Daemon Blackwater: I believe that Robb and Lyonel are the only POVs I haven't done in this book yet. But yeah, those other questions would be too spoilery to answer.


The dawn broke crisp and warm in the Reach. Tristan rolled himself to his feet and stretched, feeling his shoulders and wrists crack and pop and relishing the relief of it. They had not bothered with tents that night, instead finding shelter beneath a small copse of trees and bushes as protection against the rain that never came. He was not the only one rising. Robb had sent him with a noble expedition, ten noble sons from the North and the same number from the Trident. Lords had not been so willing to send their men without protection, so a hundred riders of the North and a similar number of knights and outriders of the Riverlands. They broke their fast on plain, tasteless porridge and bread washing it down quickly. None of them wanted to be here long, they wanted to get back to the fight against the Lannisters, so Tristan hoped to be with Renly Baratheon within the next few days.

They rode in column. He was at the lead, Shield and Nymeria falling into line beside him, as his left, Hal Mollen bore the banner of Winterfell, while the other lordling houses had banners of their own, though dwarfed by the royal one Robb had provided. His few outriders scouted ahead as far as to prevent an immediate ambush, but from what they had heard, war had not come to the Reach, but was making it's slow way out of it, towards King's Landing.

One of his outriders returned. "My lord, in that windmill," he said, pointing to it. "A spotter."

By the time they reached it, the spotter was gone. Shield wasn't acting erratically, so they didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, and continued.

Not quite a mile later, Renly's outriders came swooping down on them, twenty men mailed and mounted, led by a grizzled greybeard of a knight with bluejays on his surcoat. They held back far enough that they wouldn't be easily overwhelmed if they were foes, but Tristan suspected there were more held further back, just in case this was a hostile force. He held up his hand to halt the column. The leading knight, having seen the banner flying above their heads, approached alone, and he trotted his horse out a few more steps to meet him.

"My lord," he called, "I am Ser Colen of Greenpools, as it please you. These are dangerous lands you cross."

"Our business is urgent enough to warrant the danger," little as it is, he thought. "I am Tristan, of the House Stark. I come as an envoy from my brother, Robb of the House Stark, the First of his Name, King in the North and King of the Trident. He has sent me to treat with Renly Baratheon, the King in the South."

"By the grace of gods and men, King Renly has been anointed ruler of all the Seven Kingdoms," Ser Colen replied, courteously enough. "His Grace is encamped with his host at Bitterbridge, not far from here. It shall be my honour to guide you to him." He raised a mailed fist and his men turned around, forming a guide for them to follow.

They saw the smoke of the camp's fires when they were still an hour from the river. Then the sound came drifting across the rolling planes, indistinct as the murmur of some distant sea, but swelling as they rode closer. By the time they caught sight of the Mander's muddy waters glinting in the sun, they could make out the voices of men, the clatter of steel and the whinny of horses. But none of this prepared Tristan for the sheer size of the host they came across.

Thousands of cook fires filled the air with the smell of smoke and the accompanying smoky haze; horse lines stretched for miles as far as the eye could see, and Tristan wondered where all the wood had come from to make the thousands of pavilion and flag poles, let alone the thousands of spears and pikes, who's tips glinted red in the morning sun, as though they had already shed the blood of their enemies. Then there were the siege engines, lined up on the side of the road, mangonels, trebuchets, covered rams with wheels taller than men and four large siege towers. Then there were the men. Tristan saw men with spears and axes and swords, men in steel caps and mail shirts and hauberks, he saw camp followers flaunting their bodies, looking for a bit of coin, archers were fletching arrows, teamsters with wagons, pages running errands and messages between one lord and another knights on their pleasant palfreys and squires and grooms handling the destriers the knights would mount before battle.

"That is a large army," Tristan muttered. Robb could count upon the support of the Trident and his own northmen, but together they couldn't match this host for numbers.

On this side of the river, the golden rose of House Tyrell was everywhere, on the arms and breasts of armsmen, fluttering from a thousand poles for the brothers, cousins and uncles of Renly Baratheon's queen. He recognised other sigils as well, from the tourney at Highgarden, sigils who's houses he had forgotten, but there were hunters, foxes and flowers, birds, apples and butterflies. On the other side were other sigils, but only one he could confirm he knew, the crowned stag of House Baratheon, but there were some that looked familiar, nightingales and buckles and quills, he had seen them at Highgarden as well, but there was also turtles and crows. All the might of the south seemed to have come with Renly Baratheon, and he hoped to see them all, knights, lords and freeriders who had come to make Renly Baratheon the king he claimed to be.

