Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, other than my own the original character(s) in this story. This is purely a work of my personal enjoyment so don't expect anything worthy of GRRM. I fully welcome criticism/suggestions/questions. The story will eventually be finished (I hate leaving things unfinished) but I have no real schedule. Please review as I'd love useful thoughts :) feedback goes a long way to encouraging my writing.

Chapter 29: A Thousand Eyes
"A single Warg is worth a thousand men."
– Prince Willam Stark

The black crowned stag on a gold field flew atop Riverrun's highest tower, a show of allegiance for all those within sight to see it – while the Northman-Riverlander host rested outside the castle's walls with banners of whites, greys, blues, reds and browns; waiting eagerly for their next orders and hungry for lion's blood.

"You are my eyes and ears Granduncle," Robb Stark was in the war room, looking to his uncle the Blackfish, his chief commander on all things Riverland, for no man alive knew these lands quite so well nor was so well respected. "I dare not lose you. No, the task falls to Ser Edmure, I need to hold Riverrun when we march…"

"March where lad?" The Blackfish asked, humming in reluctant agreement at leaving his inexperienced nephew in charge of the Riverlords.

"I cannot sit at Riverrun waiting for peace," Robb weighed down a crudely drawn map out on the table, placing his dagger at the edge to stop it folding at the corner. "Standing idle makes me look as if I were afraid to take the field again. When there's no battles to fight, men start to think of hearth and harvest. Father told me that."

"Wise words," Brynden Tully agreed. "And yet, no one has ever died of restlessness, but rashness is another matter..."

Robb shook his head stubbornly. "If aunt Lysa were coming to aid us, we would have heard by now. How many birds have we sent to the Eyrie, four or five? I want peace too, but why should the Lannisters surrender to us and free my father if all I do is sit here while my army melts away around me, swift as summer snow?"

"So rather than look craven, you will dance to Lord Tywin's pipes," the Blackfish argued. "He wants you to march on Harrenhal lad, if you-"

"He said nothing of Harrenhal," Willam countered, nodding to the young Stark; bidding he continue.

"Here," Robb was smiling now. "See this path Uncle?"

Brynden glared at the crude map, squinting his eyes. "No such path exists lad," he denied, frowning. "At least, none I know of…"

"My people have seen it," Willam assured him quickly enough.

"And I have confirmed it with my own eyes," Robb gave a firm nod at that, offering no argument.

"How is that?" His granduncle doubted quickly. "You've not left the castle; I'd know if you had… and I know this land better than anyone…"

"There are ways," Willam countered the old fish with the shadow of a smile.

"Trust me," Robb asked simply. "This will work, granduncle – on my word it shall work."

The Blackfish had his doubts clearly but knew his niece's son wasn't a fool in warfare – for he had a keen instinct for these things – while there was no doubt in his eyes. "Tell me everything," he decided to trust the young wolfs instincts, to a degree. "Spare no detail, then I'm with you lad…"

"It's a goat track that winds down a defile and up along beneath a ridge," Robb pointed it out on the crudely drawn map. "It's a crooked and stony way, yet wide enough for men riding single file. The Lannisters in their watchtowers will not so much get a glimpse of our host – allowing us to strike where they least suspect it…"

"And you have… seen this…"

"Aye," Robb confirmed confidently.

"As have I," Willam added as he leant on the table. "I've had my own people confirm it, just to be safe."

"The Lannisters spread like a pestilence over my father's domains, stealing his crops and slaughtering his people." Edmure Tully added his peace too from his seat at the table, scowling at the thought of being left behind away from the glory. "I say again, we ought to be marching on Harrenhal."

"We lack the strength," Robb said, though unhappily.

Ser Edmure persisted. "Do we grow stronger sitting here? Our host dwindles every day…"

"And whose doing is that?" Willam scoffed at the Heir to Riverrun. It had been at his insistence that the river lords leave to depart, each to defend his own lands. Ser Marq Piper and Lord Karyl Vance had been the first to go. Lord Jonos Bracken was due to follow, vowing to defend his land against the lions to the east, and now Lord Jason Mallister had announced his intent to return to his seat at Seagard, still mercifully untouched by the fighting; though at risk from potential Ironborn raids.

"You cannot ask my river lords to remain idle while their fields are being pillaged and their people put to the sword," Ser Edmure said in his defence.

Lord Tywin had sacked no small number of towns on his route. His dogs rode too freely, pillaging the countryside.

"There is also the matter of our captives," Robb mentioned with a sigh.

"You cannot release Ser Kevan for your father," Willam said bluntly. "His life and his sons should keep Ned from harm though…"

It was left entirely unsaid that it wasn't impossible the Lannister's were lying. Ned Stark had been badly bleeding when they'd left him…

"I know that, not even if I wanted to release them. My lords would never abide it… nor would King Stannis…"

"The plan is a good one," Willam insisted. "You've a good head for this lad, don't doubt yourself – the plan will work; just as Riverrun worked."

