Tyrion

His memories hadn't done justice to the Wall. The towering piece of ice rising more than seven hundred feet into the air, and then stretching on and on as far as the eye could see to the west. The cold northern winds bit at him through his black cloak as his mule ambled along the road to Castle Black. Lancel rode beside him upon a swaybacked nag, somehow managing to look quite striking in his old and faded black cloak, black doublet, black leggings, and black boots. They rode in a party of a bare dozen led by a ranger with a huge beard imaginatively called Bearded Ben. Most of them veterans from Eastwatch-By-the-Sea sent to patrol the Wall for wildlings, the rest were new recruits like Tyrion and Lancel. They were poachers, rapists, and thieves, and none of them gave half a shit that Tyrion and Lancel were Lannisters. Ser Alliser Thorne and Janos Slynt, on the other hand, had cared very much indeed. Thank the gods Cotter Pyke decided to send us on to Castle Black else I fear we wouldn't have lived to bear our vows. Trouble had been brewing from the moment they had landed at Eastwatch, it seemed that the Ser Alliser had not forgotten Tyrion's japes from when the knight had visited King's Landing, nor had Janos Slynt forgotten who had sent him to the Wall. And now the two people at the Wall with the most cause to hate Tyrion had managed to become fast friends.

Lancel and Tyrion had sworn their vows in the damp and dreary Eastwatch sept and within hours had been put a horse, or a mule in Tyrion's case, and were made to join a scouting party that would patrol from Eastwatch to Castle Black, searching for wildlings. Tyrion wasn't sad to be gone from Eastwatch for if Castle Black had been cold, dreary, and rundown then Eastwatch was it's uglier dockside whore of a cousin. The slumping towers were speckled with salt blown from the Shivering Sea. which has more than earned its name, Tyrion shivered as he remembered the vast grey waves that seemed poised to swamp the ships and send them to a freezing death.

The road the ran the length of the Wall was more similar to a trail than it was to the Kingsroad or the Gold Road. It ran through the rough hills and woods that marked the Gift. Every so often they passed within sight of a small hamlet, though most of them were abandoned for fear of wildling raiders. Most nights they slept in the ruined halls of the abandoned castles of the Night's Watch. It took them a week's worth of riding to reach Castle Black. The Wall was shining and sparkling in the evening light as they approached Castle Black. It seems a mite bit emptier than it was on my previous visit. That was an understatement before he'd left there had been hundreds of Black Brothers in the fortress, now the castle seemed almost empty. From the ground, he couldn't tell if there were sentries walking the Wall seven hundred feet above, but he saw a few people on the huge switchback stair that climbed the south face of the ice like some great wooden thunderbolt.

As they entered the castle a lone guard greeted them as they entered waving down Bearded Ben. Tyrion recognized him as one of the boys who had trained with Jon Snow, Grenn I think the one Ser Alliser called the Aurochs. He's grown some.

"Ben, what's brought you here?"

"Scouting for godsdamned wildlings," he threw a thumb over his shoulder. "And bringing these buggers to Castle Black."

The big lad looked past Bearded Ben, and Tyrion saw his eyes grow wide as saucers. "Lord Tyrion?"

Tyrion snorted. "Just Tyrion now I fear," and at the Aurochs' obvious confusion he continued. "I was on the wrong side of a battle."

"Quite a story to tell then?"

"I fear not I spent most of the battle shitting myself."

Bearded Ben interrupted. "Charming as all this is but let's get inside before we freeze our balls off."

"Yes, let's do that," agreed Tyrion as he urged his mule into the nearby stables.

With the mule and the horses safely stabled Tyrion and Lancel made their way into the common hall. It was much as he remembered a great timber hall with crows nesting in the rafters, it stank of smoke and sweat, and the food was a disgusting stew, but it was warm, and for that alone, it was like the Seven Heavens. All of the good seats by the fires were taken by the Black Brothers, my brothers now. Now safely within the warm common hall and bowls of stew in their hands, Tyrion let his eyes wander over the faces in the hall, not very many familiar ones. In the end, Tyrion and Lancel settled down at a table as close to the fires as they could get without intruding on the other's space.

"Do you think we'll ever get used to the cold?" Lancel asked.

"The day that happens is the day the Wall falls," Tyrion said.

