The morning after the feast, Sansa walks stiffly into the Manderlys' dining hall, the fresh smells of the morning meal enticing and crippling at the same time. Her head roars with pain, her vision still blurry; the curses of the night before. She had barely found the strength to pull herself into this plain grey dress – were it not for Wynafryd, she'd have never made it out of bed. The older girl had come to her side before sunrise to hold back her hair as she vomited, pry her chapped lips with water and help her into fresh clothes, all while vowing not to tell another soul.

But while she had left behind the remains of the feast in her chamber pot, the discovery she had tried so hard to purge was still there – highlighted by the cheerful face of Wendel Manderly sitting by her mother's side, wishing her a jolly good morn as she sits.

"I trust you slept well?" Lady Catelyn asks with a prying eye.

"Of course, mother," Sansa forces herself to make eye contact, though it hurts to smile, hoping her eyes are not too guiltily bloodshot. "And you?"

"Well enough. It was a lovely evening." Her voice drops to an ominous lower tone. "We should talk more about it later."

So you can scold me? Sansa grimaces at the thought. Or propose I marry Wendel? Choosing not to respond, she picks at the heaping offerings before her, unable to comprehend the thought of adding more food to her tumultuous stomach. But Wynafyrd begins to pile rich biscuits, gravy and greasy sausage and ham onto her plate anyway.

"You must eat," she urges. Sansa can only be in awe of how totally the older girl seems to have recovered from her own drunken stupor. "And have more water."

The careful advice raises a suspicious eyebrow on Catelyn's face, but she returns to her own meal without further word. The Starks pass the meal in silence, Sansa slowly forcing herself to eat, and gracefully finding relief as the heavy food soaks up the bile lingering in the back of her throat. The Manderlys, meanwhile, prattle on about the night before – the dances, the music and, of course, the dishes. Until, at last, Lord Baelish interrupts.

"Has there been any word from the Capital?"

"Urm?" Lord Wyman turns to examine the slender Master of Coin, as if he had forgotten the man was ever there. "Ah, yes, Lord Baelish. No, I fear there is no news from the south, not for quite some time. By the Seven, it's true to say I don't even know who to call our king."

"May the Father judge King Robert justly," Lady Leonna is quick to add. "And the Mother take his soul to her embrace."

That snaps Sansa's attention back to the conversation, the fog in her mind gone in a flash. "If King Robert is dead, then Joffrey is king."

"Sansa…" Catelyn begins to admonish, but Wyman only laughs.

"Would that it were so simple, my young lady!" He spears a sausage with his fork, taking a juicy bite, splattering his white beard. "We live in strange times. Before his grace's untimely death, we had word the queen and her children were to face charges under truly awful charges. I do not care to speak of such with ladies present."

"It's not true," Sansa insists, fighting the urge to stand. "It's lies by Renly to steal the throne!"

"Bold claims, my lady," Wyman smiles. "And boldly spoken." He turns with a nod to Catelyn. "You've raised quite the young courtesan. After my own heart."

"I was there!" Sansa insists. "I saw!"

"So was Lord Baelish," Catelyn adds. "So was your sister."

Hearing herself mentioned, Arya quickly shoves an entire biscuit in her mouth to avoid being called upon. Littlefinger looks nearly as sheepish, throwing up his hands as he glances between mother and daughter. "It is a complicated matter. One that the High Septon shall decide. May the Seven grant him the wisdom to discern."

"And there we have it!" Wyman claps his meaty hands together. "As in all things, we wait upon the High Septon."

"He won't need much wisdom to see the truth," Sansa grumbles under her breath, returning to her meal. Petyr was supposed to be on my side. "Joffrey's the only king."

"My lord!" The doors swing open as the castle's maester hurries in, a fat, golden-curled man in a hurry, the links around his neck rattling as he huffs his way to the head of the table.

"We ask for word, and providence answers," Wyman declares, nearly in song. He snatches the missive into his own thick hands, fumbling with the small scroll as he breaks the seal. Sansa notes he turns away to block the maester's view as he reads. "From King's Landing?"

"No, my lord. It seems to be from Fairmarket. The seal of House Erenford."

"Hmm…" Wyman muses, eyes narrowing, chin folding down into his jowls as he examines the note. Slowly, he looks back up, his smile returning.

"Erenford?" Catelyn asks eagerly. "Is it word of Robb?"

"It is my lord's own hand, my lady," Wyman beams, extending the scroll to her grasping hands. With a start, Sansa and Arya jump up, rushing around the table to their mother's side. She reads Robb's words with shaking hands, eyes jumping from line to line as her free arm reaches blindly to wrap around the girls' shoulders.