"There's another matter," Robb spoke, less sure of himself in this much.

The war-room fell quieter as they waited the Young Wolf's words. Greywind shifted from his resting place.

"I thought to send Theon to treat with his father," he revealed thoughtfully. "If we had their ships, we could take Casterly Rock."

"Greyjoy?" Willam frowned. That boy was a prick… and the only good a prick would end up doing is fucking you…

"Robb," Jon Snow spoke then, his voice a whisper with wide-eyes – uncomfortable being here, but Robb had insisted he be present at all times.

"You disagree," he replied, more acceptance than question.

"The kraken is a prisoner," Willam argued easily. "His release is not your decision to make, Robb."

"And you can't trust him," Jon butted in, with all his courage; ignoring the looks that were sent his way.

"Who better to treat with Balon Greyjoy than his own son?"

"Jason Mallister," offered Ser Brynden sagely. "Tytos Blackwood. Stevron Frey even…"

"Anyone," Jon Snow agreed. "but not Theon. I know he's your friend… and I know you trust him, but-"

Robb ruffled his wolfs fur and incidentally avoided his brother's eyes. "Theon's fought bravely for us, did he not?"

"Then let him continue to do so," Jon argued still. "Here, with us; not under his father's thumb!"

"I agree, the boy is a hostage," Ser Edmure managed, though it seemed a difficult thing for him to do so – agreeing with a bastard boy.

"He's been a hostage half his life," Robb countered hotly, eager to defend his friend.

"For good reason," Ser Brynden said. "Balon Greyjoy is not a man to be trusted, lad. He wore a crown himself, remember, if only for a season. He may aspire to wear one again and it's a damn good rule to simply never expect anything but the worst from Ironborn. The lad seems an alright sort, I suppose, but he's not Lord of Pyke."

Robb was frowning. "He's nothing like the Ironborn… he's loyal…"

"Robb-" Jon made to argue more.

"This is a waste of breath," Willam dismissed with a wave. "You've sworn to Stannis Baratheon, have you not?"

"I have," Robb admitted reluctantly, seeming non too thrilled by the fact as his eyes darted to Jon Snow.

"There you have it then, send word to your King if you wish it; but he'll see it much the way we do Robb."

That was too like Willam to do, Robb thought to himself with a scowl – calling on simple logic to dismiss passioned thoughts – as if the answer had been oh so remarkably simple all along. "You're right," he was forced to agree, as it wasn't something he could claim was wrong. "Stannis is King. I'll suggest it to him…"

They all knew the outcome of that letter, no doubt, even Robb wasn't fool enough to believe that Stannis would grant his request.

"What about you, Prince Willam?" Ser Brynden looked to the man.

"I leave in the morning," Willam answered. "Mustn't keep Bolton waiting… he might flay me after all…"

The Tully's scoffed at that, though Robb's frown grew.

"It's for the best," Willam noticed the doubt.

"I could use you here…"

"You'll have Jon and Ser Brynden at your side."

The Blackfish gave a smile when his nieces boy looked to him bravely.

"I could send another," Robb still argued with his frown.

"Are they named Stark?" Willam raised a brow at the obvious question.

"No, but you-"

"I'll keep Bolton on task, worry not lad."

Robb sighed. "Very well…"

"Cheer up Robb," Jon Snow managed a smile. "The plan will work…"

They'd make it into the West, of that Willam had no doubts – but that wasn't the pressing part of the scheme – for things to work there could be no faltering and Willam didn't trust anyone but a Stark to keep the eastern front in check. Robb would go west, luring the mighty Tywin back to his home; exactly where they wanted him.

Greywind howled beneath a green canopy of leaves, surrounded by tall redwoods and great old elms where Willam found the wolf. This Godswood wasn't large, at least by his own standards, but it was quiet; oft enough for the gods – though personally he hated the silence.

Most dreadful things were pale imitations of the terrors he could conjurer in a truly quiet moment.

"It's not getting easier," Robb Stark complained as he heard Willam coming.

"Then you're not trying hard enough," he scolded with a stern look. "Remember, don't concern yourself with the how or why of the thing, simply relax and the rest will come naturally with time. The gods, in their infinite wisdom, gave you the gift for a reason. It is as much as part of you the blood that flows in your veins."

Robb stared at Greywind then, narrowing his eyes and trying to concentrate.

"No," Willam sighed as Wraith bounded up behind him. "Don't strain yourself. Relax."

Robb sighed, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. Willam continued talking all the while.