"Don't even jape about that Imp," said the one armed Donal Noye. "Not with wildlings everywhere. Harma Dogshead at Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, Rattleshirt at Long Barrow, the Weeper near Icemark. All along the Wall here, there, and everywhere. They're climbing near Queensgate, they're hacking at the gates of Greyguard, they're massing against Eastwatch, and getting ready to cross the Bridge of Skulls." the smith slapped his hand on the table. "But one glimpse of a black cloak and they're gone. Next day they're somewhere else."

Tyrion was silent for a moment thinking on. "I suppose a quiet exile at the Wall was too much to ask for."

Donal Noye chuckled grimly. "The Wall's only quiet when you're sitting pretty in King's Landing. When you're here there's always a crisis coming."

"I'd thought to meet Jon Snow here. Where is he?"

Donal Noye eyed him. "Jarman Buckwell's scouts saw him near two months ago with their own eyes, riding alongside a wildling column and wearing a sheepskin cloak."

Tyrion sat stunned for a moment. "He deserted?"

"Aye."

"That hardly seems like him I'd have thought any of those recruits would have deserted before him."

"You never know what someone will do before they go beyond the Wall."

"What was he doing up there? Unless I misremember the Old Bear said he'd become his personal steward."

"Aye he did, and that's exactly what Jon Snow was doing. The Old Bear lead our three hundred best, a third of the Watch, on a great ranging."

"What for?"

"Several reasons and I believe Ser Alliser mentioned one of them to you at King's Landing."

Tyrion laughed mirthlessly. "That damned hand?"

"That damned hand," Noye repeated.

"You can't expect me to be afraid of the Others and their wights, what next snarks and grumkins?"

It was then that Tyrion noticed the silence that had fallen over the tables.I might have been a bit too loud there. Damn my tongue.

"Thirteen men," said the Aurochs, who had stood up and was glaring Tyrion. "Thirteen out of three hundred. That's all that came back to Castle Black. Most of them died at the Fist, killed by dead men, dead animals, the cold, and worse things. Demons made of ice and hate, the Others. The one that didn't die there died in the woods as we fled for our lives! And the ones that survived all that, most of them mutinied. They killed the Old Bear, they killed my friends. So yeah, be afraid Imp!" The Aurochs sat down and silence returned to the hall.

Tyrion turned to face Donal Noye. "Was what he said true?"

"Every word, and on top of that a hundred thousand wildlings are running south and we're right in their path."

"And how many men are here?"

"You're looking at most of them, forty odd all together," said Donal Noye. "The crippled and infirm, some green boys still in training, and the two of you."

"Fuck me. Thank the gods for the seven hundred foot wall of ice," Tyrion shook his head. "Who's in command?"

The smith shrugged his broad shoulders. "Ser Wynton Stout, gods help him and us. He's the last knight in the castle."

Tyrion felt a brow rising of its own accord as he remembered a certain incident during his first time at Castle Black. "Isn't he the man who almost drowned in a bowl of pea soup?"

"Aye," the Donal Noye said again. "Thankfully it seems he's forgotten and no one's been rushing to remind him. I suppose I'm as much a commander as we have now. The meanest of the cripples."

"You sell yourself short."

"Better than being short. Who'd you piss off to get sent to the Wall anyway?"

It was Lancel who answered the former smith of Storm's End. "Stannis Baratheon."

Donal Noye chuckled. "I'd heard he'd declared himself king, along with Renly, Joffrey, Robb Stark, and Balon Greyjoy."

"Renly's dead," Tyrion said. "I'm surprised you hadn't heard."

"Word reaches the Wall but slowly," Noye shook his head sadly. "Sad the hear about Renly. I remember when he used to dress up and pretend he was a wizard, or a kingsguard, or gods know what else. How'd he die?"

"In a battle at Storm's End, against Stannis," Tyrion sipped at his stew.

"Hmph." If Donal Noye was upset about Renly's death he didn't show it. "That one, he was copper, bright and shiny, pretty to look at but not worth all that much at the end of the day. Stannis is pure iron, black and hard and strong, yes, but brittle, the way iron gets. He'll break before he bends. Only Robert was the true steel."

"That time is long past," Tyrion said. "Robert was nothing but rust by the time he died."

"How'd that happen anyways? All we heard was that he died."

"Hunting," Lancel said. "He was hunting. He had too much to drink and a boar gutted him."

