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My name is Chloe Jane and for the first time in my life my taxes were filed before the deadline. This is what being an adult looks like.

Chapter Thirty-One: My Own Man

Theon

It was quickly turning to a mess - his taking Winterfell. His plan had been a sound one, there were so few men at Winterfell that he and his Ironborn were able to take it within a night, just the thirty of them. That morning, once they had fought their way to the main keep he had barged into Bran's bedchamber, announcing that he had taken the castle. The poor, paralyzed boy had been confused, he did not listen to Theon's words, but instead believed that Robb had come home. Theon had quickly shaken his head, "Robb's far away. He can't help you now."

"Help me?" the young boy had asked, still as confused as before, though now he began to sit up so that he could get a better look at Theon and his man Dagmer. "Don't scare me, Theon."

He thought it was a joke, that was what had angered Theon the most. "I'm Prince Theon now," he told Bran, standing up a bit straighter and fighting the urge to place his hands behind him at the small of his back. That was something mainlanders did, the Ironborn would laugh at him for that action. "We're both princes, Bran. Who would have dreamed it? But I've taken your castle, my prince."

Bran did not believe him, he argued again. Theon sighed and ordered Dagmer to leave them to find Hodor. He knew what would be expected of him if Bran kept fighting him and he could not bring himself to do it. This would need to be done gently, but he did not need a witness.

He sat down on the child's bed, the boy who had once treated him as an elder brother. And explained to him that he had taken Winterfell, it no longer belonged to the Starks, but to the Greyjoys. He told the boy that he was to be Theon's ward, that Theon would be kind to him as long as he did as he was bid.

He told the boy that they were gathering all of his people into the courtyard where, once he was dressed, Bran would announce that he had yielded the castle to Theon and his Iron Islanders.

Bran fought him on it, as Theon knew he would, and Theon was prepared with his answer. "The castle is mine," he told Bran, his voice gentle. When they were all still at Winterfell he remembered a time when Bran had commented on Robb's voice and Robb the Lord's voice. He spoke to him as Theon, instead of as Prince Theon. "But these people are still yours. You'll yield to keep them safe. To keep them alive. That's what a good lord would do."

Bran's final question had haunted him all the way to the courtyard. Did you hate us the whole time?

No, Bran, he thought. And I do not hate you now.

It was cold and grey in the courtyard. And wet. Winterfell had stopped trying to hold onto summer and was now preparing its people for the cold, dark winter that lay ahead of them. It was the perfect setting, Theon thought, for Bran to yield the castle to him. Hodor carried the boy down to the courtyard and sat him on a barrel next to where Theon stood. Rickon, the baby, hid behind Maester Luwin's robe and cried for his mother and his direwolf. Neither could save him now.

"You all know me!" Theon shouted at them, trying to make his voice sound commanding. The Northern people, the people of Winterfell especially, were a stubborn people. They would not easily welcome his rule, even though he had grown up around them. He would have to force them to accept him. By showing them strength.

"Aye, we know you for a sack of steaming dung," Mikken, Winterfell's smith yelled out. Theon nodded at him silently and one of his Iron Born moved in on Mikken, driving the butt of his spear into Mikken's gut and smashing his face with the shaft. When the man stumbled forward onto his knees he spit out a mouthful of blood and a tooth.

"Mikken, you be silent," Bran squeaked out at the man.

Theon agreed, ordering the smith to listen to his lord. The boy had more sense than the man. Then he turned to Bran and nodded, silently telling the boy to get on with it. "I have yielded Winterfell to Theon," Bran said, quiet and unsure.

Theon shook his head, this would not do. "Louder," he ordered, giving the boy a nudge. "And call me prince."

The boy nodded and raised his voice, "I have yielded Winterfell to Prince Theon," he told his people, sounding a bit more sure of himself this time. It still would not do, but it seemed to be the best Theon could expect from him. "All of you should do as he commands you."

"Damned if I will!" Mikken yelled, intent on losing more teeth it would seem. Theon chose to ignore this outburst though, sure that the man would learn his lesson soon enough. He told the men that his father had once again donned his crown and named himself King of the Iron Islands. He told them that by conquest the Iron Islanders had also taken the North. Winterfell no longer belonged to Robb Stark, it belonged to Theon's father and his heirs.