"It is large," Domeric muttered. "But do you hear that?" He listened.

"Cheers?"

Domeric nodded. "It would seem there is a tourney of some sort going on."

They passed over a grassy hill and saw that, in the shadow of a small castle, there was indeed a melee proceeding, with barriers erected to keep the hundreds if not thousands of watchers from pouring in to get involved. They dismounted and passed their horses off to their squires to look after. Tristan looked over, but all he saw not were heads of the crowd, and the occasional glance at a mounted knight. Why Renly thought it was a good idea to waste strength on a melee with foes on either side, Tristan didn't quite know.

"Lord Tristan," Ser Colen said, coming to join them. "If your men and... pets... would be so kind as to wait here, I shall present you to King Renly." He looked at the wolves with some concern.

"The sworn swords can wait," Tristan replied. "But my lords are as much part of this delegation as I. And as to these two," he stroked their heads as they came either side of him. "No." If this southron thought to separate him from his protection, he was a fool.

Ser Colen didn't look happy, but didn't look like he wanted to argue either. "We may have to wait for the melee to finish," he said.

Tristan shook his head. "I would, Ser Colen," he said. "But I am a prince now. I don't feel like waiting. Besides, I want to watch this." He looked at the stiff crowd, he could try and push his way through, but there were other ways. He tapped Nymeria and shield on the heads and they looked up at him. "Nymeria, Shield, if you would please," he gestured to the crowd. The wolves approached the armsmen in the back and nuzzled them. Shield's muzzle rapped on thighs while Nymeria's threatened knees to get people to move. When they looked around and saw what was nuzzling them, men jumped away in fright, grabbing their friends and pulling them away from the beasts from hell that they likely saw. Ser Colen fell in line beside him as they approached the barrier, more and more men moving aside to make way for the men from the North and Trident.

When Colen, Tristan and his lords arrived at the barrier, there were only a dozen men left in the fight, including one he recognised as Lord Tyrell's youngest son and a tall, strong knight in cobalt blue armour, who seemed to be leading the fight.

Tristan scouted the who had been fortunate to earn themselves a seat in the stands set up to one side, the lords and ladies of the south who were not fighting in the melee. The King had to be the one in the middle. He was dressed in vibrant green with a stag sewn on the front of his doublet in thick golden threat, the sigil of House Baratheon in the colours of Tyrell. The king hadn't thought to do the same on his sigil, however, for Renly Baratheon's banner was made from a piece of cloth a hundred times larger than the one Robb had provided him, and it was the burnished gold field with the prancing black stag, the same sigil that dead King Robert had used. Still, he wondered whether this new king would be the warrior that his brother was, he hadn't heard such. He nudged Domeric and Daryn, who had come to his side, and several others leaned in when he beckoned. He pointed to Renly's banner. "I can't help but wonder if there is a special reason why he has a banner that's so excessively big." His lords got a good chuckle at that. But then, Tristan would hardly blame Renly for trying to show off some level of manliness, what with the girl who was sat next to him. Margaery Tyrell was dressed in the same colours as her husband, green and gold, her dress flowing around her feminine form, her curls falling about her shoulder, and her smile shy and sweet. She clapped her hands in excitement. He turned to see that there were only two knights left in the tourney, the Knight of the Flowers and the knight in cobalt blue.

Ser Loras rained down blows on his head and shoulders, to shouts of "Highgarden!" from the throng. The other gave answer with his morningstar, but whenever the ball came crashing in, Ser Loras interposed his battered green shield, emblazoned with three golden roses. When the longaxe caught the blue knight's hand on the backswing and sent the morningstar flying from his grasp, the crowd screamed like a rutting beast. The Knight of Flowers raised his axe for the final blow.

