Whereas Aegon was largely satisfied with performative loyalty from his lords and took care to preserve existing institutions, Robb Stark's instincts were often reformative. He had no compunctions about the use of attainders and land seizures against disloyal vassals in order to get his way.

TYRION

"They killed my son."

His father had looked haggard, crushed. He had never seen the like before. The servant who had brought the message was quaking in fear. No doubt they had all done lots, and the poor lad had drawn the short straw.

Tyrion had wanted to cry, to blubber like a child. How could this be? Jaimie, his brother. So strong and great. When he was a child, he'd thought him invincible. Jaime had been his hero, and that had never truly changed. Even not being blind to his vices, mainly an excess of arrogance and an excess of Cersei, Tyrion could never muster any true ill-feeling for his brother.

Now he was dead. Perished at Riverrun. Robb Stark, that belligerent green boy, had pulled some clever trickery and slaughtered nearly the whole army on the banks of the Red Fork. His wolf was said to have killed a dozen men. By some accounts, it was the wolf that had torn Jamie's throat out. According to others, the old Blackfish had felled him in some glorious duel straight out of the songs.

Neither version could offer much comfort. He couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt, a shred of responsibility. Perhaps his father had been right, that he had submitted to capture far too meekly. Such as Jaime would never have done.

While his brother was meeting his ignominious end, they had been uselessly pursuing a phantom army. Far from the main body of the Northmen they'd imagined, it had been a mere few thousand men under the elusive Lord Karstark sent to lead them in a merry dance around the Green Fork.

Having spoken, his father had stalked straight out of the tent, retreating from them all. He wondered if it was the first time the mighty Tywin had ever fled from anything. For two days now, his father had seen no one. Admitted no one to his presence save Uncle Kevan.

Now all the lords of the West were gathered once more, seeking some new solution. The whole army was paralysed, every man with some opinion of their next action. Retreat to the West, retreat to the Crownlands. Make peace, launch a new counter-attack.

The atmosphere was still chaotic. Nearly everyone had some friend or relation in the other army, and now they'd all met an uncertain fate. Uncle Kevan's two twins sons, Willem and Martyn, had been there. Every day Kevan prayed for some note of ransom or offer of exchange.

Lord Tywin made his entrance, his composure entirely restored. To look at him now, you'd think nothing was amiss. He projected his usual commanding presence, giving out orders as he was born to do.

"I cannot deny that the battle at Riverrun was a great calamity, or that its consequences are unfortunate. Still, this war is not over. We have come now too far to turn back."

Each point in turn, he detailed their new course. Stafford Lannister, dear old Uncle Dolt, was to scarper back West and raise a new army, mustering the dregs of the Westerlands. The charming Ser Gregor to sow even greater chaos and death in the Riverlands. The rest of them to march for Harrenhal.

So ordered, each of them made to take their leave, Tyrion as well.

"Not you." his father said. Surprised, he sat.

After a long moment of silence, his father spoke again. "You were right about the Stark boy. We underestimated him, and it cost us dearly."

He suppressed a flash of anger to hear talk of cost with not a word of Jaimie. "A great cost, yes." he replied flatly.

"You will go the King's Landing and serve as Hand in my stead. Rein in the boy King and his mother too. We cannot afford any more acts of stupidity. Everything I've built, my whole legacy, teeters precariously. One more false move and it will all come crashing down.

And if you get so much as a whiff of treason from anyone.."

"Yes, I know. Heads, spikes, walls."

THE READER

The longship sailed gently into the harbour of Lordsport, its mast adorned with the silver scythe and black field of House Harlaw. The wind was bitter, the air damp. It had been many years since Lord Rodrik Harlaw had been to Pyke, or left his own isle at all, but circumstances had forced him to endure.

Ever since the raven from Winterfell had landed, its black feathers dripping wet, its carry had been the sole focus of his mind. Even his beloved library had not been sufficient to divert his anxiety. He had taken to walking back and forth along the halls of Ten Towers like a fool, his mind working feverishly.

The words came to him still. All of your plans are laid bare to us, it had read. Our spears shall give you a welcome such as you have never seen.

The finals lines, most of all. If you wish to spare your nephew's life, and your sister the grief for her last living son, deliver this warning to your goodbrother.

As they came to dock at the pier, he was greeted by his niece. "Uncle Rodrik, I thought we would never again be able rouse you from your books. I can't imagine what could have brought you scurrying to Pyke, except perhaps love of me." She grinned.

"If only that were so, Asha." He kissed her cheek. "I must speak with your father, dear. With you as well. We best make for the castle, I cannot wait."

