Robb settled back in his chair, sighing and closing his eyes. It felt good to not be moving. After so long in the saddle, this was his first day in the same place twice, and it was perfection.

In the weeks since the battle at Bitterbridge, he had been in a game of chicken with Stannis Baratheon's army. The march of the convoy had pulled him away from the Mander, so the river was now in his hands. Robb had been forced to pull back to the north. There both sides had come to a standstill. Both he and Stannis were at the ends of their supply lines, he couldn't push south, Stannis couldn't push north, without the risk of utter annihilation. He'd spent the weeks trying to dart around Stannis' flank, or lure him to a direct attack. But Stannis had matched him move for move. So he'd pulled back and set up his camp. His scouts reported yesterday that Stannis' men were not following, so he'd ordered further rangings to see if they could determine what was happening. In the meantime he'd let his men rest.

They needed it. The battle at Bitterbridge had cost him over a thousand men. It had won him many supplies from the Lannisters, but their army escaped intact. Over two hundred had been lost in the subsequent minor clashes with Stannis' host. But his lords had been coming to him. Over five hundred men had deserted the army, leaving camp in the night or falling away on the march as they moved through woodlands and fens. He'd walked through the camp. Talk was minimal. Many soldiers were already asleep, dinner bowls still half full, water skins drained dry. The footmen needed rest, they weren't soldiers, not like his knights and riders, all this marching was becoming too much. Unless Stannis moved on him, he would give them a week here to rest and recuperate before they decided their next move.

And what would that next move be? He shouldn't keep up this fight with Stannis Baratheon, it would only spend his strength, but he was loath to simply abandon the conquests. Right now his men were living off the land in the Reach, the Riverlands did not have to sustain his hosts, and as long as the Tyrell homeland was under threat, they would be distracted from launching an attack on his own territories.

Highgarden then? He doubted the Hightower offer still stood, their banners had been in the march to the capital. Even so, to get to it he would have to ride west and south if he was going to avoid Stannis' army. And even then it would leave him exposed as he besieged the castle, which wouldn't fall easily. King's Landing posed the same problem in the other direction.

So where should he go?

"Your Grace." He opened his eyes. Olyvar stepped into his tent, a small bundle of papers in his hand. "The riders escorting the prisoners have returned, they bring you news."

"Excellent," he held out his hand and Olyvar passed them over. "Is there anything else?"

"No, your grace."

Robb dismissed Olyvar, telling him to get a good night's sleep, and turned to the letters. He pulled his knife out and started breaking the seals. Reports from the escorts, telling him which castles held which prisoners. Some had been unable to take them and so had redistributed their prisoners. The allocation seemed in order to him, no need to alter it now. He put them aside. Then there were the letters of thanks from the houses who had received supplies from the Reach. Many of them were ended with carefully phrased pleas for more. But Robb had nothing more to send, certainly not of the same scale as before. The army needed supplying, first and foremost, without it, everything failed.

He had to force himself not to rush through the letters in order to find one that told him about his brother. Somehow a raven from Tristan had come to him on the march. The bird had landed squarely on the top of his horse's head and proffered its leg, letter attached. He'd stared at it in bewilderment for several seconds, not sure what to make of it. His guard wasn't sure either. But when he'd taken the letter the bird flew off, winging back from whence it came. Somehow, Tristan had written to him, and it was definitely Tristan, Robb knew his own brother's hand, telling him that he had overcome what he called his 'darkness'. He'd talked about the Mountain raiding the Riverlands and that he was going to stop him.

He read a letter from the Twins. It was from Benfrey's wife Jyanna. She thanked him for sending Benfrey home, and his offer of placement at Winterfell. She, Benfrey and the family were making their way north. She also passed on a message from Lord Walder. Apparently the Lord of the Twins wanted him to hurry up and return as he didn't want to miss his daughter becoming queen. Robb scoffed, he would win his war first, then go to reclaim his bride.

None of the letters bore Tristan's hand, but- there! One with a Tully seal. He tore it open. When he unfurled the letter a second one fell out from between the folds. Frowning, RObb picked it up off the table and examined it. The seal was plain scarlet. It had been broken and then resealed afterwards. What was it? He scanned his eyes over the covering letter. It was from his mother. He smiled. The smile widened when he read the contents of the letter. Tristan had won. The Mountain was slain and his raiders were being driven from the Riverlands. He would have a proclamation sent around the army the next morning. Hearing that the monster of Tywin Lannister was dead would do wonders for morale, especially among the men of the riverlands who had suffered so much at his hands. But the letter ended curiously. Only I have read the letter I am enclosing to you Robb, but I beg you to consider it. Please, you have a chance to end it now. For Sansa, for your father's memory. Please.

Robb picked up the letter and opened it carefully. The letter unravelled, two wax seals dropping from it like tongues. One was scarlet, the other was gold. He read the words and his eyes widened. "Olyvar!" He yelled.