"He is well! Their force crossed at Fairmarket in peace. They will reach Stone Hedge in a few days' time. There they will join the royal army and crush the Lannisters! He sends all his love, and vows to end the war within a moon!"

With a gasp, Catelyn lets the missive drop as she pulls her daughters in for an embrace, burying her face in their hair. Pressed tight to her side, Sansa feels her shake with joy and hears the muffled cheers of the Manderlys behind them. But as her heart leaps for Robb's words she cannot help but wonder… when the war is done, whose side will he be on?


The early winds of autumn have left a chill over the fields surrounding the Bracken stronghold of Stone Hedge, leaving Ser Karyl Vance shivering in his armor as he waits atop his horse. The Lannister men had looted the castle's larders when they abandoned their occupation, leaving the surviving knights and servants with only a few weeks of comfort. Now the hunger sets in. Visor up, Karyl slowly gnaws his way through a soft apple he's already carved one worm out of. The Mountain's men were thorough - the Riverlands had a bleak harvest in store indeed. He has been forced to send the sparse men at his command further and further afield to find supplies amongst scorched earth, but each time they returned with more starving, homeless mouths than new food to fill them. He can only hope the Northern Army comes well-provisioned. Their arrival, by his estimation, was nigh, and while they could offer shelter and cots a plenty, he can scarce imagine even the most savage Northern warrior would deign to devour a mattress.

A flat note from a horn atop the walls signals an approaching party. Back early. Karyl drops from his mount, making haste to the nearest stairs. He rushes to the ramparts, bracing himself for the harsh wind that greets him. He quickly spies the horn-blower, who points to the distance without need for command.

Plucking Lord Bracken's far-eye from his pouch, Karyl follows the sentry's shivering finger to a dozen approaching horses coming down the road from the distant wood, towards the charred ashes of the scattering of homes that once lay along the path to the castle. They come peacefully, at least, he thinks as he counts. Wait. Not twelve. An extra rider at their head, a knight and steed draped in blue and silver and marked by the twin towers of House Frey.

"Come with me, good man," Karyl snaps the far-eye back into place and beckons the guard to follow, already turning to rush back down the stairs. "Our wait is over. The North is here."


Far to the south, the dueling camps of the Royal Force and Lannister Army glower at each other from the opposite banks of the Blackwater Rush. Looming large over the eastern camp is the tent of Lord Randyll Tarly – dark green and striped with orange, a half-dozen huntsmen sigils keeping windy watch atop flagpoles. Within the huge tent, however, it seems nearly empty – a few simple desks and tables scattered amongst the cloth walls. The Lord of Horn Hill traveled light – the luxuries other men of his stature hauled to the battlefield only slowed them down. Yet despite the meager furnishings, there was no shortage of work for his recently reappropriated squire – young Alyn Ambrose.

"Move it, Ambrose!" Claude Varner gives the taller boy a shove, a sneer plastered onto his square head. "We need more wood for the fire! Are you trying to freeze his lordship?"

Without protest, Alyn hurries off. He had learned quickly not to protest when the other squires ordered him around like a knight. Claude and Dickon Tarly had quickly caught on just how low in esteem their new companion was held, and wasted no time in heaping their own chores onto him. In only a few short days, the burden of cleaning up Ser Urrigon's sloppy messes seemed light as a feather in comparison. He fights back a yawn as he winds his way back through the tent to the stores of firewood he had spent most of yesterday chopping.

Leaning down to pick up as much as his gangly arms can caring, he winces as his knuckles scrape against a sharp splinter, already red and sore from the sudden cold snap they'd awoken to. No frost – not yet – but the early chill was an ominous premonition of a bitter autumn and dread winter to come.

Unable to carry anymore, he carefully stands, the stack of wood in a precarious balance, and begins to make his way back as quickly as possible. But as he passes the flap of dark green cordoning off old Maester Jasper's quarters he stops – Lord Tarly is within, and the other commanders with him.

"Are you sure this is Renly's true hand?" He hears Lord Varner's harsh whisper.

"Unmistakable." The answer comes from Lord Tarly, his voice cold and unperturbed. "His signature is clear – a crass hand, he never did learn proper penmanship. And this is his personal seal. Three prongs on each antler – the third son."

"But this is treason!" – Lord Rowan, now.

"Mind your tongue, Mathis!" Tarly silences him. "It is treason to stand against one's true king. But I've seen the truth of it myself. The Lannister whore's children are bastards. Stannis has polluted his line with the blasphemy of foreign demons. There is only one true king – Renly Baratheon, First of His Name."

