Robb
All the highest of Robb's court were there, gathered for the first war council he had held since news of Joffrey.
There, before men with more years at war than he had days, Robb laid the problem.
"Joffrey is not simply God-Touched my lords, but a God-Touched with wings."
He looked to Maester Vyman, a spry man despite the lines age had carved into his skin, and waved for him to speak. What followed was known to Robb already, but he made sure to look attentive, as a king must.
"A man on horseback, with ample mounts to spare, might still take a double handful of days to reach Harrenhal from King's Landing." Maester Vyman's voice was strong, though he rasped and needed to take a drink before he continued. "Records of the Targaryen dragonriders are clear, however, that a dragon could make the journey in the time from sun-up to dusk. Near as fast as a raven on the wing."
Meaning that by the time they had gotten the news, the Dragon King could already be at Harrenhal.
The declaration sent a wave of agitation through the room. Along with the jostling for first rights to speak that Robb was becoming all too familiar with. And the victor that he was fast growing to loath.
"What of it?" Said Ser Stevron Frey, a man past sixty and yet still heir to his ancient father. He spoke politely, but a weasel's mien. "My Father had the measure of the boy at his name day tourney, barely a year past. He is no warrior. Not like your grace."
Robb's measure of the pompous prince had also been of a boy who'd never taken a true knock in the yard. Enough that he'd gone easy in his first bout with him, that long ago day in Winterfell, when the golden little shit had mocked him with the promise of live steel. Then and now, it did not slip Robb's notice that Joffrey had taken Ser Rodrik's refusal as excuse to leave.
But that was before Joffrey gained the power of a God-Touched, and a passing impression besides.
So he straightened his back, inviting the attention of his gathered lords -and a few ladies- of the war council, and said, "All men wish to believe their enemies to be cowards, yet only fools assume all their enemies are."
"Strong words." Said a riverlord with his doublet stitched with acorns, a House Robb did not know.
"My father's words", Robb claimed, though in truth he thought they might have been from a history Maester Luwin had made him study.
The point stood in either case. Better for his fellow Northerners if it stood with Ned Stark's solemn memory behind it. Better for all of them that they did not ignore the wisdom of it.
Nor had they.
The council had eased after that, as he laid out a plan and hoped that the approval it received was not more flattery, but honest agreement. He could at least be sure that those who disagreed spoke true, with exception for Lord Karstark, who had not found cause to agree with his king since the death of his youngest son.
Lord Karstark came as close as a man might dare to calling him a coward. Yet Robb did not allow the words to sway him. No matter how badly he wished to take the field at the head of his host and ride for Harrenhal. There to take the golden prick's head. Take it that he might offer it before a heart tree in the Warden of Darkness' praise, and his father's name.
Instead he had split his forces, and sent them out by the hundreds. A tactic to prevent ruinous losses if any single element was attacked, and the same tactic that Lannister forces were swiftly found to be using in turn.
No matter how he told himself not to be a child, Robb was glad of the assurance of an older commander having come to the same conclusions he had. An older commander not sworn to him and awestruck at his sight, or determined to spite him at every turn for lack of Jaime Lannister's heartblood.
Though the Old Lion certainly had his own reasons to spite him. Reasons Robb swiftly found himself cursing.
He'd ridden out with his men at first, holding back his power so that he went no further then -as the Rosfield's factor called it in the letters Vyman kept receiving from the Citadel- a semi-primed state.
He had taken on a fraction of the Warden of Darkness' power, but atop Grey Wind, likewise given just enough of Svartvindr to carry him into battle, Robb had been enough to turn any battle he came upon. Though he felt cowardly for how little chance the Westermen had in the face of him, Robb quieted such thoughts with the horrors they had wrought across the Riverlands, and to those he loved.
Of course he had expected to suffer much the same casualties he had inflicted. Had planned, quietly, to array his forces so as to lure Joffrey ever deeper. Until he could catch him in a position where he could force battle.
The Old Lion saw through him.
