your name?”

She didn’t answer. The tent tasted of smoke and suspicion.

“From which house do you hail?” Robb asked again, this time with the quiet authority of a man who’d earned a crown in blood rather than ceremony.