Alyn catches himself before his shocked hands let topple the wood. Maris' warning was true! And there's the proof! He leans closer, his ear brushing against the fabric wall.

"You speak wisely as always, Randyll," Lord Varner is fast to fall in line.

"But what do you mean to do?" Rowan remains skeptical.

"Just as our true king commands. Leave the Lannisters to their feud with the Starks. The true enemy is in the capital. We shall break camp tomorrow and return our force to apprehend Stannis and his men and ensure Renly's proper place on the throne."

"And what of that? What if anyone sees?" Rowan presses further. Alyn slowly creeps to a slit in the tent wall, squinting through to see the lord pointing at the missive clutched in Lord Tarly's hand. "There are men here who may not be so loyal to… his grace."

"You should burn it!" Varner nods, eagerly.

"No." Tarly waves them both away, moving to a sleek ebony box in the far corner. The ravens in their cages squawk as he moves. Carefully, he rolls the missive back up and locks it away. "If we are called upon to explain our actions, I will have proof of our orders. Until then, make your plans. Prepare your camps. There is no time to waste."

The lords begin to move, and Alyn quickly pulls back from the wall. But as he turns, he sees Dickon Tarly standing in his path, an executioner's glare on his face.

"What are you doing, Ambrose?" The younger boy stalks nearer. "The fire is going to die!"

"Yes!" Alyn rushes past, bumping into Dickon as he hurries on by. "Only a dizzy spell, I did not sleep well last night!"

"Pathetic!" Dickon laughs, skipping a smooth stone into Alyn's back as he runs off. "Wait until Claude hears about this…"


Urrigon Hightower begins to suspect something is amiss shortly after lunch. There was fresh activity in the camp, unlike anything he had witnessed since they received word of the death of King Robert. Something had happened – something no one was telling him. But the men were not preparing for battle. Rather, they seemed to be preparing for retreat. But the belligerent knight is under too close watch to investigate, nor press anyone with questions. And so he is left, alone in his tent, yearning for a drink.

There's only one answer, he knows – the commanding lords have received word from Renly, just as his daughter's letter had warned, and now prepare to march on the capital and install him as king. In all the camp, only he knew. Only he could stop it. But how? As he trudges along, one knight at each shoulder, down the well-worn path to the sewage ditch, no answer comes.

"Be quick about it," the guard to his left grunts as he lurches down the roughly shoveled steps into the makeshift latrine. Digging it was the first order Lord Tarly gave upon making camp, followed by the vow to place in stocks the first man caught relieving himself anywhere else but the ditch. Wanton refuse bred disease, he said, and Urrigon supposed it was true. But as far as he could tell, it only created an awful stench. At least it offered a moment of peace from his captors. With a noisy sigh, he drains his bladder and, cocking his head back to one side, suddenly recognizes the man across from him – Ser Imry Florent.

"You there, Florent!" he hisses. The well-groomed knight looks up, perturbed.

"By the gods, ser, have some respect!"

"No, ser, you must listen to me!" Urrigon urges in a stressed whisper, shuffling around the bend of the ditch. Disgusted, and his business complete, Imry composes himself and moves to make a hasty retreat. "It's about the Tyrells!"

That captures the fleeing knight's attention. Slowly, Imry turns back around as Urrigon, finally finished, shakes himself clean. "What do you mean?"

"I've received word from friends in the capital. Lord Renly has conspired with House Tyrell to slay his brother and steal his throne. He has given orders to Lord Tarly to recall our army back to the capital and see him crowned!"

Imry hesitates, lingering a safe distance away, his nose still curled up by the stink. Urrigon leans forward, impatient for a response. Finally, the knight's thin lips part into a barely audible whisper. "These are dangerous words you speak, ser."

"I swear by my life I speak true."

"Your life is not worth much."

"I swear by all of Oldtown!"

Imry leans between feet, mulling over his options. Urrigon watches his eyes close, then open, then close again as he strokes his narrow beard. Finally, he looks up to face him.

"Meet me by the twisted oak on the north hill tonight at midnight. I will see to it your guards look the other way. Then we shall see what we may do about these Tyrell traitors."

"Oh, good, great ser!" Urrigon reaches out eagerly to shake his hand but Imry recoils, making haste to leave without another word. Unbothered, he wipes the untouched hand clean and lurches his way back out of the ditch, back into captivity. But only for a half-day more, he thinks. Finally, something is working. Father will be so proud.


Back north, the sea of tents is shrunken down, transformed into dueling clusters of flagged markers in Lannister crimson and royal gold on each side of a painted Blackwater Rush. They sit marked upon on a huge map of the Riverlands in Lord Bracken's abandoned solar, pored over by the Northern war council in silence, waiting upon their young lord to speak.