Joffrey did not appear. Not on the first day, or the second, and on the third Robb dared not to continue. Not when even such brief bursts of strength were wearying him more and more. Not when he could see no sane reason that Joffrey would not have flown to Harrenhal.
The Lannisters had not stopped burning and raping and robbing. They wished to lure him, as he wished to lure Joffrey, plain as day. Only they had the resolve to let their men die to tire him out, to tip the scales in favour of their king.
The risk of being caught out by a fresh Joffrey left him little choice but to restrict himself to only the most sparing use of his power. Restrict himself…and wait.
Wait for the right opportunity. Else he could all too easily find himself out of position while the Dragon God struck at his armies, burned and ruined them, and a Lannister force swept in to collect their king's exhausted body and spirit him to safety. Just as he would have done himself, if not for Joffrey's existence.
He had to wait for Joffrey to make himself known first.
He had to wait, while their war became an achingly slow battle of manoeuvre. One in which the Riverlands, lands he had sworn to defend, continued to suffer and burn wherever the Lannisters were allowed to linger for long.
Yet each day passed without sign. No dragon's roar split the skies and struck fear into the hearts of men. Only the shadow of that dragon loomed over them, and that only in their minds.
When wings did come, they came with a message that had him summoning his mother to a private meeting -despite how he had been avoiding those since word reached them of Garuda in the Vale- and checking thrice that there were no ears nearby. Not even Olyvar Frey, as helpful of a lad as his squire had turned out to be. Especially, not Olyvar, or any other Frey.
"Marriage?!" Catelyn Stark caught herself, eyes darting to the door for a moment. Then she returned her gaze to the letter, having broken her progress halfway, and squinted through the rest of the dense text.
"Vyman brought it to me without knowing what it was. I have sworn him to secrecy that it exists at all."
"No other knows?"
"No other. If the Freys were to hear." He did not need to elaborate.
In truth it was hardly the first such request he had gotten. All others had been consigned directly to the fire, with his scorn that they would question his honour so. Yet, in the face of the promises made by the Tyrells…
"You must accept Robb."
They were not the words he had expected from his mother. Not the words he had hoped for when he summoned her to help him keep his honour.
"Mother, I am betrothed. By your own doing."
"You are a king, Robb. You will not be the first to break a betrothal for so much better a deal as this."
"Mother."
"The Freys gave a few thousand to your cause. The Tyrells would send ten times that number. More."
In truth, Robb was more tempted by the promise of supplies they had offered. The war was stripping the Riverlands bare, and he had little choice but to ignore what so many absent men would mean for the North's harvests.
The men would speed his progress towards cornering Tywin, but as he imagined the outcome of accepting, Robb could not see the dramatic change that such an addition would have meant before he awakened as a God-Touched.
Ten thousand Tyrell men would be as vulnerable as ten thousand of his own. More forces would make swifter work of pushing Tywin back, forcing a battle with Joffrey and an end to it all…but he could do it either way. Which meant he could not accept.
His father would not have sacrificed his honour for a swifter victory.
"You are going to refuse." His mother's eyes were knowing, as they too often were.
Against those eyes, he sought an excuse. "The letter is dated more than a sennight past, and did not come directly from Highgarden."
"The seal is correct Robb, I recognise it."
"I do not doubt that it came from the Tyrells. It is the path it took that I question Mother. A path far from the Stormlands, I wager."
Catelyn had been the one to teach him of Southron intrigues. He did not need to explain any more.
"They invite your reply directly, Robb. They are only ensuring that they have it before word can spread that they contacted us at all, likely at the expense of speed."
"They court my favour even as they offer allegiance to a man who might soon be our enemy."
"He might also be our ally."
"I cannot…" His words failed him. He did not know how to say this. Not when he had expected his mother, who had hated his brother for all Robb's life, to agree with him on this. Instead she advocated that he cast aside his honour, his word, and though he had not asked for her, his wife.
It felt like betrayal.
