Mid June, 300 AC
Arya gently patted the earth, the body of the rabbit well covered by the damp soil. A mere fortnight after planting the weirwood sapling was already up to her hip, to the solemn amazement of the northmen and the nervous approval of the rivermen. Ser Perwyn Truefaith waited patiently behind her, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Arya blew her hair out of her face, annoyed. Even since arriving a week ago he was her constant shadow.
"I swore to Lady Catelyn," he responded when she first tried to send him away. "I failed her. I will not fail you, princess."
Appealing to Robb did no good. Telling Ser Perwyn that Truefaith was a stupid name did no good. Demanding that Ser Perwyn spar with her did no good, and resulted in a ripe crop of bruises as he showed her the pitfalls of relying upon water dancing when facing a knight. Arya had been furious when she realized that the Dornish squire had been going easy on her at Riverrun. And it was far too late to yell at him; Edric Dayne was back at Riverrun, waiting to be put on a ship home. Edric never dared trounce her or trick her like Gendry had. Arya brushed the dirt from her hands. She'd already eaten breakfast, but she bet Gendry hadn't.
White Willow's old forge stood apart from the rest of the village, smoke rising from the chimney. Gendry was working on a horseshoe when Arya arrived, beating the red-hot iron into shape. His face was covered in soot, his bare arms in sweat. Arya tossed a chunk of hard cheese between Gendry's teeth, laughing when he caught it. She ignored Ser Perwyn's frown. He didn't understand, he hadn't been there at the hollow hill.
Gendry practically lived in his forge. There was plenty of metal that needed working before Robb's host regrouped and rode north. The day after Robb rose from his sickbed he had summoned Gendry and Anguy to reward them for their part in his recovery, and the apprentice boy had begrudgingly agreed to follow them north. Arya had cried when she heard that Theon's ironborn had killed Mikken, but Robb planned to bring a new master smith from White Harbor, the best that could be found.
"Once your apprenticeship is over you shall not want for coin," Robb had said solemnly, his bronze crown shining at his brow, the nine iron longswords sharp. "Whether you choose to become the new master smith of Winterfell or build your forge elsewhere, you shall always be welcome at our hearth."
Then Gendry had nodded and made his thanks, but now he seemed less enthused.
"There's no place like King's Landing for the people and crowds," Gendry said as he gulped down water. He wiped his mouth, smearing ash over his face. "It's too quiet out here, with nothing but the wind and the beasts."
"The city reeks of shit and worse," Arya objected, ignoring Perwyn's wince at her foul mouth. She was smart enough not to swear in front of Robb or his bannermen, anyway.
"Aye, it does," Gendry replied. "But there's no smith north of the neck as can teach me to work Valyrian steel like old Tobho Mott. How many suits of armor will your brother need? Will there be lords coming to my forge for steel dyed in rich colors, for helms fashioned in the shapes of beasts?"
Arya didn't have an answer for that, so she threw a chunk of bread at Gendry and left the forge. He'd change his mind, he had to. Anguy had, once Helly had laid into him.
"You turned down the old Hand and look where it got you," she scolded while Arya listened, amused by Anguy's sheepishness. "Ten thousand dragons, when my old Pate was lucky to make ten a year smithing when he lived in Lord Harroway's Town! A hundred years o' money in your hand!"
"A thousand," Arya corrected pertly. She knew her sums.
"A thousand !" Helly shrieked indignantly. "All that prize money wasted gambling, and you shrug your shoulders and turn outlaw w' a bunch of fleabitten ne'er-do-wells!"
"There were pretty girls and roast swan too," Anguy objected.
Helly rolled her eyes. "You think some other king will ask you to be his master bowman? Or did you think to spend the winter in a burrow like a fox?"
"It's damn cold up there!" Anguy said, turning pink as the widow tweaked his nose. The blacksmith's widow had ten years on him and acted like it, but the freckled archer didn't seem to mind being bossed around. Tom o' Sevens teased that if a septon came through Anguy was doomed to be wedded rather than just bedded.
"Not inside, stupid!" Arya rolled her eyes. "Winterfell has hot springs, ask any northman and he'll tell you."
