Robert Ryswell relished riding through the reaches of the Riverlands, for it reminded him of the Rills, only warmer. The mighty Trident rushed wider, roared louder than the slow and swampy Fever River, but the songs of her daughters and granddaughters warbled in his ears like the babbling brooks back home. He hadn't been south of the Neck since those sixteen moons he'd spent a squire at Seagard several years' past, and he hadn't returned since. 'Twas a shame, really – his father had met Lord Jason during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and they'd both agreed that every lord on the Sunset Sea needed a strong fleet and sound sailors to stop those fucking squids from ever reaving again.

He hadn't been knighted – aye, he'd left Seagard before he'd become a man grown – but it hadn't been a waste. Lord Jason thought well of him. When he'd been called to the lord's solar on that last day, Lord Jason had walked him to the tower window and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Lad," he'd said, "I'll be sad to see you go. You've been a good squire. None's ever cleaned the eagle's wings on my helm so well. You're a decent sword, and a fine lance too. Are you truly sure you don't want to be a knight?"

"Aye, my lord," Robert had replied. "I am sure. Thank you for taking me on. It has been an honor to serve you."

Robert had been sure. Still was. At five-and-ten he'd knelt in the Seagard godswood praying over his future, and the gods had given him his answer. The next step on for a squire was knighthood, and knighthood meant a knight's vows. Lord Jason had said he could say his vows in front of the heart tree if he wanted, and Robert had been grateful for the consideration. Stuffy old Septon Berrigan had needled Lord Jason about how a knight's vows simply needed to be sworn in a sept in the Seven's light, but the proud old eagle had brushed him off in respect of Robert's faith. Looking into the face of the Seagard heart tree, Robert knew he wouldn't dare take those vows.

A knight's vows were too hard to keep. There were too many. Be brave? Aye, he could do that. His mother was a Stout of Goldgrass, and all Stouts of Goldgrass were brave of soul and stout of heart. Defend the weak and protect all women? Aye, he could do that too. Obey his liege lord? In most cases yes, but what if your liege lord was stupid, craven, or treacherous? Others take a stupid liege lord, and a craven or treacherous one too. And to be just, and champion the innocent? How was he to know what was just? Who was he to decide who was innocent? He was only a man who knew the law. He was not a god. And he would not – woulddare not– give his blood to the heart tree and look into the face of the old gods and swear a vow he did not know he would be able to keep.

So he'd said as much to Lord Jason, and Lord Jason had accepted his answer. "I'd be hard pressed to find another lad who took oaths so seriously. Or the gods. That is very honorable of you, young Robert," he had said. "But it means that your time as my squire must end. There are many young men who would be my squire, and who I would dub fine knights."

Robert had understood. He and Lord Jason understood each other. How could they not, after having spent so much time together? Lord Jason had taken him out sailing on Ironman's Bay, patrolling the coast around the Cape of Eagles and as far north as the Flint Cliffs. He'd gotten his sea legs and learned how to stave off greensickness. He'd learned how to tie half a hundred sorts of knots and how to fight when the deck was slipping under your feet. He'd learned how to scrub a deck and read the stars and winds. Sailing was almost as good as riding a horse. Almost. A ship wasn't alive. A ship couldn't be your friend.

Aye, his time at Seagard had been worth it. More than worth it. Lord Jason had sent him off with detailed plans for galleass and galleys, as well as shipwright and a young captain he could not afford to pay. House Ryswell would have a fleet. The North would have a western port city to rival White Harbor. If Robert couldn't be the next Lord of the Rills, he could be the Lord Admiral of the Ryswell Fleet, and that would be grand too. They'd build up Gravelton at mouth of the Greatrill and see trade from the Arbor and Dorne and Lannisport. They could sell prized ironwood logs and the finest pelts in all the known world, and northern icewines. The North would be rich! House Ryswell would be rich! Eventually. They'd never be known as the Dothraki of the snow again. Not with a fleet. Not with a port. Everyone knew that the Dothraki hated the ocean. But first they would need to build the fleet, and build the port, and get the Starks to pay for it.