Thankfully, she offered a path beyond it. "Send back a counteroffer then. Offer-"
"Bran!" He leapt on the thought. "Yes, that's perfect."
His mother looked uncomfortable for a moment. Then nodded. "Yes, Robb."
He sent his response that same day, content that he had found a way forward that preserved his honour. As he thought about it he wondered why he hadn't thought of so obvious an answer sooner. He supposed there was a temptation to the idea of breaking his betrothal, unwanted as it had been, but there had been a temptation to the idea of following Theon to his whores and Robb had never done that. He would not break his word now.
No matter how the Freys infuriated him, more and more with every passing day of the war.
Of all the lords who chafed against his orders, it was the nature of their disagreements that sat with him most ill. They did not beg leave to gather their forces for a more decisive battle than the constant skirmishes. They did not cajole him to ride out and show the might of the Old Gods.
They begged his leave to secure the area to the north, where hardly any Lannister forces still threatened the peace. They told him of their fears for their home, or their neighbouring lords, or the friends they had made among other houses.
They all but outright asked his leave to return home, now that the war had ground to a near halt. Whispers reached him, often by way of Theon, of their fears of losing out in the succession as they were denied the opportunity to win glory, or lick their father's arse. Though he doubted they'd phrased the second part quite as Theon put it.
It only added to the muddle of frustration he felt when he received a reply to his offer, now asking that he add Arya's hand for the youngest Tyrell son, Ser Loras.
In the end negotiations dragged on long enough for word to reach him of a grand announcement from King's Landing. One that called for another full council.
"The King has gone forth to crush the rebels?!" roared Greatjon Umber. "Then what are we all sitting around here with our cocks in hand for!"
Robb, standing at the window and looking out on another lost day, resisted the urge to waste time telling the Greatjon not to use such language with ladies present. Dacey Mormont might test his newfound toughness for such a thing and his mother would not thank him either. Nor was the giant man like to listen, for all the reverence Robb had from him.
"If this is true, then we have wasted time-" Began his great uncle Brynden Tully, only for the Blackfish to be interrupted.
Uncle Edmure shouted right over him, "We've wasted the opportunity to end all of this! That's what we've wasted."
For how many times his uncle had appealed to him to launch a reckless assault, Robb was not surprised by the outburst. He even understood his Uncle's concern for his people, as heir to the Riverlands and Lord Paramount of the Trident when the day came that grandfather's long sickness finally took him.
He still favoured the man with a black glare for his words. Shadows shifted with the force of Robb's anger, and his uncle was quick to sit back down.
"This is a lie." Robb said, message in hand. "I did not call you here my lords, to question that fact."
"How can you be sure?" asked Lord Karstark.
"Because the Imp proclaimed it." He said. "Ask my mother for the worth of his words."
She took the invitation to speak in support of him. "My lords, you may know when Tyrion Lannister lies because his lips move and sound issues forth. Have faith in that."
Her words stirred some levity, but among men who mostly knew the Imp by reputation alone, and Catelyn Stark as a level-headed woman, they served as witness.
Robb took back the attention of the room, pacing around the table that he might sit at its head and better sight the map upon it.
"The question is not whether it is a lie. It is whether it is the lie we took it to be, or a new one."
"Alright." said the Blackfish. "Are we the target, or is this to try and keep Renly back from that shitpile."
"Exactly." Robb said. "My lords?"
"All word is that Renly has done little but hold tourneys and feasts to honour his-" Lord Tytos Blackwood stumbled over whatever he had thought better of saying. "That is, the God-Touched of Tarth."
Word of a possible alliance had been allowed to spread, and Robb was pleased to see an end to some of the terms he had heard used for his fellow God-Touched.
Though Lord Jonos Bracken, ever eager to contradict his hated enemy, countered with the claim, "Renly draws closer to King's Landing by the day. The Imp must surely fear to be crushed beneath the Titan's tread."
Which spurred Blackwood to reply with abruptly lessened courtesy. "Fear a woman over our king?!" And then the argument spread across the room like a summer fire in the Wolfswood.
