Ser Raymond Hightower, is greeted by Lord Tallhart, as he rides through the gates of Torrhens Square, at the head of the Royal Guard. Thousands of his men are setting up camp outside the walls of this mighty stronghold, as they await the rest of the army. They are halfway to the Stony Shore, from Winterfell.

"You will dine with me tonight, your Highness?"

"Of course, my lord, but first a bath." As he relaxes in the hot tub, he reflects on his career. From a second cousin of Lord Hightower, to Prince Consort of the North, and commander of its armies. He may be dead in a fortnight, but even so, it has been quite a life. Even if his marriage was not what he wanted it to be. Still, Queen Sansa had never deceived him, quite the reverse in fact. Owning nothing but his sword, horse, and armour, he had taken service, first with Yohn Royce, and then, after distinguishing himself in the War for the Dawn, with Queen Sansa. At the time, he thought she was quite simply the most beautiful woman he had ever met, with her main of flaming red hair, piercing blue eyes, and gorgeous figure. In fact, he could barely keep his eyes off her body , the first time he saw her fence, in tight jerkin, leggings and boots. He wondered if she'd send him to Skagos, if she knew he was staring at her arse. It turned out, she did know. He was summoned to her study.

"I see the way you look at me" she began without preamble. He begun to stammer an apology.

"I need a consort, who can provide me with an heir. You are comely, and you have proved your valour. If I were to marry a Northern lord, they would resent the fact that I had elevated one of their number above the rest. Comparitively speaking, you are a nobody. They might mutter about you, but they could not complain of favouritism. I would take you as my husband, if you wish." His jaw dropped.

"You do me far too much honour, your Grace."

"Marrying me is not an honour. I need an heir, that is all. There are things you should know, before making your decision, but first, you must swear by the old gods and the new, that you will never divulge what I am about to tell you."

"Of course, your Grace. I swear it by the old gods and the new"

"You know that I am no maid. I expect you know something of my last husband, and of how he met his end." He nodded. The Beast of Bolton was already a figure of legendary evil. And, everyone knew how Sansa had disposed of him. "The man was a wild animal in human form. Before marrying me, you need to know what he did to me." She proceeded to describe in clinical detail the acts which Lord Bolton had carried out, the acts which he had forced Sansa to perform, and the violence which she had been subjected to, as Ser Raymond listened with mounting horror. "Many men would view me as a whore, unclean, after hearing this. Perhaps you do as well. I must also point out that my body retains unsightly scars, which will never fade entirely. I mention these things, so that you cannot claim that I ever deceived you, in the future. I would sooner never lie with a man again, but I must produce an heir. Once I have done so, any physical relationship between us will end. You may take your pleasure as you wish; fidelity is not expected in a husband. You may be certain that I shall never be unfaithful to you. I will rule, and will tolerate no interference in my government, but I shall appoint you to high military command, and invest you with lands and holdfasts. You will have the title of Prince Consort." They had married a fortnight later, in a private ceremony in the Godswood. He had hoped that the marriage might have developed into something more conventional, but Sansa had been as good as her word, although she never ceased to treat him with respect on public occasions.

So, now he dines with Lord Tallhart, whose retinue would be joining the army, on the march to Stony Shore. Much to his distaste, he is joined by Inspector-General Norrey, a man who has always put him on edge. A bright-eyed fanatic, he positively revels in bringing death and destruction to his wife's enemies. It is a matter of very great relief to him that his wife has shut him out completely from that side of her government, leaving him free to concentrate on the army. For a time, they discuss the progress of the war, before Norrey comments:

"I have more than fourteen hundred skilled men, marching to join us. They have been removed from the penal camps, and possess invaluable skills."

"If they serve well, will you release them?" asks Ser Raymond.

Norrey takes a mouthful of the venison pie, and sips at his wine. He frowns. "Certainly not. They will complete their sentences. Serving their Queen and their Motherland, in time of danger, is the very least we can expect of them. "

Ser Raymond has drunk far too much wine. Almost without thinking he blurts out "How do you live with being a torturer? Do you just pin the responsibility on the people who work for you, even though you're the one giving the orders." Lord Tallhart chokes on his wine, looking terrified. He turns to Norrey, apologetically, "My lord, I think his Highness has had too much wine. Perhaps, we should retire to our chambers for the night."

Norrey holds up his hand, looking impassive as always. "His Highness's question is a fair one. How indeed, do I live with it? The Queen's Grace has enemies. A loyal subject works to crush those enemies. Sometimes a loyal subject must resort to methods which he would not, in an ideal world, wish to resort to. When I took over as Inspector General, five years ago, the penal camps were a shambles. The guards were indistinguishable from criminals, the prisoners were routinely raped, and they were starved to death. Since I have taken over, death rates have plummeted among the prisoners, and their productivity has soared, to the benefit of the nation. Prisoners are indeed executed, flogged, and tortured, but only when they violate a set of rules which is outlined very clearly to them the moment they arrive. You talk of "responsibility". You are the commander in chief of an army whose ability to fight depends upon the labours of those very prisoners. You are Prince Consort, one of the highest men in a State which both punishes these prisoners, and profits from their work. Which one of us is truly evading responsibility for his actions? I can assure you that my conscience has never been clearer." Norrey rises and bows to both men, "Your Highness, my Lord, I bid you good night."

"What were you thinking?" demands a still-frightened Tallhart. "Don't you know who he is?"

"Of course I know who he is. I try to avoid him when possible."

"Then you must know that he is the apple of your wife's eye. Mark my words, he'll be President of the Inquisition, sooner or later. "

"And, must you or I bow to those jackals?"

"You know the answer to that question, as well as I do. Make no mistake, they rule this country, under Her Grace, of course. It is time for me to retire, and you too? My men are ready to march with yours in two days's time."

Ser Raymond ponders Norrey's words in his chambers. The man is right of course. He has evaded responsibility for years, closing his mind to the nature of the regime he serves. But, the die is cast. He might wish things had been different, but there is a war to win. If he loses, he'll be strung up alongside his wife and daughter, and every other high official.