"Bugger that," Mikken muttered, wiping the blood from his mouth. "I serve the Starks, not some treasonous squid from -" This time the butt of the spear came from behind and hit him in the back of his head, driving him face first to the ground.

"Smiths have strong arms and weak heads," Theon observed before turning away from Mikken to address all the people in the courtyard. "If the rest of you serve me as loyally as you served Ned Stark, you'll find me as generous a lord as you could want!"

Mikken crawled onto his hands and knees and Theon begged him in his mind not to say another word. He had always liked Mikken, they had gone whoring together in Winters Town several times before. He thought him a friend. But his prayer died when the smith yelled, "If you think you can hold the North with this sorry lot of -"

He never got to finish his statement; without Theon's orders his Iron born had driven his spear through the soft skin on the back of his neck. The smith died, drowning on his own blood.

That could have and should have been the end of it. If only Black Lorren had not arrived, just then, dragging Ser Rodrik Cassel behind him. Ser Rodrik was shouting as they brought him in, but when his eyes landed on Theon's the knight became silent, glaring at Theon instead. "Caught this one coming back from Torrhen's Square," Black Lorren informed him. "He cut down two of ours before I got his sword."

Theon flinched, he had only come to Winterfell with thirty men and he had already lost two. He was down to twenty-eight. He moved closer to Ser Rodrik, attempting to smile at the old man. "Ser Rodrik," he greeted, his tone polite. "It grieves me that we meet as foes."

Ser Rodrik's voice dripped with contempt when he addressed him, "It grieves me that you've less honor than a back-alley whore," he growled. "You were raised here, under this roof! These people are your people!"

"They are not my people!" Theon argued back. Though, he knew all their names, he knew their voices and their faces and their stories. That was more than he could say for his crew of Iron Born.

"King Robb thought of you as a brother!" Rodrik countered angrily. "You fought beside him in the Whispering Wood, you pledged your life to him at Riverrun. You named him your King!"

Theon quickly swallowed any shame he may have felt and took a step closer to the knight, "My brothers are dead," he reminded the old man. "They died fighting Stark men!"

"Aye," Ser Rodrik agreed, "they died fighting a war your father started! Lord Stark raised you among his own sons -"

"Among them, but not one of them!" Theon interrupted. He glanced around sheepishly, worried that the Iron Born might pick up on his anger and think that they had taken over Winterfell simply because Ned Stark had ignored Theon as the boy grew up. "I was his hostage! Taken from my home!"

Rodrik shook his head, glancing away from Theon as if he could not bear to look at him, "If he were alive to see this."

"He's not!" Theon yelled at him, stepping right up in the old man's face. "He's dead. The Seven Kingdoms are at war, and Winterfell is mine!"

Rodrik turned back to look at him, his eyes were filled with rage and disappointment, "I should have put a sword in your belly instead of in your hand," he told Theon.

That hurt Theon more than he wanted to admit, he had always looked up to Ser Rodrik, ever since the day the old knight had started to teach him to fight. He could still remember the old man, kindly giving him pointers as he and Robb fought in this very courtyard with wooden play swords. All that kindness was gone from the man's face now. "You have served this House faithfully, Old Man," he told him. "But keep talking and I'll -"

He did not speak anymore, instead the old man spit on his face.

Black Lorren and another Iron Born who had moved in quickly began to beat him and force him down onto his knees. Theon could sense where this was leading and he did not want it, he had not intended for this to happen. If only Ser Rodrik had kept his wits about him. "Take him to the cells!" he ordered the men holding the knight. "Lock him up."

Dagmer stepped forward, "My prince, you cannot let that stand," he told him, reminding him of his priest uncle on his ship. "He must pay."

"I'll lock him in a cell until he rots," Theon told the man, turning to look at him, praying to the Old Gods, the Seven, and even the Drowned God that that would be enough.

"No," Dagmer told him, his voice harsh but quiet. His eyes locked on Theon's, "He has to pay the Iron Price. They," his eyes danced around the courtyard, landing on both Northman and Iron Born alike, "will never respect you while he lives."

He hadn't wanted to. He had looked down, silently begging Ser Rodrik to find a way to take it back, but the old man had just glared at him angrily. He had looked to the Stark boys, but they were too frightened to say a word. He had turned to Maester Luwin, sure that the old man would know what to say, but he only watched Theon - silently waiting for him to make his decision.