"The princess talks sense, thank you, m'lady." Helly placed her hands on her hips, her bosom jiggling. "Now, will you be thanking the king for his generosity on bended knee or do I have to knock you upside the head first?"
"Dorne has lemons?" Anguy protested weakly.
"So do we," Arya retorted. "We grow them in the glass gardens." Helly laughed, Anguy groaned, and the matter was settled.
That had been yesterday, and Helly was still grinning triumphantly when Arya arrived, Ser Perwyn at her heels.
"Anguy's out collecting feathers for fletching, princess" she informed them, curtsying. "He was up at the crack o' dawn."
Her eyes twinkled mischievously as Arya huffed in annoyance. Ser Perwyn wouldn't let Arya come out that early, not since three days ago when they'd heard more of those slapping and panting noises. Ser Perwyn had turned redder than a pomegranate and taken her back to the towerhouse without a word.
Since she couldn't join Anguy collecting feathers Arya wandered around the tiny village. Helly's cousin had a new baby to play with, and two older children who loved playing monsters-and-maidens and hide-the-treasure. By mid-morning she was bored stiff, and talked Ser Perwyn into showing her how to avoid collecting the same bruises twice. A few of the smallfolk watched, some appalled, some amused.
When the noon sun hung overhead it was time for the midday meal. Jeyne Poole forced Arya into a tub and a clean gown before she joined the lords and knights in the towerhouse's little hall. Arya would have rather washed up after lunch, but between Ser Perwyn and Jeyne Poole it was impossible to escape Robb's orders regarding her appearance at mealtimes.
Robb was still confined to his chambers for the most part, and it was there that Arya spent her afternoon, listening quietly as he conferred with his bannermen.
"Consider it an honor, Arya," he told her halfway through the afternoon, half-stern, half-smiling. "I learned much from listening to father's councils." His smile turned sad. Arya didn't understand why she had to be present. Robb had Bran and Rickon to serve as his heirs, and Sansa after them, and that was only until he and Jeyne Westerling had their own pack of children.
"What will you do with Bolton?" Arya asked when Short Lew left after reporting no new word from the Greatjon. Robb sighed.
"Bolton may have reached the Dreadfort already, little sister. Autumn is a poor time to begin a siege, but such treason cannot wait."
"I wish Sansa was here. She could find lost children, I bet she could sniff out Bolton."
"We have nothing with his scent," Robb reminded her. "If we did, Nymeria would be searching for him, not standing guard." While Grey Wind remained by Robb's side at all times, save when he hunted, Nymeria and a few local wolves circled the perimeter of the village, noses twitching for the scent of unfamiliar men. It had been Arya's idea, to make sure no one followed the escaped Freys to Robb.
"How's your cheek?"
Robb winced, the bandage shifting slightly.
"Better. I am fortunate to have such a clever wife and a sister who befriends smallfolk wherever she goes. Jeyne's efforts would have been for naught without your archer and your smith, Arya Underfoot."
Arya stared at her feet as Ser Patrek admitted Uncle Edmure. Robb wouldn't have been wounded in the first place if she'd done a better job of warning him. If she hadn't run off, if she'd stay put and made them understand, then mother would still be alive.
Arya was only half listening as Edmure explained his preparations for returning to Riverrun. If I hadn't run off to kill Amory Lorch, Sansa would be safe here, not locked up in King's Landing. Arya gnawed at her lip. She still couldn't believe Roslin's news. Sansa, perfect, courteous Sansa, calling Tywin Lannister a craven to his face before the entire court? Even Arya wasn't that reckless.
Robb was so stunned he'd been stricken speechless. When he finally talked to Arya the next day when they were alone, Robb was less surprised about Sansa's suicidal heroism and more upset that some Dornish bastard had saved Sansa's life while her elder brother sat ignorant of her peril a thousand leagues away. Arya didn't think Robb was in any condition to be fighting the Mountain even if he had been in King's Landing, but she wasn't stupid enough to point that out. He'd written several drafts of scathing letters demanding Sansa's return only to pitch them in the fire, cursing their lack of ravens.
"— as soon as Robert Paege is well enough to ride," Edmure finished. Robb nodded, tired.
