Both men were taciturn, even melancholy. Each preferred to eschew luxury, preferring the life of the soldier to that of the courtier. Both were likewise excellent warriors, and were fiercely loyal to their families and close followers.

THEON

By the Drowned God, this was the life.

Theon had never in his life felt more alive. This was the kind of adventure all the singers loved. Robb was assembling all his banners to march south, kill some golden-haired Lannister shits and save his lord father, and Theon Greyjoy was at his right hand. Not any of the stuck-up Northern lordlings and second sons who liked to look down their noses at him. Not the Smalljon Umber and not those overproud Karstark bastards either. Him, Theon Greyjoy, the rightful heir to Pyke and future ruler of the Iron Islands.

Winterfell's great hall was raucous, rammed full of Northmen pledged to a whole array of banners. Well, them and one lone kraken out of water. Theon couldn't remember a time when so many been within the castle walls, and the encampments outside stretched on for miles. No doubt Bran would have told all precisely how far if the poor lad could still scarper up and down the walls like a squirrel.

He glanced at Robb. His friend had been different lately, for sure. He knew he was hardly the only one to notice. For a time, Theon thought him still angry about the incident in the woods with the wildlings and young Bran. It had infuriated him, the gall of it. To be shunned for saving Bran's life.

Robb had come back around soon enough, in any case. Well, he did seem to frown a bit more when Theon went to wench away his nights in Wintertown, but that was no great matter. Robb had always been a bit boring anyway.

Neither Theon's musings nor the loud noise of the assembly were so great that Theon couldn't hear the great booming voice of the Greatjon rise above the fray, insisting that he alone would lead the vanguard of the Northern army.

"I've been making corpses out of men for 30 years, boy. I'm the one that'll be leading the vanguard, me and mine."

"The men of the northern mountains will form the vanguard, Lord Umber. Under the command of Lord Norrey." Robb's response was curt, but Theon had known him for many years and could discern a peculiar look in his eye, as if he were almost amused.

"Lord Who? The bloody mountain men are cunts, one and all. Half-wildling, treacherous folk. The bloody wall will melt before an Umber marches behind the likes of them!" thundered the Greatjon.

Robb looked him dead in the eye. "Their manoeuvrable light horsemen are ideal to serve as scouts. They will march at the head of this army, Lord Umber."

"I'll lead the vanguard, boy, or I'll take my men and march them straight back home."

Robb's face scarcely changed. Theon hadn't noticed until now that the hall around him had gone completely silent. "You are free to go, my lord, but know this – every man of the North will see you true. A man who shouted loud and proud as to his loyalty and strength in the long summer, but was shown to be neither loyal nor strong when winter came. And I promise you, when this war is over, I'll march up to Last Hearth and put your head on a spike."

The Greatjon was struck speechless for a moment as he tried to comprehend what had been said, and when his mouth caught up with his mind he was foaming with a fearsome rage. "You dare, boy! I'll not sit here and swallow insults from a boy so green he pisses grass."

Everything seemed then to happen all at once. The Greatjon reached for the pommel of his great sword, and made to pull it out of its sheath. For what purpose, only the Drowned God knew. Theon flung himself to his feet and made for his own sword, but the direwolf was true to its name as it flashed across the table quick as the wind, far quicker than any man could reckon to defend its master.

The Greatjon took it bravely, Theon would give him that. Not many men would keep their footing after being savaged by a huge and vicious wolf.

"My lord father taught me it meant death to bare steel against your liege lord, but doubtless Lord Umber only meant to cut my meat for me."

"Your meat!" the Greatjon bellowed. "Is bloody tough!"

Then the mad gigantic man started to laugh, and the tension began to ebb out of the hall. It was only now he realised that Robb was still sitting, indeed had never stood up, even amidst all that carnage. He didn't think he'd ever admired Robb quite as much as he did then. In that moment he thought he'd follow Robb even against the mighty Storm God himself.

When the moment had passed and the Greatjon has resumed eating his broth as if nothing untoward had occurred, Robb turned his attention to Lord Hornwood, sitting with his men near the back of the hall under their distinct orange banners.

"I must ask a service of you, Lord Hornwood. You'll not like it, I fear."

"My lord, I should be honoured to be of service to you in any endeavour." replied the Lord. Halys Hornwood was an ever jovial man, and seemed beyond pleased to be called upon.

Robb replied to Lord Hornwood, but it was plain to see he was truly addressing the whole hall.

"Many thousands of brave Northmen march south with me for a just and honourable cause. Even so, it is only natural that these men, lord and smallfolk alike, should worry for the condition of the homes and families they leave behind. The wildlings are an ever present danger who are wont to surprise an unwary North, and I am sure every one of you have heard some ill tidings of Mance Rayder, the would-be King-Beyond-the-Wall.

This is ever in my mind, and so I have opted to appoint you Lord Hornwood as First Castellan of the North, a position of my own devising.

You shall remain in the North, and shall be charged to raise another force of armed men in the name of my brother Bran, who shall serve as the Stark in Winterfell upon our marching. You shall advise my brother, and shall position this new army as you see best for the defence of our country, paying particular attention to reinforcing key strongholds such as Moat Cailin, Torrhen's Square and Deepwood Motte."

The hall was silent once more as Robb finished his pronouncement, but there seemed to be little disaffection. Lord Hornwood was an inoffensive man, so such a show of favour was unlikely to truly offend anyone. Lord Bolton's face beheld an utterly blank expression, but that was no strange thing for the leech lord.

