10th Month of 299 A.C. Barrowlands
Lord Robb Stark
The war in the south was done, it was finished, and with any look Robb would never need to bring a military force beyond the neck ever again. He had faith in his cousin to stabilise the Kingdom, and from what he had seen during his brief time in King's Landing, he thought that King Aegon would be fine. Of course Robb knew that as Hand he would be needed within the south, and that was something he was willing to do, he just needed to make sure everything was safe within the north first, he needed to make sure Wynafryd and their son- the fact that he was a father was still an odd one for him- were safe, and that they held Winterfell once more. Reports had been filtering in, strange echoes of things going on within Winterfell, as well as within the north as a whole. The thought of that man, that man who had killed his mother and his uncle, sitting in Winterfell was enough to make him grit his teeth and roar in rage, but he managed to remain calm somehow. There was too much riding on him remaining calm for him to engage in such things. Instead he listened as his scouts and lords reported their findings and planned accordingly.
Torrhen had met them at Castle Rills and had informed them of some events, it seemed more minor houses of the north were siding with this pretender whilst the rest of the north either had their own issues, or were waiting to see how things turned out. That was something Robb had begrudgingly come to accept over the course of the war, loyalty was a fickle thing, especially amongst the north, and as such, Robb was somewhat surprised that some of the lords had not already jumped ship and moved to side with this pretender. He had thought Domeric would change sides for certs, the Lord of the Dreadfort had been acting quite strangely ever since they had left King's Landing, and Robb could not quite put his finger on the why. All he knew was that he did not trust Bolton and as such kept him close and under watch. He was not going to allow himself to be caught off guard, not this time. And so they had ridden forth from the castle, and the plans had been made, Robb filled with revenge and a determination to get justice.
The army was made up of a mixture of foot and horse, the foot was divided into three battles, with the main battle being under his command alongside the majority of the horse. Lord Karstark, ever determined to show his loyalty, especially after his uncle's proposed treachery was commanding the left battle with a small portion of horse, and then there was Torrhen, born and bred to command horse, leading the right battle with a larger portion of horse. They were a formidable host, that much he knew, he also knew that Lord Wyman had been preparing an assault on Winterfell, and as such the results of that were as of yet undetermined, though the fact that Winterfell had not yet fallen, seemed to suggest that perhaps it had not gone as planned. Robb merely hoped that Wynafryd and their son were safe. It was of paramount importance to him that his wife and son remained safe, Rickon as well, though he knew Rickon would remain safe, his youngest brother always did somehow. Briefly, he wonders how his youngest brother is dealing with the loss of their mother, whilst Bran might have been mother's favourite- though she would deny that- Rickon was the babe of the family and often got special treatment. Robb hoped his brother was not too far alone.
A glimpse of light draws him from his musings. The signal coming from Torrhen, clearly the enemy is approaching. Robb looks at his surroundings through the narrow slip in his helm, he sees the snow covered ground, that snow has come now, is no surprise, the north often gets summer snows, and winter is coming, but there is something about this snow, something that makes Robb's hair stand on edge. He is not quite sure what it is, or why it has him so on edge, all he knows is that the sooner this battle is done, and the sooner they are in Winterfell the better. As such, when the second glimpse of light comes through the murky sky, Robb nods to Martyn, and moves forward, the battle moving with him. The plan is simple, soon enough they shall see who is the true Stark, he hopes he can meet the man responsible for his mother and sister's deaths and bring them to justice. Briefly, revenge flickers in his chest and his heart, but eventually it simmers down, and is replaced by a calmness that he has begun to feel before a battle. Perhaps he is becoming too accustomed to the bloodshed that comes from such things, perhaps not. It makes no difference, for the third glimpse of light comes and now Robb is spurring his horse into a gallop, Greywind moving at his side.
They come out of their alcove of hiding, and see a fight unfolding before them, there are men fighting men, and what look like their animals, that cannot be right, surely if the false Stark was fighting alongside traitors they'd be riding horses, not what looks like bears. Briefly, he wonders if wildlings have managed to get into the north, but then he dismisses the thought, thinking that if they had he would have heard about it long before now. Instead he draws Ice and spurs his horse head on into frey. He swings his sword, steel clanging with steel as a figure wearing Stark armour, but so clearly not a Stark man blocks his blow. Their swords are locked in a firm embrace, both men pushing against the other, trying to outdo the other, eventually, Robb manages to come out ontop, using all the strength he has in his arms to force the man's sword down before bringing Ice up to hit the man in the cheek, for some reason the man is not wearing a helm, and his pale skin turns red as blood gushes out from the wound. The man falls back and Robb advances forward.
