Catelyn's sobs were like a blunt knife, sawing over and over at everyone's taut nerves. They were agonizing to hear.
But none of them could say anything.
Old Duke Hoster was her own father, after all.
The debt owed to a parent who had raised you was greater than heaven itself. She was suffering more than anyone else there.
Robb clenched his fists, his young face filled with fury.
He wanted to draw his sword, summon his vassals at once, and charge toward Riverrun to chop that mad aunt and that damned old Frey into mincemeat.
But he knew he could not.
War was not a bard's song.
Rushing in with nothing but hot blood and no preparations would only lead everyone to destruction.
"Lynn..."
"What should we do?"
Lynn did not answer immediately.
He walked over to Catelyn.
"My lady, tears won't solve anything."
"We will avenge them and rescue them. But not by throwing ourselves into disarray like this."
He looked around.
His gaze swept from the grieving Catelyn to the furious Robb, then to Ned's face, worn with exhaustion and guilt.
"What you need to do now isn't stand here sighing. You need to act immediately."
Lynn's voice roused everyone.
"Robb."
Robb instinctively straightened his back.
"Send out a summons immediately, in Winterfell's name, to every vassal in the North."
"Tell them winter is here and the long night approaches. I need them to bring sufficient food to Winterfell for a 'Harvest Council.'"
Harvest Council?
Robb froze for a moment, but immediately nodded his agreement.
He knew it was only an excuse.
An excuse to gather all the North's military strength in the shortest possible time.
Though the North was more united internally than other regions, there were inevitably a few bad apples lurking among them.
Lynn's