Robb sits at the head of the long table, hunched over the map, glancing between the small stone model of Stone Hedge, the dueling camps to the south, and the angry hive of red markers surrounding a model of Riverrun to the west. At his feet, his direwolf sleeps. To his right sits his uncle, Ser Brynden 'Blackfish' Tully, grizzled from a long ride down from the Vale, but nowhere near weary. To his left is Theon Greyjoy, fresh-faced and eager for battle. Circling the table await his commanders – Lord Roose Bolton, The Great Jon Umber, Maege Mormont, Lord Rickard Karstark, Lord Halys Hornwood, Ser Stevron Frey and the newest addition – Karyl Vance.

"Ser Brynden," Robb finally speaks, eyes locked on the besieged model of Riverrun. "How long can my lord grandfather hold out?"

"I fear my brother won't be holding much of anything," the Blackfish sighs. "Edmure will have the command. He is untested, but capable, I suppose. He was a green lad when last I saw him. But they should have stores enough to last near another moon."

"Pray they need not wait that long," Robb turns to the camps by the river. "First we should dispose of the threat to the south. Once we have joined our men with the royal force, we will nearly double Tywin's numbers. We may yet end his invasion without bloodshed."

"A wise plan, my lord. With one exception. You must stay here."

"What do you mean?" Robb's head snaps up to look at his great-uncle. "These are my men. I must lead them!"

"These are all your men," the Blackfish answers calmly. "Send half our force south. That should be enough to relieve Lord Tarly. But we must hold this land and keep the peace. You must stay safe for that. These woods cannot be trusted."

"I concur with Ser Brynden," Lord Bolton raises his hand quietly. "Let me lead the southern march. I will make short work of the Lannister dalliers."

At first Robb hesitates, looking from one advisor to the next, seeking to read each in turn, one hand idly scratching the back of Grey Wind's neck. At last, he takes a deep breath. "Very well. Lord Bolton, Great Jon, Lord Karstark – march south. The rest of you, prepare your men to secure these lands, apprehend bandits, defend the smallfolk and secure what is left of the harvest. When we see each other again, we shall march on Riverrun."

At his command, the lords rise to attend to their orders. But Robb does not move, nor do Theon and the Blackfish. Sensing what is to come, Karyl remains seated as well. As the last lord exits, Robb nods at him, approvingly. "Now. Tell me what has become of my father."


A long story later, heavy silence hangs over the study as the door closes behind Ser Archibald Pyle and Ser Byron Birch. Robb sits silently in his chair, Grey Wind growling beneath him. Theon squirms with barely controlled anger, while the Blackfish's stubbled face remains grimly unreadable.

"Is this all they told to you?" Robb finally asks.

"Nothing more," Karyl nods solemnly, his eyes still burning holes into the closed door. The same tale of Gladden Wylde's betrayal, Lord Eddard's death, the battle that followed and the scattering of the survivors. All ending in the disappearance of the slain lord's corpse.

"The Lannister dogs have slain my father and stolen his body." The wolf's growls grow louder as Robb clinches the arms of his chair, leaning forward to glower at the crimson markers on the map. "But you believe there is more to it?"

"They're hiding something."

"I concur with Ser Karyl, my lord," the Blackfish nods. "I can see it in their eyes. Fear is holding some secret back in their throats."

"Perhaps they're traitors," Theon sneers. "They betrayed Lord Stark, like this Wylde knight you speak of.. Why else are they still here?"

"No," Karyl shakes his head. "I fought alongside them in Lord Eddard's service. I have no reason to doubt their loyalty."

"Then what else could they be hiding?"

"Only Clegane knows."

"Of that we can be certain," Robb rises, looming over the map. "But where in the Seven Hells is he?" He slides a heavy triangular marker across the table to Karyl. "If he has not returned to his master, where is he hiding?"

Slowly, Karyl takes the marker up into his hands, running his eyes over the map, filtering through weeks of reports. Finally, he sets it down with a dull thud, further east along the Red Fork. "There was a mill here. Our men passed by it, freshly burned, a week hence. It could have been bandits or broken men. But it could have been him."

"He runs in the opposite direction," Robb muses. "He thinks I'll chase him." The Blackfish nods in agreement. "But we cannot let him escape, nor take any more innocent lives." He stands tall as the pieces of a plan join together behind his blue eyes. "Ser Karyl, you and Marq Piper know this land well. Assemble a party to follow the trail." He turns to Theon, who rises eagerly to meet him. With a firm grasp of his arm, he gives his command. "Find the Mountain and end his terror. Leave him and his men for the crows. But bring me my father's body. And bring me his betrayer, alive, so I may feed him to my wolf."