When he'd arrived home, Grandfather Rodrik and Father had looked over the papers Lord Jason had sent with him, had a discussion with the shipwright and the young captain, and drawn up the plans to hire excess men from White Harbor and request a loan from Lord Stark. So they'd sent the letter, and it had taken them months to get a you for writing, Lord Ryswell, I am reviewing your proposal,was all it had said. It hadn't even been in Lord Stark's hand – Father knew what that looked like – it had been penned by the Winterfell maester. But this was Lord Stark they were writing to, so they had to grit their teeth and wait a few more weeks before following up you Lord Ryswell, I must consult with my you Lord Ryswell, we are auditing the treasury. Thank you Lord Ryswell, I am conferring with Lord , delay, delay, and bugger Lord Too-Fat! Bugger Lord Stark and his steward too.

Grandfather had thought that Lord Stark was just stealing their plans so that he could give his youngest or his bastard a seat on Sea Dragon Point, but it turned out that Lord Stark had just been overwhelmed. Eventually they'd come away with a loan that wouldn't cover even a quarter of the fleet they'd wanted to build, so they'd had to use their own coin to start the work. Slow going, that was. So they'd started work on the galleysRyder's GhostandLady Robynalong with a few longships to round out the dozen or so they'd already had. The galleassProud StallionandSentinel Seventy-Nineand the rest were going to have to wait. When Lord Stark had been named Lord Hand, Father had thought that they could have angled for a city charter for Gravelton and more coin for the fleet, but no,Thank you, Lord Ryswell, I tell you this in confidence, but the Crown cannot afford such an then Lord Stark had been relieved of his head. Bugger the Crown.

No thanks to Lord Stark, Father had been able to stave off the Ironmen from harrying the Ryswell coast or rowing up Greatrill and the Blazewater River, leaving Uncle Rick to take much of the horse and to defend the banks of the Blazewater. Thus, the Dustin men could fortify Barrowton and patrol the Barrowlands without worrying about the west. Beth had sent him a bird telling how Don and Young Rod had come back with a string of Goodbrother skulls and the heads of a Drumm, an Orkwood, and a Codd, and after that he'd known things would be fine. It was a fucking shame about Saltspear, Deepwood, and Torrhen's Square, but they only had so many men and so many ships, no thanks to Lord Stark. No thanks to His Grace or the Manderlys either. It was all thanks to Lord Jason.

"Try to shake off the wenching before you get home," Lord Jason had told him when he'd been sent off. "I've let you spend too much time with Patrek, and your father won't thank me for it."

"Aye, my lord," was all he'd said. "I will try." Fuck, he'd hadn't really tried, had he? Pat had taken him out and whetted his taste for women and it had never gone away, and now Grandfather Rodrik thought he was some lass presents me with a Snow to keep fed and sheltered and says it's yours, I'll know in my heart you're unfit to know well to guard the blood, I've told you enough , that had hurt. But he'd never regret those nights carousing out with Pat. Those were fond memories. Pat was his friend, and he'd even liked Ser Edmure enough, when he came to visit. It was good to know that there was at least one Tully that wasn't either a loon or a grasping, slippery watersnake.

He'd been happy to go back North and see his sisters, but he'd missed Lord Jason and Patrek and all the Seagard household. Lord Jason had taken him all over the western part of the Riverlands. They'd gone up to the Twins and down to Hag's Mire, past Oldstones and Fairmarket, all the way down to Riverrun. He hadn't been any further south than Riverrun, or further east than the Red Fork. Not until now, at least. Now, as a rider out scouting in this stupid war, he'd been as far as High Heart and within sight of Acorn Hall. From Harrenhal he scouted halfway to Stony Sept in the southwest and halfway to Sow's Horn in the southeast.

He could just picture what it was like in springtime. Herons would swoop down, bursting forth from the morning mist, spearing trouts as they leaped into the air, only to stand up, tall and proud, on their long and spindly bird legs and raise their beaks to the dawning sun before they flew away again. In the summer the girls – highborn and low, from the great castles to the petty holdfasts to the villages and the farms – would run into the streams in just their shifts, hiking their hems up about their knees, and they'd wade in the water up to their waists to escape the heat. Then in the afternoon, the air would simmer and buzz, a deep booming thunderclap would herald the coming of the evening rains, and the girls would run across the fields and through the forests with wet white fabric clinging to their skin. How beautiful! How glorious! How blessed were the Riverlords for their rich bounty! It was no wonder thatFair Maids of Summerhad been written here!