The ride tired him shamefully, to climb the tower even more so. Perhaps he did need to rouse himself more often from his books.

The years had done Lord Balon no favours. He had become gaunt and grey. He looked less than pleased to see him.

"Well, Reader, here were are. How many years has it been? Five? I thought perhaps you'd come to tell me I'm newly widowed, that only that would raise your nose from the parchment, but I've been told that is not so. So what then has brought you across the bay?"

"It has been six years, my lord." he replied. He reached into his coat and pulled out the letter with the broken wolf seal. "I fear that it is nothing you will like."

Balon took the letter. He clenched his fist as he read. His eyes narrowed. "What is this?" he hissed.

Rodrik remained silent as Balon raged, screaming about imagined treasons. Asha took the letter and read, shocked. "How?" she whispered.

"It hardly matters now." he spoke up. "My lord, you cannot hope to continue now as you are."

Balon's eyes flashed. "Careful now, Reader. We are bound through your sister, it is true, but that does not allow you to gainsay me. Do I have reason to doubt your loyalty?"

That angered him. "Two of my sons lie dead off the Fair Isle for my loyalty to you." Asha made to interrupt, but he shook his head.

"I understand your intention. Strike the North while all their strength moves south, and take what we need from greybeards and green boys. You may think me weak, but I am still Ironborn. I know that our people need land, need resources. Timber for ships, cloth for sails. We could have had that at least from the North.

But it is now clear that this plan is based on a misapprehension. If the Northmen know of our approach, and are ready for us, it will all be for nothing."

Balon gritted his teeth. "Every man of ours is worth ten greenlanders."

He'd already verged this far into disobedience, there was no sense turning back now. "Balon, if you follow this course, Harlaw will stand apart. A decade ago, against my advice, you launched your rebellion against Robert Baratheon. You thought me weak then, as you do now. But I was right then, and am again.

I will not follow you in this folly, which will not only kill my nephew and your only living son, but may once more bring a rain of ruin to our country."

Balon looked stunned. Doubtless it had been many years since anyone had dared to speak so boldly to him, perhaps not since Robert Baratheon had forced them all to their knees.

Asha looked thoughtful. "Perhaps there are other ways.."

CATELYN

Her father was a shell of the man he'd once been. His deterioration had shocked her. She remembered a tall, proud and lordly man. The man he'd been when last they met. Now he was shrunken, grey and stricken. It upset her deeply.

He still had moments of lucidity, but they grew fewer and far between. Edmure's death had broken him. Each time he forgot, she had told him once more and renewed his grief. Eventually she had stopped reminding him, pantomiming a life in which her little brother still lived.

Her father did not have long left, she knew. When he passed on, she would inherit a responsibility she had neither expected nor desired. She had made her life in the North, and never expected to be Lady of Riverrun.

Still, she would do her duty. She had to help her children now. So much of what she loved seemed to be slipping away, so she clung ever harder to what she had left. Perhaps her dear Uncle Brynden could be Lord Protector, taking on those responsibilities she could not. He was a good and loyal man. It brought her the first happiness she'd felt since she heard of Ned, to see him on his feet again.

Needing air, she climbed the towers to the battlements. Riverrun and its attendant lands stretched before her. She felt transported to her past. So many times she had stood here, watching those she loved depart. As a girl, she'd always done so for her father, when he'd been off on some business or other. Each time he returned, he would smile. Little Cat, have you been waiting for me all this time? he would say.

Then it was Brandon, her dazzling betrothed. And then his brother, her new husband. More quiet and unassuming. Now it was her son, with a whole army at his back.

Her son, the King. Her son, the soldier and leader of men. Would she ever grow used to that? Marching to do battle against Lord Tywin, a man who had been leading armies for thrice Robb's lifetime. I mean to stand right in his way, Robb had said when his lords had named him King.

He had meant it. Lord Karstark, that grizzled bear of a man, had returned from leading Lord Tywin on a merry chase. More Rivermen had been trickling in as the direction of march became known. Some freeriders. Bracken, Vance and Piper men.

After the battle, Lord Blackwood and others had wanted leave to go retake their castles. Robb's denial might have caused dismay, if done for any cause but to put Lord Tywin's head on a spike. Even so, it had taken weeks of wrangling and threats to bring the whole army together.

They had a strength of near 30,000 by the last count, with some expectations of rallying more on their march across the southern Riverlands. A great host, the combined might of the North and Trident. More than the Lannisters had left to them, she was told.

Catelyn prayed every day that it would be enough. Everything and everyone that mattered to her depended on it being enough.