Jon Snow could already hear the characteristic noises of the Stark camp as he approached the godswood. The rocks of Barthogan rose on a barren hilltop, and even from a distance, Jon could see the sunlight glinting off their sharp surfaces. Below the cliffs, endless rows of white and gray tents stretched across the field, with the command tent bearing the symbols of the wolf and the gray sun in the center. Under the high wolf skull, the seven yak tails symbolizing the rank of the northeastern Karstark house and the gilded flags depicting Robb's leaping wolf fluttered in the wind. Jon Snow looked over Rickard's retinue and bodyguards, dressed in fur coats and ornate leather armor, and thought that the relatives would have to come to an agreement. It could not be, neither Robb nor the gods would want so much good Stark blood to be spilled for such folly and unholiness, to be swallowed by the ever-hungry, thirsty, parched earth! Perhaps Casta was right after all! However Robert's life ended, he was still an usurper. Even Eddard Stark told Jon Snow in his childhood that the wildlings who lived in Winterfell before the Starks believed that when the world was created, ice giants rolled rocks like this one into place. When they remembered King Cregan, the procession passed by the ancient runestones. Jon Snow still remembered well the cracked edges and the ancient strangeness of the unreadable Valyrian language carved into them. Eddard had said that long ago, before battle, the Starks and the Karstarks of the east had offered human sacrifices at such stones, asking for the help of their war gods, their ancestors, Brandon and Barthogan. The Starks had not sacrificed humans before battle since one of their great kings had been beheaded by Joramun, the bitterest enemy of the North, on Skagos, an island east of Ice Bay in their old homeland. The Karstark leader looked up at the jagged rocks, which resembled the broken towers of the north, but they too seemed to be watching him. Only when he turned his helmeted head, adorned with a nose guard and an eagle, could he see the banners of his armored escort waving high on the other side of the hill. If Robb were to break the agreement and prepare for treachery, help would be too far away. The agreement was that the escort could not come closer than arrow range while the two cousins were talking. Robb was nowhere to be seen, only himself. The silence around him grew. It was as if the whole universe was waiting. Rickard could not negotiate, he had no choice. He accepted the invitation of the King of Winterfell. According to the agreement, he was to wait with his golden-saddled horse in front of the seven wolf-headed spears stuck in the ground, as his brother had told him when they exchanged vows. He never broke his word, and although Jon Snow wanted to stay with him, he sent him away with a single command. He can still command the bastard. Eddard's son still obeys him. At the ford, the gods sent word that Jon Snow must stay alive. Whatever the cost. The gods will it so. They also said that whatever Robb was planning, he would have to face his cousin alone, because the future did not belong to him. It had not yet begun; only the past was coming to an end. Jon Snow would be the future. He had long watched his nephew grow in wisdom, strength, and deeds. His eldest son, Harrion, did not even come close to Jon Snow. If Robb kills him, Jon Snow will avenge his life, and he must lead the true king of Winterfell to victory. Fighting for Carhold, he defended the eastern empire, executed all traitors, and subjugated all vassals between the Arryn Valley and the Westerlands who had ever rebelled against the Starks. What else could the God of Seven want from him? Only that this meeting take place and that he see the truth in Robb's eyes. Robb would not be able to lie to him. If this was a trap, then it would not be his arm, but the gods who would strike down his cousin in punishment. Rickard was brought back from his reverie by the commotion around the commander's tent. The huge felt sheets moved, horses whinnied, and horns blared. A leather-clad figure approached him, wearing a red wolfskin cloak and holding a tall, seven-pronged spear decorated with horsehair. Rickard could clearly see that his face was not covered by a helmet. A single gilded headdress dangled from Robb's slightly cinnamon-colored, curly hair.
"My cousin!" "Not so long ago, human sacrifices were performed here," said King Robb, after the cousins greeted each other with mutual bows, and Robb also stuck his own horsehair-adorned spear next to Rickard's banner.
"I found some burnt bones in the snow yesterday. The bones of a child.
He raised his arm, and Rickard saw a wooden figure in the shape of a stag in his hand.
"And this too. The gods spared it; it's a miracle it didn't burn.
"What are you trying to tell me, brother? Who would dare do such a thing here, at the sacred tomb of our forefather Barthogan, the Black Sword?
Rickard did not take his eyes off his nephew's darting gaze.
"I don't know, dear brother," Robb spread his arms. "But when I walked around here with my servants this morning, I saw that the ashes were fresh. Even as a child, I heard that the Lord of Dragonstone, before he went to war, had some rebellious nobles executed here as sacrifices.
Rickard folded his arms. Robb's restless horse whinnied and pawed at the ground. All over the huge hill, beneath King Barthogan Stark's rocks, deep beneath the hard ground, thickly overgrown with shrubs and bushes, lay the twisted passages where the great king's subjects, men, women, and children, rested. All of them, wearing their flower-petal crowns, their eyes closed forever, their bodies smothered with gold and silver dust mixed by whispering masters. After the first animal sacrifice, when Rodrik, Osric, Beron, and Robard Stark were led away, Robb spoke to his sons, accompanied by the quiet drumming of the septons, as servants opened the red and black painted wooden doors of the caves by torchlight so that they could sacrifice together to the spirits of their ancestors. They were buried here to deceive grave robbers. While the High King's body was burned beneath the rocks, his iron-cast sword was kept in Cregan's treasury. The sword has been in Tywin's castle ever since, hidden in its dark hilt and seeing the truth. It is as if the old Starks knew the future, that one day the black boots of the Lannister lions would trample on the grave of High King Barthogan. They will dig up the bones from their land to search for treasures, just as the graves of the ancient Artos Stark were once desecrated by hungry, greedy fingers among the sacred burial mounds of Winterfell.