Not bothering to mention who exactly gave Robert all that wine I see. Tyrion eyed the smith's bulging muscles. Can't say I blame you coz.

"Hah! That sounds like Robert. You'd best get some sleep Tyrion. You've got the first watch tomorrow," the smith stood up and began to lumber back to his former spot. "Someone'll kick you awake in the morning."

Tyrion closed his eyes. "I hate this place."

The sun was still below the horizon when Tyrion walked out of the old Flint Barracks, a tumble down structure built from ancient stone. He kept a thick cloak wrapped tight around him over two layers of thick black wool, even so, the wind was cutting him to the bone. Tyrion took up the old axe he had taken from the armoury and set out to stand watch. Which requires what exactly?

Tyrion huffed. "I guess I'll… make a circuit of the castle..." Tyrion pulled his cloak tighter and started his circuit. "And now my watch begins." It was half an hour after Tyrion's watch began that anyone else came awake, as the first rays of sun broke the horizon Tyrion began to hear Donal Noye banging away in his smithy. A half hour after that some of the other brothers came down from the Wall, while others went up to replace them, climbing the great switchback stairs. It was half an hour after that that the first interesting thing happened, a rider coming from the south. Riding hard by the look of it. Tyrion limped forward on his twisted, cramped legs, and brandished his axe.

"Who goes there?" He called. The rider slowed as he came forward, it was a young man with a scruffy beard, he wore a sheepskin cloak, his leg was coated in dried blood, and he looked familiar. "Jon Snow?"

The bastard of Winterfell slowed to a stop before all but falling off his horse. "Tyrion? What are you-"

"-worry about that later Jon you need to see Maester Aemon. That wound looks bad."

"There are wildlings coming," Jon told him, as Tyrion steadied his wounded brother. "From the south. We climbed the Wall..."

"Fuck you, Snow, you couldn't have brought good news?"

Daenerys

The scouts of her khalasar had told Dany of the Yunkai'i host, but she had to see it for herself. Together with Ser Jorah Mormont, they rode to the top a sandstone ridge. "Near enough," he warned her as they reached the crest.

Dany reined in her silver and looked across the fields, to where the Yunkai'i host lay. The enemy camp sprawled across the road, blocking the path to Yunkai. She focused on them remembering Whitebeard's lesson on how best to count the numbers of a foe. "Five thousand," she said after a moment.

"Or close enough to it," agreed Ser Jorah. "With those sellswords on the flanks. About three hundred men apiece."

Dany grimaced, her Unsullied traps had worked twice more after the first, but it hadn't been long before the sellswords grew wise to the trick and avoided them. On the march to Yunkai her followers had killed near four hundred of the sellswords but at the cost of over thrice that number of freedmen. Still, she had their measure, they were fierce fighters but only so long as they were winning if the battle turned against them they would melt like frost on a summer day. Instead, she focused on the Yunkai'i in the center beneath their banners of a harpy grasping a whip and an iron collar in her talons. "Those are slave soldiers I think."

Ser Jorah grunted. "For the most part yes. But not the equal of Unsullied. Yunkai is known for training bed slaves, not warriors."

"So what do you think, can we beat this army?"

"Easily," he said.

"But not bloodlessly." Blood aplenty had soaked into the bricks of Astapor the day that city fell, though little of it belonged to her or hers. "We might win a battle here, but at such cost, we cannot take the city."

"That is ever a risk, Khaleesi. Astapor was complacent and vulnerable. Yunkai is forewarned."

"And if they have those new weapons..." Dany didn't finish her thought, unwilling to let her mind create the horrors her people would face.

"I see no sign of any siege engines," Ser Jorah reassured her. "Whatever these weapons are we have only seen them on ships. Perhaps they cannot be brought onto land?"

"I do not want to risk my people's lives on a perhaps."

"I fear you do not have much choice Khaleesi."

"I fear you're right Ser Jorah. Often I heard my brother call sellswords cravens and fools, what do you think, will the sellswords fight or will they run?"

"The Second Sons are an old company, and not without valor, but under Mero, they've turned near as bad as the Brave Companions. Their captain is as dangerous to his employers as to his foes. That's why you find him out here. None of the Free Cities will hire him any longer. But like all such men he is a craven at heart, he'll flee rather than risk his own skin for his employers."