Robb joined the men for dinner in the hall, Ser Patrek and Uncle Edmure bracing him as he struggled down the steps. To her relief Robb ate heartily, sopping up the last of his stew with a crust of bread. Arya wished Jeyne Westerling would eat so well.
When the meal was done Arya helped serving men bring food to the longhouse in the village that had become the queen's domain. Dacey Mormont stood guard, opening the door to let them pass. Once empty, the thatched roof now sheltered those sick with winter fever. To his frustration Jeyne had forbidden Robb to come anywhere near the place lest he catch the fever himself.
The riverlords were the first to fall sick and the first on the mend. The Freys who had freed them had somehow gotten the worst of the fever. White Walda was pale and weak, though her cough was improving. Little Jonos was doing very poorly; he was only nine, and embarrassed half to death by Meri needing to help him change after he fouled himself. At the moment he was gulping down a steaming cup of medicinal tea, making a face at the bitter taste of willow bark.
"Why do they need so much tea?"
Jeyne Westerling leaned over Bryan Frey, her face wan as she listened to his cough.
"The fever and the runs dry them out," Jeyne Westerling explained, covering her mouth as she yawned. Meri said Jeyne was still working in the middle of the night when she sent Meri to bed, and already awake when she returned to help after breakfast.
Jeyne pressed her ear to the man's chest. Arya waited impatiently until her goodsister sat back up before asking her question.
"What are you listening for?"
Jeyne picked at the food Arya had brought her, taking a mouthful of stew. Had her face always been so thin?
"When winter fever turns bad it can cause water in the lungs," Jeyne said. "It makes a rough, scratchy sound."
"Can I try?"
"Gently," her goodsister answered. Bryan's chest was sweaty against her ear, but at last Arya heard a soft crackly noise.
"I was afraid…" Jeyne fiddled with a small piece of cheese. "If the fluid isn't drained the lung collapses and the patient dies. I don't know how to do it; with Robb's wound I just had to follow the path of the arrow. Thank the Seven Bryan sounds better today; I think he's on the mend. And Robert Paege is doing well; Lord Edmure should be able to depart on the morrow."
Her yawn turned into a cough, and Arya flinched. Who would take care of Jeyne if she got sick?
"Just a piece of food gone down the wrong way," Jeyne assured her, seeing the worried expression on her face. "Nothing to worry about, I promise."
Uncle Edmure, his wife, and his riverlords rode south two days later, the Truefaiths remaining behind. While Ser Perwyn watched Arya, Arya watched her goodsister. Sometimes Jeyne put a hand to her chest as if it pained her, and she was barely eating, her face nauseous when Arya tried to press food on her. But she wasn't coughing much, and when she did she blamed the smoke from the fire. She kept the longhouse hot; water was always on the boil for tea and for the hot towels she placed on the chests of the sick so that they could breathe the steam.
Arya was helping in the longhouse when the Greatjon finally returned, hooves thundering as the small host pounded into the village. He would pay his respects to Robb first; Arya could imagine his bellow of surprise at finding Robb on the mend. He'd be even more delighted with what Sansa had been up to. She just hoped he didn't kill any Freys before someone told him what was going on.
It was nearly dusk when the Greatjon finally appeared. "TRUEFAITH!" The Greatjon bellowed, clapping Ser Perwyn on the shoulder with an enormous hand. Perwyn winced; the Greatjon had shouted in his ear.
"Not so loud, my lord, we've sick folk here," Jeyne scolded gently. The Greatjon beamed, bowing quickly before sweeping her up in his meaty arms.
"Queen Jeyne the Healer, the old gods bless your clever fingers! You Westerlings were wasted on the Crag; you've the blood of the First Men same as any northman!"
For a moment Jeyne froze in surprise, the Greatjon's bushy beard tickling her chin. Her nervous giggle became a laugh, and soon she was helpless with merriment, tears running down her face. The laughter was infectious; soon Arya and Perwyn and the Greatjon's men were laughing too, stomping their feet and slapping their bellies.
Then Jeyne's laugh turned into a racking cough, and all the laughter ceased.
Her cough began near dusk, and by dawn the next day it had only grown worse. The sound was harsh and dry, and between coughs she struggled to breathe, wheezing and choking on air. Finally Arya pressed an ear to her goodsister's chest, dreading what she would find.