The Iron Born around him shifted on his feet, watching for weakness.

He had no choice but to sentence the man to death. It was then that Bran began to yell, to cry, to beg. He reminded Theon that he had promised that no harm would come to the people of Winterfell if he yielded. But it was too late, Theon had voiced his decision and to go back on it now would mean that the Iron Born would murder him in their sleep and take Winterfell for their own.

Dagmer was prepared to do it, but in a final act of cruelty Rodrik reminded him of Ned Stark's rule. He who passes the sentence should swing the sword. He called him a coward when he seemed to falter. He wanted to test him in front of his men, he wanted to see how far he would go. Theon had hoped to win the castle with as little blood lost as possible. He had wanted the people to accept his rule because they liked him, because they remembered him. But now it was obvious that that would never happen. If he wanted to rule Winterfell they would have to fear him. He would start with Rodrik Cassel and he would kill them all if he had to.

His Iron Born dragged the knight to the block and the crowd from Winterfell began to protest. But it was all too late. Theon drew his sword as Bran cried out Rodrik's name. The old knight turned to Bran and smiled gently, this was a man who would not fear his death. "Hush now, child," he ordered. "I'm off to see your father."

If they had been close enough to water Theon would have drowned the man, offered him up as a sacrifice to the Drowned God just out of spite. Just so that the old man would never find Ned Stark in whatever lay beyond this world.

"Any last words, old man?" Theon asked him as he readied his sword arm above his neck. He called him old man in an attempt to make it less real, to stop the memories of all the good times he had had with Ser Rodrik.

The knight turned to glare at him, "Gods help you, Theon Greyjoy," he growled. "For now you are truly lost." He glared for a moment longer before he turned his face to the ground, baring his neck for Theon's sword.

Bran and Rickon cried and screamed as Theon lifted his sword and then swung it down onto Ser Rodrik's neck. He hit too high and not hard enough, the sword hacked a chunk from the bottom of the old man's skull and he spit blood, but he still lived. Now he was in pain, if he had been hoping for a quick death from Theon Greyjoy, he would not get it.

Theon lifted his sword again and swung down quickly, this time he hit too low, across the old man's shoulders. Women in the courtyard screamed as jet of blood shot into the air.

But still, the old man's head remained attached to his body.

And still, he breathed.

One final swing, this one was true, but too slow to cut all the way through the old man's neck. The blade was stuck between his muscles, no matter how much Theon tugged it would not come off. He lifted his right foot and stomped down on the neck.

Finally the sword came loose. As did the head.

It rolled away into the mud, and when it stopped face up, the knight's familiar brown eyes still watching him.

Still filled with contempt.

-.-.-.-.-

Robb

He had never had to declare a bastard legitimate before. He had never seen it done. He did not know the words. How he wished his father was still here, he would have known what to do. But that was not quite true. Because if his father had known what to do he would have had King Robert make Jon legitimate years ago. The old king was Ned Stark's best friend, he would not have denied him that request. But his father had never legitimized Jon because of Catelyn. That was one insult that Lady Catelyn Stark could not endure.

Now she had lost her husband. Her daughters were lost to her. Her two younger sons. And her eldest son, he was about to legitimize her biggest embarrassment. He knew that it would hurt his mother when he told her. But he also knew that Lenora was right. Things were too uncertain. If he wanted to protect Winterfell and the North then he needed to have an heir that was not currently imprisoned by the Lannisters or Theon Greyjoy.

He looked up from the parchment in front of him to see Lenora sitting across the table from him. "What should I write?" he asked her, his eyebrows furrowed. He should have asked her earlier, she was the king's daughter; he was certain that she had seen her father legitimize several bastards.

She smiled at him softly, and shook her head. "It's always been done on paper," she told him, her voice gentle. "There aren't many Lords who would parade their bastard through the Red Keep to have my father legitimize them from the Iron Throne." She was quiet for a moment, biting her lip as she thought.

Robb leaned forward in his seat and reached across the table to pull her lip free with his thumb. She smiled at him. "I think that you're lost because you're trying to make it sound royal. It does not have to be. It can be simple." She looked around their empty tent, "Would you like to ask some of your bannermen?" she asked him. "They might have some thoughts on the matter."