"Wolves are harder than most skins; one has to forge a lasting bond. A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man can truly tame a wolf." He explained, standing near Robb who had knelt down in front of Greywind. "I can't say if a direwolf would be a greater challenge, though one would assume as much, being above its smaller kin and all. Starks are naturally strong, I was taught, though it's no guarantee of the gift… and in your case it is quite the coincidence…"

Robb grunted in frustration, unable to warg into the Direwolf at command.

"It's easier when I dream," he muttered under his breath.

"Because you're not overthinking it…"

"How many wargs are across the sunset?"

"Compared to here?" Willam thought on that only briefly. "A lot, let's say that…"

"But only your nephew has the gift?" Robb asked, remaining at eye level with Greywind.

The wolf stood as if listening to the conversation, tilting its head only at mention of his name.

"Aye," Willam said. "Varin is quite the prodigy, I'm told…"

"Why tell me this? Why teach me… or Jon at all?"

Willam raised an eyebrow at that. "Why not?"

"Wargs are not exactly common pla-"

"Where I come from," Willam interrupted with a stifled smile. "A warg is no different than deciding to use an axe over a sword. It's a tool, gift or not. Bloody useful in war too, your smart enough to know how useful it would be to have eyes on your enemy at all times. Nobody sneaks up on an army using wargs to scout the skies..."

"Nor finds hidden passes into the West," Robb said, all smiles at the concept.

"Exactly," Willam hummed his agreement. "Scouting is one use. A single warg is worth a thousand men if your enemy has none of their own."

"And the Lannisters have no wargs…"

"I'd wager they hunted them all or burnt them on a stake," Willam recalled his reading on the matter – a book by some zealous maester from the citadel.

Wargs weren't common in Westeros, even in the North, if they lived at all; they did so in secret or wholly unaware of their talents. It was a damn fine 'coincidence' that near enough all of Ned's children seemed to possess some degree of ability… though how strong each of them were, was yet to be determined…

The one thing Westeros didn't lack for were books, if one sought knowledge – and held the ability to read it. The issue for most laid in the latter.

"Come," Willam beckoned the young Stark lord then. "Your lords are waiting on you Robb."

"Aye," he got to his feet, absently ruffling Greywinds fur before falling in behind.

It was a short walked from the woods to the courtyard where the lords awaited them.

Willam was dressed in a black leader surcoat offset by his silver pauldrons and a cloak of fine black silk with silver trim. The Black Wolf, the Riverlords had taken to naming him. He'd embraced the nickname in spirit, tweaking his attire somewhat to fulfil the role entirely – though black had always been his colour regardless.

"You can see it by day now," The voice of Aedan Greystark greeted him. "The men are calling it the Red Messenger…"

"What's the message though?" Willam raised his eyes to the faint red line of a comet tracing a path across the deep blue sky like a long scratch across the face of god. "Lord Umber told me that the old gods have unfurled a red flag of vengeance. Tully no doubt thinks it's some omen of victory for Riverrun – seeing a cosmic fish with a long tail, in the Tully colours, red against the blue shy." He scoffed at those thoughts. "Crimson is a Lannister colour, our enemy is saying; or so I wager…"

"That thing's not crimson," Aedan replied with a shake of his head "That's blood up there, Will, smeared across the sky…"

"Our blood," Robb wondered aloud. "Or theirs?"

"Was there ever a war where only one side bled?" Willam gave a shake of his head. "The riverlands are awash in blood and flame all around the Gods Eye. The fighting has spread south to the Blackwater and may spread north across the Trident, to the Blackwood. Marq Piper and Karyl Vance have won some small victories…"

"Lord Tully spreads his men too thinly, each man trying to protect his own, and it's folly, Will, folly…"

"Aye," Willam hummed his agreement.

"My uncle is Lord of Riverrun in his father's absence," Robb moved to defend his kin, though his heart didn't seem in it.

"Jonos Bracken has been wounded in the fighting to defend his castle," Aedan added. "Have you heard?"

"No," Robb denied with a frown at the news.

"His nephew was slain, I'm told. Henry? Or was it, Harry?"

"Something with a H no doubt," Willam mused aloud. He couldn't bring himself to fake a care.

"Lord Blackwood has swept the lions off his lands, but they took every cow and pig and speck of grain and left him nothing to defend but Raventree Hall and a scorched desert. Darry men hold fast to their walls as far as we're aware, but news is spare that close to the Gods Eye…"

Robb's frown had only grown tenfold, thinking too hard and fast on the news. House Darry's line was thin enough as it was...