A rough, scratchy sound filled her ears, worse than Bryan Frey's, much worse. Arya should have seen, she should have known! How many times had Maester Luwin said that lack of sleep and lack of food made men vulnerable to illness? While Meri brewed willow tea and Arya forced Jeyne to breathe the steam the Greatjon frantically rode forth in search of a maester, as did many of the other scouts.
Almost a week passed, and Jeyne only grew weaker. Against Jeyne's will Ser Perwyn carried her to Robb's chambers and laid her in the featherbed, Grey Wind curling up at her feet.
"You shouldn't be near me," Jeyne wheezed as Robb held her hand. "If you take sick—"
"Your place is here, as is mine," Robb replied, immovable as the Wall, his eyes wet as he pressed a kiss to his wife's sweaty brow. Arya shifted uncomfortably in her seat and reached for Nymeria.
The direwolf trotted down a muddy old game trail on the outskirts of the village, her nose twitching as she sniffed at the air. A light breeze tugged at her fur, and the she-wolf stiffened as it brought her the scent of an unfamiliar two-legger and a dog.
Carefully Nymeria crept toward the source of the smell, keeping downwind lest the dog catch her scent, the undergrowth hiding her from their eyes. At last she saw them. The two-legger was big, six feet tall, but he had a way of hunching forward as he walked that made him seem much shorter. His roughspun robes were belted with rope, his feet bare and black and hard as horn. An enormous shaggy dog trotted at his side, as humble and plain as his master.
Get Dacey , Arya ordered. The direwolf whined softly. She could handle a dog and a two-legger. Of course you can, but we need to know who they are, she reminded the direwolf. Nymeria obeyed, still slightly offended, slipping away to fetch Dacey Mormont.
Whoever the intruder was, Robb was too busy to deal with him. "I'm going to get some fresh air," Arya said. Her brother barely noticed when she left, Perwyn trailing after her.
She found the intruder in the center of the village, surrounded by smiling villagers. Dacey Mormont stood at ease, her morningstar at her back. Hoarfrost Umber, the Greatjon's second son, stood beside her, his face gruff with disapproval. Helly's cousin handed her baby to the old man, who held the babe gently as any grandfather.
"Your wolf nearly scared poor Septon Meribald half to death, princess," Helly laughed from her doorway. "She was fixing to fight that dog o' his before the lady shooed her away."
"Septon Meribald?"
"Aye, the only septon who comes our way. He wanders the riverlands, blessing babes, wedding them as want to wed, forgiving sins and the like." Helly smiled ruefully. "He's not been here for a year past, what with the fighting. I caught him first; I've sins to confess once the rest leave him be."
What sins could Helly commit, here in the middle of nowhere?
"The queen needs him," Arya insisted. Helly's smile fell, and she curtsied low.
"As you like, princess."
The villagers scattered as Arya stomped up to the septon, Ser Perwyn at her heels. The old septon had a wrinkled face, burnt red by the wind. A shock of thick grey hair sprang from his head, and crow's feet framed his eyes.
"Well met, child," he said kindly. "A stranger welcome I have never seen in all my days."
"That was Nymeria."
"This is Dog," the old septon replied, patting the huge shaggy beast sitting by his side. "He's used to defending me on our wanderings, but even such a fine dog knows better than to fight a direwolf." Meribald's smile was slightly strained.
Arya had no time for the old man's squeamishness. He would get used to Nymeria, just as the villagers had. "What kind of septon are you? Septon Chayle kept the library at Winterfell. He loved reading and always wore shoes."
The septon chuckled. "I cannot read nor write, but I know a hundred different prayers."
"We need prayers," Arya admitted, gnawing at her lip.
"We've been praying, princess," Hoarfrost Umber rumbled, glaring at the septon. He was only a few years older than Robb, but he was nearly as big as the Greatjon. The Smalljon's death had made him his father's heir, a responsibility he took as seriously as he took the old gods.
The northmen prayed at the weirwood sapling every morning and evening since Jeyne took ill. Arya joined them, and she'd had Nymeria give the weirwood an extra rabbit each day, but it was all to no avail. Once she'd heard the tiny leaves whispering, and could have sworn she heard Bran's voice, but that was silly.