Robb let them argue it out for a time, then slammed a fist down on the table. Less from anger than a need for silence.
"Joffrey faces two God-Touched, and no matter his power he cannot be in two places at once. That much we can be sure of." Robb said. "Whether he is in the Crownlands or Harrenhal, he must appear to be in both places at once."
Once most of the room had nodded to his words, he continued, hoping he was not allowing his desires to influence his decisions, "That means he may be flying back and forth between the two, or waiting in a more central location for a message to reach him.
"My lords, I want volunteers. Be honest with them of the danger, and reward them as you must, but we need men to roam further. As far as the Gods Eye itself if they can.
"We must force them to reveal where Joffrey is. Then, I will end this."
As speeches went, it was a poor one, but the promise of progress beyond the grinding skirmish war they had been waging was enough to raise the mood. Enough so that he found himself ready to make his other announcement. Or rather, to wave for Maester Vyman to make it.
He unrolled a scroll on which the appropriate text had been drafted, and to which Robb had already fixed his seal.
"An agreement has been reached, regarding an alliance between the Crown of Winter, and House Tyrell. This pact will be sealed by marriage between his Grace's brother and heir, Brandon Stark, and the sole daughter of that House, Margaery Tyrell."
To which end Robb had already agreed that the Lady Tyrell would accompany a host of her family's men, led by her brother Ser Garlan, and come to Riverrun with them. The better to know her good-mother-to-be, and learn the ways of House Stark. Or so the Tyrells had explained.
Vyman continued, "This pact will be further sealed by marriage between his Grace's sister, Sansa Stark, and the heir to that House, Willas Tyrell."
That marked when Robb had to speak again. He rose to his feet to address his lords, looking one in particular in the eye as he did so.
"In order to better secure this pact, and in light of the agreement previously reached with House Frey, I have made a decision regarding one of our prisoners."
Already he could see the realisation dawning in the man's eyes. As glad as he had been for the excuse for a king to do as any brother would wish to, Robb wished there had been a way to avoid what was to come.
"Willem Lannister will be freed, and marked as a herald that he might bear words that cannot be trusted to ravens alone. On his honour, he will swear to return here with a reply from King's Landing."
Lord Karstark's mouth was open, but it seemed he was so furious that he could not find breath to shout. Robb took the opportunity to finish what needed to be said.
"The message he is to bear will offer an exchange of hostages. Jaime Lannister for my sisters, Sansa and Arya."
"You would offer my son's killer! The heir to Tywin fucking Lannister! For a pair of mewling cunts!"
Some part of Robb, a sad small part of him, thought of how Rickard Karstark was wrong. He was offering Jaime Lannister for alliances, specifically to secure an alliance with the Tyrells as firmly as he could. He might save his sisters in the doing, but he was selling them in truth.
That was the voice of the boy though. The boy who had not wanted the crown, or the God in his breast. It was not the most of him.
Most of Robb was those things that had been forced upon him. King and God-Touched. Both of them filled with a terrible rage as he swept his sword clean through its sheath, on into an arc that cut deep into the flagstones beneath them and bisected the heavy rug, then up through the table the council was gathered around.
Like a tree struck by lightning, the table blew apart. Men scattered to the side, though Robb had been careful with his strength and was sure shock moved them more than force, it still left him standing alone opposite a man who had just insulted his sisters.
His sword was gone and Odin's had taken its place. Longer than any practical greatsword, yet Robb held it steady with one hand. All down the twisting length swam runes that whispered their meaning at the edge of a watcher's mind. Yet it was the man with his throat a hair's breadth from the tip that Robb looked to.
There was fear in those eyes, but a kind of madness too. For a moment Robb feared the other man might step forward and spill his own blood across the stones.
Instead, he turned his head and spat to the side. Then bit out, "Apologies, your grace. My grief got the best of me."
It struck Robb then, as it had not before, that he could simply kill the man.
