The log split, spitting burning sparks into the air, casting back the shadows. He drummed the fingers of his hand on the handle of his blade, clenching and unclenching his claw to keep them warm in the autumn night. The guards told him that they would keep watch, but they were in as much danger as him, so he would take his watch with all of them.
Shield growled at his feet, his eyes scanning the darkness thrown back by the fire. Ever since Smalljon and the others had arrived his heart had lightened. Robb was awake, he was coming to lead the war and they would soon be fighting side by side as they were always meant to. But in the darkness of night, new thoughts had come to him, insidious and dark. Why was Robb bringing him back to the Riverlands, and why the God's Eye? The Blackfish had brought the message with him as they crossed paths on the border of the Riverlands several days ago. Robb was no longer at Riverrun, he had marched his army south and was now waiting on the shores of the God's Eye, waiting for him. Why? Why hadn't Robb just come south to meet him in the Reach, surely it would have been better to leave him in command, for now, not to constantly be switching leaders, that would confuse things for the men, and make their war stagnate. Couldn't he have left Tristan there until he arrived. Did he think that he would refuse to give up his command. He would welcome it, Robb was always the leader, he should command. When the news had come that Robb was awake, a weight had lifted off Tristan's shoulders. He had done what he was meant to do, he had held things together just long enough for Robb to recover. What else had they expected of him?
"It's my turn for the watch," Tristan didn't flinch as he turned, he had heard Dom stir in the darkness and trudge toward him. Once he'd said he would sit watch with the men, all of the other nobles had been quick to do the same, and Dom had been the first. All around their gathering of straw matts, the watch was turning in to be replaced by the next. Tristan nodded and slid his sword into his scabbard.
"Good luck with it," he said, flashing a tired smile at his friend. But despite the weakness in his muscles, his mind refused to contemplate rest. "Do you think the others are okay?"
There was no question who he was talking about. "I'm sure they are, Daryn and Cley will be ready and waiting for us when we ride back at the King's side." Daryn and Cley were both lords now, and so remained behind to command their men in the retreat to the north. But Lord Bolton still commanded the men of the Dreadfort, so Dom had said he would come north. Tristan had told him it wasn't necessary, but Dom insisted, and Daryn and Cley had told him to let Dom come with him. "You think they can't handle it?"
"Of course not," he snapped, scowling. "I just worry for them, they're my friends." He shot Dom a glare. "Tell them that and I will kill you."
Dom drew his fingers across his smiling lips. "Not a word."
He nodded. "I'm going to sleep."
"Sleep well."
"Thanks."
Tristan fell onto his hay matt, resting his head on the pack laid out there. Shield, his watch over with his master, slipped down next to him. The fur and fury of the direwolf washing warmth over him as he closed his eyes, with only the crackling voice of the fire singing him to sleep.
The rains came again the next day, pattering around them softly as they rode north on the cobbled road. Twice the paused, clearing the road to allow battalions to pass them by. One under Ser Aenys Frey, of five hundred footmen and two dozen riders, another of a thousand men in Tully colours, marching directly south from Riverrun, with more than one in ten being footmen. Where were all the riders? the knights and squires. Archers and footmen had their place, but the knights and heavy northern cavalry were the men who had been fighting and riding for as long as they could walk. He asked the leader of the Tully men, Ser Robin Ryger, the captain of the guard at Riverrun. "Most of the riders are with the king," he had explained, tapping his fingers to his visor in respect. "He's sent the footmen ahead so that he can catch us up."
"How many has he sent?"
"Thousands," Robin said, looking back at his men, trudging along the cobbled road. "This sorry lot are mine to command. But King Robb is sending them south as soon as they get to him. It's almost like every man that isn't required at Harrenhal to watch the road to King's Landing or to maintain garrisons in the castles is being sent south by the king, as fast as he can."
"Well we won't keep you then," Tristan said. "Good fortune, Ser Robin."
"And you as well, Prince Tristan, give His Grace my regards."
"I shall." Ser Robin, his squire set off with their column.
As they waited for all one thousand of them to pass, Tristan sat back. Why was Robb committing so much to this area? It had been a raid, take what they could, punish the Tyrells for siding with the Lannisters and pressure them into agreeing to peace terms. He'd had fifteen thousand men at his command when he'd invaded the Reach. Robb had won great victories with fewer men, and yet he was pouring as many as he could into the new war zone. It was dangerous to do so, surely, with the ironmen still potentially a threat, the Westerlands may have been ravaged but still would have had a little bite to them and the army around King's Landing was vast, why throw more men into this, and pull them from other responsibilities? And Ser Robin was not a spry young man anymore, however tenacious he'd been in his prime, to bring him out of Riverrun for this attack, Robb was committing to full scale war in the Reach, and he couldn't understand why such a force was necessary. No matter, Robb would have a reason, he always did.
