Chapter 362: Betrayal

The continent of Westeros, the North.

A blizzard had raged for three days straight.

As the coldest region in the Seven Kingdoms, snow often began falling in the North as soon as summer ended. Each storm grew heavier until the arrival of winter, when the land would be blanketed entirely in white.

On a vast, snowy plain, an army of nearly a thousand trudged forward like an iron snake crawling out of its den, struggling through the deep snow and unyielding ice.

The direwolf banners of House Stark were frozen stiff, hanging like icy rods in the biting wind.

Robb Stark's young face was now framed by a thick beard, grown out partly from neglect during the march and partly for warmth.

His boots were strapped into curious contraptions: long wooden strips bound with leather, called bear claws by the Northerners. These makeshift snowshoes allowed him to walk across the icy crust of the snow without breaking through and sinking knee-deep.

Ahead, the ground stretched out in a blinding expanse of white, hiding rocks, roots, and pits beneath its frozen veneer. The wind howled and churned up snow, making every step fraught with danger.

The sharp neigh of a horse broke through the cacophony, causing Robb to halt.

Turning back, he saw disorder in the baggage train. His brows knitted in frustration.

"What's going on?" he asked sharply.

The column came to a standstill as messengers hurried to assess the problem.

It wasn't long before one returned with grim news:

The baggage train had crossed a snowfield concealing a frozen pond. The ice had given way under the weight of the wagons, swallowing three drivers, four draft horses, and two men who had tried to rescue them.

Though it was still hours until nightfall, Robb studied the raging blizzard and reluctantly gave the order to make camp.

As others worked to set up tents, he waded through the snow to inspect the scene himself. The survivors were dragging sodden bodies from the icy water.

"This one's still breathing!" someone shouted.

Robb rushed to help, cutting away the soaked clothing and wrapping the man in warm furs. He ordered fires to be lit immediately.

But the rescued man was in dire condition. His lips had turned blue, his skin pale as milk, and the heat of the flames did little to revive him.

Within half an hour, he was shivering uncontrollably, then fell unconscious with a raging fever. He never woke again.

Robb sat silently by the fire, staring into the dancing flames, lost in thought.

"My lord," the quartermaster approached hesitantly, his voice low, "our supplies will only last another seven days."

Robb did not respond at first. After a long pause, he gave a silent nod, acknowledging the dire news.

But acknowledgment did not mean a solution. He was painfully aware that there was little he could do.

This war, which had dragged on for more than half a year, was slowly bleeding House Stark dry.

At the war's outset, despite facing the combined forces of House Lannister, House Bolton, and the lords of the Vale, House Stark had fought valiantly.

Robb himself, though young and untested, had displayed remarkable leadership, winning battle after battle and nearly driving the Lannister forces south of the Neck.

But the enemy had changed tactics, avoiding direct confrontations. With Winterfell fallen, House Stark's army lacked a secure supply base and was reliant on support from loyal Northern houses.

Though Eddard Stark commanded immense respect across the North, even his influence couldn't sustain the war indefinitely. With winter looming, the lords of the North prioritized hoarding food for their own survival, reducing their contributions to the war effort.

Two months ago, Eddard had abandoned the cat-and-mouse game with the Lannisters and marched north to reclaim Winterfell. But the Boltons, entrenched in the castle, fiercely resisted, while Lannister forces harassed Stark troops during the siege.

Faced with this two-pronged assault, Eddard had no choice but to retreat. Yet whenever he turned to engage the Lannisters, they withdrew to fortified positions, refusing battle.

Eddard, in frustration, had famously declared that Tywin Lannister didn't deserve a lion as his sigil—he should adopt a rat instead.

But insults did little to change the grim reality. Without Winterfell, House Stark was like a tree without roots. As the war dragged on, defeat seemed inevitable.

To break the stalemate, Eddard had sent Robb south to seek aid from the Riverlands. House Frey still claimed allegiance to the Starks, though their forces were pinned south of Moat Cailin. The Tullys, being family through marriage, could also be counted on for assistance.

Robb's mission was simple: clear the bottleneck at Moat Cailin and rally reinforcements from the Riverlands.

But the journey south had been fraught with difficulties. Caught in the blizzard, his army was now stranded halfway, with their supplies nearly exhausted.

As Robb pondered his next move, a commotion arose ahead, followed by the sound of galloping hooves.

