Edmure

He was near… The monster. The pillager. The raper.

The Mountain that Rides.

For weeks, Edmure and his uncle had been after his loot train - stolen riches of the Riverlands, bound for Casterly Rock. They carried away gold and silver, emptied winter larders into their baggage train, and burned the rest. Worse, they'd taken his peasants as thralls.

Each new atrocity tightened Edmure's gut like a knot. Lannisters deserved to rot in the deepest pit of the Seven Hells. They killed innocent souls, my people - this cannot stand!

Tywin Lannister had thought to find the Riverlords unprepared for his attack. Instead, he had crashed against a wall of steel.

Edmure had drowned the mercenaries in the currents of the Red Fork, pushing them back and in with a wall of Tully pikes onto a rocky death. Hundreds of corpses had washed ashore near Seagard. Sometimes, the Gods are just.

Tywin Lannister had fallen back to direct his men to King's Landing, where Stannis Baratheon hungered for lionsblood. The Riverlords were howling for vengeance, swearing to torch the Westerlands from Crackclaw Point to the Banefort.

Clegane shall be the first, then Lorch, Lefford, and Brax shall follow. There shall be no mercy for the perpetrators. They had amassed a sizable force, aided by the rearguard left by King Robb when he had journeyed north t0 lay siege to Moat Cailin.

Alongside him was Theon Greyjoy - no Greyiron, now, for he'd forsworn his family entire. Edmure had not known him well before, but the hateful man he'd become had put the hackles of his Riverlords up.

Yet he could not deny Theon's canny nature that had translated well into battlefield acumen; the man had tricked Tywin thrice over, by last count, and had harried his army's flanks to death with outriders. Lionsblood spilled had elevated him in the eyes of the Northern lords.

Edmure had tall standards to live up to. He led the Western front; he would not disappoint his nephew and liege.

A voice from outside the tent interrupted his thoughts. "M'Lord, may I enter?"

"Aye," Edmure answered.

Hoster, a scout who was once a houndmaster of Seagard, entered. "I bring news, my Lord," he spoke swiftly. "The boys have found fresh tracks. Many children among them"

Edmure's fists curled involuntarily, his knuckles whitening. "Gods damn that man! He's taken children as thralls!"

He thought on the words of his House, and calmed. "Prepare the men - we ride at dawn."

Hoster nodded, a look of determination mirroring his lord's. "At once, my Lord."

I'll give him an end to rival Harren Hoare.

Robert

There was a sea of tents before the Gates of the Moon.

Men were digging latrines, sharpening swords, eating and drinking… It had been some time since Robert had seen this many men gathered for war.

He saw, in the distance, Royce, Waynwood, Belmore, Hunter, Redfort and Templeton banners; the Lords Declarant, opposing the regency of Petyr Baelish.

Robert and his men approached the camp beneath the crowned stag, proud in the wind. Horsemen under the bronze runes of Royce challenged them, led by a man Robert knew all too well.

He trotted forward, Barristan and Beric trailing behind. "Hail, Yohn! My balls are freezing in this fucking wind!"

Yohn Royce, the Lord of Runestone, stared at him and laughed as if he'd seen a fool being funny. "The Gods are good! We all thought you were dead!"

Robert grimaced. I'm getting tired of hearing that.

The other Lords declarant reacted in a similarly hapless manner, but Robert was not deterred. The lot were practically begging for him to take over.

"Our initial plan was to starve Baelish out of the Eyrie, your Grace," said Horton Redfort, caressing his well-kept beard. "Baelish has gathered the dishonourable and the money-grubbers to him - surely, their loyalty would not hold out against wintering in the Eyrie!"

"Robert Arryn's halls, not Baelish's," the old Lady Anya Waynwood interjected, "And I say you underestimate the man, Redfort. One does not rise from his lowly lot without cunning - or mettle."

"Who are Baelish's supporters?" Robert wondered. "The man couldn't have acquired such power without help."

"The Corbrays are close to him," said Yohn, "And my cousin Nestor once granted him the Gates. He was always envious of my standing, and Baelish knew that all too well. Then there are various knightly houses, prime among them the Monfells..."

"Treacherous bastards!" Bellowed Ser Symond Templeton, clearly in rage, "Monfell? Moonrat more like!"

"At ease, Symond, Alyn shall get his due in time." Yohn soothed him.

"Ah, I've no doubt," said the fat Benedar Belmore, "Baelish and his men conspired with the treasonous Lannisters. Many loyal servants of his Grace have died because of him."

"I'll make him regret he ever left the Fingers - damned whoremonger! I'll ride to the Eyrie myself, and see if the rat knows a sinking ship when he sees one!" Robert's fist fell upon the table, sending pieces and parchment flying.