Lord Hornwood seemed unable to decide between offense at being left behind as the army marched south and elation at the power and influence which had just fallen into his lap, but he eventually opted for the latter. "My lord, I am honoured. Beyond words, my lord. I shall serve honourably and provide any guidance young Bran may need."

Nodding once, Robb motion to Theon for them to head out of the hall and out into the castle. He followed him out, as he always did, to inspect the ranks upon ranks of soldiers. Spearmen, men-at-arms, cavalry and even some knights titled in the southern fashion. Thousands upon thousands of Northmen all gathering to march.

THE BRONZE LORD

"My lord, a most urgent message has arrived for you from Winterfell." announced the reedy young man.

The Lord of Runestone accepted the message from the young Maester, who hailed from some dreary holdfast in the Stormlands he could not bother to recall, and began to read what was indeed a most extraordinary message.

My Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone,

I take the liberty of writing to you now, knowing of your longstanding friendship with my lord father, to disclose a truth with potentially frightening implications for both of our houses, both of our kingdoms and indeed all of Westeros.

My family has long known of the troubled state of mind of our Aunt Lysa Arryn. Indeed, we have for some time now been the recipients of strange missives from her. We have long had cause to suspect that her relationship with one Lord Petyr Baelish, one-time childhood ward of the Tully family and now a Lannister servant as Master of Coin, have an inappropriately close connection. This connection, I now fear to tell you, almost certainly pre-dates the death of the late Lord Jon Arryn.

I convey this to you now not to sow dissension, but in light of Petyr Baelish's recent actions in the tragic events unfolding in King's Landing. I have been informed for a certainty that it was a deception orchestrated by Baelish that allowed the arrest of my lord father, and the vile slaughter of his entire household and garrison.

I wish this were all I had to write to you, but I fear that cannot be so. I suspect, based on my very last communication with my lord father before his unjust detention, that the death of his dear friend and your beloved liege lord was not of natural causes. In light of what I have previously told you, my suspicions as to the likely perpetrator cannot help but fall upon Lord Baelish.

I pray that I am wrong in this, that I have most profoundly misjudged my Aunt Lysa and perjured myself greatly. I, as much as you, am utterly and totally disturbed by this awful notion. I beseech you as a man of well-known honour to investigate this matter yourself, and take whatever actions you feel necessary to serve and protect the Vale of Arryn.

I am, as ever, yours,

Robb Stark of Winterfell

The Lord of Runestone's sent half the contents of his tabletop flying in a sudden fury, causing the Maester to jump back in fright.

"Baelish! That son of sellswords and whores! That vile insipid little man, I've always known him for the little schemer he is. Ever since he crawled out of his dreary bog and wormed his way into the good graces of Lord Grafton, I've seen his true nature." he ranted, red with fury.

"What shall you do, my lord?"

He had to take a moment to calm himself. He could not remember the last time he'd felt such rage.

"Only what I must. Summon my household guard, and fetch me my sword. We'll ride for the Eyrie at first light. I'll get to the truth of this matter, one way or the other." He paced around his own solar, as if searching for some hidden enemy to strike down there and then. "And get word to my whoremongering son down in King's Landing, have him get back here at once."

EDMURE

The stench of death permeated the air. There was no escaping it. Death, and the thick bellowing grey smoke from the burning of every village as far as the horizon went and further beyond. Dying and wounded men cried out all across the field, a grotesque and inhuman racket of noise.

Those accursed red cloaks and their lion banners seemed to be everywhere, the men of the Trident either breaking or broken. Fled, fleeing or as good as dead. Such a far cry from feelings of pride, of sheer glory, he'd felt to see his army lined up beneath the walls of Riverrun. The rows of men beneath the Tully trout, beside the Blackwood men and the men of others lords who'd heeded his call. They'd made him feel invincible.

He'd given every ounce of his strength, every fibre of his being, and yet it just hadn't been enough. The Lannisters had cut through them all like an axe through ripe cheese. He was ever so tired now. He didn't even think it was possible to be so tired

Even now, It was the letter from his young nephew that rankled him most. From Catelyn's brat. By what right and what sense did his nephew seek to advise him from so far away, he'd thought. If he consolidated his forces as the boy advised, he would have gave the Mountain and his vile companions free range over a whole swath of the western Riverlands. It would have been nothing less than cowardice, a shameful retreat.

It was always hard to be wrong, and even harder to be so very wrong as this.

His nephew had the right of it, he saw that now. He saw it far too late. His own charge to keep the Westermen back from Riverrun meant little in the end. Lord Tywin had already crushed so many of his forces piecemeal, marching across the country as if it were his birth right and sowing death and misery in his wake. There just wasn't enough men left to repel the Kingslayer in the here and now, where it truly mattered.

Gods, everything was wrong. He could see the blood soaking through the gaps in his armour now, far too much of it. Nothing good could come of that.

All he'd wanted was defend his people. To do his duty and shelter them from the depredation of men like Tywin Lannister. Ruthless men, with shining golden hair and black hearts. He could never turn away from the victims of war, those screaming children and starving mothers. He could never affect indifference like Tywin no doubt would, or take some sick pleasure in it like that monster Clegane.

He was tired. He found himself on his knees. Gods, where had all that blood come from? Someone was shouting for him, pulling at his arm. He recognised them, he thought, but could not think who it might be. A thunder of hooves from behind, a clash of steel, and Ser Edmure Tully's agony was at an end.