But the Cobalt knight wasn't done, he met the charge head on and Tristan saw them wrestling for the axe. Impressive, he thought as the Cobalt knight's strength proved superior, wrenching the axe free and smashing it on Loras" head. Loras fell to the ground and the Blue knight slid off his own horse, slamming his boot into the Loras' breastplate before crouching low and, with his dirk, opening the visor of the Knight of the Flowers.

He didn't need to see the typical vacillating that came with southron victories, he had seen them enough, so he crouched down beside Shield and Nymeria. "Do you sense anything wrong?" He asked them. Ever since they had discovered the Lannister outriders, he had come to trust their instincts. They had been given to the Starks by the Old Gods, and the Old Gods watched their own. Here in the south, the weirwoods were largely cut down, but now the gods had new eyes, and those eyes watched over him.

"Tristan," Daryn pulled him to his feet and pointed. Renly had come down and was fastening a new cloak to the victor's shoulders. The victor was ugly, covered in a thousand freckles, with a nose that had suffered one break or more on a flat and broad face with jutting teeth. But there wassomething about them...

He squinted at the knight. "Is that a woman!" He hissed to Daryn.

"It would seem so," Daryn nodded.

"So when they called her beauty, that was mocking," Domeric said, he had clearly been listening better than Tristan had.

"Calling... whatever that is a beauty is like calling your father warm and loving," he muttered to Domeric. "No offence meant of course."

Domeric chuckled, but Ser Colen vaulted the barrier. "Your Grace," he called, dropping to one knee before Lord Renly. "I have the honour of presenting Lord Tristan Stark, an envoy from his brother, Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell."

"Prince Tristan Stark," he corrected the knight, vaulting over the barrier as well. "And my brother is Lord of Winterfell and King in the North." Shield and Nymeria drew gasps from the surrounding men as they slunk under the barrier and his fellow lordlings came over it as well.

"Quite the delegation your brother has sent, and two of the famed Direwolves as well, last I saw them, they were much smaller than that," Renly commented, seemingly unfazed by the sudden appearance of these men, though when you were surrounded day in and day out by such a host, another hundred must seem entirely insignificant. He ascended his steps back to his seat and Tristan used the time to look around. Margaery Tyrell looked alarmed by his appearance, and more than one man with a rose on his breast was muttering to the one beside him. He saw other men, probably veterans of the Highgarden tourney, muttering to their fellows as well. "Allow me to extend my sorrow for the loss of your father, he was a good man. I know his death was unjust"

"I'm glad someone recognises it, my lord," he said, bowing his head in thanks. Renly knew something of justice, it seemed. "But I mean to have exacted my price from the Lannisters by the war's end."

"As I mean to see Cersei Lannister die," he said. "I will send her head to your family when King's Landing is ours."

"I would much rather remove it myself, my lord," he replied.

"Your Grace," the girl-playing-knight presumed to correct him. "And you should kneel before your king."

It irked him that this woman was taller than he was, he didn't like looking up into her fiercely burning eyes. "What's your name?" He asked her.

"Brienne the Blue of the-" she began.

"Well, Brienne the Blue," he interrupted her. "He's not my grace, and he's not my king, those titles can be claimed only by my brother, the man who sent me here."

Some of Renly's lords seemed to bristle at that, but the King in the South only laughed. "There will be time enough for arguments of graces when this war is done," he called out to ease the tension. "Tell me, Prince Tristan, when does your brother plan to march against Harrenhal?"

"When do you mean to fight a battle instead of playing at war in the safety of your own lands?" He asked in return, remembering Robb's request that he not divulge any war plans with Renly. "My lord, I think we can both agree that neither of us mean to tell the other our plans of war."

"Fair enough," Renly replied. "But what of the Kingslayer?"

"Locked in a dungeon at Riverrun," he replied, that wasn't giving too much away, he hoped.

Renly looked ambivalent about it, like he didn't need the Kingslayer, and with an army this size, who could blame him for thinking so. "The Direwolf is gentler than the lion, it would seem, a lord with a golden tree on his tunic said.

"Careful," Tristan warned with a smile, covering an ear of Shield and Nymeria. "You don't want them to hear that, they can be very prickly beasts." His northmen and riverlords laughed and even a few men around the field chuckled.

"Well, Lord Tristan," Renly said, getting to his feet. "Perhaps a little rest, allow your wolves to let their tensions rest. Lord Caswell has been so kind as to grant me his castle, so I leave my tent for you."