"And the Stormcrows?"

"They're a new company eager to prove themselves, and one of their captains is Ghiscari he likely had kin in Astapor, he'll want to fight, but his men have weathered much in these last weeks, they've learned to fear the Unsullied, they'll crack if you push them hard enough."

Dany considered. Even if what Ser Jorah says about the sellswords is true I've ridden too long with Dothraki not to know what mounted warriors can do to foot. The Unsullied would withstand their charge, but my freedmen would be slaughtered. I'll need to even the odds. "The slavers like to talk," she said. "Send word that I will hear them this evening in my tent."

"As you wish," Ser Jorah said. "But if they do not come..."

"They'll come. They will be curious to see the dragons and hear what I might have to say, and the clever ones will see it for a chance to gauge my strength." She wheeled her silver mare about. "I'll await their envoy in my pavilion."

Dany passed through the perimeter the Unsullied had established, the tents were going up in orderly rows, with her own tall golden pavilion at the center. A second encampment, five times the size, sprawling and chaotic, lay close beyond her own. In the second camp, there were no ditches, no tents, and no horselines, but there were sentries aplenty, the results of hard learned and bloody lessons. Those who had horses or mules slept beside them, for fear they might be stolen. Goats, sheep, and half-starved dogs wandered freely amongst hordes of women, children, and old men. Tens of thousands had left newly freed Astapor to follow her, and even after the thunderous weapons from the sea and the chaos of the night raids most had stayed rather than return to the high walls of Astapor. I gave them the city, but most of them were too frightened to take it.

Arstan Whitebeard stood outside the entrance of her tent, while Strong Belwas sat crosslegged on the grass nearby, eating a bowl of figs. On the march, the duty of guarding her fell upon their shoulders for Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo were far too busy to be both Kos and bloodriders, and so she saw them but rarely as they reported what her khalasar of braidless boys and bentback old men had seen while scouting.

"Yunkai will have war," Dany told Whitebeard inside the pavilion. Irri and Jhiqui had covered the floor with carpets then lit a stick of incense to sweeten the dusty air. Drogon and Viserion were asleep atop some cushions, curled about each other, but Rhaegal perched on the edge of a closed chest.

Arstan tapped his staff on the ground. "A war you will win."

"There is no other option," Dany sat upon her couch and began to wait.

The envoys from Yunkai arrived as the sun was going down. There were fifty men on magnificent black horses and one on a great white camel. Their helms were twice as tall as their heads, so as not to crush the bizarre twists and towers and shapes of their oiled hair beneath. Their linen shirts and tunics were dyed a deep yellow and they sewed copper disks to their cloaks.

The man on the white camel named himself Grazdan mo Eraz. Lean and hard, he had a white smile such as Kraznys had worn until Drogon burned off his face. His hair was drawn up in a unicorn's horn that jutted from his brow, and his tokar was fringed with golden Myrish lace. "Ancient and glorious is Yunkai, the queen of cities," he said when Dany welcomed him to her tent. "Our walls are strong, our nobles proud and fierce, our common folk without fear. Ours is the blood of ancient Ghis, whose empire was old when Valyria was yet a squalling child. You were wise to sit and speak, Khaleesi. You shall find no easy conquest here."

"Good. My Unsullied will relish a bit of a fight." She looked to Grey Worm, who nodded.

Grazdan shrugged expansively. "If blood is what you wish, let it flow. I am told you have freed your eunuchs. Freedom means as much to an Unsullied as a hat to a haddock." He smiled at Grey Worm, but the eunuch might have been made of stone. "Those who survive we shall enslave again, and use to retake Astapor from the rabble. We can make a slave of you as well, do not doubt it. There are pleasure houses in Lys and Tyrosh where men would pay handsomely to bed the last Targaryen."

"It is good to see you know who I am," said Dany mildly.

"I pride myself on my knowledge of the savage senseless west," Grazdan spread his hands, a gesture of conciliation. "And yet, why should we speak so harshly to each other? It is true that you committed cruelties almost beyond reckoning in Astapor, but we of Yunkai are a most forgiving people. Your quarrel is not with us, Your Grace. Why squander your strength against our mighty walls when you will need every man to regain your father's throne in far Westeros? Yunkai wishes you only well in that endeavor. And to prove the truth of that, I have brought you a gift." He clapped his hands, and two of his escort came forward bearing a heavy cedar chest bound in bronze and gold. They set it at her feet. "Fifty thousand golden marks," Grazdan said smoothly. "Yours, as a gesture of friendship from the Wise Masters of Yunkai. Gold given freely is better than plunder bought with blood, surely? So I say to you, Daenerys Targaryen, take this chest, and go."