Soon, Ser Rodrik Cassel arrived, his face alight with rare excitement.

"Lord Robb! We've encountered outriders from House Dustin! They say Lady Barbrey is marching to support us and is camped just ahead!"

"That's wonderful news!" Robb exclaimed, springing to his feet and mounting his horse. "Take me to her at once!"

---

Accompanied by a small escort, Robb followed the outriders westward. After six or seven miles, they arrived at a camp nestled in a small, barren village.

The settlement consisted of a handful of farmhouses, a longhall, and a watchtower, now surrounded by tents and bonfires. Soldiers were fishing in a nearby lake, having broken through the ice.

Entering the watchtower, Robb found warmth and shelter from the storm.

"Lady Dustin," he said, removing his hat and bowing deeply. "House Stark is forever grateful for your support in this desperate hour."

Barbrey Dustin, though past fifty, stood tall and commanding in her black fur-lined coat. The crossed black axes and crown of her house's sigil adorned her chest.

"It is House Dustin's honor to fight for our liege," she replied with a smile, gesturing for Robb to sit by the fire. "My late husband held Lord Eddard in the highest regard."

"My father often spoke of Lord William Dustin as his most loyal comrade," Robb said, though he knew his words were partly a lie. His father rarely mentioned the events surrounding William's death.

Naturally, there was no praise for Lord William's bravery.

"Really?" Lady Barbrey looked at Robb meaningfully and handed him a wine bag. "Drink some. The brandy from Eagle's Nest is the best way to fight the cold."

Robb thanked him, took the wineskin and took a long drink.

The mellow and rich liquor exploded in the mouth and flowed into the stomach along the esophagus, as if lighting a fire in the body.

"Good wine!" Robb thanked her again, "Lady Barbrey, how many people and supplies did you bring this time?"

"Three thousand men, and as for supplies, it should be enough to last half a year."

A smile appeared on Robb's face, and he laid out the task that his father Eddard had entrusted to him. Then he asked:

"M'lady, are you planning to head south with me? Or north to join my father?"

"North," Lady Barbrey said, a slight smile on her lips, "I haven't seen Lord Eddard in a long time, and I really want to catch up with him."

"Alright, I believe Father will warmly welcome your arrival."

"Will he?" Lady Barbrey's smile gradually faded.

"Of course!" Robb said loudly, suddenly feeling a wave of dizziness, perhaps the wine was too strong.

"Your father is not a warm person. Your uncle Brandon, on the other hand, could be considered warm. Too warm in fact." Lady Barbrey's tone was drifting, "I still remember the night he took my virginity, my blood flowing on his body. Brandon admired that scene, he said a blood-stained sword is the most beautiful sword."

Robb's smile froze, how did this conversation become so strange?

He wanted to change the topic but found his mind spinning, as if it had rusted.

Lady Barbrey continued, lost in her own thoughts:

"He once promised me in person that he would marry me, but unfortunately, your grandfather had ambitions for the South and, of course, didn't want his son to marry the daughter of one of his vassals. So my father settled for less and tried to marry me off to Brandon's brother, your father, Ned.

In the end, Ned was also taken away by a Southern woman. But fortunately, I married the young lord of Dustin, William, until your father took him away again..."

"My father took your husband to the battlefield," Robb defended himself, as the campfire before him began to blur, a sense of foreboding rising in his heart.

"Yes. The War of the Usurper, everyone knows about it," Lady Barbrey's lips twisted and revealed an ugly smile.

"And yet, your father left my husband's bones to rot in Dorne," Barbrey said, her tone turning icy.

"Circumstances were… unusual," Robb began, but his thoughts were muddled, his head swimming from the brandy she had offered earlier.

"Unusual indeed," Barbrey said bitterly. "Seven Northern lords died rescuing your aunt Lyanna, yet your father only brought back her remains. That was his priority."

Robb struggled to rise, alarmed by the realization that something was wrong. "Lady Dustin… you wouldn't betray House Stark…"

"Betrayal?" Barbrey sneered. "House Stark has betrayed the North by losing Winterfell. You are no longer fit to lead us."

Robb reached for his sword, but the room spun. He collapsed to the floor as Barbrey's mocking voice echoed in his ears.

(End of Chapter)

TL; Conversation like this is always so hard to translate and edit.