"These are lures," Willam assured, noting the boys discomfort. "Tywin Lannister will sit safe behind the walls of Harrenhal, feeding his host and burning what he does not take. The lion's dogs are in the field, barking for our attention, and some sellsword too who'd sooner maim a man than kill him…"

"Villages put to the torch," Robb scowled then, as Greywind sat patiently at his side. "Women raped and mutilated, butchered children left unburied to draw wolves and wild dogs; is this what war is? And what of me? Innocents suffer and I ride west, not east… abandoning them all to the Lannisters..."

"Terror has its purpose, Robb." Willam countered with a sigh. "Lannister wants to provoke us to battle, you know that."

"What's the first rule of war?"

Aedan's question brought the ghost of a smile.

"Never give the enemy what he wants," Willam answered. "Nor shall we, eh Robb?"

"No," Robb Stark denied with some renewed courage. "We fight this war on our terms, not Lannisters."

Lord Tywin had every wish to fight them on a field of his own choosing. He wanted them to march on Harrenhal, as all his actions spoke clearly, his intent obvious.

Willam had read the tales told of Harrenhal, from his study on Aegon the Conqueror, he'd read it as a vast fortress that King Harren the Black raised beside the waters of the Gods Eye three hundred years past, when the Seven Kingdoms had been seven kingdoms, and the riverlands were ruled by the ironmen from the islands. In his pride, Harren had desired the highest hall and tallest towers in all Westeros. Forty years it had taken, rising like a great shadow on the shore of the lake while Harren's armies plundered his neighbors for stone, lumber, gold, and workers. Thousands of captives died in his quarries, chained to his sledges, or labouring on his five colossal towers. Men froze by winter and sweltered in summer. Weirwoods that had stood three thousand years were cut down for beams and rafters.

And when at last Harrenhal stood complete, on the very day King Harren took up residence, Aegon had come ashore at King's Landing.

"Thick walls and high towers are small use against dragons," the stories always ended. "For dragons fly." Harren and all his line had perished in the fires that engulfed his monstrous fortress, and every house that held Harrenhal since had come to misfortune. Strong it might be, but it was a dark place, and cursed.

"Wargs too," Willam could only think with a smile. "Wargs fly too…"

Time would tell the worth of the old ways, for one warg was worth a thousand men.

"Prince Willam," a new voice snapped him from those thoughts.

Ashlyn Amber sat mounted in the courtyard with some twenty men-at-arms. "I'm to accompany you…"

"Are you, my Lady?" Willam couldn't contain the huff of amusement, walking to fetch his horse.

Aedan had already led over his prince's horse, reigned and saddled; a fierce and impatient satin black charger.

"And what does your betrothed have to say about this, Lady Amber?"

She scowled at that. There was a story there, Willam knew the look well…

"I'm coming," Ashlyn insisted, her amber eyes burning into the prince – daring him to argue.

"No use fighting her," Aedan offered with a smirk that could only be considered sly.

"Aye," Willam agreed with a sigh. "I suppose not."

"I knew you'd see things my way, Prince."

Willam rolled his eyes at her use of his lofty title.

"The name is Willam," he insisted. "If you're to join us, my lady, then-"

"-then, Willam, my name is Ashlyn."

"If you two are quite done flirting?" Suko came over atop his steed, dressed for battle; with his usual smirk.

"He wishes," Ashlyn replied with a scowl before tugging on her horse's reigns.

If Willam rolled his eyes any harder, he feared they'd fall from their sockets.

"Ready lads!?" Aedan called out to the fifty or so mounted Greycloaks that awaited orders. "Let's hunt some lions!" The men cheered heartily, clearly looking forward to the hunt. A voice interrupted their leave, one that gave the men pause and forced Willam's attention away from bolting out of the gatehouse to take the road.

"Willam!" Robb called from behind, with all eyes on the pair now.

"Ska," Willam took a knee to stroke Greywind behind the ears as he continued to speak in a harsh, clanging tongue. "Tririk sygerrik gram, gerrik." He paused at that, looking up to see the conflicted look on Robb Starks face. "Na Syg, Magnar Ska." The old tongue was a harsh thing, with little beauty to it; but Robb had learnt enough by now.

"Are you certain?" Robb asked Willam as he watched Aedan ride out under the portcullis. "I can spare you more men, surely…"

"We'll be swifter with few of us," He argued with a shake of his head. "Trust me lad, we'll be fine – look to yourself instead."

"Give lord Bolton my regards," Robb uttered the first words that came to mind.

"I shall," Willam promised. "Stick to the plan and keep your wolf close."

"Aye," Robb grabbed the offered hand and shook it gladly.

"Until we meet again," Willam Stark leapt into his saddle and bid his horse forward.

They rode fast out from the safety of Riverrun's high walls, away from the flying crowed stag of House Baratheon and out onto the roads that littered the Riverlands, riding eastward with a company of Greycloaks. Sharp eyes watched them ride from above, on feathered wings, they soured beneath a comet as red as blood.

