"After Emperor Medger Stark the First, called Medger the Cruel, suppressed the Volmark rebellion in an extremely bloody way, he carried out a complete massacre in the Iron Islands. More than half of the noble houses of the Iron Islands were destroyed during this massacre. Although some of these families managed to escape to Essos, the majority could not escape the cruelty of Medger the Cruel, and the women and children of the houses placed on the blacklist were mercilessly slaughtered.

The cruelties of Medger the Cruel did not end here. Medger completely banned the Drowned God religion, had all symbols related to this faith burned, and had the religious men brutally executed in the square. These massacres would later extend to the civilian population who secretly tried to worship the Drowned God.

His most controversial decision was giving the ownership of the Iron Islands to the Lannisters, the lords of the Westerlands. Janna Stark, the widowed Lady of Winterfell at the time, objected to this decision loudly together with the other northern lords. As the Northern Starks often did when requesting royal privileges from the Royal Starks, it was reminded that "both sides were Starks." Emperor Medger looked down at Lady Janna from the high seat he sat upon and said, "You are not Starks. You are merely a cadet branch of the Stark house that holds my ancestors' home, Winterfell, in our name. Know your place, or I will find other Starks to give the castle to."

This speech shattered the relationship between the Northern Starks and the Royal Starks. In the centuries that followed, the relationship continued to grow tense. The words written by Roygar Stark, the Northern Lord of that time, to Emperor Rickard the "Cunning" finally encouraged the Royal Starks to take action. "Your claim to the imperial title rests upon being descended from Eddard the Unifier, but there is a mistake here. The First Eddard was a Northerner, and you clearly are not."

After this letter, Emperor Rickard fulfilled the threat of his ancestor Medger. The Stark house of Winterfell was destroyed, and he found new Starks — House Dawnstark — to give the castle to.

Some historians interpret this event as the end of the Stark house that ruled the North for thousands of years, but most historians of that period adopted the same account as the official statement of the royal court: Winterfell had been taken from one cadet branch of the Starks and given to another cadet branch."

- The Reign of the Wolves, Maester Wulkan

"Your Majesty, we are here to protect the crown prince."

Robb looked at the seven septons before him in astonishment. "Protect me from exactly what?"

"The Valyrian army has vile sorcerers, Your Majesty," Oswell Whent, with the terrifying scar across the center of his face, looked quite frightening. "They killed King Robert with magic. We fear the same vile methods might be used against House Stark."

Robb had heard how his father-in-law had been treacherously killed, though to be honest, he had not truly believed it. Of course he had no doubt that King Robert was dead, but he found it difficult to believe it had happened through magic. He believed the incident had been an assassination.

Well, at least, he used to think that. After taking back Storm's End, he examined the feast hall where the event the people called "the Stag Tragedy" had taken place. What he saw was quite shocking.

The walls, the tables, and the statues were stained with dark red blood, which was horrifying, but that wasn't the truly surprising part.

Ash—there was more ash in the room than blood. Nearly the entire hall was stained with soot. When Robb first saw the scene, he thought a spy had detonated a barrel of wildfire in the middle of the hall, but no, that wasn't it—none of the corpses were burned. On the contrary, they were incredibly clean and neatly cut.

Robb wasn't inclined to believe in magic, but he believed what he saw. He had become convinced that the stag tragedy was definitely a magical attack—there was no other explanation.

Since then, fear had gripped Robb's heart like a claw. Though he didn't show it outwardly, he was anxious every minute, especially wary at night and struggling to sleep.

The religion of the Old Gods had no clergy. Robb realized this was a great deficiency, for he lacked a spiritual advisor.

"You have measures against magic?" he asked with hope. "Can I learn what they are?"

"The best measure against the vile blood sorcery of the people of Qarth is fire—more precisely, light," instructed the elderly septon. "Even in daylight, those around you must carry torches, and long shadows must not be allowed to form."