Dany pushed open the lid of the chest with a small slippered foot. It was full of gold coins, just as the envoy said. She grabbed a handful and let them run through her fingers. They shone brightly as they tumbled and fell. Most of them were new minted, stamped with a stepped pyramid on one face and the harpy of Ghis on the other. "Very pretty. I wonder how many chests like this I shall find when I take your city?"

He chuckled. "None, for that you shall never do."

"I have a gift for you as well," she slammed the chest shut. "Three days. On the morning of the third day, send out your slaves. All of them. Every man, woman, and child shall be given a weapon, and as much food, clothing, coin, and goods as he or she can carry. These they shall be allowed to choose freely from among their master's possessions, as payment for their years of servitude. When all the slaves have departed, you will open your gates and allow my Unsullied to enter and search your city, to make certain none remain in bondage. If you do this, Yunkai will not be burned or plundered, and none of your people shall be harmed. The Wise Masters will have the peace they desire and will have proved themselves to be very wise indeed. What say you?"

Grazdan smiled. "I say, you are mad."

"Am I?" Dany shrugged and said. "Dracarys."

The dragons answered. Rhaegal hissed and smoked, Viserion snapped, and Drogon spat swirling red and black flames. The flames swirled through the tent but failed to touch the Yunkai'i envoy. Nonetheless, the envoy had fallen in his haste to avoid the flames. "You swore I would have safe conduct!" The Yunkai'i envoy wailed.

"Do all the Yunkai'i whine so? Fear not for Drogon will not give you a warmer kiss, so long as you deliver up your slaves within three days. Now take your gold and go, and see that the Wise Masters hear my message."

Grazdan mo Eraz pointed a finger. "You shall rue this arrogance, whore. These little lizards will not keep you safe, I promise you. Yunkai does not stand alone and we have dragons of our own," he sneered as he left.

"I hope to meet them my children could use some new friends," she said with a confidence she did not feel. Dany closed her eyes as Grazdan departed, trying to calm herself. "Ser Jorah, what do you make of his claim."

"It's," the knight shook his head. "It's impossible, the man must be lying. Rumors spread quickly we would have heard of dragons if they had any. They would want to show them off to try and intimidate you Khaleesi."

"But why tell such an obvious lie?" Asked Whitebeard. "There must be some strain of truth to it."

"Words are wind," Dany said. "Whatever the truth of his words it matters not we must win this battle and force Yunkai to surrender. Ser Jorah, summon my bloodriders." Dany seated herself on a mound of cushions to await them, her dragons all about her. When they were assembled, she said. "An hour past midnight should be time enough."

"Yes, Khaleesi," said Rakharo. "Time for what?"

"To mount our attack."

Ser Jorah Mormont scowled. "You told Grazdan-"

"-that they had three days. They will not expect an attack tonight. We will take them under cover of this darkness."

"They will have scouts watching for us."

"And in the dark, they will see hundreds of campfires burning," said Dany. "If they see anything at all."

"Khaleesi," said Jhogo. "I will deal with these scouts. They are no riders, only slavers on horses."

"Just so," she agreed. "I think we should attack from three sides. Grey Worm, your Unsullied shall strike at them from right and left, while my Kos lead my horse in wedge for a thrust through their center followed by another force of Unsullied. Slave soldiers will never stand before mounted Dothraki." She smiled. "To be sure, I am only a young girl and know little of war. What do you think, my lords?"

"I think you are Rhaegar Targaryen's sister," Ser Jorah said with a rueful half smile.

"Aye," said Arstan Whitebeard. "And a queen as well."

It took an hour to work out all the details. Now begins the most dangerous time, Dany thought as her captains departed to their commands. Is this to be my part in all battles waiting to hear of victory or defeat? As men like Ser Jorah, Grey Worm, Strong Belwas, Arstan,and my bloodriders fight my battles for me. Alone Dany sat in darkness and silence to wait for victory or defeat.

