Rickard VIII

I found my brother kneeling before a tree in the godswood. He was shielded by a green awning of leaves, encircled by tall redwoods and ancient elms, bowing before the heart tree, a slim weirwood with a face more miserable than savage. His longsword was before him, the point buried in the earth, his gloved hands tight around the handle.

I picked my way through the wood, careful not to disturb him from his prayer. That would not do. I made my way to him, leaving a respectable distance between the two of us. How long he remained in his position, I have no idea. Eventually, he stirred, moving out of his position. His eyes opened and oriented themselves onto me, without the slightest hint of surprise on his features.

"Rickard."

I bowed my head and lowered my eyes to the ground as Robb stood up, visibly steadying himself. He looked up at me, his grey eyes swirling with ill-kept temper and restrained grief and it was all I could do to keep from taking a step back at the sheer rage that bled from him. The both of us were silent, with only the quiet chatter of nature keeping us company. Eventually, he spoke, his voice stronger than I would've expected it to be.

"We must call a council, brother. There are things to be decided."

Ah. To work, then.

"Perhaps. I have a request I must make of you before that."

"I understand. I shall hear your request after the council. We have had word from the South. Renly Baratheon has claimed the Iron Throne."

At last! I had to school my face into the appropriate expression of shock and disbelief, lest Robb realize the true extent of my knowledge.

"Renly?" I said, stunned. "I was certain it would be Stannis..."

Robb chuckled, grimly, "We all thought the same. Regardless, it is a development we must discuss." I made to speak but he stopped me with a sharp gesture. "No. The council, first. Then, I shall hear your request."

My brother began to walk away, stalking through the thicket with nary a sound, hand on the pommel of his sword. As he walked away from me, I was desperately trying to think of a way to tell yet another secret I had no way of knowing. While he moved further and further away from the weirwood I was rapidly thinking up and discarding plans. In the end, I simply had to tell Robb about what I knew was to come, potential consequences be damned. I would rather face increased scrutiny than be forced into an unfavourable situation. I cursed myself beneath my breath and went ahead with my gambit.

"King in the North."

Robb whirled around; his brows furrowed in honest confusion. "What?"

I lazily ambled my way towards him, my voice remaining ever steady.

"They mean to name you King in the North."

For a long moment, all that I could in the wood was Robb's gaping mouth and shocked countenance. I inwardly chuckled. For all his martial prominence, it seemed as though I still had the ability to render him speechless. Truly, some things never changed. I was brought out of my thoughts when I heard my brother speak.

"Speak."

His voice was curt, and cold with a winter's frost. My eyes widened and conducted a swift re-evaluation of Robb. For my certainty that my brother was the same boy that left Winterfell, I was wrong. For my brother was no longer a boy, but a man forged and strengthened in the crucible of war. Perhaps that first taste of blood had awoken the wolf hidden underneath the Tully honour. I even began to entertain possibilities of sharing some of my plans for the future with my brother before swiftly chastising myself. That was naught but the talk of an idealistic fool. My brother's habits and ingrained conventions rendered any chance of having him willingly participating in my plots almost impossible. But all of that was a matter for later since my brother was waiting for my explanation.

"I have it on good authority that some of the Lords under your command, especially those in the direct dominion North mean to crown you their King. Some of these men include Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark and Maege Mormont."

His grim expression held for a moment before shattering and reverting to a face of bewilderment and stupefaction. His eyes looked back into mine, searching, almost pleading for it to be a lie. Unfortunately for him, I had told him nothing but the truth and he could see it. However, instead of denying the veracity of my report or storming off, he smirked. A quiet and fragile thing, and I saw no reason to disrupt it.

"Careful brother. While I evidently do not possess any keen insight into the minds of my Lords Bannermen, I hardly think Lady Mormont will take kindly to being named a man."

Despite myself, I smiled.

"Ah. Of course. It seems though I have another favour to ask of you, Robb. Please do refrain from informing Lady Mormont of my stupidity. I have no wish to find myself with a spiked mace buried in my gut."