They encountered the first of five scouting lines the next day and as they encountered each one, they were given guides to take them straight to Robb, and Ser Robin was proven right. Thousands of horses were gathered in the fields surrounding the southern edge of the God's Eye, their riders tilting and talking in all the readiness for a coming campaign. He saw banners from the Riverlands and the north, gleaming pennants and fur lined cloaks mixed together in a great mass of Robb's power. At least two thousand heavy riders and their attendant mounted soldiers. All the men that Tristan had left behind at Riverrun when he decided to go south were here or already marching into the Reach, and he felt his heart chill at the power they brought with them. Whatever Robb chose to do with this army, it would be Tristan's greatest honour to ride alongside him at last.
But as Smalljon's men split the sea of horses, allowing them to pass through, Tristan frowned. His brother's lords looked at him with all the official respect he had been given as Robb's regent. Why? He wasn't regent anymore, he had no authority, but the stern respect lacked any friendship or camaraderie. Had being regent ruined all of that, was it now impossible to see him as not being Robb's heir, their potential future king?
That all vanished in a blink as Robb came into view. He stood on the shore of the God's Eye, the water lapping around his leather boots, his armour glinting his auburn hair was flecked with gold from the sun. He turned at the sound of their approaching horses and their faces split with twin smiles. There were no words as he dismounted and Robb pulled him into a tight embrace.
"You're alive," he said, pulling back and looking Robb over just to be sure.
"And you're wounded," Robb replied. "Show me," he said, holding out his hand.
Slowly, Tristan held out his claw and placed it in Robb's palm. Gently, Robb pulled the glove off, working the fingers around his own digits until it was revealed. He grimaced in pain as Robb examined his former hand, the fingers curled around into his palm, the knotted scar on the back of his hand where the arrow had punched out of the skin, the stiffness in the wrist as Tristan tried to rotate it. "I'm so sorry Tristan," Robb said.
"It's fine, I can still fight," he replied.
"Yes, so I've heard. Come, walk with me." He turned and led Tristan down the beach, Dom following on behind with Robb's honour guard, a respectful distance away. They walked for a while, in deep silence, with the God's Eye lapping at their feet. Did they not need to leave.
"Mother has told me what you've been doing in my absence," Robb said when the main army was far out of sight.
"I did the best I could," he replied, looking to Robb but seeing no approval there.
"I know, I know that's what you tried to do."
"Tried? What do you mean tried?"
Robb's face was pained and Tristan seized his arm. "What do you mean Robb?"
"Why did you mutilate the Kingslayer?" Robb did not resist Tristan's grip, but turned into it, staring him in the eye.
"What do you mean why? They lied, they never had Arya, but they always said they did. I punished them for that, told them that they could not lie to us in that way."
"And what do you think they did in return?"
"Nothing if they know what's good for them."
"Tristan. This is Tywin Lannister we are talking about. Did you honestly think he would have done nothing when you mutilated his prized son? Or Joffrey, how do you think that impudent child would act?"
"I thought they'd learn their lesson."
Robb shook his head. "You genuinely think that, don't you?"
"Pain teaches."
"Pain hurts. And when people hurt they lash out. They sent us Sansa's hand in a box."
Tristan felt the blow of those words and took a step back. "What?" He steeled himself. "Then I'll send them the rest of the Kingslayer in as many boxes as they like!"
"Listen to yourself!" Robb yelled. "Do you want to see Sansa hurt even more! Do you want her to die!"
"I want the Lannisters to die!"
"And Sansa?"
Tristan didn't answer.
"What happened to you, Tris?"
Tristan held up his claw. "This happened."
Robb nodded slowly. "It did, but something else happened didn't it? Something wounded your soul, before you came back from the Dreadfort, this" he gestured at the claw, "only brought it closer to the surface. Why do you so want to hurt people?"
"Only those who hurt us," he replied. Did Robb not understand, they were all his pack, and any who hurt his pack had to die.
"And the Tyrells? Have they hurt us. I've been told about this corpseroad, what by all the hells have you done down there."
"Nothing, Lord Bolton has done it."
"You and I both know what Lord Bolton is. Hells Tris you should know it better than I, you spent a year with him." That made Robb look up. "Was it him? Did he hurt you?"
"The Tyrells hurt me, and now I've hurt them."
Robb stepped back. "At the cost of our strategic picture."
Did he not even want to know what had happened, what the Tyrells had done. "What are you talking about, we've been taking all the food and silver we can get our hands on. It's all coming to us."
"And how do you think the Tyrells are reacting to that?"
"What do you-"
This time Robb didn't let him finish. "Silence. They have sent an army from King's Landing, a large and powerful army. What have you even done to prepare for that?"