But now it was autumn, and it was all burning. The Riverlands weren't beautiful anymore.

Fuck this stupid war. Fuck the Lannisters, and the Ironmen too. For fuck's sake, why did Cat Tully have to go off, capture the Imp, take him to the Eyrie, only for Lysa to let him go? By the gods, Ser Edmure's older sisters were both crazy! And now the kingdom of their birth was burning.

Smoke tickled Robert's nose as his horse leaped over a fallen log just east of the God's Eye, and he . The column from Duskendale was near. They were due back any day. Any day now, and Dom would come back. Dom, and Harrion Karstark. There was news for those two.

On the one hand, Robert wanted to be the one to sight the column, to welcome Dom back from the march and tell him about the bird he'd received that day they'd gone on the wolf hunt. On the other hand, if he was the one to meet the column, he'd also need to tell Harrion that he was now Lord Karstark, and that was news that he did not want to break.

By the gods, did the King Who Lost the North want to lose not just castles, but his bannermen too? What was he thinking, executingRickardKarstark? For fuck's sake, the Karstarks were one of the most loyal houses to the Starks, possiblythemost loyal. Well, now they wouldn't be. Not anymore. His Grace could have held Lord Rickard hostage, or at least sent him to the Wall. First the Freys, now the Karstarks. How did His Grace hope to win back the North? Fuck, they were all going to hang once the inevitable came and they lost to the Lannisters.

No, Robert didn't want to be the one to sight the column. Robert did not want to have that conversation with Harrion Karstark. He could tell Dom about the bird he'd had from Father when they were all back at Harrenhal.

Robert had discussed it with Roose while Dom and Lord Bolton went off ahead. That skeevy bastard Qyburn had let him know about the raven. Oh, Aunt Barbrey would get a kick out of that one. Was there anyone who ever hated maesters more? Anyhow. A betrothal! He'd been betrothed! In the middle of a war! How grand! Father and Grandfather must have been optimistic about his prospects, not just of survival, but for sitting the Rillseat too. And it was a good marriage. Sara Glenmore was to be his wife; she was the second daughter of Loren Glenmore, the petty lord of Rillwater Crossing, and Rybeca Ryswell, Ser Mark's sister. They must have thought so highly of him to give him the closest thing Ser Mark had to a daughter. Everyone had loved Ser Mark. Ser Mark was supposed to be the next Lord of the Rills by now. And they were giving Robert his niece! Surely that meant that Robert was in Grandfather's good graces again! Roose had agreed.

Dom had been off with Lord Bolton for the entire hunt, and then had rushed off to gods only knew where once they had returned to the castle. Robert had looked all over Harrenhal for him and hadn't run into him once. That was to be expected, Harrenhal was too damn big. Robert had finally located him in his chambers that evening, but the Dreadfort guard had let him know that Dom had taken a sleeping draught for the night, and Robert had walked away relieved. Finally, Dom had done something sensible. Dom needed his sleep. They all could see it.

Harrenhal had been eating him, Robert could tell. Eating him, or sucking his spirit out like the bats that lived in the towers. This must have been what Father saw whenever he'd visited Aunt Beth at the Dreadfort. The Dreadfort had eaten her, leeched out her life essence. Dark circles under her eyes, like she never slept, and her mouth always pointing downward. Her voice always softer and softer. Everyone who lived at the Dreadfort had a soft voice. It made Father sad to speak of Aunt Beth, Grandfather too. Dom had much of Aunt Beth in him, everyone said. And now Harrenhal was eating him, like the Dreadfort had eaten Aunt Beth. It made Robert sad.

Dom had needed some good news, especially after his plan to rescue the princess got rejected. Fuck, he'd been so depressed after that. It was good that Dom had left Harrenhal. Dom had needed to get out and taste some battle glory. That is, if Dom hadn't gone and done something stupid. It would be just like him to want to run off and play the hero like a knight out of the songs. To charge out from the front when Lord Bolton would have him overseeing the battle from the rear. But it would be even more like him to just clench his jaw and walk himself back after he cooled off and brooded for a bit. He would just need someone to remind him to cool off.