After a quiet moment, we both found ourselves chuckling. And that is just what we were at that moment. Two brothers laughing a weak jape. Not a Lord and his bannerman. Not a potential king and his subject. Not a pair of boys fighting a war of vengeance. Simply two brothers laughing at a weak jape. Alas, like all things, it could not last. Eventually, our laughter tapered off as Robb leaned against a tree and closed his eyes in what I diagnosed as exhaustion. Perhaps not of the physical kind, but his following sigh was one borne of the stress that came with the responsibility of having thousands under a singular command. His eyes were still closed when asked me the question I had no real way to answer.

"How... how in all the hells did you come to find out? You've hardly been around them, save for past councils. I find it hard to believe they would be openly discussing it, seeing as it's not spread through my men already. So... how do you know?"

I stayed silent, not out of fear or the possibility of reprisal, but simply because I knew I had no satisfactory answer. And it seemed as though Robb knew the same because he chuckled again, albeit much more grimly than the previous time. As he opened his eyes, I feared for a moment that he would press the issue but my fears were put to rest when I saw him shaking his head before he rose.

"Very well. Very well. You will not tell me, and I will not force it from you. For now." Then he sighed, "It seems I am to be a king, brother." He shot me a look. "Or do you believe that to be the wrong measure for us to make?"

When I shook my head, he simply sighed again and made to walk away, his decision apparently solidified. I stopped him with a gesture and he turned to look at me, wearily.

"Robb, I still need that favour."

He closed his eyes in exasperation and took a deep breath to calm himself.

"What is it?" he ground out

"I need to talk to Jaime Lannister."

He shot me a quizzical look, clearly not having expected that.

"Why?"

"I believe him to have some information of note. I merely wish to...extract it from him."

"Extract." It was not a question.

"Precisely." I would not say anymore, and the two of us knew it.

A tinge of anger entered my brother's tone, "He is our prisoner. Highborn, besides."

"And how many has he killed? What of Lord Karstark's progeny?"

"What?" He seemed confused and I, for the life of me, did not understand why.

"Torrhen and Eddard Karstark. What of their deaths?"

Robb's seemed to grow even more confused, and his tone altered to one an adult would use when explaining something to a particularly dim-witted child.

"Rickard, Torrhen and Eddard are alive. Your idea of fitting some of my personal bodyguard with crossbows managed to down Kingslayer before he could kill either of them. Why did you think they were dead?"

I froze, but passed it off as a moment of bewilderment by laughing.

"Ah, I apologize. It seems as though my information in this matter is incorrect. Regardless, my point stands. It is not about who he is, but what we can get from him." I saw him about to argue so cut him off. "We are fighting a war Robb, and let no one else tell you otherwise. Men have been and will be killed because of the Lannisters. What we do, we do to win the war, rescue our sisters, and avenge our father." I saw him wavering, so I ruthlessly drove the point home. "Our father is dead, Robb, and it is because of the Lannisters. Northerners are dead by their hand. Jory is dead. Hullen is dead. Do you remember them? Or has your damned sense of honour gone to your head?" I was snarling by the end.

In a flash, Robb had me pinned to a tree with his hand bunched up at my collar. I was close enough to look into his eyes and it was then I knew I had won.

"Do not dare to speak to me like that! Of that. I am the eldest, brother, and you will address me as such. Don't you dare accuse me of forgetting. I remember, Rickard, I remember. I swore to avenge my father, today, and it is an oath I shall see done."

He shoved me back, hard, into the tree. He stepped away from me, breathing hard and his fists opening and closing. I was silent as he reigned in his temper and returned to as calm a state as could be possibly be managed. Robb screwed shut his eyes, muttering under his breath, voice heavy with grief and disgust.

"Damn you. Damn you." He whispered. "Do as you will, Rickard. I shall hear none of it." He smiled then, a bitter thing full of recrimination and defeat. "Leave."

I was already gone.