He stood tall. "We've destroyed the bridges across the Mander, they won't be able to reach us now."
"The ironmen took Moat Cailin, did that keep you out of the North when they were raping our land?" He couldn't answer. "They will find a way, if they have to rebuild those bridges ourselves. In the meantime your army was scattered far and wide, tens of thousands of men divided and east pickings. They probably don't even know that the Tyrells are coming. So now I have to go and try to save them, and pray that I can reach them in time before they deal us a blow we won't be able to recover from."
"Come on Robb, you know you will."
"I know I shouldn't have to. You should have taken these precautions, been ready to fight them when they inevitably came. Why do you think I was burning the Westerlands? To satisfy some sense of bloodlust? No, I wanted Tywin Lannister to come to me, that failed. Now we had a chance to do it again, and you squandered it, you didn't even see it, so blinded were you by your bloodlust."
"Robb I-"
Robb held up a hand. "I don't know what happened to you, Tris, it's the old you I wanted at my side, not whatever you've become."
His rage and fear grew, to vines entwined. "So you're sending me home."
Robb shook his head. "No, you need help, and Winterfell can't provide that for you, and I will not place you in the same castle as the Kingslayer, not until I know he's safe from you. You need help, Tris, and I wish I could give it to you, but I have to save our kingdom right now. I can't keep one eye on you while my army is in such danger."
He stepped back and glanced around. Robb's honour guard had surrounded them, and Dom was looking at him with pity in his eyes, as one of them explained the situation to him. Shield bared his teeth, but Grey Wind stood opposed to him.
"All I wanted was to fight at your side, to save our family together. I couldn't do that but I followed your orders. I distracted Tywin Lannister so you could win your great victory. When the ironmen came for the North I threw them out. When you fell ill I did what I could to hold everything together. And now you're casting me aside."
Robb stood tall. "I have to." He looked out over the lake. "They're here."
He followed Robb's gaze. A boat was cutting it's way across the water, carrying three figures in feather cloaks, faces daubed in green paint and hair twisted into points. One of them, the tallest who stood at the prow of the boat, had his arms folded across his chest and a bronze sickle at his waist.
"Who are they?"
"The Green Men," Robb replied. "They watch over the Isle of Faces, the last weirwoods in the south."
The boat slid into the sand, and the lead figure stepped out easily. "Tristan Stark," he called in a voice like breaking bark. His accent was unlike anything Tristan had ever heard.
"You're giving me to them?" Tris said, tears welling in his eyes.
"They came to me, they said they could help you."
"What do you mean they came to you?"
"We saw you," the green man said, unfolding his arms. "And on the Isle of Faces we remember. We remember when kings followed the true gods. Now one does again, we will aid him in this thing. With you."
He stepped back. "What are you?"
"I am a messenger, and a healer. Come with us, Tristan Stark. Let the gods aid your plight. Let them make you whole again."
"I won't."
"Tris. Go with them. They can help you."
"I don't need their help!" He snarled. He spun at Robb, fist clenched. But Robb was faster, he reached out and seized Tristan's claw, twisting it gently. He cried out in pain and dropped to one knee. "Robb, please." Robb released him and stepped back.
"I'm sorry Tris, but you need help."
"I don't."
"You do, and they can give it to you." He looked up at the Green Man. "You can help him?"
The figure looked at Tristan with piercing grey eyes. "We can help. But whether he recovers will be down to him."
Robb nodded. "Go, Tris, you need this."
"His sword remains," the Green Man said. "There is no steel brought to the isle but that we make ourselves. But the wolf comes too." He pointed at Shield, who had leapt over to his master. "He will need it."
"Robb, please, take me with you."
"I can't, Tristan. This is all I can do for you right now." He stepped back, stepped away. "Heal your mind, and I will be there for you again."
"Robb please!"
Robb kept walking. "Goodbye."
"Robb!" He wanted to race after Robb, who walked away, never looking back, his honourguard falling in behind them until only one remained.
"Tristan," Dom knelt before him. "Give me your sword. I'll watch over it for you, until you return."
"Dom…"
"He's not wrong, Tristan, please, he's doing it for you."
"No more time, leave the sword, come with us."
He felt hands at his sword belt, and the weapon fell to the sand with a thud. Dom reached out slowly and took the blade in his hands. "Go, Tris, heal your mind." Then he walked away.
Tristan looked up into the hard face of the green man. "Come with us. Join your wolf."
He looked at the boat. Shield was sat in the boat like a puppy, his tongue hanging out as he stared at Tristan. He also wanted to go. He staggered to his feet and followed the green man to the boat. He sat facing the shore as the boat pushed away, and the other two green men rowed them away. As they got deeper into the lake, he caught sight of the army again. It was rallying, moving, riding. Leaving. "Robb," he whispered, as the boat carried him away from war.