As he faces down yet another man, he begins wondering whether these men are actually men. It seems a strange thought to him, but then again dragons are back in this world after having been dead for so long. These men they fight, they move like normal men alright, but there is something about them, something in their bearing that does not seem like how a normal man would hold themselves. Robb is not quite sure how he would explain it if asked, he is not even sure he truly understands what it is he is trying to say, but still, something seems off about them. His sword cuts through them with some ease, but they keep getting back up, or some of them do, honing in on him as if they now have some sort of connection, it is unnerving and somewhat worrying, but he keeps moving, keeps fighting. He is the leader of this army, he cannot afford to show any sort of complacency, he swings his sword again and again, cutting down whatever foes decide to get in his way. Blood runs red on the ground, it covers his sword, and still more of them are coming.
Robb watches as his forces cut down the enemy as they come, and he looks around the field, noting that the right battle seems to be handling itself just fine, but the left, well the left seems to be struggling. Robb can only see them from a distance, but he sees the Sun of House Karstark get pulled down in the throng of the frenzy of heated battle, and for a brief moment he considers riding there to aid Lord Karstark, but then, his attention is brought back to the present situation in front of him, and he regrettably has to shelve that idea. Instead, he turns his full attention toward dealing with the foes who just keep coming, who keeping appearing from somewhere. Robb, keeps swinging his sword, cutting men down, their blood feeding the land that drinks their spilt blood eagerly, but still they keep coming, and Robb begins wondering from where these foes keep coming from. He looks and looks, but he cannot see their source, and it worries him. He has the horn, but he knows that it can only be used on the false Stark, not otherwise, but these foes keep coming and he keeps wondering when the nail will be hammered in.
As he watches more and more of his men fall victim to the endless parade of enemy men, Robb makes the only decision he can, and though he worries at the consequences that it could have, he knows that there will be far worse things to come unless he does something, and right now using the horn seems like the only sensible thing to do. It is with that thought heavy in his mind, that he sheathes Ice, his guards forming a protecting ring around him, and he pulls the horn from where it rests against his horse, he looks at it, looks at the runes enscribed on it and not for the first time wonders what they say, shaking his head and trying to focus on the objective to this, he takes a deep breath and then presses the horn to his lips. Robb blows out, and a hollow sound rings out from the horn, he pulls his lips from the horn and looks to see if there is any change, his heart sinks when he sees that there has not been a change, but rather than giving up, he takes another deep breath, and then presses the horn to his lips, this time when he exhales, the horn lets loose a bellowing note, a primal sound that stirs some sense of fear and awe inside of him. He looks around and sees the fighting stop, the figures before him fading into dust, he looks at this scene completely awed, wondering what power this horn has and what it is exactly for. Prominent amongst his thoughts, is also the question of what those things before them were, for they clearly were not human.
The moment his thoughts are cleared, he begins barking orders out for the men to begin gathering the weapons left behind, and for a general clear up to begin. He remains rooted to the spot, wondering what the hell had just happened, his men look at him with something akin to fear and reverence in their eyes and it unnerves him. He looks at the horn in his hands and wonders what in the seven hells this thing is that the King gave him, it seems to have done the trick, but as he begins looking around the field of battle, and asks his men, there is no sign of the false Stark or his family, and that builds a puddle of regret and fear inside of him. Something that is partially eased when a figure is brought before him, the figure wears brown breeches and boiled leather, caked in mud, but with dark eyes. Robb looks at the figure and asks. "What were those things that we fought traitor?"
The figure looks at him and then replies. "They were the army of the lord. They came to fight, but then they stopped when you blew the horn."
"Why?" Robb asks.
"That is the Horn of Winter, and only those who are worthy may blow it. You command a part of the army of the lord now. But do you know who you are fighting?" the figure asks in return.
"A false lord, and a false Stark." Robb responds.
The figure looks at him and laughs. "No boy, you fight death itself. And it waits for you, not at Winterfell, but at the Wall."