The dungeons of Riverrun were a dark and foreboding place. Perhaps not much when compared to the cells of the infamous cells of the Red Keep, or the rooms in the deepest corners of the Dreadfort, but dark just the same. The only light came from the fickle favour of the flames mounted on brackets onto the walls. The loud tramping of boots filled the suffocating darkness.

The goaler in charge of the cells was a diminutive little man with a broken nose. I found him hunched over a tankard of ale with the remains of a pie at his feet. He squinted at me suspiciously before his eyes fell upon Fenrir, who was behind me. The sudden fear and realization on his face bought me a short smile. He toppled off of his stool and scrambled back on his feet, stuttering all the while.

"Mi... milord! I- I... 'pologies, I was just having me supper."

I chuckled out loud and waved my hand in an errant gesture, in an attempt to put the man at ease. It did not work. Further reassurance was required. After all, it would not do for the goaler to spread stories of what was to come in the next few days, or weeks.

"No worries, my dear man. I just wanted to have a word with one of our prisoners." At his blank look, I elaborated. "Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer."

The goaler licked his lips. "Begging your forgiveness, milord but Lord Edmure says no one is to see the Kingslayer without a writing from him, with his seal upon it."

I frowned. "I'm hardly likely to release the Kingslayer, now am I?"

The man shook his head, eyes flickering to my direwolf. "Sorry, milord. Ain't nothin' I can do."

Well, there was nothing for it done. I could've gotten the permit, but I simply did not want to wait for it. Intimidation was not my first choice, but an efficient tactic nonetheless. I let my hand drift to Fenrir's coat and gently urged him forward towards the man. He swallowed and I could almost taste the fear rolling off of him. And as it seemed, so did Fenrir, because he stalked forward and almost playfully snapped at the air. While it was something I had trained into him and was therefore immune to, the goaler was not. As sweat began to gather on his forehead and brow, I pulled his attention to me, my teeth bared in a decidedly unfriendly grin.

"Are you sure? I simply want to have a chat with him."

His eyes widened and his voice was choked. "Of course, milord." The keys were chained to the studded leather belt that girdled his waist. He muttered under his breath as he sorted through them until he found the one that fit the door to the Kingslayer's cell. He did not make a sound, and focused on sorting through them, until he found the correct key for the door. The goaler unlocked the door and hastily stepped back. I looked at him for a long moment before tossing him a couple of coins.

"Leave the dungeon and get yourself a drink. I'll be a while." He murmured thanks under his breath before trying to put as much space between him and Fenrir as fast he could. My companion's orange eyes shone with a malevolence not seen in any of the direwolves of House Stark, Ghost included. I kindly requested Fenrir to wait outside. He looked up at me what was almost an expression of boredom and crept back into the shadows. As I made to enter the cell, I paused. Kindness. That was not a thought I had given much import to the last year. I winced, thinking of Roslin, and how much of a grave disservice I had done her in the short time we had been married. As I entered the Kingslayer's cell, I made a note to share a pleasant meal with her. I grabbed an oil lamp that hung from a hook on the low ceiling.

I shouldered aside the heavy wood-and-iron door and stepped into foul darkness. This was the bowels of Riverrun, and smelled the part. Old straw crackled underfoot. Through the stone, I could hear the faint rush of the Tumblestone. The lamplight revealed a pail overflowing with waste in one corner and a huddled shape in another.

Jaime raised his hands to cover his face, the chains around his wrists clanking. "Sudden light can blind a man," he said, in a voice arid as a Dornish desert. "Leave the food and go. I have no need for your company, lickspittle."

I kept my tone pleasant as I placed the lamp on a small ledge next to the door. "Not your goaler, Ser Jaime."

The sound of shifting chains filled the small cell as the Kingslayer shifted himself to better see me, his vibrant emerald eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the light.

"No? Who, then?"

"My name is Rickard Stark, Ser."

His tired eyes tried to focus on me as his mouth quirked into a mocking smirk. "A Stark, for me? My, my. I did not know you cared."