Whatever names Harren the Black had meant to give his towers were long forgotten. They were called the Tower of Dread now, the Widow's Tower, the Wailing Tower, the Tower of Ghosts, and Kingspyre Tower. Harrenhal was vast, much of it far gone in decay. Lady Whent had held the castle as bannerman to House Tully, but she'd used only the lower thirds of two of the five towers, and let the rest go to ruin. Now she was fled, and the small household she'd left could not begin to tend the needs of all the knights, lords, and highborn prisoners Lord Tywin had brought, so the Lannister's had foraged for servants as well as for plunder and provender.

The talk was that Lord Tywin planned to restore Harrenhal to glory and make it his new seat once the war was done. Idle chatter, no doubt, she'd dismissed it.

From above she could see little mice running messages, drawing water and fetching food, and sometimes to serve at table in the Barracks Hall above the armory, where the men-at-arms took their meals. From the air she could count their numbers and see their movements, but much laid hidden beneath the roofs; so here she'd roosted.

The ground floor of the Wailing Tower was storerooms and granaries, and two floors above housed part of the garrison, but the upper stories seemed disused, until now, as the floor were scrubbed, grime washed off windows, broken chairs and rotted beds carried off. The topmost story was infested with nests of the huge black bats that eyed her warily in the back shadowy corners, and there were rats in the cellars as well… and ghosts too, some whispered, the spirits of Harren the Black and his sons.

King Harren and his sons had died in Kingspyre Tower, that was why it had that name, while The Wailing Tower only wailed when the wind blew from the north, and that was just the sound the air made blowing through the cracks in the stones where they had fissured from the heat. If there were ghosts in Harrenhal, her eyes had seen none. Not yet at least. It was the living that interested her though, especially the Lord Tywin Lannister himself, who kept his apartments in Kingspyre Tower, still the tallest and mightiest of all; though lopsided beneath the weight of the slagged stone that made it look like some giant half-melted black candle.

"And both of them kings now," one voice piqued her interest, from high up in the shadowy rafters. "Realms got more kings than a castle's got rats. The lad's got no army but them gold cloaks, and he's ruled by a eunuch, a dwarf, and a woman," a lordling muttered in his cups. "What good will the likes of them be if it comes to battle?"

Her eyes had seen a great deal these past nights, but none had been so interesting as last night – when the queerest company of men she'd ever seen arrived at Harrenhal beneath the standard of a black goat with bloody horns rode copper men with bells in their braids; lancers astride striped black-and-white horses; bowmen with powdered cheeks; squat hairy men with shaggy shields; brown-skinned men in feathered cloaks; a wispy fool in green-and-pink motley; swordsmen with fantastic forked beards dyed green and purple and silver; spearmen with colored scars that covered their cheeks; a slender man in septon's robes, a fatherly one in maester's grey, and a sickly one whose leather cloak was fringed with long blond hair. At their head was a man stick-thin and very tall, with a drawn emaciated face made even longer by the ropy black beard that grew from his pointed chin nearly to his waist. The helm that hung from his saddle horn was black steel, fashioned in the shape of a goat's head.

About his neck he wore a chain made of linked coins of many different sizes, shapes, and metals, and his horse was one of the strange black-and-white ones.

"Who are they?" one man had been kind enough to ask then, for she could certainly not ask them herself…

One of the soldiers laughed. "The Footmen, fool. Toes of the Goat. Lord Tywin's Bloody Mummers!"

"They're sellswords," another confirmed quietly, but her ears were as sharp as her talons. "Call themselves the Brave Companions, they do, don't use them other names where they can hear, or they'll hurt you bad. The goat-helm's their captain, Lord Vargo Hoat."

"He's no fucking lord," said a soldier. "I heard Ser Amory say so. He's just some sellsword with a mouth full of slobber and a high opinion of hisself."

"Aye," said the first man, "but better call him lord if you wants to keep all ya parts."

The Brave Companions were housed in the Widow's Tower now. On the very night they arrived, fighting broke out between the sellswords and some Lannister men. Ser Harys Swyft's squire was stabbed to death and two of the Bloody Mummers were wounded. The next morning Lord Tywin hanged them both from the gatehouse walls, along with one of Lord Lydden's archers. Talk about the castle was how the archer had started all the trouble by taunting the sellswords. After the hanged men had stopped kicking, Vargo Hoat and Ser Harys embraced and kissed and swore to love each other always as Lord Tywin looked on. All this she had seen with her eyes.

After some time looking down from above, she had taken to nesting in the rafters; only to be awoken by the rush and bustle of raised voices.

