The decision, once made, brought no peace. It brought a cold and terrible clarity, the clarity of a man standing on the gallows, who sees the world with painful precision moments before the blade falls. The three days of waiting for Tyrion Lannister's arrival were, for Robb, a form of intellectual agony. He moved through Winterfell, but he no longer inhabited the castle. He inhabited his own mind, a shadowy, windowless solar where he dissected the corpse of his former morality.
He spent hours in his father's solar—now his own—the great map of the North spread across the table like the flayed skin of a beast. It wasn't geography he studied. It was the concept of power. In his other life, he had studied the great thinkers. Hobbes, who argued that life without a sovereign power was "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short." He looked at the map and saw theory transformed into na imminent reality. What was Westeros if not a sleeping leviathan? The "King's Peace" was not a state of harmony, but merely the temporary absence of open war—a thin layer of ice over a turbulent sea. The feudal structure itself was na invitation to chaos, a web of personal oaths and fragile loyalties ready to snap at the slightest tug. And his mother, in her grief, was about to pull with the full strength of a cornered she-wolf.
The social contract is broken, he thought, the legal terminology echoing strangely in a world of swords. Vassals swear loyalty in exchange for protection. But who protects the vassals from the recklessness of their lords? Who protects the North from my mother's pain? The answer, he realized with a chill, was himself. He was the only barrier between order and anarchy. He had become, by accident of birth and rebirth, the reluctant sovereign of his own small state of emergency.
His thoughts turned to another book—one he had read out of curiosity, not academic duty. The Prince. Machiavelli whispered in his ear that for a ruler to maintain his state, he must be prepared to act against faith, charity, humanity, and religion. "It is better to be feared than loved, if one cannot be both." Eddard Stark's honor—the moral compass of his childhood—rebelled against that notion. Honor was everything. Honor is a beautiful song, the other voice, the survivor's voice, countered. And men who sing beautiful songs often end up with their throats slit.
He did not want to be a Machiavellian prince. But logic was a steel trap. To save the Stark ideal of honor, he would have to act dishonorably. To protect his people from war, he would need to manipulate, coerce, and lie. He would have to use na innocent man—for he knew Tyrion was innocent of that particular crime—as a pawn in his game. The name of his saga crystallized in his mind, a painful paradox: he was forging for himself a ruthless morality. The end—the survival of his family and his people—would have to justify the terrible means.
His philosophical reflection ceased abruptly, like a candle snuffed by a gust of wind. The news arrived just as he knew it would: Tyrion Lannister was on his way. The time for thinking was over. The time for action had arrived.
He felt no panic. Only a cold calm settling in. The theory was complete, the plan already whispered into Ser Rodrik's ear. Now came the practice. He rehearsed the conversation to come one last time, anticipating Tyrion's moves, his defenses, his jests. He identified the Imp's kindness—the saddle for Bran—not as na obstacle, but as the cornerstone of his own strategy. It would be the foundation of his cage of courtesy.
When the Imp was finally brought to the solar, Robb received him standing—not behind his father's desk, but beside it. A subtle shift in posture. He wasn't hiding behind power; he was standing beside it. The room was warm with firelight, the wine already served in a silver decanter.
"Lord Tyrion," said Robb, his voice calm and firm. "Welcome back to Winterfell. I trust the journey from the Wall wasn't too tedious."
"Tedium is preferable to freezing, Lord Stark," Tyrion replied, his mismatched eyes assessing Robb with amused curiosity. "I heard you were eager for my arrival."
"Eager to express my House's gratitude," Robb said, getting straight to the point—but from the flank. He poured the wine himself, a host's gesture that placed him in control. "Maester Luwin informed me of your extraordinary kindness toward my brother Bran. A saddle design. Na act of compassion that shall not be forgotten."
Tyrion looked genuinely surprised by the frankness. "As I said, I have a soft spot for broken things. It was nothing."
"To us, it was everything," Robb insisted, handing him the cup. "And the honor of the North is a stubborn thing, Lord Tyrion. It will not allow such debts to go unpaid. Since you would refuse gold, I have decided our House shall repay you with security."
The ironic smile returned to Tyrion's face. "Ah, the escort. Ser Rodrik mentioned you were… excessively concerned."
"Concerned for my House's honor," Robb corrected, his tone impeccably courteous. "It is logical and efficient that my men accompany you. To refuse would be to throw our gratitude back in our face. Na insult that I am certain a man of your intelligence would not wish to commit."
Tyrion laughed—a short, humorless sound. "You weave a fine cage with words of honor, Lord Stark. But the answer is still no. I travel faster alone."
Robb sighed, a mask of feigned disappointment on his face. "A pity. Because that forces me to be more… direct." He stepped around the table and leaned on it, closing the distance between them. "Let's set courtesy aside for a moment, Lord Tyrion, and speak of politics. My father is the Hand of the King. He has enemies. We have enemies. You are the Queen's brother. Your life has value—and your death, even more."
His tone shifted, losing all warmth. "Picture the scenario. The Imp of Casterly Rock is found dead on the Kingsroad. Where was he last seen? Winterfell. Who benefits? My father's enemies, who could whisper that the North silenced a Lannister. Or perhaps my relatives in the Eyrie, who would not mourn a war between the Wolf and the Lion. Your safety, you see, is no longer your concern. It has become my problem. A problem I cannot afford to ignore."
He had him cornered. The first trap was honor. The second, brutal political necessity. He was no longer offering a gift; he was stating a fact.
Tyrion Lannister stared at him, the wine forgotten in his hand. The smile vanished completely, replaced by a cold, respectful appraisal. "Someone taught you well, Lord Stark. Or you're a very fast learner."
"The North learns quickly when winter is coming," Robb replied. "My men will accompany you. This is no longer a request."
Tyrion's acceptance came in the form of a reluctant nod, the silent admission of defeat in a game he hadn't even realized he was playing.
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