Jaime Lannister had been permitted no razor since the night he was taken in the Whispering Wood, and shaggy hair covered his face, one that once so much like his sister's. Shining gold in the lamplight, the bristles made him resemble some great yellow beast, mighty even in chains. His unwashed hair tumbled to his shoulders in ropes and tangles, garments decaying on his body, his face was pale and lined. His strength would have to be broken, I mused to myself.

"Merely a visit, Ser. I was wondering if we could talk."

He ignored me, choosing instead to viciously scratch his thigh. I waited patiently, for I knew that he would leap at any chance of human contact. In the cells, a lack of food and isolation were the biggest dangers. In this, I was correct.

"You are married, are you not?" He drawled nonchalantly. "Is that why you here? Need some help? Women not to your liking? Come now, boy, out with it."

Jaime glanced at me, thinking that he had provoked a vulnerability of mine. After all, there weren't many in Westeros who would take kindly to being called boy while being married and having commanded part of pitched battle. For my part, I knew it was coming so I merely huffed in amusement. By the furrow of his brow, he had not been expecting that. I took the opportunity to reeducate him.

"Boy? Very well, Ser. It is as you say. And my brother is much the same, I suspect. But, do you not insult yourself, them? After all, it was a boy who decimated your father's army, and it was a boy who broke your siege and captured you. Perhaps it shall be a boy who kills you."

He leaned back, scoffing. "You won't kill me. Not if you want your father alive."

I smiled and leaned against the cell door, the lamp forcing shadows to dance across the straw floor. "My father is dead."

His head snapped forward, and his gaze bored into me.

"No..." It came out as a whisper.

"Quite. I assure you, my reaction was much the same. Unlike you, of course, I was much more grieved. You are cursing the stupidity of it, I suspect."

"How... my sister?"

"Ah yes. As far as we are aware, my father was coerced by your sister to confess to treason. My father confessed, and was executed on the steps of the Great Sept. Your son's folly, I should think." I sighed. "Apparently, your sister and brother were both against that option and wanted to send my father to the Night's Watch. That... did not happen."

The cell was quiet, and both of us were silent. The only sound came from the faint scurrying of rats in the cell and the muted roar of the Tumblestone. When the Kingslayer opened his eyes, I could see the resignation within them. His voice did not contain much of his ingrained arrogance.

"That is why you here, then? To tell me I am to die?"

"No."

He didn't even blink. Even if he had not expected the answer, he gave of indication of such. He wasn't amused, he wasn't angry.

"Your sisters."

I conceded the point with a nod of the head.

"Precisely."

"You still need me alive."

"Yes."

I stared back at him before drawing a small wineskin from within my coat and tossed it to him. Jaime caught it and sniffed the top after opening it. He set the skin aside.

"No?"

"Such sudden generosity seems somewhat suspect."

I chuckled. "I have no wish to invite a lover's wrath on my sisters. Poison would see Sansa and Arya dead just as well a lost head."

He seemed to consider it, before rolling his eyes and taking a deep swig of the drink. He spluttered and drank deeper. He paused after a good few seconds. Jaime looked down at the flask in his lap and back at me, incredulously.

"Arbor?"

I shrugged, an idle smile on my face. "A Lannister only deserves the best, does he not?"

He laughed, a disused scratchy thing that was dragged out his throat. "Not as stupid as you seem, then."

I smiled, and let him drink his fill. When I saw some colour return to his face, I spoke of why I was visiting him.

"Shall we play a game, Ser Jaime?"

He looked at me warily. "A game?"

"Nothing difficult, mind you. Rather simple actually. I give you some of what I think are truths, and you tell me if I'm right or not. Yes?"

He hesitated, and under normal circumstances, he would've simply laughed me off. However, a combination of strong alcohol after a long period of gruel and starvation had lowered his inhibitions. To be fair, a good amount of milk of the poppy helped as well.

"Fine."

"Your name is Jaime Lannister."

"Yes."

"You were born to Tywin and Joanna Lannister."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"You hated Aerys."

Jaime's eyes turned curious. "Yes."

"Aerys wanted to burn King's Landing, and you killed him for it."

"How-"

"You hate your brother."

"No."

"Your sister is your lover."