"That's it?" Anyone who had heard tales of Valyrian blood sorcery could have guessed these.

"Our septons will always remain around you with prayers and incense," the elderly septon said. "If you open your heart to the wisdom of the Crone, the Seven will protect you."

So you're giving me nothing? Robb wanted to shout in their faces, but restrained himself. Personally, he believed in the Old Gods, but the gods of his ancestors could not help him in the south. At the very least, some precautions needed to be taken—it was better than nothing.

Besides, his father was expected to be crowned King of Westeros soon. House Stark now ruled not just the North but the Seven Kingdoms. In short, they no longer had the luxury of ignoring the septons of the Seven.

"Very well, I accept," Robb said. "We appreciate your help in these difficult days. I will speak with the High Septon and thank him personally."

As Robb said these words, he ignored his displeased northern vassals. For House Stark, he now had to think long-term. He was also acting for the sake of his newborn twins, little Robert and Eddard. He had to leave them a stronger legacy.

And speaking of strong legacies—

"Do you hear what they say outside?" his uncle Edmure remarked with a rather pointed tone. "They call him 'Jon the Wolfknight.' They say your father could not have won the war without him."

"Jon killed Khal Drogo on the battlefield. My father knighted him," Robb said, frowning. "He deserves the praise."

"The point isn't that. Everyone keeps talking about how much he looks like his father, they say he wields a sword as well as his uncle, he is Allyria's twin so he's older than you, and there's a tragic love story between your father and his mother," Edmure said, scrunching up his face. "Don't you understand? The boy looks like a Blackfyre."

"Jon is not Daemon Blackfyre. He would throw himself off a cliff before betraying me," Robb had not the slightest doubt about what he said.

"You're very naïve, nephew. You are in the south now. You're playing the game of thrones, and even as crown prince, your position is not absolute," Edmure warned. "You should heed my and your mother's concerns."

"Is that it? I stay in the south for a few months and you advise me to plot against my own brother?" Robb grumbled in displeasure. "Jon will remain loyal to me and to my sons. That is my final word. Do not come to my door with such nonsense again." He did not bother listening to his uncle further and swiftly walked out of the room.

The story that bastards were born of wicked creatures had been completely abolished by the new High Septon of the Seven's Faith, yet people were still prejudiced. Robb had been receiving warnings from his mother about Jon since childhood—he had stopped listening long ago.

He had no doubt his mother was a wonderful woman, but she had a foolish obsession regarding Robb's half-siblings. Robb didn't blame his father for this; after all, Jon and Allyria had been born before his mother and father were betrothed and married.

Robb had known and loved his sister Allyria since childhood; to him, she was no different from a true Stark. He had met Jon later. Jon had spent his childhood at Greywater Watch under the guardianship of Howland Reed, away from his twin, Allyria—likely because Robb's mother had persuaded his father.

When his father decided to bring Jon to Winterfell, the relationship between his parents became colder than ever. His mother had complained greatly behind closed doors at the time, but once his father made a decision, his will was harder than iron. No one could say Starks were not stubborn.

His sister Allyria had been the loudest opposition to Queen Catelyn since childhood. Jon was always respectful and avoided comments. Argella, on the other hand, had quickly joined Allyria's "people who don't like fish" club after moving to Winterfell.

His sister and his mother had an unpleasant relationship. His wife and his mother were like cats and dogs. But none of that was as terrible as the relationship between little Ceryse and the queen.

His mother had reluctantly accepted Allyria's presence. The king had not given her the Stark name, but in everything except name, she acted like a Stark, and all the siblings loved Allyria as an older sister. Argella's presence was a bit more unpleasant. Hunting, swordplay, drinking, swearing—she displayed behaviors unbecoming of a princess and set a bad example for Arya—Allyria at least knew how to behave like a princess. But Argella was also Robert Baratheon's daughter, the mother of Robb's children, and Robb genuinely loved his wife—so Queen Catelyn could tolerate her presence, even if with difficulty.