"That was a long time ago, Robb. I can barely remember your father's voice, let alone the words he spoke to you then. Today, houses like the Boltons and Glovers make up the entire southern wing of the empire. The wing over which you rule. The Boltons, the Manderlys, the Mormonts... They are many, and we are few. Is it any wonder they want a share of the power?
A shadow seemed to pass over Robb's face.
"You are a learned man, Rickard! You don't really believe what my enemies tell me? What do they say, brother? That the Targaryen kings were able to harm the High King of the Starks from afar? What powers did their dark gods possess that we do not know, or that our masters are not allowed to know?
Rickard touched his forehead, as if the heavy helmet were burning his shaved head.
"I have never seen such a king. Do you think the Targaryens still exist, King Robb?
"I don't know, Rickard," Robb said slowly, forming his words carefully. "I don't know if they still exist. But even if they did, didn't Robert's laws forbid the use of dragonfire? Don't the bards sing of it, and didn't Maester Luwin, my father's wise septon, say that such dark power falls back on the one who wields it, according to the laws of the God of the Seven?
"Yes, he did, King Robb. People from the Sunset Sea to the Summer Sea still speak of dark forces in connection with King Robert's sudden death. The Tullys, whose lord is the Blackfish, recently hosted me in their generosity and asked me not to speak of these dark forces, not to invoke evil demons at their table. I have always respected my hosts' wishes. That is why I ask you about this, King Robb! What do you know of the signs?
Robb's face seemed to twitch.
"I have not spoken to Ser Brynden Tully in a long time, Lord Rickard. My mother said that the Lord of the Roar would certainly not wage war against King's Landing. You know what the old warrior is like. He fights when he wants to and says what he wants to say.
Rickard's eyes narrowed.
"I know what he's like, my king.
Robb's face seemed to lengthen a little in the shadow cast by the rocks of Barthogan. His gilded headdress shook as he suddenly grabbed his horse's reins and brought it closer. Rickard's finger slid to the hilt of his sword. With a barely perceptible movement, he pulled his horse's head back as his nephew drew closer. He would not be the first to draw his sword. But if Robb did, it would be the last time in his life. Robb suddenly spread his hands, and no blade flashed between his fingers. His face was smiling. Rickard was not quick enough to dodge. Robb's strong hand already had a grip on his shoulder.
"Let's go find the Blackfish at the Roar together! I want to know if a boar killed Robert, or something else! We'll ask for his guidance. I have my septons, and you have yours, brother. They'll find a way to speak to him.
Robb pulled him close, and in this brotherly embrace, he left his bare neck completely exposed. His cousin's bear-like embrace released his shoulder, then he turned his back on him, pulling his horse's mouth. Rickard's fingers rested on the hilt of his sword. Robb's horse tossed its head nervously, as if sensing Rickard's intent. Robb suddenly and unexpectedly dug his heels into his horse's sides and turned to face his cousin again. Rickard felt his throat go dry. Robb's gaze was fixed on his sons. He watched as two of the four boys slowly matured into men, gaining muscle and wisdom. And yet one of them stood out in his resourcefulness and cunning. In an age when the dead awoke and dark shadows fell upon the land, it was no wonder that a proud, taciturn warrior would swear a sacred oath of vengeance against Robert Baratheon when he and his armies seized the right to rule from Eddard, his father, Rickard Stark's eldest son. Was Robb not right in saying that Robert was nothing more than a common usurper? The brothers' eyes gazed into each other's with mesmerizing intensity. Will clashed with will, soul fought soul, until the king prevailed.
"What I said, I meant, my cousin! I will not break my word. I will turn to the Blackfish for guidance. If a true-hearted septon examines my heart and finds a dark spot in it, declaring that the unexpected death of King Robert was not a deserved death, and that someone else must follow him on the Iron Throne in my place, then I will renounce my illegitimate claim!
Rickard was speechless. Robb also claims the Iron Throne, just as he holds the North, and he is right. After all, why would he start a war against King's Landing based on mere rumors and fabricated accusations that Tywin had Robert killed, for which there is no evidence? Would he sacrifice Winterfell, reduce it to ashes in the fires of a southern war, against an army three times larger than his own, for a mere shadow of suspicion? Only a madman would do such a thing, like when Stannis Baratheon sent Dothraki hordes to the border of the Red Mountains, and even Oberyn Martell became Robb's ally. Robert's brother was weakened by defeats, and he did not have a sufficient army to stand alongside others in battle. Robb faced his murderous hordes as a self-sacrificing king.
"Your silence means you agree with my proposal, brother," Robb said. How else could you be sure that I am fit to rule? Here I am, coming to you unarmed, revealing my true face to you, opening my arms to embrace you. What you see is the answer to your doubts. Who do you see?
Rickard bowed his head.
"I see a man who could be High King in his own right."
Robb's features were rigid, and as he nodded, the sun glinted off his gilded crown.
"If the God of the Seven will it!"
He turned back to him and placed his hand on his shoulder again. It was a soft touch, yet it squeezed his heart like an iron fist and constricted his throat like the fangs of a wolf sinking into the neck of a fleeing deer. Robb's voice sounded as if it came from another world.
"One day you will be a great king, Rickard! You will follow me, together with Rodrik, as the order of birth has foretold. Let's go!" Robb said simply. "Bring your entourage, brother, and let me host you in my tent. A new day has dawned beneath the cliffs of King Barthogan! The day of the Starks has dawned!
Rickard nodded and slowly turned his horse back toward the other hill, where Jon Snow was waiting.