When Robert had realized that Dom had left for Duskendale, he'd been worried and talked to Roose about it. Roose had shrugged his shoulders. Everything would be fine.

"You know what Lord Bolton's like. He wouldn't let anything happen to Dom. Dom's with the Cerwyn men. So the Cerwyn men will be in the rear, Glover and Tallhart will do the fighting and take all the losses, and Dom will come back with Condon leading the retreat."

Roose was right about Lord Bolton. Dom would be fine. But with Dom gone there was no point in staying in the castle, so Robert had joined Roose and the outriders so he wouldn't be bored.

Aye, he'd have to talk to Dom as soon as he got back. Dom needed a pick-me-up. Robert still hadn't written Lady Sara yet, for fear of messing up and writing something stupid. But Dom was a wizard with the written word. Dom could help him write a proper love letter. Dom would want to help make it perfect. Dom loved helping.

And Lady Sara deserved a proper love letter. Hair like honey and eyes the color of stone, with pretty lips and a prettier laugh. How she had laughed at his japes the last time he'd stopped by Rillwater! He hadn't taken her maidenhead but it had been a near thing. They'd been kissing by the stables and he'd stuck the point of his dagger into the knot of her bodice and she'd known what he'd wanted. She'd shown him her pretty teats and let him cop a feel. And now when they got back home, he'd be married right away, and he'd be staring at her pretty face and pretty lips and pretty teats every night for the rest of his life.

The column was close, so he'd get to talk to Dom about it, but he'd have to speak to Karstark too. Fuck. He'd have to think of something to say. Something tactful.

Robert's horse jumped over a thin . On the horizon. He could see it. The column. He approached until he was within shouting distance and then hailed them with a wave.

"What ho!"

The head of the column was a haggard knight with a stained silver surcoat. Two red tridents crossed around a red eagle's head stretched over his chest. The knight's eyes were sunken and his scraggly beard had seen better days. By the gods, was that Condon? He looked like he'd been dragged through the Seven Hells and climbed out by a weirwood root. Behind him he saw tattered banners drooping, their bearers clearly exhausted. The black battle-axe on silver, the white sunburst on black, the brown bull moose on orange. No Glovers or Tallharts. Fuck.

"Ser Kyle?"

"Roose Ryswell?"

"No, I am Robert. Report?"

Condon took a breath. "Defeat. A thousand dead, at least. Some six hundred wounded who could still march. We never reached the walls of Duskendale."

"Understood. Notable casualties?"

"Helman Tallhart. Dead beyond doubt. Robett Glover, likely taken. Harrion Karstark. Dead or taken." Then Condon paused, took a shaky breath, and met Robert's eyes. "Domeric Bolton. Dead or taken."

Fuck. !Dom, dead or taken? This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to come back… Lord Bolton wouldn't put Dom in a place where he couldn't at least keep himself safe. Fuck. !There was a lump in Robert's throat, and it was growing. The pain was tight.

"Robert?" Yes. Condon. The report. He was a soldier, he had a duty. Pain was for later. Robert focused his gaze on Condon's, and in those slate eyes he saw fear. "Am I going to be flayed?"

What? Erm. Maybe? How the fuck was he supposed to know what Lord Bolton was going to do? But that wasn't what Condon needed to hear. Robert chuckled nervously.

"Of course not. Lord Bolton can't flay you. His Grace would take his head. You're in command of the Cerwyn men. The North needs you. Besides, flaying is illegal."

Condon narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. Skeptical, he was. Robert continued. "I'll ride back to the castle. Send back horses and wagons and carts. Food and more maesters. It'll take me a day and a half to get there. Depending on how fast you're marching, the horses should meet you three or four days after that. Lord Bolton will expect a full report when you arrive. Aye?"

"Aye."

Robert was going to take his leave, but there was one more thing. He couldn't forget. "Who commands the Karstark men here?"

"Karl Greycliff."

"Send him forward."

Karl Greycliff was a grizzled man past thirty, a petty lord with a bushy brown beard and cool grey-blue eyes. When Robert finished explaining about the Lannister boys and Lord Rickard and His Grace, black rage twisted Karl's dirty face. "Thank ye for the report, young Robert." Then Karl left to inform his men, and stewed.