Robb shook his head, "No," he told her, he was so sure of it. "You are right that I need to legitimize him, but I do not want anyone to know." Lenora raised her eyebrows, no doubt confused by the secrecy. Robb smiled softly at her, "If something were to happen to me, the Lannisters would think they have the upper hand because they have Sansa, and possibly Arya. Theon would think he had the upper hand because he has the boys. You and Jon would be able to surprise them with this decree."

"You don't trust that your bannermen would keep this secret?" Lenora asked him.

"I trust them with my life," Robb told her, repeating what he had once told her uncle the Kingslayer. "But there is no way to keep this secret. If the King in the North legitimizes his bastard half brother, names him his heir, and tells his bannermen about it there will be whispers, and there will be rumors." He shook his head, "The last thing I want is some Lannister paid assassin traveling to the wall to murder Jon. They have been thwarted twice on that account, I will not have them try a third time."

Lenora nodded, "Just me then," she agreed with him before she nodded back to the paper. "I do not know much about writing decrees, but I do know this - there is no set standard to where legitimized bastards fall into the line of succession. Some men order them by age, others place all trueborn children before the legitimized bastard regardless of age, others by preference. If you want Jon to be you heir until I provide you with one you will have to write that. Expressly. Leave no room for argument or confusion."

Robb smiled at her, "And you thought you would be of no help," he chided her softly as he dipped his quill into ink and brought it down to the parchment.

Lenora chuckled and kicked him in the shin underneath the table, "I never said I would be of no help. I said I would be of little help."

Robb glanced up at her, her eyes were sparkling in the candlelight, "You have been more helpful than any wife has the right to be, Nora," he told her. He grinned when her eyes narrowed at him playfully.

"You have no right to complain, Robb Stark," she told him as she stood from her chair. "You knew exactly who you were getting when you took me for your wife. I never once promised to be a quiet, meek little woman for you." She smiled and her eyes returned to their normal size, "You have no reason to be shocked or disappointed now."

Robb shook his head, "You could never disappoint me," he told her, reaching out for her hand as she moved around the table. She placed her hand in his, a soft smile resting on her lips when he lifted the back of her hand to his lips and pressed a hard kiss to it before dropping it.

"You could never disappoint me either," she told him as she moved toward another table, one that held their wine.

Robb chuckled, turning away from the parchment to watch her, "That is a lie, a treasonous falsehood and we both know it," he told her, still laughing. "I am likely to disappoint you before the week's end and several times over at that."

She smiled and nodded, "Aye," she agreed with him, "but you always find your way. And you have never disappointed me where it really counted. I don't see you doing so now." She nodded to the parchment in front of him, "Hurry up with that," she told him. "You need a witness and I am dead on my feet. You should write the decree before I fall asleep if you insist on not sharing it with any of your bannermen."

"As you wish," Robb told her, quickly turning back to the parchment in front of him.

...

By royal decree: I, Robb Stark, first of my name and King in the North, legitimize the bastard known as Jon Snow.
From this day until his last day he will now be named Jon Stark, son of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.
Furthermore, I name him my immediate heir and successor until such a time that I have a son and heir of my own.
Done in the sight of the Old Gods and the New.

...

Once he signed the decree he folded the parchment and sealed it with wax, pressing the Stark direwolf into the still warm wax. Lenora smiled at him when he handed her the sealed document. "Keep it," he told her. "Keep it safe and keep it close. If something were to happen to me during this war, it will be up to you to ensure that it makes its way to Jon."

Lenora nodded and pressed a kiss against his cheek before she moved across the tent to hide the decree in her trunk.

He could have sent it to Jon at the wall, he supposed. He knew how much Jon had wanted to be legitimate. It had been his wish since he was a small boy. And he knew how much it would mean to Jon to know that it had finally happened. That Robb wanted him as a brother, and heir. But it was unsafe to send ravens with this kind of information.

If the raven were shot down. Or fell into the wrong hands something could happen to Jon.

The news would have to wait.

Once this war was done and he was settled back at Winterfell Robb would write to Jon to ask him to come visit. And then he would tell his brother in person.

Lenora smiled at him when she came back, "Your father would be proud," she told him, her voice little more than a whisper. "Surely you know that."

Robb nodded, he did know it. As much as it would hurt his mother he knew that his father would be proud of him. Ned Stark had always been fiercely protective of Jon, and now finally, the young man could call himself Stark.

