Riverlands, the Northern army camp. The open ground outside the command tent reeked of horses and sweat.
In the center of the clearing stood a dense mass of figures—twenty thousand men, their heads shaven, all clad in the uniform garb of the "Unsullied."
Their skin was dark, their features sharp, their eyes glinting like untamed hawks—alert, defiant, and unyielding. The arakhs in their hands gleamed with a cold, murderous light, and Dothraki sinew-bows hung across their backs. Nearby, their scruffy, restless horses snorted and pawed at the earth.
A stifling aura of savagery and bloodlust rolled off them in waves—wild, raw, utterly alien to the disciplined solemnity of the Northern camp.
Robb Stark, King in the North, stood atop the steps outside the command tent, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak. His eyes were locked on the Dothraki horde below, the color draining slowly from his face.
Beside him, Lady Catelyn stood rigid and pale, her eyes burning with outrage and humiliation.
"These are the soldiers the Easterner has lent us? And he dares call them 'Unsullied'?"
Lord Karstark was the first to explode, his voice booming across the field. "Open your eyes! These are twenty thousand Dothraki savages draped in rags! Wolves of the grasslands! Wendel, has the sea wind rotted your brain? How could you bring such beasts back with you?!"
"Lord Rickard speaks true!" Galbart Glover's face darkened. "Unsullied? Don't make me laugh! You've led twenty thousand starving wolves straight into the sheepfold! What do they know of discipline? Of loyalty? They know only blood and plunder! Let them fight for us, and the Riverlands won't fall to the Lannisters—they'll be sacked and burned to ash by these savages first!"
"Disgrace!" Ser Helman Tallhart struck the post beside him with a fist. "It's a disgrace to the North! To trade Lady Sansa Stark—the jewel of our house—for a horde of beasts who should still be grazing on the plains? Your Grace, you must not agree to that Easterner's demands! Lady Sansa must never be given to that shameless conqueror! Such a bargain would make House Stark, and all the North, the laughingstock of the Seven Kingdoms!"
The camp erupted into chaos. Northern lords shouted over one another, faces red with fury, their voices crashing like thunder beneath the tent canopy.
In the midst of the storm stood Ser Wendel Manderly, red-faced and drenched in sweat. He tried desperately to explain himself.
"My lords, please—listen to me! The Easterner insists they are 'Unsullied'! I... I had no choice! The North needs soldiers—any soldiers! Even Dothraki are better than none!"
Catelyn gripped her son's arm so tightly her nails dug into his skin. She leaned close, her voice low and icy.
"Robb, you heard them. They're right. Trading Sansa for the service of these beasts would destroy our family's honor. The Seven Kingdoms will never accept foreign savages rampaging through their lands—it would be a disaster worse than the Lannisters. And Sansa isn't even in our hands; she's still in King's Landing, in the Lannisters' claws. Even if we agreed, what good would it do?"
Before Robb could respond, a roar like thunder silenced the crowd.
"I'll not have it!"
Greatjon Umber.
The massive, broad-shouldered lord shouldered his way forward, his fury palpable. His bearded face was twisted with rage.
He had not forgotten how, two years before, he had been captured by the Easterners—chained like an animal and thrown into a damp Tyroshi dungeon, starved and humiliated. His hatred for them burned deep as molten iron.
He tore the greatsword from his belt and raised it high. "I was taken by the Easterner across the Narrow Sea! Bound like livestock! And now you tell me we're to trade Lady Sansa for a pack of savages? To let them run wild across the Seven Kingdoms? To hell with that! I'll be the first to refuse!"
The field fell dead silent.
Robb's eyes swept slowly across the clearing—from the Dothraki ranks, to the twisted, furious faces of his lords, to his mother's gaze, filled with fear and fierce opposition—and finally to the Greatjon's defiant, hate-filled stare.
Twenty thousand warriors. Dothraki though they were, they were still strength—real, tangible strength.
And strength was the one thing the North lacked most.