After that, Robert took his leave and rode like the wind. As he flew back to Harrenhal, arse up and body bent close over his red courser's back, more than once he felt warm tears mingling with the cool sweat on his face.

Dom. Dom. Dom. How? Robert couldn't believe it. Dom was supposed to come back. When the war was over, they were supposed sail down the Blazewater together and go ice fishing on Saltspear. Dom was supposed to see Robert's wedding and spout sweet words to Lady Sara while Don and Young Rod made bawdy japes and ripped off her clothes. They were supposed to go off and ride in tourneys and show those pretty southron dandies that Northmen could be fine lances too. Dom was a prisoner. Aye. A prisoner. Was he injured? Robert hoped not. But at least if he were the Lannister maesters would treat him well. Dom was too valuable to let die. Lord Bolton would strongarm Ser Edmure into making whatever trade was needed to get Dom back. And if the Lannisters refused a trade and asked for a ransom instead, well, Lord Bolton was rich now, and Aunt Barbrey would drain the Barrowton coffers to get him back too. Aye, Dom was a prisoner, but they would get him back.

Robert refused to imagine the alternative. He didn't want to imagine a world with a hole in it, a hole shaped like Domeric Bolton. Then he'd be left with only Roose and Don and Young Rod, and things wouldn't be the same. Roose was fine, but with Don and Young Rod it was always a contest. There was always the sinking feeling that sweet friendship would sour into bitter rivalry. With Dom nothing was a competition. They all could just appreciate him. His quiet presence and his soft words. His efforts to stop the petty bickering. His poetry. His music. It didn't matter that he was a better horseman than the rest of them, and his name wasn't even Ryswell. Fuck. Robert's face was wet again.

He reached the little holdfast where the scouts were supposed to camp and regroup later that evening. The twilight sky was pink, and the setting sun was red. Pink and red, like the flayed man banner. It must have been a sign. Aye, the gods were telling him that Dom was all right.

Roose and the other outriders were already there. Robert must have been the last.

"I found them," Robert told Roose.

"Good," said Roose. "How's Dom?"

Robert relayed what Condon had said. Roose blanched.

"Fuck this shit war." Roose was taking it hard too. "You sleep now," said Roose. "Here's your food. We won't make you take watch tonight. At first light go back to the castle and tell Lord Bolton, and make sure the lads from Duskendale get their horses."

"Aye."

Sleep didn't come easy that night. He lay in his bedroll and stared up at the little holdfast's stone , are you out there? Are you in a cell, or chained up on the back of a wagon? Are they feeding you salted meat, or just hard bread and gruel? Or did they lock you in the Dun Fort, with a featherbed and hot clam stew and wine?

He'd have to write letters when he got back to Harrenhal. One to Barrowton, to Aunt Barbrey and Branna. Maybe Grandfather Harwood would be at Barrow Hall when they opened it. He hoped Grandfather Harwood would be there. Branna would need someone to hug. Aunt Barbrey would just crumple up the parchment, stomp off alone, and rage. Another to the Rillseat, to Grandfather Rodrik and Father and Mother and Uncle Rick and Beth. They'd be in Grandfather Rodrik's solar when the letter was opened, sitting on couches by the hearth. Grandfather would open it first, read it, and then hand the scroll to Father and go and stand by the window. It would fall to Father to read his letter out loud, and then all would be silent. And then Uncle Rick would start shouting at Father, and Mother and Beth would leave.

And another to Rillwater, to Sara Glenmore. Fuck. He'd forgotten about her. Now his letter would be stupid, because Dom wouldn't be there to help.

He was so tired when he entered Harrenhal through the postern gate the next day. The first person he saw was Ronnel Stout, milling about in russet and gold, his favorite uncle in the world. Roose didn't count. Roose was more like an older brother than an uncle. Uncle Rick was a right prick, Lord Willam was dead, and no one would call Lord Bolton their favorite anything. Thank goodness for Ronnel. He didn't even make Robert call him uncle. Just Ronnel.

"You found them, lad?"

"Aye, I did."

"Not good news, I take it."

"No."

"Who came back?"

"Just Ser Kyle. Over a thousand lost. Six hundred or more wounded."