But none of that applied to Ceryse. The idea that her son would marry the seed of an incest drove the queen mad. Seeing Edwyle's fondness for Ceryse infuriated her, and the fact that the little girl refused to bend under pressure—and even answered back in kind—drove the queen to madness. Whenever the two were in the same room, such tension filled the air that even Argella fled the hall.

In Robb's personal opinion, Ceryse was a good girl. She got along well with the Stark siblings, admired King Eddard, and seemed to truly like Edwyle. But she was also quite proud. She had the claws of a lion and never hesitated to show them. She had threatened the queen in hundreds of different ways. "I heard lions enjoy eating fish," she had said once. Another time she had brought a luxurious sword from Casterly Rock with a hilt set in purple diamonds, engraved with huge letters reading "Lady Dawn." She had declared, "I will name the daughter I have with Edwyle 'Ashara.'" The chaos that erupted in the castle was so great that Robb feared a civil war would begin.

"You brought a fish, a wolf, a stag, and a lion into Winterfell and expect them to get along," Rodrik Ryswell had told his father. "Send one of them away before they tear each other apart. Preferably the fish."

In the end, the king had been forced to ask Ceryse to move to Cerwyn Castle, two hours away.

The more Robb thought about it, the more he agreed. Yes, he definitely preferred the battlefield.

"As our army approached, Lord Nassarin tried to burn the ships along the coast," reported Lord Tarth.

"Why? Is the man mad?" Lord Florent shouted in astonishment.

"He was trying to trap them on the continent of Westeros," Brynden Tully guessed. "Thus they would be forced to fight to survive. A brave plan, but it didn't work."

"What happened?" Robb asked with interest.

"Part of his officers rebelled," the Blackfish explained. "They seized the ships by force and fled to Essos. In the chaos, they abandoned Storm's End—otherwise we would not have been able to retake the castle."

"So the vile Valyrians butchered each other," Lord Penrose roared with laughter, and the lords in the hall joined him.

"The Valyrian army hasn't dispersed," Lord Dondarrion said, frowning. "Nassarin was partially successful. There are no Valyrian ships left on the coast. They have no escape route. He has forty thousand men and has retreated to Massey Burn."

A troubled silence settled over the hall.

"What kind of position is Massey Hook in?" Blackbar asked.

"A long, curved peninsula stretching toward the Narrow Sea," Lord Massey explained, describing his own lands with a troubled expression. "The geography is harsh, the coast rocky, the shores surrounded by misty beaches and dense, dark forests. Sea winds are often strong; the waves that crash onto the shore are harsh and irregular. It is difficult to blockade with a navy."

"What if we attack from land?"

"The roads are narrow and uneven. There are many spots ideal for ambush. A large army cannot advance quickly."

"If the land is so perfect for defense, can't the troops in the region stop him? Perhaps if we attack immediately, we can hit them from behind," Ser Oakheart suggested.

"I came here with my entire army. I left only fifty soldiers behind. We must assume Sharp Point and Stonedance have already fallen."

"Is it such an unconquerable land?" Robb asked. "It must have fallen in the past." Even Winterfell, the seat of House Stark, had fallen and been burned several times.

"Yes, my ancestors lost their castles a few times," Lord Massey explained hesitantly. "But in all cases, they were sudden, unexpected, and fast attacks. The army before us will not be like that—they expect a war."

Another uneasy silence filled the room.

"So what? Are we screwed? Is that it?" Lord Bracken asked.

"Calm down, my lords, we have already survived the greatest crisis," Brynden Tully explained. "We sent the Essosi settlers back before they could fully begin. If we had failed, we could have faced a disaster similar to the Andal invasion of Westeros—a thousand-year war our grandchildren would still have had to fight."

Hearing this caused the lords in the hall to relax once more. Robb admired his great-uncle's effect on crowds and made a mental note.