The next morning the camp was packed quickly and the army began to march north toward the Crag. Robb wanted to march south, his men wanted to march south. But they did not have the men to take the Golden Tooth, Sarsfield, Casterly Rock, and Lannisport.

His spies and scouts had told him that Tywin Lannister was preparing to depart from Harrenhal, but they did not know where. Robb would have bet his entire army that the Lannisters marched on either Casterly Rock to defend their castle from him, or King's Landing to defend the capital from Stannis Baratheon.

At this moment he could not hope to win a battle against Tywin Lannister, not with the River Lords holding Riverrun.

But the Crag, they could take that.

The Crag was the stronghold ruled by House Westerling. They were a proud House, all Lannister vassals seemed to be, as if they could claim the Lannister success as their own. But House Westerling was poor. The castle was run-down, partially ruined and the family could no longer afford to maintain it.

They would put up a fight to protect their home, a better fight than Oxcross, but they would fall. Its defenses were compromised.

Rather than attacking Casterly Rock outright, Robb planned to take the vassal Houses one at a time while the majority of their Lords and soldiers were marching with Lord Tywin; to eat away at the Lannister power one bite at a time until Lord Tywin had nothing left.

Lenora rode beside him, though she did not seem to enjoy the ride as much as she usually did. Her mind wandered, her eyes were stormy. Robb reached out for her, grabbing hold of her reins, "And what?" he asked her, trying to keep his voice light, "Is going on in that beautiful mind of yours?"

Lenora smiled at him, though it was a tight, closemouthed smile. "I'm torn," she told him, "between being happy to be home and being sad for these people."

The Westerlands were hers, Robb realized for the first time. She had spent her first five years at the Rock and had made many trips back before her father brought her to Winterfell. This land was familiar to her. The sights, the smells, the people - she had grown up here. She would know them as well as she knew King's Landing.

"Do you regret it?" he asked her quietly, watching her face carefully. "Returning with me?" he specified when she did not answer his question right away.

She thought about it for a moment before she shook her head. "No," she told him, turning to look at him so that he could read the honesty in her light grey eyes. "I do not regret returning with you. This is what is right. But I do regret the pain it will cause these people. It is not their fault that their families and Liege Lords are sworn to my grandfather anymore than it is my fault that I was born to a Lannister mother. It is not their fault, but they will pay more than my grandfather or brother ever will. It does not seem fair."

She was slipping, he could see it, into melancholy. It happened from time to time, more often the closer they marched to Casterly Rock. The best way to pull her out of it was to distract her. He let go of her reins, but continued to watch her. "What do you know of House Westerling?" he asked her, nodding in the general direction they were riding. "To tell you true, I know almost nothing of the House, only what my bannermen tell me."

"And they won't know all of it," Lenora told him with a smile. She was quiet for a moment before she spoke. "House Westerling, six white shells on a sand colored field, Honor, Not Honors," she recited, as if reading it straight from the book of the Greater and Lesser Houses of Westeros. "Lord Gawen Westerling, is Lord of the Crag, you will remember him perhaps, you took him as prisoner at the Battle of the Whispering Wood."

Robb raised his eyebrows at her, he had taken many prisoners after that first battle, he could not remember all of them. And he did not remember this one.

Lenora smiled slyly at him as she shook her head, "Or perhaps not," she told him. "I would not blame you. His sons have not petitioned for his freedom, as they are a poor House. Their mines failed years ago, their best lands have been sold off, many to my grandfather, or lost. They cannot afford to repair their own stronghold, let alone ransom their father."

"Have you met them?" he asked, she was speaking as if she knew members of House Westerling personally.

She nodded, "Lord Gawen and Lady Sybell have a daughter who is close to my age, Lady Jeyne Westerling. She is pretty. Her father has brought her to the Rock once or twice, to offer her as a match for my cousins Willem or Martyn, but my uncle Kevan has turned him down each time. He says that they have more pride than power, and more honor than sense. He would not marry his sons to a lesser House."

"Surely to a Lannister every House is a lesser House," Robb teased, grinning when a true smile spread across Lenora's lips.