He was not a Lord, or even a King, but a God-Touched.
Who would stop him?
Who could stop him?
"...I can." Robb muttered to himself, too low for a soul to hear it. Then he let the power in his sword slip away.
Only once he had lowered it did anyone relax, despite that it didn't reach half the distance to Lord Karstark without his power in it. Distantly Robb supposed that was proof that he could change the length of the blade as he wished, because the last time he had practiced it had been half a hand longer.
Loud enough to be heard, with the voice of a king, Robb said, "Dacey, Jon. Lord Karstark has been too long inside. See he gets some air."
He didn't wait for his most loyal Wolfsguard to finish removing the man. He simply sat down, on the only chair not toppled, sword propped with its point on the stone and his hands on the pommel in a fashion that would have had Ser Rodrik roaring at him to take better care of his blade.
With a slight flex of his wrists, Robb sunk the sword an inch into the floor, to better prop his hands.
"Are there any objections, my lords?"
Over the next fortnight, it was as though the world began to move again.
Though they were still fighting a war of skirmish, still poking and prodding at one another, Robb found that the promise of movement was enough to defeat his restlessness.
He trained as much as he dared, and eagerly awaited each report from men that had stabbed deep into Lannister held territory.
Many did not return. He offered his prayers for them at the Godswood. A place that he doubted had seen so many people in a thousand years or more as it did since he had declared his crown there.
Whatever small quarrels he might have with some of his lords -those with the Freys were mounting with each message that declared the Tyrells to be drawing closer- Robb found that the men who had come south with him were happier than he had ever known them.
The slow retreat of the Godswoods from the South had been a bone of contention for generations. A constant grumble at the Starks' feasting tables for at least as long as anyone he could ask had lived.
Now, here, was a reversal of that. Of course that was just one more thing for the more fractious riverlords to complain of, and Robb was sure he would have cause for problems when the Tyrells arrived and brought who knew how many Septons and Septas with them. Until then though, it was a victory of sorts. One that had him spending more and more time in the Godswood.
Dacey and the Smalljon accompanied him there, almost without fail. The rest of his Wolfsguard were common sights, though he feared Eddard Karstark was drawing away more and more since his father's quarrel had escalated almost to bloodshed.
Most of the Northern lords could be found there commonly. Some more welcome than others, if Robb was honest about Roose Bolton's ghost pale eyes and how little he liked to be stared at by them.
Still, it made for a sense of unity with those whose loyalty he valued most. Robb was glad of it.
Especially when the messenger found him there.
Robb ran to the Maester's chambers, Dacey and Jon close at his heels, and found a ruin of a man there.
He did not know the man. Did not know whose House he served. He just knew the voice from the burnt wreck a face was Northern.
Robb was at his soldier's side a heartbeat later, clasping the man's remaining hand and hoping he was not hurting him, if there was any way he even could be hurt worse than he had been.
"Y…r…Gr…ce."
"I'm here. Your king is with you." the Smalljon whispered a name in his ear, from the messenger like as not, and Robb added, "Ed."
Something that he had said must have given the man strength. His eyes, darting wildly a moment before, focused and found Robb's own. He spoke just loud enough to be heard clearly, though he clenched his fist in agony with every word.
"We found him, your grace. South of the Gods Eye. We, we…"
Jon whispered more of the messenger's words in his ear as the man faded out again. "There were three of them that made it back to Stone Hedge. Met some of ours and were brought back to tell of what they found."
"The others?" Robb asked, knowing the answer.
"Died on the way."
"Your grace!" The soldier yelped, traying to heave himself upright like he'd just come out of a nightmare. "It was lightning. Lightning 'midst a clear day. Lightning that killed us all. Lannisters, Lannisters." All he could mutter after that was the name of their enemy. Until Robb made to rise, to ask the Maester to give him something, to command that the man be cared for as best he could.
Robb had no chance to say such a thing, not before his soldier fixed eyes with him and asked, even as his voice died with the fading of his strength, "Finish me…y…gr…ce. Let…Dark…s…take…me…h…m."
