Much has been made of the fact that both men had a close and loyal relationship with a bastard brother, each of whom rose high alongside their kin and beget new great houses of their own. Indeed, the lives of Orys Baratheon and Jon Blackstark are worthy tales even divorced from the fates of their kingly trueborn brothers.

THE BLACKFISH

Ser Brynden Tully took another deep steadying breath, steeling himself for battle, tempering his rage.

It seemed that was all that drove him of late, his rage. Rage woke up each day and rage donned his armour and rage swung his bloody sword. Rage at Lysa, the sweet young girl turned bitter old crone. At Edmure, his fool of a nephew who had gotten himself killed and damn near ruined them all. At the Lannisters, for killing him.

He could still hear little Cat's cry of horror when he'd told her. Poor little Cat, her husband imprisoned, her children held hostage and dear little brother so cruelly slain. Edmure had always been the baby of the family, born much later than his elder sisters. He'd loved the boy as well, even if the man he'd grown to be was less to his liking. At least he'd died in battle, like a true Tully. There was a certain dignity in that.

The Blackfish meant to avenge him, in any case. There'd be no more running, not today. Cat's eldest son was an impressive lad, come down from the North at the head of near 22,000 men. Lord Karstark was off to tug at the lion's tale further down the Green Fork, but with the Freys, Mallisters and assorted stragglers rallied to their side, they had about the same number ready to do battle.

They'd ambushed many of the army's outriders that same afternoon, but alas the Lannister camps appeared to have received some belated warning of their approach. He could see a scramble of frantic activity below the hill, in the northernmost of the three Lannister siege camps. Riverrun, positioned as it was where the Red Fork of the Trident and the Tumblestone diverged, was a nightmare for any would-be besieger.

There were rafts crossing over to the northern camp, and many more men lined up waiting their turn to cross. He smiled. They were far too late. He turned to his lieutenants. "FORWARDS! Forwards, men! In the name of the Warrior!"

The response was deafening. An appeal to one of the Seven was not misplaced, most of his force being Rivermen. In ranks they advanced. The great Tully banner fluttered beside him, the Mallister eagles to his left and twin towers of Frey to his right. They slammed right into the panicking Westermen as they struggled to muster. A song of clashing steel filled the air. The fury of the Trident came down upon on them on the same ground where so many had perished just weeks ago, his nephew among them.

The Lannister men were pushed back toward the river. Their resistance became determined, maddened. The Blackfish was in among it all, leading his men as he always had. He never kept count, but it seemed there were many foolish peasants out West. Perhaps a few man-at-arms too, looking to fell the Blackfish in a great feat of heroism. Foolish and brave, they were. He'd been a soldier all his life, and he had good and loyal men all around him.

The Lannister left flank was pushed all the way onto the sandbank, now. They were for all intents and purposes broken, but there was nowhere for them to flee. The centre of the Lannister lines bulged out from the river, from where men were still being rowed across. From the walls of Riverrun, huge rocks were being catapulted onto the river. One raft was struck right amidships, crushing dozens of men and hurtling dozens more into the water. Another was capsized.

More men were formed up, waiting and fearful. The Blackfish let out a manic laugh.

AHooooooooooooooooooooooo, came the blast of a great war horn. A sound like nothing that was heard south of the Neck, a fearsome and unmistakably Northern clamour. It came again in another long blast, and then once more. A great ripple of unease went through the Lannister army. Too late, they saw the truth.

A huge column of Northern cavalry came bursting towards the men on the southern side, lined up neatly as they were. They bellowed their foreign war cries, thundering forward in their thousands. They smashed into the unprepared rows of troops. A group of mounted Umber men charged straight down the centre. Their lands were wild, at the very edge of the world. The shopkeepers of Lannisport and the farmboys of the West were no great match for them. They cut straight to the river, cleaving the army in two like a choice slab of meat.

All at once, the Lannister forces seemed to lose their nerve. The left on his own side, already pushed back onto the sandbank, embraced sheer madness. Men threw off their weapons and stripped their armour, making to swim across. Some didn't even do that, sinking to a watery grave in full plate. The very few that made it across found no respite, only another bloody hell.

The Blackfish led his men forward. "TO THE RIVER!" he cried.

"THE RIVER!" became the call of thousands.

It was no great difficulty now. The Rivermen stormed forward all along the line, and the Lannister troops seemed to melt away. Their whole line had collapsed. Even the Freys, courageous but poorly led, seemed a force to be reckoned with.

A small group red cloaks desperately clung on beneath a huge gold lion standard, backs to the river. A skilled knight led them, adorned in golden armour and a pure white cloak. A knight of the Kingsguard.

The whole world seemed to narrow then. There were but two knights in all the world. "KINGSLAYER" he screamed, "COME AND DIE!"