"Yes," she agreed with a nod. "Marrying a Stark was almost as shameful as looking for a husband in Flea Bottom would have been." It was a joke, but it struck Robb. This woman beside him had been raised a princess and then her father had left her at a stronghold as far away from her home as she could have imagined to marry a lord's son. He was less. Though, he supposed it was a consolation that he had been named King in the North. This way she was raised up, instead of dragged down. Lenora must have seen something of his thoughts on his face because she rolled her eyes, "Come now," she scolded him. "That was a joke. I never thought of you as lesser."

"But House Westerling is?" Robb asked her, changing the subject.

Lenora rolled her eyes, she had caught him, he was not nearly as clever as he hoped. But she allowed it, "Uncle Kevan certainly believes it," she told him. "Lady Sybell is House Spicer, it is a young house, her father was a spice merchant, her mother a maegi from the East. Many people from Lannisport used to buy cures and love potions from her. No Lannister would sink so low as to marry into that sort of family."

"Can I trust them?" Robb asked, his voice soft. "Once the Crag surrenders?" He spoke of the surrender as if it were inevitable, and Lenora did not caution him so she must have believed it too.

She shook her head, "Two things to remember when dealing with the Westerlings," she told him. "My uncle Kevan's words: more honor than sense. And their own words: Honor, not Honors. They may be poor, and looked down on, but they are proud. And they will defend their honor. They are pledged to House Lannister. Whatever they say to you when they surrender, whatever they do - they will still be Lannister men."

"And you?" Robb asked her, they had had this conversation many times, but sometimes he needed to be reassured. "Will you always be a Lannister man?"

Lenora snorted, "I am not a man," she told him. "And as you have told me several times, I was never a Lannister."

"Forever a Baratheon then?"

She shook her head.

"A Stark?" he asked, hoping she would nod.

Again she shook her head, "I am my own man," she told him, turning to look at him from her horse. "I belong to no one. I follow my own heart and mind. That, I promise you." Robb nodded, he should have expected this answer. And truth be told, he loved her for it. "I can also promise you that I will never betray you," she added, smiling at the grin that spread across his face when he heard that.

"Or I, you, Nora."

-.-.-.-.-

Catelyn

They came again that same night. The Lannister army. Before retiring for the night Catelyn had commanded that she be woken at once if the enemy returned. And well after midnight, during the hour of the wolf, a serving girl touched her gently on the shoulder. Catelyn had been asleep, but it was a restless sleep and she sat up immediately, demanding to know what was going on.

"The ford again, My Lady," the young girl whispered to her, quickly backing away from Catelyn's bed.

Catelyn had wrapped herself in a bedrobe and climbed to the roof of the keep. From here she could see over the castle walls to the moonlit river below where the battle raged. She was not surprised to see Brienne waiting for her there, it looked as though the young woman had not gotten any sleep, instead opting to stand guard and watch for the enemy.

The moonlight and the Tully watchfires made it relatively easy, even from this height, to watch the battle. The Lannisters were wading across the river, no doubt hoping that with the watchfires the Tully's would be night-blind to their attack. It was a fool's hope, even if the Tully army was blind, it was not deaf. As they waded their way across the river men stepped in hidden pools and went own splashing while others stumbled over stones or gashed their feet on the hidden caltrops.

Too noisy to surprise her brother's men.

The Mallister bowmen sent a storm of fire arrows hissing across the river. They were beautiful, at least while they were flying. A sky full of shooting stars. Catelyn watched, almost mesmerized as the arrows shot through the air below her. She watched as they landed, some landing on the opposite side of the Red Fork, burying their flames in the dirt. Other fizzled out as they landed in the water. But others hit their marks, their arrow heads embedding themselves in human skin, their flames burning the target.

One man, pierced through a dozen times, his clothes afire, danced and whirled in the knee-deep water until he fell and was swept downstream. By the time he bobbed his way past Riverrun, the flames were gone and so was he.

The fight did not last much longer than that. It was strange that they gave up so easily, but no more than ten minutes after the man had floated past Riverrun the Lannister army was already melting back into the darkness of the Eastern bank of the Red Fork. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Brienne did not seem to agree with Catelyn's assessment of the battle. She grimaced when Catelyn asked for her thoughts. "What is the bigger number, My Lady?" she asked, choosing to give Catelyn a riddle rather than answer her question outright, "Five or one?"

"Five," Catelyn answered without hesitating. She wondered briefly what trick she could have missed that would have made one the answer, but she could not think of one.