Coppery blood trickled from Arya's lip as it split under her teeth. Maybe the weirwood couldn't help because Jeyne Westerling believed in the Seven, not the old gods of forest and stream. Mother worshipped the new gods too. She had prayed to each of her seven when Bran fell. Maybe mother's gods could help Jeyne.
"Mother believed in the Seven," Arya reminded Hoarfrost stubbornly. "More prayers couldn't hurt." The big man's face softened, though he still looked unhappy.
"What sort of prayers?" The septon asked.
"Prayers to make a sick person better," she said. She's pack, I can't let her die. Mind made up, Arya grabbed him by the hand.
They left Dog outside the towerhouse, rolling on his back for the northmen to pet his belly. As they walked through the hall Arya understood the reason for the northmen's long faces. Jeyne's cough could be heard from the bottom of the stairs.
When Ser Patrek Mallister admitted them to Robb's chambers his shoulders were slumped, his face lined with worry. The chambers were hot and humid, an enormous fire roaring in the hearth. Robb stood beside it, waiting for the kettle to boil. A stack of cold damp towels covered the table beside the bed, along with an empty cup of tea. Jeyne lay in the featherbed asleep, direwolf at her side, her breaths labored.
Grey Wind growled low in his throat. The direwolf rose to his feet, standing guard astride his feverish queen. Meribald froze, his forehead dripping with sweat as the direwolf sniffed at him. By the fire Robb's hand gripped the hilt of his sword, waiting, his eyes hard.
With a whine Grey Wind lay back down, his paws draped protectively across Jeyne's feet. Robb exhaled slowly, releasing the hilt of his sword as the septon knelt before the bed, murmuring prayers in a low voice.
When the water boiled Arya brewed willow tea, setting the pot on the table to cool. Robb dipped a clean towel in the remaining water, the tips of his fingers turning red from the heat. He draped a dry towel over Jeyne's bosom before adding the new one, placing it so Jeyne would breathe the steam.
"How long have you been wed, Your Grace?" The septon asked when his prayers were done. Robb flinched, and Arya reached for Nymeria. What if this septon meant Robb harm? On the outskirts of the village Nymeria raised her head; she could smell the Greatjon returning, accompanied by a rider she did not know.
"I mean you no harm, sire."
Arya paused. Grey Wind had given his approval, hadn't he? She bit her lip, and settled back into her own skin.
"I wear no crown," Robb said evenly. The septon chuckled.
"The direwolf gave you away long before I laid eyes on you, Your Grace."
Robb was about to reply when Jeyne's eyes fluttered open. She gasped once, her breath rattling, before her whole body was wracked by coughs. Robb swore under his breath as he watched, helpless. Grey Wind jumped down from the bed, pacing and whining, as restless as his king, and Septon Meribald resumed his prayers.
Finally the coughing fit ceased. With gentle hands Robb held the cup of tea to his wife's dry cracked lips, his voice soft as he urged her to drink. Once the pot of tea was empty he let Jeyne go back to sleep, sending a serving man to refill the kettle with water.
For a time all was quiet. The septon's prayers were hushed, possessed of a steady rhythm that reminded Arya of Sansa singing to herself while she brushed Lady's fur. Robb dozed in his chair, his face pale and drawn. Even back at Riverrun her brother had been different than she remembered, stern and steady before his bannermen. Yet on the rare occasions he was alone with Arya and their mother he seemed half a ghost, his shoulders crushed beneath a heavy burden.
In the grips of fever Robb had called for father, for mother, tears wet upon his cheeks. He had called for Jon Snow and Theon, for Sansa, for Bran and Rickon. When he called her name Arya clutched her brother's sweaty hand and soothed him as best she could, but it was never enough. Only Jeyne could give him peace, with her sweet smiles and light caresses, with the way she kissed his brow.
Arya wrinkled her nose. Mother had said Robb wed Jeyne for love, but that wasn't what the men-at-arms said. Back at Riverrun they had made crude jokes about buying a cow after milking it, at least until the Blackfish overheard one of them and gave them such a blistering that Arya learned three new curses. After the Twins the northmen's skepticism had turned first to respect, then fervent admiration when the little queen succeeded in drawing the arrow from Robb's cheek. However it had begun, they seemed to love each other now. If Jeyne died...