He scoffed and took another draught from the wineskin in lieu of an answer.

"You fucked her in a tower in Winterfell, the day before the King's Party was set to leave."

I could see that he was about to answer but pressed on, ruthlessly.

"You first had your sister in a tavern and swore yourself to the Kingsguard to be close to her. Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella are your bastards, not trueborn Baratheons." I leaned in, as his face slackened in shock and not an insignificant amount of fear. "Tysha was not a whore."

He threw himself back, slamming into the wall behind, eyes wide and his breathing shallow. "How... how could you possibly..."

I smiled, but unlike the previous times I had done the same in his presence, I did not even try and hide the venom. "Did you think we were all hulking Barbarians up in the North? Without the slightest hint of intelligence?" I scoffed. "My web spans from Winterfell to Qarth. Whispers in the East and stories from Casterly Rock all come to me, Ser Jaime."

"You?" he scoffed, but his heart was not in it.

I raised an eyebrow, a scornful expression on my face. "You require more proof, Kingslayer?"

There came no response for a while. And then, "I am not sure if I have any secrets left, Stark," he laughed quietly. "Do you have something you want from me or have you simply come to gloat?"

"No, I have not. In truth, I have something to ask of you, Ser Jaime. I have to come to ask you to write a letter for me."

"A... letter?"

"Aye. A letter that details the nature of your relationship with your sister, and the birth of your children."

His eyes were cold because the two of us had no pretensions on what was to come. "Or?"

I straightened myself up and turned to leave. I left the cell and just as I was about to shut the door, I whispered in a voice that was just about audible.

"We shall see."

The council assembled in the Great Hall, with four long tables arrayed in a broken square. Hoster Tully was too weak to even think about joining in, resting instead in his chambers, dreaming of the sun on the rivers of his childhood. Edmure sat in the high seat of the Tullys, with Brynden Blackfish next to him. Expression of the triumph at Riverrun had spread to the weakened rulers of the Trident, pulling them to Riverrun. Karyl Vance arrived, a lord now, his father dead underneath the Golden Tooth. Ser Marq Piper was with him, and they brought a Darry, Ser Raymun's child, a fellow no more seasoned than Bran. Jonos Bracken showed up from the vestiges of Stone Hedge, scowling and boasting, and sat down as a long way from Tytos Blackwood as the positioning would allow.

The northern lords sat opposite, with Catelyn and Robb facing her brother across the tables. They were fewer. I sat at Robb's left hand, and then Theon Greyjoy; Galbart Glover and Lady Mormont were to the right of my mother. Lord Rickard Karstark, who might've been gaunt and hollow-eyed in his grief, took his seat like a proud man.

The debate went on late into the night. Each Lord reserved an option to talk, and talk they did . . . also, yell, and revile, and reason, and coax, and joke, and deal, and undermine, and leave, and return dismal or grinning. I sat and paid attention to everything

Roose Bolton held strong at the mouth of the causeway. Ser Helman Tallhart and Walder Frey still held the Twins. Tywin's host had crossed the Trident, and was making for Harrenhal, being intensely pressed by Bolton. The demolition of Tywin Lannister's horse meant that the Lannisters were unable to screen their developments. Also, there were two kings in the land. Two kings, and no agreement.

Many of the lords bannermen wanted to march on Harrenhal at once, to meet Lord Tywin and end Lannister power for all time. Young, hot-tempered Marq Piper urged a strike west at Casterly Rock instead. Still others counselled patience. Riverrun sat athwart the Lannister supply lines, Jason Mallister pointed out; let them bide their time, denying Lord Tywin fresh levies and provisions while they strengthened their defences and rested their weary troops. Lord Blackwood would have none of it. They should finish the work they began in the Whispering Wood. March to Harrenhal and bring Roose Bolton's army down as well. What Blackwood urged, Bracken opposed, as ever; Lord Jonos Bracken rose to insist they ought to pledge their fealty to King Renly and move south to join their might to his.

"Renly isn't the King," Robb said.

"You can't intend to hold to Joffrey, my lord," Galbart Glover said. "He put your father to death."