Brienne nodded and held up her left hand, wiggling all five of her fingers, "Five," she said. Then she held up her right hand, a fist, "One." She was quiet for a moment, waiting until Catelyn had nodded her understanding before she continued, " That was nothing but the brush of Lord Tywin's fingertips, My Lady," she told Catelyn. Her voice was strong and steady, she was so sure of herself and her answer. "He is probing, feeling for a weak point, an undefended crossing. If he does not find one, he will curl all his fingers into a fist and try and make one. That's what I'd do. Were I him."

...

It was three days before Lord Tywin's fist hit the Red Fork, and five days before they heard of it at Riverrun. But it came, just as Brienne had predicted that it would. Catelyn had been sitting with her father when her brother Edmure's messenger found her. His armor was dented, his boots were dirty, and he had a ragged hole in his surcoat, but there was a smile on his face. A smile large enough that she knew the news was good, even before he knelt before her declaring, "Victory, My Lady."

He proudly handed her Edmure's letter and watched her smiling as she broke the seal.

Lord Tywin had tried to force a crossing at a dozen different fords, her brother wrote, but every thrust had been thrown back. Many of his Lords and knights had drowned or been taken prisoner. The fiercest of all the battles had been at Stone Mill, Ser Gregor Clegane had led the assault.

There had been so many dead Lannister men that their dead horses threatened to dam the flow of the river. In the end the Mountain and a handful of his best had gained the West bank but Edmure had thrown his reserve at them, his best knights, and they had shattered, reeled away bloody and beaten.

Ser Gregor himself had lost his horse. He had turned from the West bank and staggered back across the Red Fork, bleeding from a dozen wounds while a rain of arrows and stones fell all around him.

They shall not cross, Cat, Edmure scrawled across the parchment. Lord Tywin is marching to the southeast. A feint perhaps, or full retreat, it matters not. They shall not cross.

That night Riverrun's halls were filled with shouts and songs and joy. But Catelyn could not join in any of it. She would not until the fighting was done and she and her children were back home at Winterfell.

Though she could not join in their joy she did not want to dampen it. She left the feast to sit with her father. In his solar she found a heavy leatherbound book of maps and opened it to the Riverlands. Using her finger she found the path of the Red Fork and traced it to Riverrun in the flickering candlelight. Marching to the Southeast, she thought, following the map in that direction. By now they had likely reached the headwaters of the Blackwater Rush, she decided, headed toward King's Landing and Stannis.

She closed the book, still feeling uneasy. The Gods had granted them victory after victory. At Stone Mill, at Oxcross, in the Battle of the Camps, at the Whispering Wood.

They were winning this war and yet she was terrified.

Author's Note:

Hello friends. It's a beautiful day for an update, isn't it?
I hope you think so. And I hope that you enjoyed this chapter!
Gearing up for some really fun things in the future, I'll tell you that.
If you liked the chapter, let me know. That's what the handy little box is for.
Just down there. You see it don't you? Sitting empty and waiting for a review from you.
Many, many, many thanks to the heroes who reviewed the last chapter. You guys are wonderful!

writingNOOB: Don't worry, I just wrote the chapter when Lenora decides to put her indecision to rest forever. It was a pretty good one if I do say so myself. You guys should get to see it on Sunday if everything with my posting goes according to plan.
And I'm so happy to hear that I've found the balance between Lenora being intelligent and flawed. I would never want her to be too perfect because that would be boring. But I wouldn't want to spend every chapter yelling at her in my head for being ridiculously flawed, you know?
And you guessed it, the Red Wedding is going to be a pretty big turning point for her. I'm pretty excited about it if I'm being honest.

prince711: You would think that some of his bannermen would tell him to be cautious. But he's winning. They believe in him, even though he's young and he's given them no reason to doubt him as of yet. And even if they tried, you're right he's a gotten a bit of a big head, I don't think he'd listen, I don't think that he will learn fear until the war starts to turn against him.

ZabuzasGirl: Thank you!

HPuni101: You just reviewed the last chapter like half an hour ago and I've already got a new chapter for you! (Didn't want you to have to wait too long!) I hope you enjoyed it.

Boom! That's all for now.
Maybe I will see you guys back here tomorrow. I think it's supposed to be gross and rainy tomorrow so it will be a perfect writing day.
Chloe Jane.