Catelyn stood anxiously within the stronghold, surrounded by thirty imposing Northmen warriors.
Calling them knights was not entirely accurate. Most Northerners were descended from the First Men and did not follow the Seven.
They neither anointed themselves with holy oils nor swore oaths before the sept. Yet, clad in steel and bearing arms, they were no less formidable than any knight of the south.
Her son had led six thousand men into battle against a Lannister force three times their size. Robb was still just a boy—not yet sixteen. How could a mother not worry?
She could do nothing but sit in silent prayer, calling upon the Old Gods and even the Seven—warrior, Father, Mother—any who might listen.
Then, the sound of hooves echoed through the mountain forest.
Her head snapped up. She saw the grey-white banners, the direwolf sigil rippling in the night air. And at the front of the column, there he was—her son, clad in grey armor.
Robb had grown a beard, giving him the look of a man, and his fiery-red hair burned like embers in the darkness.
But it was the figure bound in ropes that caught her eye.
Golden-haired, clad in lion-emblazoned armor.
Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer.
The moment he was hauled off his horse, the camp erupted with shouts.
"Kill the Kingslayer!"
Catelyn clenched her fists. How she longed to strike him down herself. But her husband and daughters were still in the Lannisters' hands.
Then, a commotion stirred at the base of the mountain.
A scout rushed forward, breathless.
"Lord Stark, a cavalry force is advancing down the river!"
The joyous mood turned grim in an instant.
"How many?" Robb demanded.
The scout hesitated. "Hard to say, my lord. The fire is lighting up the sky… but there are nearly two thousand in the vanguard alone."
Robb turned sharply and moved to mount his horse, sweeping his cloak over his shoulders.
A hand caught his arm.
He turned to meet his mother's worried gaze.
"Robb," Catelyn said softly.
He pulled free, swinging into the saddle.
Turning to his mother's guards, he ordered, "Escort my lady mother back to the Twins. Tell Lord Frey to open the gates."
Then, without another word, he spurred his horse and led his cavalry charging down the valley.
Cole's cavalry tore through the enemy ranks like a sword through cloth.
The Northern horsemen reacted quickly, mustering several groups to intercept the charge.
Steel met steel, sparks flashing in the dark.
Cole cut down the first rider to meet him, then another. He charged forward, roaring with his men, and in mere moments, they had covered hundreds of yards, hacking down everything in their path. He had lost count of how many foes had fallen beneath his blade.
Battle decided itself in the first moments of a clash. He opened the Eye of Time, sidestepping fatal blows before they came. His horse carried him unscathed through the storm of steel and death.
All around him, the battlefield dissolved into chaos—shouts of agony, the clang of weapons, the screams of dying men. The sheer force of it all left him momentarily dizzy.
So this is war…
An enemy spearman lunged at him—Cole's horse reared, knocking the man flat. Without hesitation, Cole spurred his mount forward, trampling the fallen soldier beneath iron-shod hooves.
He pressed on, his sword a blur of motion. Cold northern air stung his face as he severed another foe's head from his shoulders, sending it flying into the night.
The Northerners were retreating.
Cole's cavalry regrouped, hunting down isolated stragglers, cutting them down one by one.
Then, from the depths of the forest, another cavalry force emerged.
This one was different.
The riders were heavily armored, and at their head rode a man clad in steel from head to toe. Beside him loped a massive, gray-black beast.
Their banner caught the firelight—a grey direwolf racing across a white field.
Robb Stark had arrived.
They broke through the left wing, catching Cole and his men off guard.
In an instant, the battlefield descended into chaos as the two cavalry forces clashed, horses rearing and blades flashing.
Korzema, riding amidst the fray, had enough men around him to keep the enemy at bay, at least for the moment. But his sharp eyes quickly picked out the true threat—the young man leading a direwolf into battle.
Robb Stark.
The beast never left his side, and the horses knew better than to approach. A gap had formed around him, a vacuum of fear. Not only did the mounts shy away from the monstrous wolf, but even hardened warriors hesitated.
Cole spurred his horse forward, but his mount resisted, trembling beneath him.
At the same moment, Robb spotted him. His armor was unremarkable, but Robb had seen the way the Lannister knights formed around him—he was no ordinary soldier.
Their eyes met, and without a word, they understood.
A duel.
Robb urged his horse forward, sword raised, moving with the deadly grace of a wolf stalking its prey.
Cole's steed finally obeyed, and he charged to meet him, cutting through the battlefield like a storm.
Blades clashed, the cold steel ringing through the night. Sparks flew as they struck again and again, neither giving an inch.
Under the flickering firelight, Robb caught a glimpse of the face beneath the half-helm. Something about him was familiar, but with battle raging around them, he couldn't place it.
Then, Cole spoke.
"Long time no see, Lord Stark."
Recognition flickered in Robb's eyes, but it was buried beneath the urgency of the fight.
Cole, the cook. A nameless figure from Winterfell's past.
Now, no longer just a cook—now, a warrior.
Cole struck with both blades, the twin swords whirling in his hands, his assault relentless. Robb fought back, but the momentum shifted—he was being pushed back.
Then, with a brutal stroke, Cole severed the head of Robb's horse.
The beast collapsed beneath him, sending him tumbling to the ground.
Cole reined in his mount, looming over him, his massive sword dripping with blood.
Each beat of his horse's hooves sounded like the toll of a death knell.
Then—
A shadow leapt.
Grey Wind.
Cole had been waiting for this.
He loosened his grip, slid his feet from the stirrups, and dropped from the saddle in an instant—just as the direwolf soared through the air.
Its hackles were raised, fangs bared, eyes burning red in the moonlight.
Robb was already back on his feet, sword in hand.
Man and beast surrounded Cole, cutting off all escape.
He spat on the ground, rolling his shoulders as he raised both swords.
"Perfect. I'll kill both wolf pups together."
Without warning, he lunged at Robb.
The Young Wolf did not back down, meeting the attack head-on. Their swords clashed again, and Cole pressed the assault, his twin blades forcing Robb to retreat step by step.
But Grey Wind struck from behind.
Cole spun away at the last second, keeping both opponents in his sight.
Robb reached out and patted the direwolf's side. Without hesitation, the beast melted into the darkness of the trees.
Cole frowned. He's letting the wolf hunt me from the shadows…
Robb wiped the blood from his chin, his breath steady despite the fight. "Who are you?" he asked.
Cole smirked, coughed twice, and took a step forward.
"Cole. Once a cook in Winterfell. A long time ago."
Robb's brow furrowed. Then, recognition dawned.
"You."
Cole gave a mocking bow. "You were kind to me back then, Lord Stark. Now, I fight for House Lannister."
His swords flashed like a crescent moon, the strike swift as lightning.
Robb blocked, gritting his teeth. He could handle it—but just barely.
Grey Wind prowled in the shadows, darting out every so often, testing Cole's defenses but never fully committing.
It was a deadly game of patience.
And though only moments had passed, Cole could already feel it—exhaustion creeping in.
This battle was far from over.
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