Ser Jorah came to her two hours after midnight, he was limping slightly but there was no blood.

"Victory or defeat?" Dany asked.

Ser Jorah knelt before her. "Victory," he said. "The sellswords fled rather than face the Unsullied again, and the slave soldiers couldn't stand against an attack from one side, let alone three."

Dany smiled. "Spare all those who will pledge me their faith, be they sellsword or slave.

Ser Jorah bowed again. "Yes, Khaleesei."

The next day they marched the last three leagues to Yunkai. Save for being built from yellow bricks instead of red it was Astapor all over again, with the same crumbling walls and high stepped pyramids, and a great harpy mounted above its gates. The wall and towers swarmed with crossbowmen and slingers. Ser Jorah and Grey Worm deployed her men, Irri and Jhiqui raised her pavilion, and Dany sat down to wait.

Three days later the ships that had sent her fleet to the bottom of the ocean appeared on the horizon escorting a fleet that sailed under the harpy of Meereen, and the city gates remained shut.

Catelyn

Two thousand northmen crowded the narrow raised road of the causeway only four hundred yards from the moss covered towers and scattered stones of Moat Cailin. Robb waited near the rear of the northern host, surrounded by his bodyguards and waiting to give the signal to attack. Beyond them were the Ironmen waiting behind the walls of Moat Cailin, every window, arrow slit, and crenellation of the three towers bristled with Ironmen armed with bows. Any attack from the south would end in disaster. Catelyn shifted her gaze past the death trap waiting for them and onto the shadowed, marshy, mist shrouded fields beyond the towers.

Slowly as the sun rose and burnt away the mist the shadows began to make themselves clear. A second host of northmen had gathered there, having been led through the swamps of the Neck by a hundred crannogmen guides sent by Lord Howland Reed. Robb had given Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont a thousand men and had had them follow the crannogmen through the secret paths of the Neck to attack Moat Cailin from the north. She couldn't see the reactions of the Ironmen, but I imagine they're not happy.

The attack from the north began at noon, the thousand foot advanced slowly towards the Gatehouse Tower keeping under the cover of mantlets and broad shields. The other towers which could so easily protect the third if attacked from the south could do nothing but watch as the northmen battered down the tower door with small rams. It seemed to take forever for the kraken of Greyjoy to fall from the battlements and be replaced by the direwolf of Stark, but it was only a few minutes at most.

"Lady Maege," said Robb. "Send a messenger to the Children's Tower and the Drunkard's Tower, offer the ironmen a chance to yield and keep their lives."

Ser Helman Tallhart snorted. "I fear you waste your time, Your Grace, the ironmen are madmen they'll fight to the death."

"They are mad," Catelyn said. "But they aren't fools, they know they can't win they'll surrender soon enough so that they can fight another day instead of dying today."

"Lady Maege," Robb nodded at the towers to reaffirm his orders.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Lady Maege rode off and before long a pair of riders were moving as swiftly as they could towards each tower. True to Catelyn's prediction it took only a few minutes for the ironmen to begin leaving the towers and gathering on the muddy field.

Ser Helman departed to see to his men, while Robb and Catelyn left the Causeway, rode past the ruined towers and scattered blocks of basalt, and entered the marshy fields that lay to Moat Cailin's north. Galbart Glover's thousand were setting up the Northern camp, while the lords and commanders were readying their rooms within Moat Cailin's three towers. On the field, armed men were still rooting through the dead. Only a few of the dead were northmen most were ironmen, though Catelyn only recognized some of the surcoats, the scythe of Harlaw, the brazier of Stonehouse, the kraken of Greyjoy, and many others. On the whole, the northmen seemed happy for the first time in weeks. These men needed a victory. Robb needed a victory.

Robb and Catelyn joined Galbart Glover, Maege Mormont, and Ser Helman Tallhart at the edge of the field. Beyond them were several hundred ironmen sitting on the damp ground and around them waited half again their number of northern soldiers. There was one ironman not far from the waiting northern lords, a tall man, with a beard, and a shaven head. Catelyn took a moment as she approached to puzzle out the man's surcoat, a hand and lightning bolts House Kenning of Harlaw I think.

As Catelyn approached Galbart Glover signaled to one of his sworn swords, who cuffed the ironman and said. "Tell His Grace what you told Master Galbart."