He had not wanted so badly to be home since he had word of his father's execution. He wanted to sprint from the room, away from a man who he had commanded to his death. He wanted to be a boy again, with his father to do these things in his place.
But he was a lord. He was a king. He was a God-Touched.
Robb drew his dagger and let his power change it into something a man could be proud to die on. Then he glanced down at the curves of his sword in miniature and chose again, though he had not known until that moment that he had a choice.
This time the weapon he drew from the Warden of Darkness' armoury was more rondel dagger than slicing weapon. It felt dark, but it was the darkness of peaceful nights well-earned. Not the darkness of a violent end.
He knelt at the soldier's side, and made sure it was plain to the man what he was doing. He received only a nod in turn.
With the tip beneath the soldier's chin, Robb asked. "Do you have any final words?"
"...no…p…nt…s…m…sn…"
Hoping he understood, and that he was wrong at the same time, Robb thrust the blade up into his soldier's skull.
He felt it steal the life away before it finished piercing the skin. Swift and gentle, leaving a man who might have been sleeping if not for all his wounds.
Wounds like Robb had never seen before.
Wounds from lightning perhaps? Ramuh, appeared at last, and on the side of the enemy?
Or had a man who could no more imagine what it was to die by 'light magic' than Robb could, simply named it as best he knew how?
All Robb knew, was that his orders to range far and wide were withdrawn by day's end. Caution was the word once again.
That night the wolves sang, as he sat up in his bed and tried to think of a strategy that wasn't simply sending his men to die until Joffrey got sick of hiding.
The same options came to mind as had every other time he thought of it.
He could assemble his forces and march on Harrenhal, but then he would be leaving Riverrun open at his back, and far too many hostages with it. Both potential and current. If Joffrey flew around him, then he might take every soul in Harrenhal and still not come out ahead.
He could bring everyone with him. Abandon the castle entirely, or close enough as made no difference. His grandfather would be left to die, but he was certain Hoster Tully would have asked for no less if it meant victory over defeat. But then he would have to fight with them nearby, and while he could risk an army to defeat Joffrey, he could not risk all his lords. Could not risk his mother.
Other, less practical options spiralled out from him. Scribbled on scraps of parchment and discarded just as fast. Scattering would only risk the most valuable amongst them. Withdrawing his lords and ladies north would leave their forces leaderless, and without those forces he would die as soon as he finished any serious fight.
He was stuck.
Two days later, he learned it was worse than he had known.
Another messenger had come to the Godswood, only to be directed to the yard where he was training. This one had trailed another man, stripped of weapons and protected by his duty. A herald, but not from the Lannisters.
The hill tribesman saw him in the yard, blade of darkness in hand, and fell to his knees at once.
Though he sneered at the Tully man who had brought him there, the ragged savage kept his eyes down at Robb's approach. Even whispering something Robb could not understand, but which sounded almost worshipful.
Then he gargled and spat on the boots of the Blackfish, who had crossed the yard to stand beside his grand-nephew.
"No respect for me, hillscum?" Mused Brynden, violence already brewing in his voice. "I've killed more of your kind than his grace has."
The man sneered even deeper. "He," his chin jerked towards Robb, "is blood of the First Men. A King of Winter, touched by the Gods and risen again. Not some Andall milksop." Then he made to spit again, only to stop when Robb's blade crossed his line of sight on its way to rest against the ground.
Once it was sunk deep enough to lean on comfortably, Robb crossed his hands on the pommel, and said, "You have a message, herald. Deliver it."
His feelings must have been clear, because the man bowed his head again, then said, "Sorry, King Stark, no insult meant to you."
"Your message."
"It ain't my message, these words are Garuda's." The worship in that word was unmistakable. "She claims the Andall castle. All of them, but especially the big one. And everyone in it."
It was no more than Robb had been expecting.
He wondered if his aunt had expected him to come to her rescue, despite the lack of ravens from any but the various castles about to be taken.