Royce smiled, "It seems his Grace supports a... direct approach. Baelish will parley, I expect, but he may also seek to take you hostage against his enemies."

Templeton grunted in approval, "Aye... let us bring a sizeable guard - I already smell blood."

As he walked past the courtyard of The Gates of the Moon, in the stables Robert saw a young woman, with raven black hair.

She was feeding the mules with hay, before preparing them for the climb to come. She had become tall, and wore leathers more fit for a man. Her coal black hair was cut short, and had two pairs of beautiful blue eyes.

"She's a good lass," Yohn chided in, "Takes after her father."

Robert chuckled. "What has she been up to?"

"I've heard rumours she has an eye on the Redford lad, Mychel. 'Tis hard for a baseborn girl to marry a noble, but she is a king's daughter, even if -" here, Yohn scowled at him, "the King's got all the sense of a randy stag."

Robert wanted to snap back, but Yohn had been proven right many times over, these last months. Instead, he sighed.

"If she wishes, she can marry him. I'll legitimise both her and Gendry - the Redforts will get no better marriage prospects than a king's daughter." Yohn Royce, recognizing the pointed barb, shrugged.

How does one mend a lifetime of absence? Robert wondered. Still, Mya had learned to stand on her own - of that, he could not be anything but proud. "It's cold up there, isn't it?"

Mya seemed surprised she was being addressed, but turned and curtsied. "Your Grace," Robert cleared his throat awkwardly, "The frost has spread, and the road will be worse than it usually is. Stick close to me, and I'll lead you true."

Robert smiled. "I've have no doubt." His next words were hesitant, "Are you treated well here?"

"Well enough, for a bastard," Mya responded, and oh, her tone had grown colder. "Old Lord Arryn was kind enough to keep me on as guide. I started at four and ten - Old man Ronnel died taught me, but he died awhile back. Now I do his job."

Hardworking, and stubborn. Robert was fidgeting like a fool.

"Your Grace?" Gods be damned.

Her lips thinned into lines, while her eyes stared elsewhere.

"Ask the question, girl," Robert commanded. "I see it in your eyes."

Now his daughter looked at him, and it was like looking into the eyes of every woman he'd wronged. "Sometimes I've wondered, your Grace. Why?"

Robert had had time to think on the question. Little Arya'd asked it first. He'd wagered Cersei never cared to - and Lyanna -

Well, she'd never had the chance to. Or maybe her mind was made up.

But his daughter deserved an answer.

"I lost both my parents, early on."

Mya stared at him with those blue eyes, barely blinking.

"It hit us all different. Stannis became a right cunt - and Renly… Renly was too young to understand. He came out of it best." He'd seen the ship founder in the bay with a crack -

"Me… I turned to drink, and whores, like every other young Lord too big for his breeches."

Robert leaned against a wooden wall, and stared up into the stormy sky.

"Nothing was real - until it was, and I had you." He looked back down, and saw his daughter - strong and proud, something he'd not ruined.

"Those were the happiest years of my life. I had a true brother, and a firstborn - I… I'd never been more free."

Mya's gaze was now the blue of still water.

"Ned helped. Your mother - well, wee ones are hard on whores, and I knew nothing of raising a child, but he did." Robert laughed. "Gods, what would I not give to go back."

He shook his head and focused. "But dreams end. Old Lord Arryn was kind about it, but he broke me out of it." Mya opened her mouth, but Robert shook his head. "Don't blame him - he did but what any Lordly father would do."

He gathered his thoughts a moment, as the wind whistled through the ramparts. By then, his daughter'd mustered up enough grit for a question. "Did you?"

Robert turned, surprised. "Did I what?"

Mya stared at him - her steel gaze somehow piercing right through. "Did you hate him for it?"

His first thought was outrage - on behalf of his dead foster-father, the man who'd seen him and Ned through so much -

But he could see his daughter start to shrivel, and so he stopped. And he thought.

"I do not know." Robert admitted. "I gave the man much grief as King. I whored and drunk about in the war, and it was glorious -" He closed his eyes and remembered.

When he opened them, Mya's eyes - and the faint sheen of disgust in them - were the first thing he saw, and Robert chuckled ruefully at the sight.

"Well, I never stopped. I'd no reason to. I was King!"

"A shit King, aye -" Mya interjected, and covered her mouth in horror, as if she couldn't believe the words that'd come out of her mouth -

- And Robert clutched his sides, laughing. "You'll not fear speaking the truth to me, daughter! I was a shit King!"

Their laughter echoed in the hollow spaces of the castle.

Well, we now know what's going on with the Northern army.

As always, let me know what you think in the comments!