"Roose Bolton has occupied the Ruby Ford," the voice said, sparking interest among the rafters. "If he crosses, Lord Tywin will smash him again like he did on the Green Fork," a bowmen said, but his fellows jeered him down. "Bolton'll never cross, not till the Young Wolf marches from Riverrun with his wild northmen!"

From the talk she'd learned that the upper chambers of the Tower of Dread housed three dozen captives taken during some battle on the Green Fork of the Trident. Most had been given freedom of the castle in return for their pledge not to attempt escape. This much she had gladly told her Prince already.

The captives ate at their own table in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, beneath her rafters, and were often be seen about the grounds. Four brothers took their exercise together every day, fighting with staves and wooden shields in the yard. Three of them were Freys of the Crossing, the fourth their bastard brother. They were only there a short time, though; one morning two other brothers arrived under a peace banner with a chest of gold and ransomed them from the knights who'd captured them.

The six Freys all left together arm in arm, close as brothers – as if they had never fought on opposite sides. This too she had told her prince…

One fat lordling haunted the kitchens, always looking for a morsel, who she knew to be a Manderly. His moustache covered his mouth, and the clasp that held his cloak was a silver-and-sapphire trident. And then there was the bearded young man who liked to walk the battlements alone in a black cloak patterned with white suns.

Harrison Karstark was his name, taken by some hedge knight in battle who meant to get rich off him by ransom alone. All this too, she had told her prince.

Then one morning she'd spied three women in the cowled grey robes of the silent sisters loading a corpse into their wagon. The body was sewn into a cloak of the finest silk, decorated with a battle-axe sigil. Lord Cerwyn had died. The news was an ill thing, but in war you could hardly save everyone. Only children were so naïve.

"Lord Tywin will soon march on Riverrun," she'd heard, or "he will drive south to Highgarden, no one would ever expect that," or "No, he must defend King's Landing, Stannis was the greatest threat!" The conflicting gossip went on and on. "He'd sent Gregor Clegane and Vargo Hoat to destroy Roose Bolton and remove the dagger from his back" and "He'd sent ravens to the Eyrie, he meant to wed the Lady Lysa Arryn and win the Vale!" or "He'd bought a ton of silver to forge magic swords that would slay the Stark wargs!" That last one had brought a smile to her face, and laughter to her prince when he'd heard it. That had made her happy to hear…

Lord Tywin himself spent most of his days behind closed doors with his war council. She had caught glimpses of him, but always from afar-once walking the walls in the company of three maesters and the fat captive, once riding out with his lords bannermen to visit the encampments, but most often standing in an arch of the covered gallery watching men at practice in the yard below. He stood with his hands locked together on the gold pommel of his longsword. They said Lord Tywin loved gold most of all; he even shit gold, she heard one squire jest. The Lannister lord was strong looking for an old man, with stiff golden whiskers and a bald head.

One afternoon he'd looked straight at her and for a moment she'd feared he knew… but dismissed the notion. These andals knew nothing of her kind.

The following day, confusion and clangour ruled the castle. Men stood on the beds of wagons loading casks of wine, sacks of flour, and bundles of new-fletched arrows. Smiths straightened swords, knocked dents from breastplates, and shoed destriers and pack mules alike. Mail shirts were tossed in barrels of sand and rolled across the lumpy surface of the Flowstone Yard to scour them clean. The high and humble crowded into the sept together to pray. Outside the walls, tents and pavilions were coming down. Squires tossed pails of water over cookfires, while soldiers took out their oilstones to give their blades one last good lick. The noise was a swelling tide: horses blowing and whickering, lords shouting commands, men-at-arms trading curses, camp followers squabbling.

Lord Tywin Lannister was marching. This was the news she'd been waiting for, her ultimate purpose fulfilled – and her heart soured for it.

Ser Addam Marbrand was the first of the captains to depart. He made a gallant show of it, riding a spirited red courser whose mane was the same copper color as the long hair that streamed past Ser Addam's shoulders. The horse was barded in bronze-colored trappings dyed to match the rider's cloak and emblazoned with the burning tree. Some of the castle women sobbed to see him go. Word around the castle said he was a great horseman and sword fighter, Lord Tywin's most daring commander.

They were going West, she'd learnt quickly, listening to the talk. Lord Robb had won some great victory in the west. He'd burned Lannisport, some said, or else he meant to burn it. He'd captured Casterly Rock and put everyone to the sword, or he was besieging the Golden Tooth. The truth was unknown, but something had happened…

"His lordship's named Ser Amory castellan of Harrenhal," she overheard one of the Lannisters speaking aloud. "That whole lot's staying right here, to hold the castle. The Bloody Mummers will be left as well, to do the foraging. That goat Vargo Hoat is like to spit, him and Lorch have always hated each other."

