DAGGERS TO THE HEART Part 1 - GAME OF THRONES

Robb II

The newly crafted table, a faithful replica of Dragonstone's famed map, now dominated the chamber. Though smaller in stature, its presence loomed large, capturing the intricacies of the lands beyond the Wall. Sansa, with a touch of strategic foresight, had re-located the table to the ground floor—a room intended for the Maester, now transformed into the war room. Stark, Whitestark and Targaryen banners hung proudly, fluttering in silent testimony to the convergence of alliances.

Amidst the flickering light of the hearth, Sansa, Robb, and the indomitable Cat convened, orchestrating the next steps in the intricate dance of power. The flames cast an orange hue, painting the room in warmth, a deceptive contrast to the cool calculations transpiring within.

Robb, flanked by his sister and mother, delved into preparations for what had been officially dubbed the Lord's Progress across the North. Yet, beneath the surface, it served as a cunning ploy to gauge the unwavering loyalty of the bannermen. With Jon's marriage to Sansa casting shadows of uncertainty and whispers of discontent, the North's perception of the union demanded careful scrutiny. Especially with Jon Snow, the once Lord Commander, now steering wildlings into their midst. Meticulous planning became their armour, a shield against the shifting allegiances and latent tensions that simmered in the Northern winds. The game of thrones unfolded not just in the grand halls of kings but in the whispered conversations and subtle manoeuvres of those who sought to secure their place in the icy heart of the realm.

"Must you consult every Northern lord, Robb?" Mother's said, carrying the weight of both concern and impatience. "Your absence will be prolonged."

Robb, his fingers tracing the carved contours of the ironwood table, met her gaze with a steely determination. "I'll be consolidating all these campaigns into one. It's a task I can't escape forever. No use delaying the inevitable. The present is as good a time as any."

Sansa, her voice a measured echo, chimed in. "He speaks the truth, Mother. Merely touring the North won't suffice for unity. We must present a united front to silence the murmurs that would stir among the southern lords."

The table, aglow with the warmth of candlelight emanating from beneath, played host to the unfolding strategy. Rivers, lakes, and houses etched into the ironwood surface served as a cartographic canvas for their machinations.

"I shall begin with the mountain clans," Robb declared, his gaze fixed on the counter he manoeuvred across the tabletop. "They should prove the most pliable."

Sansa nodded in agreement. "Yet, tread carefully, brother. The path to our final destination is fraught with the ghosts of betrayal."

Robb's eyes lifted, meeting Sansa's, a reflection of shared understanding. "Bolton, Karstark, and Umber," he said with a sombre gravity. "The houses that stained their loyalty."

Sansa's gaze held a trace of caution. "Beheading Lord Karstark did not endear you to all. Greatjon Umber may yet be swayed, but Smalljon Umber is a different beast. You'll need more than strategy; charm may prove to be your deadliest weapon."

Robb's furrowed brow betrayed the weight of concern, especially the treacherous Bolton's, who loomed as a shadow over his thoughts. The wildling raids, a tempest in the North, posed a challenge that gnawed at the core of their instincts. Allowing them south clashed with the very essence of their heritage. Robb, grappling with the intricacies of leadership, mused, "Perhaps Jon's handling of the wildlings will be resolved before I return."

Sansa, a portrait of emerging wisdom and grace, countered his hope with pragmatic foresight. "The Northern Progress spans twelve moons. Even if Jon succeeds, Mance Rayder's migration of a hundred thousand Freefolk is a slow tide that will take many moons more."