The hours turn on and soon, with quicker speed brought on by the tiring autumn sun, darkness has fallen over the Blackwater Rush. Sure enough, as Urrigon creeps from his tent in the dead of night, the sentries on watch were nowhere to be seen. The light of the recently-full moon casts a clear path through the camp, but he sticks to the shadows, or so much of them that can manage to shroud his hulking frame.

Soon, the twisted oak is visible atop the north hill, a lone silhouette half-obscured behind it. With a quick glance behind him to check for followers, Urrigon makes haste up the hill, ignoring the cracking twigs beneath his feet. The climb is steeper than it looks – he finds himself huffing for breath by the time he reaches the summit. But he fights to maintain composure as the shadow turns to him and the pale moonlight unmistakably illuminates the face of Imry Florent.

"By the gods, it's good to see you!" Urrigon eagerly reaches out his hand in greeting. This time, his fellow knight accepts. "Tell me, what is your plan?"

"Hmm…" Imry muses, leaning back against the tree. "You know, it was very clever of you to come to me, Urrigon. I suppose you knew my family's hate for the Tyrells would make me eager to join you in this endeavor."

He nods eagerly, though a shiver of suspicion begins to creep up his spine. "Of course. But you will see, this is the right choice. Renly's plan is treachery."

"Yes, yes. And so bold of you to trust that secret with me, that I wouldn't simply turn you over to my cousins?"

"Your… cousins?" Urrigon's heart stops, any further words catching in his throat.

"My lady mother is Lord Varner's aunt, of course. Lord Rowan's mother is sister to my own. And Lord Tarly himself is married to my dear cousin Melessa." He pauses, amused by the big man's stunned consternation. "Oh? You didn't know that?"

Slowly, Urrigon begins to back away. He reaches for his trusty axe, but it's gone, left behind in the tent. Imry does not move, but the pale light shows a smirk growing on his face. Urrigon's left hand jumps for the dagger at his hip, and as he draws it, he sees the cluster of shadows waiting beneath the far side of the hill, hidden from the moon.

A whistle of wind through the air and a javelin rushes out of the darkness, piercing his right leg. The dagger drops from his hand as he crashes to the ground with a deep shriek of pain.

"Come out, cousins!" Imry calls. "The brute is down." Choking on the grass, Urrigon grasps for his knife, but Imry kicks it further away. He reaches to the javelin, but the pain is too much to wrench it free, his fingers slipping on the blood. All he can manage is to turn himself over, as stomping feet draw near.

"Ser Urrigon," Lord Tarly's cruel voice cuts sharper than his blade. He wraps his hands around the javelin and tears it free, yielding another twisted cry as the huge knight's vision fades to black. "You never fail to disappoint."


A distant but familiar bellow of pain snaps Alyn out of his sleep. Urrigon! Where? Lord Tarly's tent is plunged in darkness. He rolls softly off his tiny cot, slowly creeping to his feet. Nothing more. But wait – another sound. Someone rummaging about in the maester's office. Careful to barely breathe, Alyn treads silently in the pitch black, bare feet shivering on the cold, dead grass matted down to the dirt, picturing the path in his mind until he sees a single candle glistening within.

He steps inside, and the noises are gone. He stops, listening. Nothing but the wind. Then movement. A shadow lurches forward out of the dark. He tries to dash away, but strong arms ensnare him, a gloved hand clamping tight over his mouth. He twists his neck to spy his captor's face. As they turn together into the line of light, his eyes go wide. Ser Erren Florent!

Alyn bites down hard on the glove. With a muffled cry, Erren lets him go, stumbling back.

"Where is it, boy? Where's the letter?" he hisses.

"The letter?" Alyn grabs the candle, brandishing it in front of him like a weapon, confused. But slowly, the panic easing from his brain as neither moves, he realizes – somehow, against all odds, Urrigon's plan worked. "It's here!"

He rushes to the ebony case. The lid doesn't budge. No key. Lifting the whole box instead, he hands it to Erren, who eagerly tucks it under his arm. Only then does Alyn realize there is a second candle in the room.

"Who goes there?"

Erren steps aside to reveal Dickon standing in the entrance, candle in one hand, knife in the other. "Ambrose, who is this? What are you doing?"

Without thinking, Alyn lunges forward, landing a wailing punch on Dickon's jaw before the other squire can react. His candle drops, snuffed out, and he topples backwards. He freezes in shock, panic rushing back in. But then Erren has his arm, yanking him along as they rush out into the night.

"Come on, boy! You won't want to be here when Lord Tarly gets back!"