Their swords clashed. The Kingslayer was skilled, but appeared slow. He'd taken a wound already, it seemed. Still, he was one of the greatest fighters in the land. The slightest inattention would see him dead.

The Blackfish drove forward relentlessly, seeking victory. Seeking vengeance. This wasn't his last day yet, he felt. He still had far more left to do.

His opportunity came soon enough. Pushed back, the Kingslayer had one foot on the bank. He lost his balance slightly, and only for a moment. The Blackfish gave him no chance to recover. He pounced forward, smashing his sword down onto the knight's armoured shoulder. He cut straight through the gap and to the bone.

The Kingslayer cried out in agony. The Blackfish had no mercy. He struck again, and then again. A madness overtook him. He fell upon the Kingslayer time after time. Somehow he found himself pummelling with his fists. He felt tears in his eyes. Edmure, that poor boy. All of the poor boys he'd seen die of late. He unleashed all of his rage.

When he regained his senses, his knuckles were coated in blood. His sword was red. His men had felled the rest of the Kingslayer's retinue, and he had not even noticed. Their great lion standard was trodden into the mud. He stumbled over the dead to meet a truly hellish scene. The bank was completely covered in dead and dying men. The Red Fork was true to its name, tinged with blood.

He looked across the river to the southern camp, which was a scene of even greater pandemonium. The troops that had been waiting to cross had been destroyed by the Northern horse, run down in a one-sided slaughter. He had never seen the like before, not in one hundred battles.

The Northern infantry had came up too. The Lannister camp was crushed between the Northmen and another force. Blackwood men, sallied forth from Riverrun. Outnumbered and demoralised, they were dead men walking. In the distance he could see many great blazing towers, all of the siege equipment set aflame.

The Blackfish grinned.

THEON

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

"THE KING OF THE TRIDENT!"

Theon joined the cries, knowing this was a day he was never likely to forget. If there was a part of him that wondered whether he dishonoured the Greyjoy name to take a Stark for his king, he did not much care in that moment. Robb was his brother, and if even the quarrelsome Riverlords meant to acclaim Robb their king, he could not hold himself apart.

He'd fought by his side in the battle, took part in their great charge to the river. It had been exhilarating, glorious. A stunning victory, such as had not been seen since the days of the conqueror.

The Lannisters had been so focused on ferrying men to hold off the Blackfish that the charge from the south had been beyond their reckoning. Thousands had perished, thousands more pushed into the bloody river.

Lord Bolton had led the Northern infantry into the camp itself, crushing what else remained of the Lannister army back against walls of Riverrun. Lord Blackwood's sally forth had destroyed them.

Only the men of the third, easternmost camp had survived. Those 2,000 or so men had fled east to Lord Tywin when they beheld the destruction of the rest of their kin.

Theon pitied the man who would have to tell Lord Tywin of these tidings, not least of which was the death of his son. The Kingslayer had been killed by the Blackfish himself, by all accounts. He wished he could have witnessed himself what was said to have been a duel worthy of the songs. The Blackfish was still abed, recovering.

The victory had created an atmosphere of ecstatic celebration, and it was in that spirit that the Northern lords had crowned a king of their own for the first time in three centuries.

That, and the rage the news of Lord Eddard's execution had brought forth. For the second consecutive generation, a much loved Northern leader had went down the King's road in good faith to meet a gruesome death.

Theon was surprised at how much the news affected him. Though he kept a certain formality, knowing that Theon's life was forfeit to his father's behaviour, he had still gone out of way to see Theon treated well. Certainly, not many lords would allow a hostage such closeness with his own children.

The Greatjon, transformed as he was now into Robb's most avid follower, had the led the cry of rage and spirit that had taken on a life of its own. We'll have peace on these terms alone, cried the lords of the North.

The men of the Trident too had acclaimed him their king. Perhaps with a little less ardour, but still in good cheer. The were not such fools as to deny who had saved them from the Lannisters, or imagine they could defeat Lord Tywin on their own.

Robb stood amongst all these men, these lords who'd swore him their swords, raising his hand for silence. "If you would have me for your king, then I say to all of you, I will serve." A great cheer went up, but Robb held up his hand once more.

"We have won a great victory. We have relieved Riverrun, and restored hope to all the people of the Trident. But one victory does not make us conquerors. Even now, countless scores lie crushed beneath the boots of Tywin Lannister. Some of you stand among us exiles, thrown out of your rightful lands and keeps. Many others have seen their lands subject to utter devastation.

Lord Tywin believes he can do whatever he wants. No one can stop him, and no one can stand in his way. I mean to send him a message. I mean to show him that where I am king, he may not do as he wants. I mean to stand right in his way!"

Theon cheered with all the rest. There was another round of royal exultation. Robb drew his sword, holding it aloft.

"We think we are good at this? LET US PROVE IT!"