"That makes him evil," Robb answered. "I don't see how that makes Renly king."

Lady Mormont agreed. "Lord Stannis has the better claim."

"Renly is crowned," said Marq Piper. "Highgarden and Storm's End support his claim, and the Dornishmen will not be laggardly. If Winterfell and Riverrun add their strength to his, he will have five of the seven great houses behind him. Six, if the Arryn's bestir themselves! Six against the Rock! My lords, within the year, we will have all their heads on pikes, the queen and the boy king, Lord Tywin, the Imp, the Kingslayer, Ser Kevan, all of them! That is what we shall win if we join with King Renly. What does Lord Stannis have against that, that we should cast it all aside?"

"The right," said Robb stubbornly. The fool.

"So, you mean us to declare for Stannis?" asked Edmure.

"My father would encourage caution," Ser Stevron said, with a weaselly grin. "Pause, let these two rulers play their Game of Thrones. When they are finished battling, we can bend our knees to the victor, or go against him, as we pick. With Renly arming, Lord Tywin would invite a truce. . . furthermore, the return of his child. My lords, permit me to go to him at Harrenhal and negotiate great terms. . . "

A thunder of shock overwhelmed his voice. "Craven!" the Greatjon roared.

"Asking for a truce will cause us to appear powerless," pronounced Lady Mormont.

"Why not a peace?" Catelyn asked.

"My lady, they murdered my lord father, your husband," Robb said, grimly. He unsheathed his longsword and laid it on the table before him, the bright steel on the rough wood. "This is the only peace I have for Lannisters."

The Greatjon bellowed his approval, and other men added their voices, shouting and drawing swords and pounding their fists on the table. Catelyn waited until they had quieted. "My lords," she said then, "Lord Eddard was your liege, but I shared his bed and bore his children. Do you think I love him any less than you?" Her voice almost broke with her grief, but my mother took a long breath and steadied herself. "Robb, if that sword could bring him back, I should never let you sheathe it until Ned stood at my side once more . . . but he is gone, and hundred Whispering Woods will not change that. Ned is gone, and many other good men besides, and none of them will return to us. Must we have more deaths still?"

"You are a woman, my lady," Galbart Glover rumbled in his deep voice. "Women do not understand these things."

"Careful, my lord," I said sharply. "Careful."

Glover looked at me and then at the lines of grief on my mother's face. "Aye. My apologies."

"Whatever you may decide for yourselves, I shall never call a Lannister my king," declared Marq Piper.

"Nor I!" shrieked the little Darry child. "I never will!"

Again, the shouting began.

Finally, the Greatjon lurched to his feet, as I knew he would,

"MY LORDS!" he shouted, his voice booming off the rafters. "Here is what I say to these two kings!" He spat. "Renly Baratheon is nothing to me, nor Stannis neither. Why should they rule over me and mine, from some flowery seat in Highgarden or Dorne? What do they know of the Wall or the Wolfswood or the barrows of the First Men? Even their gods are wrong. The Others take the Lannisters too, I've had a bellyful of them." He reached back over his shoulder and drew his immense two-handed greatsword. "Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again? It was the dragons we married, and the dragons are all dead!" He pointed at Robb with the blade. "There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to, milords," he thundered. "The King in the North!" And he knelt and laid his sword at Robb's feet.

"I'll have peace on those terms," Lord Karstark said. "They can keep their red castle and their iron chair as well." He eased his longsword from its scabbard.

"The King in the North!" he said, kneeling beside the Greatjon. Maege Mormont stood.

"The King of Winter!" she declared and laid her spiked mace beside the swords. And the river lords were rising too, Blackwood and Bracken and Mallister, houses who had never been ruled from Winterfell, and I watched them rise and draw their blades, bending their knees and shouting the old words that had not been heard in the realm for more than three hundred years, since Aegon the Dragon had come to make the Seven Kingdoms one . . . yet now were heard again, ringing from the timbers of the hall:

"The King in the North!" "The King in the North!" "THE KING IN THE NORTH!"