The Mountain would be leaving with Lord Tywin, though. He would command the van in battle, it was said. She heard scratches of talk.

"…giants I tell you, he's got giants twenty foot tall come down from beyond the Wall, follow him like dogs…"

"…not natural, coming on them so fast, in the night and all. He's more wolf than man, all them Starks are…"

"…shit on your wolves and giants, the boy'd piss his pants if he knew we was coming. He wasn't man enough to march on Harrenhal, was he? Ran t'other way, didn't he? He'd run now if he knew what was best for him!" Form those words, it seemed that young Robb Stark had indeed had some success in the West.

"So you say, but might be the boy knows something we don't, maybe it's us ought to run…"

"Yes," she thought at that. "Yes, it's you who ought to run!"

"It's that bloody eagle again," the Lannister man spotted her starring at them.

"Unnatural thing," another man was frowning. "It's watching us, it is…"

"Don't be stupid," she heard the first man deny, laughing as she took flight; back to home. Fools. "It's just a bird."

Home. Where was that, exactly? The rafters? The sky… the… no, that wasn't right. She shook the thought away and forced open her eyes.

Rowana found the waking world too bright, her legs too shaky; falling out from her feather bed – she stumbled for her clothes in a rush – eager beyond words to share her news. The Prince had to know, she told herself silently as he pulled on her boots and hurried out from the small tent that was her resting place.

"Lady Row?" One guardsman called as he passed them, but she paid them no mind. Jarrold, was his name… or was it? The memory was a haze.

The men watched her as she walked across the muddy floor past guards and banners of red and black and white and browns as brown as the muddy floor itself – but she paid them no heed, moving to the banners of black-on-ice and those of red-on-pink. The flayed man of Bolton flew alongside the wolf of Stark.

"Halt," the guards stopped her, locking their spears to block entry.

It was all she could do to dart backwards and prevent herself from colliding with those spears.

"I-" Rowana shook herself out from the daze as a sharp pain gnawed at her skull.

"My Lady?" A kinder guard seemed worried for her state.

"The Prince," She regained herself. "I have urgent news that must-"

"The Prince is busy with Lord Bolton at present, you should-"

"Hold up," the king one interrupted. "Isn't this Prince Will's girl?"

"I-" She stumbled over that. "I am, I mean, that isn't-"

The less kind guard laughed then. "Aye, couldn't tell – hair looking like a damn bird's nest and all!"

"You been sleeping, lass?"

"I bet she hasn't," the unkind one was still laughing.

"I'm not-" Rowana frowned, the stabbing feeling at the back of her head was back.

"You should come back later lass," the kind one suggested, smiling sweetly. "The Prince is busy…"

"I have orders," She insisted, the pain pushing aside her embarrassment.

The guards shared a look. One shrugged, the other muttered "Bolton won't like this" with a sigh.

"Thank you," Rowana walked past them, the spears giving way, lifting up the tent flap and entering to seek her prince.

Inside was a large oaken table with crude seats full of all the lords and ladies she'd come to know these past days – though in truth, she hadn't spoken to many of them; but she knew their faces and the banners at a mere glance. "Prince Willam," she called out quiet as a mouse as the gathered lords kept talking.

"…shouldn't have done that."

"I was given orders, Prince Willam."

This man she knew to be Ser Helman Tallhart.

"Are you a Stark man or a Tully one?" Willam was snarling at the man. "You were given orders, Tallhart."

"By my liege's son," Helman agreed without a fuss. "And by the lads uncle; who's land we're in Prince. Whose orders was I to follow?"

"The bloody Stark ones," Willam argued with a sigh. Tallhart had been too eager to abandon his post at the Twins… all on Edmure Tully's directive…

"My Prince?" Rowana asked again, but nobody answered her – nor so much as took note of her existence.

"If the Lannisters were to sally-"

"They won't," Willam dismissed that. "Tywin is nothing if not predictable…"

That much was true enough. His poor attempts to lure them had failed spectacularly.

Rowana found the cold gaze of Lord Bolton fall upon her then, and she felt her skin crawl.

"Your whore is present," Roose added, thin and quietly; but where nobody had heard her – all heard Bolton's words.

All eyes fell on her then. Suddenly, she released that in her haste; she doubtless looked quite the mess.

"You're sleeping with your warg," Lady Amber's vice was scolding, both at her and him.

"I-" Rowana stumbled to deny, cheeks red and eyes wide.

"No," Willam sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I am not, for gods sake – must men succumb to idle chatter so quickly?"

"She's not bad looking," Prince Suko offered, boots up on the table as he leaned back in his seat. "Hair's a mess, but no matter…"

"I'm not sleeping with any-"

"You could do worse, my friend."

"Shut up for once Suko," Aedan countered, scowling something fierce.