"They've been wed almost a year," Arya blurted. "I think."
The septon paused mid-sentence. "He seems to care for her very much. I did not expect such a warm welcome, given what the northmen did to the villages about Harrenhal." The septon's eyes were hard.
"What?" Arya was confused. "We always had a septon at Winterfell, for mother. Father built her a sept when I was little."
"Not all northmen are Eddard Stark. Lord Bolton's men terrorized the riverlands near as bad as the Lannisters, them and those Bloody Mummers. Septs plundered and burned to the ground, holy brothers slain and septas defiled." Arya frowned. She did vaguely remember the outlaws saying something about sellswords burning and raping; that was why they had followed Bolton to the Twins.
"Robb didn't know," she insisted. "He wouldn't."
"Is a king not responsible for the acts of his bannermen?"
Arya screwed up her face as she thought. She knew Robb would never have told Bolton to do such awful things.
"No," Arya replied firmly. "Bolton is a traitor, he gave my sister to the Lannisters and he killed wolves even though Robb said not to."
The septon listened seriously, but shook his head all the same. "And why was Bolton in the Riverlands, if not at your brother's command?"
"It's not Robb's fault," Arya snapped. Robb stirred, and she lowered her voice. "Was it his fault that the Freys broke guest right?"
"No, may the Father judge them harshly," said Meribald. "There is no higher abomination than the breaking of guest right. If the High Septon were not a Lannister lickspittle he would pronounce anathema on all those responsible."
The septon had only just resumed his prayers when Arya heard a commotion below, the Greatjon's bellow echoing off the stones of the towerhouse. Robb jerked to his feet, blearily grasping for his crown. Arya dug it out from beneath the pile of towels and handed it to him, the bronze shining as he set it on his head.
When Ser Patrek admitted the Greatjon he found Robb sitting in the chair, Grey Wind at his feet. A skinny man in the dull garb of a scout stood beside the Greatjon, and both went to one knee before the king as the septon slipped out of the room.
"My liege," the Greatjon rumbled, his voice almost loud enough to drown out Jeyne's coughing. "I bring glad tidings."
"I had rather you brought a maester," Robb said bitterly. The Greatjon's face crumpled as he glanced at the queen lying on the bed, still coughing.
"As do I," the Greatjon said, softer than Arya had ever heard him. "Yet these tidings cannot wait, Your Grace." The Greatjon clapped a hairy hand on the scout's shoulder, nearly knocking him to the floor. "Go on, then."
"I come from the Lady of the Eyrie," said the scout. Robb barely twitched but Arya gaped openly. Aunt Lysa had never replied to any of Robb's ravens, not one; mother had been very angry about it.
The scout's news was even more bewildering. The Vale had not taken the Red Wedding lightly. News of the massacre had arrived the same day as a raven from Lady Catelyn, her last words to her younger sister.
"Lady Lysa was so distressed that she shut herself up for a week," the scout said. "When she emerged she summoned Yohn Royce and called the banners. Even now the army of the Vale marches south to defend the Riverlands, and the Blackfish has gathered an army to secure the western border."
"Is there news of the Wall?" Robb's voice was strange, almost afraid.
The scout blinked, confused.
"None that I know of, Your Grace. But there is news from King's Landing, sire."
The Greatjon smiled beneath his bushy beard. "We know all about Princess Sansa's trial, lad," he said, dark eyes twinkling with fierce pride.
"Not that," the scout replied. "I stopped at a keep along the kingsroad for a fresh horse; their maester had a raven not two weeks past. Tywin Lannister is dead."
Tywin Lannister, dead? Arya had never seen the man, but she imagined him to look like the Kingslayer, only older and crueller. She should feel happy, but if they still had Sansa, what did it matter?
"Your Grace—"
Even the Greatjon's thunderous voice could not drown out the sound of Jeyne's cough. Robb dashed to her side, both men forgotten, holding her as she seized. Suddenly the coughing stopped, replaced by an awful gurgling noise. Arya grabbed for Jeyne's hand only to find it cool and clammy. The Greatjon was shouting and cursing, but Robb was silent, tears pouring down his face.