Robb's heart wavered between two worlds.
Honor? If honor could save him, his father would still be alive.
Sansa? She was far away in King's Landing, her fate uncertain.
A hollow marriage promise for an army strong enough to tear into the Lannisters.
Was it worth it?
Amid the heavy silence, Chai Yiq, who had been standing quietly behind Robb, stepped forward and spoke the words Lo Quen had entrusted to her.
"Your Grace, King in the North, my lords—dwelling on a warrior's origins is like a trapped beast struggling in vain. Strength recognizes no race. These men may be blades beyond your control, but how those blades are wielded depends on you.
Why keep them here in the Riverlands, where they are a burden and a threat? The Westerlands are rich, yet hollow. Tywin's main host is tangled with you here—his rear lies exposed like an unguarded vault. Send these horsemen to strike at the heart of your enemy. Let these twenty thousand curved blades become a wildfire sweeping across the Westerlands—burning their granaries, plundering their villages, slaughtering their garrisons. Let the Lannisters' Goldroad be paved with ashes and screams. Force them to divide their strength, shake their foundations, and create the fatal chance you need to crush Tywin outright. That is the true worth of power."
When Chai Yiq finished, the Northern camp fell into stunned silence.
Robb's chest rose and fell sharply, his eyes blazing with sudden realization.
Send the horsemen west—to the Lannisters' heartland. Let Tywin's own lands burn. Let him fight on two fronts.
The thought tore through every doubt, every flicker of shame.
War was a cruel game of survival. For victory, for vengeance, for the North's survival—what weapon could he afford to leave unused?
Robb stepped forward abruptly. "The envoy speaks true! Their blood or birth matters nothing. They are daggers to pierce the Lannister heart. Sending them to raid the Westerlands is their best use. To defeat the Lannisters—this price, we can pay!"
"But Robb! Sansa—" Catelyn's voice broke as she tried to protest one last time.
Robb cut her off, his gaze steady and resolute upon Chai Yiq. "Envoy, I accept His Grace Lo Quen's terms. I, Robb Stark, King in the North, hereby pledge my elder sister, Sansa Stark, to His Grace Lo Quen as wife."
The words struck like cold water poured into boiling oil.
Greatjon Umber growled in fury, Lord Rickard's face went gray, and Catelyn closed her eyes in despair.
Chai Yiq's lips curved into a calm smile. She bowed gracefully. "Your Grace's wisdom honors us. Your sincerity will not go unnoticed. However, there is the matter of Lady Sansa currently residing in King's Landing. That poses… a complication."
Robb and Catelyn both tensed.
Chai Yiq continued smoothly, "The essence of this union lies in name and recognition. If Your Grace issues an official declaration, sent to every noble house of the Seven Kingdoms, proclaiming that you have betrothed your sister, Sansa Stark, to His Grace Lo Quen, Conqueror of the Narrow Sea—then the marriage shall be deemed valid. As for retrieving Lady Sansa from King's Landing… that need not trouble the North. These twenty thousand warriors will be yours to command at once."
Robb drew in a long breath. "Very well. I agree. I'll draft the marriage contract immediately and announce it to the Seven Kingdoms."
Chai Yiq bowed deeply, then turned and left the tent with serene composure.
The moment her figure disappeared beyond the canvas flap, Robb's expression hardened—his earlier resolve turning to steel.
He turned sharply to his bannermen. "Summon every commander. We hold council at once. We march on the Westerlands and tear down Tywin's stronghold!"
He pointed toward the horsemen below, his voice fierce. "Ready them! Arm them with arakhs and bows! Drive them into the Westerlands. I want the Lannisters' golden hills reduced to scorched earth!"
A cold wind swept through the camp, setting the banners of the North snapping violently.
The Northern lords looked upon their young king—at the vengeance blazing in his eyes, and at the twenty thousand horsemen who would soon bring ruin—and each of them felt a storm of emotions they could not name.