"What is her purpose here?" Roose Bolton's expression hadn't changed in the slightest.

"Lady Rowana," Willam called on her with tired eyes. "Why are you-"

"Tywin Lannister is marching!" She blurted out suddenly.

The tent fell into silence at that announcement.

"How do you know this?" Roose asked her, his voice of pale ice.

"I saw-" She shook her head. "Talon saw them, Prince; he-"

"You've been warging again? I told you to take a rest…"

"There was no time," she blushed at the scolding. "It was too important and-"

"-and dangerous, my Lady, you know this."

"I do," She didn't deny that much, but it changed nothing…

"Warging?" Roose Bolton's features shifted only a little then, either in disbelief or judgement.

"A single Warg is worth a thousand men," Willam dismissed quickly, offering no explanation. "Row, you are certain of this?"

She nodded firmly. "I- Talon saw it, clear as day; the Lannisters are leaving Harrenhal with a skeleton garrison."

"Good thing I came then," Ser Helman smirked at the news. "Finally, some damn action!"

There was some muttering of agreement from the lords at that news.

"No," Willam denied them easily. "Where is he marching?"

"West," Rowana replied with a smile. "Just as you said he would, my Prince."

"Robb has tugged on the lion's tail," Willam had gotten up from his chair at that, walking over to his warg and grabbing her shoulders.

"M- My Prince?"

"Get some sleep," He ordered. "No warging, is that understood?"

"B- But-"

"No," His smiled faded, melting like summer snow.

"There are others to keep watch, Lady," Aedan added then.

"You look like a used tavern wench," Suko added unhelpfully, all smiles.

"I do not-" Rowana denied heartily. "I don't, do I?"

Her hair was ruffled, and her clothes hastily put on, with her boots muddy and undone.

"Get some rest," Willam repeated with another smile, ruffling her bird's nest of hair.

"That girl is going to get herself killed helping you," Ashlyn added once Rowana had left the tent.

"She's dutiful," Willam agreed with a frown. He'd told her already to get some damn rest…

"She likes you," Ashlyn countered with a roll of her eyes. "Trying to impress you, I think."

"You're delusional I fear, Lady Amber…"

She rolled her eyes harder at that. "You're clueless, Princeling."

"Is that any way to talk to royalty, my Lady?"

"I don't know," Ashlyn wondered aloud. "Is it, my Prince?"

"If you two are quite done," Suko butted in, grabbing their attention. "The lion is on the move, or had you forgotten?"

Willam huffed some mild amusement. "Lord Bolton," he looked to the man, whom at the least he'd found capable. "Your thoughts?"

The Leech Lord and the Black Wolf spoke at length, plotting and scheming their next move. It wasn't long before Willam's wargs reported an advancing host of men, riding beneath the standard of a black goat with bloody horns, led by a man wearing a black steel helm fashioned in the shape of a goat's head.

My Note(s): PoV's split a little here since Robb and Willam have gone their separate ways, so we'll see their perspective in the next chapter over in the Westerlands while this chapter is mostly a tease really; next up we've the Battle of the Oxcross with Robb tugging on the lion's tail there – all according to plan :P

Should note, Rowana's overuse of warging, because there ARE limits and rather serious consequences to its overuse. Until next time though…

PS: Updates have slowed sadly, got more stuff on my plate, but I'll still be aiming for new chapters every weekend/other weekend etc :)

Tertius711: It's good to remember, my Jon isn't HBO's Jon or even really GRRM's Jon, since he's developed a lot from the sullen bastard we knew; and that'll continue to show moving forward – but still – however more confident or even content he is, having your entire life ripped apart and turned upside down isn't something that's shrugged off meekly in reality. Jon's still a teenager, even with Willam's guidance, the boy is NOT ready for a crown this early in my story. He simply isn't ready.

That's not to say he never might be capable, nor do I agree with how HBO kept him "meh Queen" and disregarded all his character development – but Jon by Winds of Winter has earned confidence and experience leading men; making him a far cry from the Jon in my story here, who has no experience leading. Yet.

I don't believe Jon ever genuinely wanted Winterfell. What he craved was respect, to be a Stark; to ultimately be seen as not just 'The Bastard'.

Betmen123: The 'romanticization' so to speak is a product of the story told from Howland Reed's perspective, as the close friend of Lyanna, he only saw the smitten girl and the gallant Prince she loved, so his view is coloured. While there is no doubt that Lyanna went willingly, you may doubt how happy she was; or how foolish it was.

Force Smuggler: War is always a danger, regardless of what name Jon Snow chooses at the end of things, but for now he's content fighting alongside his brother and for the man he knows as a father. It's easier for people to embrace what's familiar than what's foreign. As for Stannis? Time will tell how that goes… spoilers…