"I'll take it they need a welcome party?"

"That they do."

"Right then. I'll see to it. You talk to Lord Bolton."

"Aye." Ronnel then started off shouting at the men to ready the wagons and horses.

Robert gave his horse to a stableboy and made his way to the Kingspyre Tower. The dread grew as he ascended the spiral , son,Father had said, before he'd ridden for Moat Cailin,no man of House Ryswell has anything to fear of Roose Bolton. He needs our reputation more than we need his. He might not want you to think it, but he is just a man. And you're a bigger man, and a better one.

That wasn't what Dom would have said. Dom was afraid of his father, and thought that everyone else should be too. When they were boys Dom had been convinced that Lord Bolton would flay his toes if he did anything wrong. Robert had chuckled nervously and said,But flaying's illegal. He can't do that. Grandfather wouldn't let had just whispered,Yes he would,and hadn't said anything to anyone for the rest of the day. That night Robert had asked Father if Lord Bolton would really have done that to Dom.I don't think so,Father had said,but he wants Domeric to think so. He wants Domeric to be afraid so he will be under his control. But Domeric is his heir, and I don't know a man who would truly risk his heir by his own hand unless he had committed a even Father thought that Lord Bolton wouldn't do it, then he wouldn't. No man alive hated Roose Bolton more than Roger Ryswell.

Robert was nearing the top of the stairs. There were two Dreadfort men outside the door. Robert started squaring his shoulders. He thought of his mother, bidding him goodbye in the courtyard before he rode to , Robbie, you have the blood of the Stouts of Goldgrass,she had said, with her hands on his all Stouts of Goldgrass are brave of soul and stout of heart.

"What business have you?" said one of the guards.

"We found the survivors from Duskendale." Robert's voice did not shake.I have nothing to fear from the man behind that door."I have come to give a report."

Then the guard slammed the butt of his spear and banged on the door. "Lord Bolton, Robert Ryswell to see you."

"Enter," came a voice, muffled and soft. The door opened.

All the curtains were drawn and the room was very dark. It was midday, and the tower had many windows, but it seemed that Roose Bolton did not care for light that did not come from little flames struggling for life. Lord Bolton was sitting behind a desk with a bowl of grapes in front of him, and beside it lay a pile of peels.

"How may I be of service to you, young Robert?"

Robert straightened his back and gave the news of Duskendale. Lord Bolton watched him eyes do not scare me. Those are Dom's eyes, and that is Dom's was a sheen of sweat building on the back of Robert's neck.

"You worry for my son."

"I do." There was no use lying to Lord Bolton. He looked like he could see through anything. He wouldn't need his flaying knife to figure out the truth.

Lord Bolton picked up said flaying knife with one hand, a grape with the other, and skinned it with one stroke without looking away from Robert's face. Then he dropped the peel unceremoniously onto the doesn't scare me, Dom can do that too.

Lord Bolton skewered the grape with his knife and ate it off the curved tip without making a sound. "Do not fret for Domeric, nephew. I have it on good word from Lord Tywin that he will be returned to us."

A wave of relief crashed over Robert's heart. "Thank goodness. I am grateful that you have shared as much with me, Lord Bolton." Then Robert could Lord Bolton have had word from Lord Tywin so quickly? I just learned the news yesterday and they took no birds to shook the thought Tywin just sent the raven to Harrenhal the moment he knew they captured Dom."Who is Lord Tywin asking to trade? Or are you paying a ransom?" The relief was ebbing 's eyes are not grey is just a color.

"It is none of your concern." It really wasn't. Robert wasn't a commander. It was just courtesy that he was invited to the meetings at all. "The war should be ending soon, young Robert. We will have Domeric with us again. At the end of the year, or shortly after."

Robert hoped that was true. That meant a peace was coming. They couldn't win. They would be making concessions. Brides would be sold off, reparations paid. Fuck, he hoped Beth and Branna wouldn't be included. He hoped they'd stay North. But there was no use worrying. He'd find out later. It was only a few more weeks now. The peace. He wanted to get Dom back. He wanted to go home. He wanted everything to just stop burning, and he missed his sisters.

"I am glad of that, Lord Bolton. Thank you for sharing."

Robert took his leave, and rushed down the stairs.