Of them all, only the Blackfish had made any serious mention of trying to help, and even he had given up on the idea near as soon as he raised it. Only Robb could turn that tide, and he could not abandon loyal lands for those which had offered no help to their own blood.
"Lysa Arryn?" the Blackfish asked. "Her boy, Robert?"
"They live, Andall. That is why Garuda has sent me."
A terrible feeling came over Robb then. One he was ashamed to admit that the fates of his aunt and cousin had not stirred. Somehow he knew what was to come before it was said.
"She offers to trade. Those two, and any others you might want."
"For who?"
"Lannister." The man said, like it was an unfamiliar name that he had been careful to memorise. "Jaime, son of Tywin."
Only once he had personally witnessed the man accept bread and salt did Robb order him housed and fed. Even then, not in Riverrun itself.
He called for his mother, his uncle, his grand-uncle. All of them. Already knowing what would be decided.
The messenger was sent back the same day as he had arrived. Fresh supplies in his pockets and a smile on his scarred face.
A lord paramount, no matter how young, could not be compared with the daughters of one. Not by a king.
Only a brother could weigh them the way Robb wanted to. Only the boy.
When the next raven came in, he almost told them not to tell him what it said. Too deep in reports from the field and the endless demands of commanding the precise movements of far too many groups of men, most of whom would not get his commands until days after he gave them.
Kings couldn't be petulant though. Nor could they hide from their duties.
Lucky for him that the message was nothing more than the petulance of another. It barely even merited discussion.
"Stannis still has no God-Touched then?" Was Theon's response when told about it. "The man's growing desperate."
Robb wasn't sure if that was it. Just like he wasn't sure if he believed the slander that Stannis had sent to every high lord in Westeros.
Joffrey being a bastard born of incest might explain why he was such a little shit.
It might also explain how Eddard Stark had found himself accused of treason against the son of his oldest friend.
It just didn't matter beyond that.
A woman from nowhere had just treated with him for the lives of high lords, as though they were sacks of grain.
Perhaps Joffrey was what Stannis said he was. Robb doubted it would make any difference in putting Stannis on the Iron Throne.
Robb doubted there would even be an Iron Throne before long. Except as a relic used by whoever ended up ruling the Crownlands.
He wondered if they would continue to call them that.
He was still wondering when yet another man found him in the Godswood, and he barely resisted the urge to groan.
It wasn't the worst of news this time, but it certainly was odd.
Some days later Robb found himself assembled alongside his household, such as it was.
It was a strange echo of a time not long ago, in a place much better loved.
Only this time he stood in pride of place, as his father had, and it was the king who would be receiving a supplicant, instead of the other way around.
For the Tyrells, somehow, had sent their most precious treasure far ahead of the host still making their way along the Roseroad.
He could understand that they had not told him, for such a raven being shot down would have been beyond devestating.
What he could not understand was how they had made it so close to Riverrun undetected and unharmed, despite the skirmish lines having shifted directly across the obvious path.
Though the pristine state of the ladies that rode across Riverrun's bridge, escorted by decidedly less pristine knights and leaving a considerable number more of them behind, that he could imagine an answer to.
Still, after so many weeks of war and tedium, he was almost looking forward to the first sight of the good-sister whose hand he had turned down.
Perhaps, if this worked out, it might become a joke between he and Bran and their lady wives.
The first of the ladies dismounted and he wondered if it might be her. She seemed like a friendly sort, though it was hard to imagine her with the frail little boy he had left in Winterfell.
A second lady dismounted and he guessed by the lack of introduction that neither was the 'Rose of Highgarden'.
A sound behind him drew his eyes away from where both ladies, accompanied by the same servants who had helped them down, were attending to some task amidst the cluster of them still mounted. Robb turned and saw Theon making a face he had seen many times before, then caught his mother's eyes and remembered himself.
He turned.
The ladies parted.
And the most beautiful woman he had ever seen descended the mounting block her ladies had fetched for her.