"But what will we do about those sons of bitches?" Lord Banefort asked. "There is still a forty-thousand-man army in Massey Hook. That fact doesn't change."

"If you ask me, my lords, we should blockade the region," Lord Massey advised. "My lands cannot feed an army of forty thousand. Those bastards will starve to death there."

"Do we know how much supply they took with them?" asked the Blackfish.

"They fled in haste. It can't be much," Lord Peake guessed.

"Waiting could be risky. What if help comes from Essos?" Ser Errol asked. "The allied forces of the Vale will join us—then we will be four times their size. The snake's head must be crushed while it is small."

The hall quickly filled with loud arguments again.

"You are the highest noble here, my prince," Ser Kayce called to Robb. "If you announce your decision, I will follow it."

"My father gave command of the army not to me, but to Uncle Brynden," Robb muttered, paying little attention to the Westerlander knight's flattery. "He will decide."

The sounds of argument reached a fever pitch. What happens when you gather a group of proud Westerosi lords—who call themselves foxes, spiders, eagles—in one hall? Of course they go at each other's throats.

"Enough!" Before the argument could turn into a real fight, the Blackfish slammed his fist on the table and silenced the lords in the hall. "We will wait for King Eddard; he will be the one to decide. Until the king arrives, we will wipe out the remnants of the Valyrian army left in Westeros. Kill them all — showing mercy, taking prisoners, or negotiating is forbidden."

As the lords noisily left the hall, the Blackfish called Robb to his side. "Come with me."

The two walked silently through the corridors, climbed the stairs, and finally entered the room that had once belonged to the late King Robert.

"What do you think?" the Blackfish asked as he stepped onto the balcony.

"Lord Nassarin is a cunning man," Robb said. "He acted in the most suitable way for his situation."

"Yes, he must have planned this beforehand," the old knight muttered. He leaned against the balcony and looked toward the shore. Tarth Island could be faintly seen in the distance. "If your father were not here, and you were the king, what would you do?"

Robb thought about this question for a while. "I would split the army."

"Split the army?" Brynden Tully frowned.

"Yes, I would split the army, as if a civil conflict had erupted and we were fighting each other. I would show my back to Nassarin, give him hope of victory, draw him out of Massey Hook, and ambush him there."

"Do you think he would fall for that trick?"

"The man is desperate. He will cling to even the slightest hope."

The Blackfish stared at the crown prince in surprise for a moment, then burst into a wide laugh. "Old and new gods… you are just like your father. You love trickery in war. Perhaps it's something unique to Starks."

"I'm not sure," Robb shrugged. "I like to think I'm a genius."

"Ah, you certainly are. You are your father's son," Ser Brynden said with a smile. "Do you think we will win this war?"

Robb frowned. "Is there even a chance we lose? We've already won an impossible victory, and most of the Essosi refugees turned back."

"True," the Blackfish admitted. "But when it comes to war, you never know. What if help comes from Essos?"

"Then we attack," Robb said. "There will be losses, but Massey Hook is not an impregnable stronghold like Moat Cailin or Casterly Rock."

"The Valyrian army still has one game-changer," Brynden reminded him. "Wildfire."

A troubled silence fell over the balcony.

"The roads are narrow and uneven. If they ambush us with wildfire, we really could lose the war." Robb reached a conclusion shortly thereafter. "We need a navy."

"And where will we find one?" Brynden asked.

"Redwyne? Hightower?"

"That would work," the Blackfish accepted, "but it may not be enough. Euron Greyjoy dealt serious damage to those navies in the last raid."

Robb thought a bit longer. There were the Manderly and Grafton fleets, but they were for trade, not war. The Velaryon and Celtigar fleets existed, but they had been burned along with the royal fleet. Even if the other small houses were gathered, they wouldn't amount to much.

"Fuck…" Robb finally understood what his uncle meant. "We need the Martells."

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The fanfic is now up to date.

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