He was still holding Jeyne in his arms when she went still.
NOTES
1) Jeyne was already badly worn down from two months of panicking over Robb and nursing him night and day. Tending a room full of winter fever (pneumonia) patients was a terrible idea; it was almost inevitable that she caught pneumonia herself. As Jeyne tells Arya, a bad case of pneumonia can develop into water in the lungs (pleural effusion; the fluid is actually in the lining of the lungs). No one present has the knowledge to drain the fluid, not even Jeyne. A maester might have been able to save her, but they're hiding the middle of nowhere, and they can hardly kidnap the Twins' maester, or trust him even if they did.
2) Jeyne's death was planned from the beginning of this fic, but the more I wrote her the more I fell in love with her character. She matters. But... nursing Robb was always going to wear her down, because she is the type of person who refuses to give up, or give anything less than 100%. The captives from the Twins were always going to have pneumonia, because being held captive leads to disease, something GRRM rarely acknowledges— Ned should have died in the black cells, given how he was treated.
3) Lysa is having a shitty couple of years. We'll never be in her POV, so some backstory for those who are curious.
In early 298, Lysa poisons Jon Arryn. She does this at Petyr's instigation, terrified of Sweetrobin being taken from her to foster with Stannis. To be fair, I wouldn't let anyone give my kid to Stannis, let alone Tywin fucking Lannister or Walder Frey. Lysa writes the letter to Catelyn, also at Petyr's suggestion. She thinks the letter is to cover her own ass; Petyr has rather different intentions.
Then in September 298, Catelyn drags Tyrion to the Eyrie, only to release him before Lysa can put him on trial (Ned sent ravens to every place he thought Catelyn might have taken Tyrion; the Vale was his first guess because he knew his wife and her thinking). Lysa is furious and terrified of Lannister retaliation, so she keeps the Vale out of the coming storm.
In February 299, Bel murders Baelish and gets away with it by framing a pedophile sellsword. Lysa doesn't find out for several months, and then she receives minimal details. Sweet Petyr will not be coming to her rescue, so she bunkers down with Sweetrobin to wait out the war. Yohn Royce and his pals are EXTREMELY angry and close to open revolt. Lyn Corbray gives up on courting Lysa and accepts Tywin's offer of a white cloak, seeing the opportunity for advancement and prestige.
Cue April 300. Catelyn sends a raven from the Twins. The letter acknowledges Lysa's long term love for Petyr and condemns Hoster's decision to trick Lysa into an abortion. Catelyn isn't stupid enough to bring up Jon Arryn's death, as she wants Lysa's swords for Robb. Instead, Catelyn blames the Lannisters for Baelish's death, commends Lysa's efforts to protect Sweetrobin, and pleads for Lysa to help Catelyn protect her own son.
Remember Lyn Corbray asking Jaime about Baelish's death, and Jaime casually taking credit with Ser Kevan's approval? Yeah, good job, dumbasses. Ser Lyn sends Lysa a raven confirming that the Lannisters killed Petyr. Around the same time, news arrives of the Red Wedding and Catelyn's murder. Yohn Royce is apoplectic, and Lysa decides the time has come to set him loose. She can't *say* she wants revenge for Petyr, but the Red Wedding provides her ample cover for her sudden change of heart.
4) I very carefully calculated the timing for Lysa's scout and the army of the Vale, using the fan made timeline and travel speed estimates.
A scout can travel 24-50 miles per day, depending upon his ability to change horses. An army with supplies moves only 11-15 miles per day. From the Eyrie to Moat Cailin is 1,280 miles, a journey of 26-53 days for a scout. The Eyrie to the Twins is even faster, as it is 930 miles, 19-38 days for a scout. There are 530 miles between the Twins and Moat Cailin.
5) I know some people don't like A Feast for Crows, but I fucking love Septon Meribald. I checked the timeline- he and Brienne reached the Crossroads Inn in early May in canon. Once I realized Meribald reaching White Willow north of the Twins by late June was actually plausible, I had to include him.