Robb waited until Olyvar poked his head back through the tent entrance. "Your Grace?"

"Call my lords to council, immediately."

()()()

Several of his lords seemed to have been ready to sleep judging by the look of them. Dressed hastily, scruffy haired and scowling as they sat around his table. Robb pulled subtly at his cloak to readjust it, in his own haste he'd fastened it too tightly, but it would have to do. "My lords, I apologise for bringing you to me so suddenly and so late, but a matter has arisen that demands our attention.

"It's no concern, Your Grace," Lord Bracken declared, shooting daggers at Lord Blackwood. Lord Bracken had been about to turn in, and Lord Blackwood was just rising to command the night watch and so was alert and eager.

"Then I'll begin," Robb said, standing over them. He held up the letter, letting candlelight reflect of the paper and the two seals hanging from it. "This letter arrived at Riverrun not long ago. My mother has forwarded it on to me here." He made sure all the lords could see the two seals. "This is a message from King's Landing," Robb continued. "Signed and sealed by both Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm and by Joffrey himself. They are requesting a truce."

Lord Karstark roared in laughter. "They can't be serious!"

"It looks like they are," Robb replied, putting the letter down on the table. "They want to agree a truce so that negotiations can begin for a final ending of our war."

"They know they can't beat us is what it is," Lord Umber declared from his place at Robb's side. "Piss on their offer, they can have it when we're outside King's Landing." At least half a dozen lords and captains agreed with Lord Umber's declaration, but others were uncertain.

"House Piper has lost over half our fighting men to this war," Lord Piper declared.

"House Vance as well," Lord Vance added from Lord Piper's side.

"If they are willing to entertain our demands for a free kingdom, why not see where the negotiations take us."

"We've seen how the Lannisters negotiate," Lord Bolton replied softly. "They lie, they disseminate. They offer what they don't have and hoard what they do. That being said," he fixed Robb with his unearthly, pale stare, "They have precious few coins left to spend. Lord Tyrell is in our hands with nearly a third of his nobility, the Reach is divided between us and Lord Stannis and the Westerlands are still ash from our invasion. We must consider the Lannisters are offering us this because they have nothing else."

"Given time they could do anything," said Cley Cerwyn. "Surely this truce is just buying them time to re-organise?"

"Re-organise what though?" Daryn asked. "Lord Bolton is right, their resources must be stretched by now. Perhaps they've decided that they'd rather lose half the kingdom to King Robb than all of it to Stannis Baratheon."

"So you think we should take it for granted?" Lord Blackwood asked. "I'll trust the word of Tywin Lannister again when my lands have been resown and my people replenished."

"I'm saying we have a chance to end this," Daryn replied, leaning forward. Many new lords either threw their new weight around too much or were too timid to speak up. Not Daryn, he knew just how to weave through these negotiations. No doubt spending time negotiating between Robb's hot headed brother and Lord Bolton's more reserved son had trained him for it. "Every month this war continues makes it more likely the white ravens will arrive from the Citadel. If this war isn't settled by Winter, when will it be."

"And what will the Lannisters demand in return for any truce?" Lady Mormont said. Since the death of Dacey she'd grown harder, more bloodthirsty, frequently finding herself siding with Lord Karstark and the lords of the Trident who had lost family and lands to the war, urging him to seek vengeance for it all. Robb knew he would have to be careful. If they grew too influential, they could force battles he didn't want to fight.

"If there is a truce," Robb replied, all eyes snapping to him at once, "then it will be when I have satisfied myself that they mean it in good faith. If not, the war continues."

A silence fell upon the table. "Is there to be a truce, Your Grace?" Lord Umber asked.

Robb tapped the letter softly. "I am inclined to accept a truce if it means we can win our war," he said. "But I will not do so blindly. If the Lannisters want a truce they will meet conditions that I set for them."

"And what terms would they be?" Lord Bolton steepled his fingers, staring.

"The return of my father's sword," Robb said. "They will pull all forces back from the border of the Riverlands and allow us to occupy the nearest castles. They will agree that negotiations for peace are to begin immediately."

"What if they demand prisoners?"

"They get none," Robb said flatly. "Our prizes of war are not so easily surrendered. And I will not ask any of you to go as a guarantor of my good faith. No. They will satisfy themselves that my sister is still their hostage, and if any prisoners are to be returned, it will be once the war is over for good, not for some truce."

"You think this is the best course?" Lady Mormont asked.

Robb nodded. "Yes." he touched the letter again. "Today, peace and war are within our grasp. But if we don't accept this truce, tomorrow Stannis Baratheon's position may have reversed and we will have no choice but to wage war again. It could take another year of fighting and suffering to bring them to the table, when they're offering to go now. If any of you have any objections you wish me to be aware of, then tell me now. Tomorrow I will write my reply to the Lannisters and we can start bringing about the end of this war."