He bowed his head in thanks, though he rather wished he could have this meeting done with here and now, so he could return to Robb, the Riverlands, and war.

He was escorted to Renly's tent by armsmen who seemed more than a little wary of Shield and Nymeria, keeping their distance. "If you have need of anything, only ask, my lord," they said before beating a hasty retreat.

He would not need anything if the tent were half as furnished as it was, but none of it interested Tristan, so he flopped on the heavy sleeping mattress as Daryn and Domeric sat about him with some of the other Lordlings, like Lucas Blackwood and Wendel Manderly. "My room in Riverrun wasn't as comfortable as this," he muttered as he lay his head back.

"Maybe you should ask for one for the wolves," Lucas suggested, making the others laugh. "They have killed more Lannisters than any man in this host after all.

Tristan chuckled and closed his eyes as his lordlings began to talk amongst themselves. He saw the rest of his men, lordling and escorts, settling themselves down around it, juggling daggers, sharing jokes or eyeing the nearby southrons warily. Looking the other way, he saw a force of Tyrell men in steel plate and with a large banner approaching. They were escorting the young queen to his tent, it seemed.

He opened his eyes to stare up at the canopy of the large silk pavilion. "My lord," a voice came from outside. "The lady Margaery Tyrell wishes to speak to you."

"Send her in," he called, unsurprised at her arrival. "Leave us, please," he said, and his lordling nodded, bowing to him and filing out of the tent. He whistled and Margaery was preceded by Shield and Nymeria, who padded their way in.

Margaery followed, surprisingly alone not one escort at her back, and fixed him with a slight smile. "Prince Tristan," she greeted, curtsying.

He got to his feet and bowed his head, "Lady Margaery," he replied.

"I must say I never expected you to come here," she said. "Of all the emissaries your brother could have sent, I am surprised it would be you."

"And of all those who would come to talk to me, I'm surprised it would be a Tyrell. You all made your feelings towards me quite plain the last time we met."

Margaery glanced around at his friends who were looking at the two of them curiously. "Perhaps we could talk in private."

He looked into her soft brown eyes. They seemed truthful enough, but he couldn't be sure. "The wolves come," he said. There was a brief pause but Margaery nodded. "Wait here," he said to his friends before following her out of the tent.

She led him along the tent line, her guards keeping a safe distance behind. "The army my husband has assembled is impressive, is it not?" She commented as they passed a weapons rack lined with war axes.

"It's big," Tristan conceded, though huge would be a more appropriate term. "But it can't be called impressive until tested in battle as my brother's has been."

"We've heard of his victories," Margaery replied. "We are all impressed, but he hasn't faced an army this big before."

"And Renly hasn't faced an army before," Tristan pointed out. "He's faced opponents who happily sit on their horses directly opposite, knock him off and then praise his skills. My brother will be fine."

They slipped down to the river. Opposite were the Stormlords, Renly's own men. "But why did he send you here then?" Margaery asked.

"To negotiate. We both have a foe that stands against our desires. Renly wants to be king in the south, and we want freedom from the Iron Throne. The Lannisters stand against both of us in this regard."

"Given that he sent you, I assume he doesn't know what happened."

Tristan nodded. "He does, yet he sent me anyway, that is how much he trusts me. But even if he did, he sent me to negotiate with Renly, not you."

"I hold more than a little sway over Renly," Margaery replied, self assured.

"Perhaps," he said. "But is he advised by his wife, or ruled by her? And what would he say?" If he knew these southerners, Renly Baratheon would never admit to being ruled by his wife, perhaps simply implying such would be enough to get him to go along with what he wanted. No northman would ever be ruled by his wife, but he had to accept lower standards from the southerners.

"I have no idea," Margaery replied coolly. "But they will sing of his victory in the days to come, songs that will last generations. Will they sing of him fighting alongside the Young Wolf?"

"My brother will have his own songs," Tristan said.

They fell back into silence along the river, with the gently flowing water before them and the chaos of the war camp behind. "Was there another reason you wished to speak, or did you just wish to show me your knights of summer?"

"There is," Margaery said, turning to him. "My husband would speak with you now."

"Now?"

She nodded. "He would begin discussions as soon as possible. If you are willing of course."

"Why not," he replied. The sooner these discussions happened, the sooner he could return to the war. "Lead the way."

Margaery led him through the camp towards the castle, past squires and knights who recoiled at the sight of two great wolves padding past them. Once inside she led him up to a grand bedchamber guarded by her brother. At a nod from her, Loras opened the door and Margaery led them in. "Prince Tristan, my king."

Renly was out on the balcony judging by the direction of his reply. "I'll leave you two to speak of matters of state," Margaery replied. "His Grace has no need of me."

She shut the door with a soft click and Tristan headed onto the balcony overlooking the nearby stretch of river and the army camped either side of it. He waited awkwardly for Renly to start speaking. "It's a magnificent sight, isn't it? So many tents. If you were to start counting even now you would not be done by the time we supped tonight. How many tents are around Riverrun I wonder."

None, Tristan thought. Robb was at war, where he should be, but instead he was here.

"I am told that the Young Wolf crossed the Neck with twenty thousand swords at his back, now that the lords of the Trident have joined him has that number reached forty thousand." I couldn't tell you even if I knew. Robb has enough to win, that's all that matters. "I have twice that number here," Renly said, gesturing proudly with his arm like he had just perfectly lined up an army of toy soldiers and was seeking to impress, "and this is only half of my strength, Lord Tyrell is gathering a reserve host at Highgarden and I have a strong garrison at Storm's End. The Dornish will join me soon enough and even those around King's Landing will join me when my host is bearing down on them with the setting sun. My brother has his own claim, but he will join me in the end. So must your brother. I will not be the King of a broken realm. Three hundred years ago a Stark knelt to a Targaryen for he was wise enough to see that he could not ride against the Dragon. Your brother must be wise as well as brave and skilled to be a king. Yes. I dare say I'll even let him keep the title of king, as well as all the rights, titles and privileges of your father, but fealty, loyalty and service... these I must have."

"And if he won't give them to you?" Tristan asked.

"As I said, I won't be the king of a broken realm. I cannot say it plainer."

A sudden hammering on the door startled them both. "Who is it?" Renly called.

"A messenger, my king, with urgent news," came the voice of Margaery's brother.

"Send him in."

The messenger entered, winged helm under his arm and surcoat stained with the mud and dust that was kicked up by a galloping horse. "Your Grace," he said, dropping to one knee. "I came as swift as my horse would carry me. From Storm's End. We are besieged, Your Grace, Ser Cortnay defies the enemy but-"

"But... besieged by whom?" Renly asked, shocked for the first time since Tristan had arrived. "I would have heard if Lord Tywin had come south."

"These are no Lannisters, my king. It is Lord Stannis at the gates. King Stannis he now calls himself."

This would be the brother who would join you soon enough then, Renly, Tristan thought, but he was here to negotiate, not to goad. How would Renly react?

It took a minute or two, but soon Renly turned to Loras, who had entered with the messenger. "Ser Loras, order the horse to make ready, tomorrow morning we ride east."

"As you command my king," Loras said, bowing and making his exit.

"You ride to battle your brother then?" Tristan asked. How could southerners battle brother against brother so openly?

"I do," Renly said, a hardened steel in his voice, a steel that told Tristan this was not a man who liked it when things didn't go his way. "And you will accompany me."

Tristan thought it over. "No. I won't," he said simply.

"You won"t?" Renly demanded.

He shook his head. "No. My brother sent me to negotiate with you and to help formulate a battle plan against the Lannisters. He did not send me to help or observe you make war against your brother. I will return to my brother."

"I would have you bring word of my victory to the Young Wolf."

Tristan made his way to the door. "I have no doubt, Lord Renly that we will hear of your victory. When you have it, then send word to my brother and these talks can proceed. Until then I wish you speed and fortune." If half of what my father has said about Stannis is true, you'll need it.

As he marched back towards the entrance of the castle he thought back to Winterfell and couldn't help but wonder how Stannis' daughter was faring in this war, or how his sisters were, trapped in King's Landing with the Lannisters. We'll have them back soon enough. Sansa in her gowns and Arya no doubt coated in much and blood. We'll have them back and we'll have the Lannisters bleed for any harm that has come to them.