The ironman glared at the soldier before speaking. "King Balon is dead."

Robb stiffened. "So Theon is king then?"

"No, if he's not dead he's as good as it," he spat. "The bastard of the Dreadfort captured him and if half what I've heard about the bastard is true then Prince Theon won't be much good for anything."

"So Asha then Theon's sister?"

The ironman laughed. "No woman can rule the Iron Islands. The Damphair has called for a kingsmoot, the first in three hundred years."

"And that's why Moat Cailin is empty? All your captains have gone back to the Iron Islands to choose a new king?"

"Yes," the ironman said sullenly.

"And who are you to know such things?"

"Ralf Kenning, Captain of the Drowned Lightning, I serve Lord Victarion, though by now he's likely King Victarion."

"Who else is trying to become king?"

Ralf Kenning shrugged. "I don't know, any captain who thinks he can do it."

Robb shook his head. "That's helpful," he voice thick with sarcasm."

Ralf Kenning shrugged. "If you wanted helpful you'd let me go."

"Tell me about the North first."

Ralf Kenning shrugged. "What's there to say, it's cold, it's poor, and everything's trying to kill us."

"What do you know about Manderly, Bolton, Dustin, Ryswell and the other houses. Where their banners are..." for a moment it looked like Robb was going to vomit. "Which king they kneel too."

Ralf Kenning had the good sense not to poke at Robb for those last words. The ironman captain spat on the muddy ground. "Hard to say it's been near two weeks since any messengers came. Last I heard the Dustins and Ryswells were running around the western shores chasing the Goodbrothers and Merlyns. The Bastard of Bolton burned Winterfell," he shrugged. "And Manderly's just been sitting on his fat arse as far as I can tell."

Robb turned to Maege Mormont. "How many prisoners are there?"

"There were near three hundred in the castle when they surrendered, Your Grace."

"Take their weapons, their armour, and their loot, then put a hundred men to take them back to their ships. Strip their ships of everything they don't need to get back to the Iron Islands."

"Yes, Your Grace," the lady of Bear Isle bowed her head.

Ralf Kenning came to his feet and made a bow of his own. "Your Grace."

Robb returned with a perfunctory nod. "My lord," he turned his horse to face Catelyn and rode up next to her. "I'd like to see you tonight mother."

Catelyn smiled. "Of course, Your Grace."

Robb smiled in turn before turning to manage his soldiers.

Late in the evening one of her guards put his head into her tent. "Mi'lady, His Grace has come to see you."

"A moment please," Catelyn pushed and pulled herself into a more upright position. "Alright."

Robb entered the tent, ducking beneath the flaps he settled himself on Catelyn's wheeled chair, doffing his fur cloak and letting it hang over the back, he was wearing a green, soft, wool doublet that left his arms bare. It was the first time Catelyn had gotten a chance to see his wound up close. The wound was a massive scab, swollen and red running the length of Robb's arm from the shoulder to the stump, just above where his elbow should have been.

Catelyn smiled. "Congratulations on your victory. I think you're the first person to ever take Moat Cailin from the south."

Robb snorted. "I took it from the north."

"That's not what the songs will say."

Robb smiled but paused and licked his lips. "What do I do now?"

"Bend the knee," Catelyn said gently. "If you don't-"

"-and if I do." Robb interrupted her. "Robett Glover. Daecy Mormont. Olyvar Frey. Rickard Karstark. Torrhen Karstark. Eddard Karstark. Wylis Manderly. Wendel Manderly. The Greatjon. The Smalljon. And thousands more men whose names I'll never know. They all died for me. They all died for the North. If I bend the knee to Stannis then… then they died for nothing. Then the war was pointless. Then I let," a sob escaped him. "Then I let Bran and Rickon die for nothing."

Catelyn reached out and took her son's hand in her's. "It wasn't your fault, Theon betrayed you and murdered them." She shook her head. "I fear that if the war continues then you will die for nothing."

"I… I can't surrender"

"What then? Fight Bolton and Karstark? Even if you win then once Stannis defeats the Lannisters he'll come for you with all the might. Stannis gave Edmure, gave you, one last chance to bend the knee, do as Edmure did bend the knee for the sake of your people."

Robb paused a moment, his eyes narrowed. "How do you know what terms Stannis gave Edmure? How do you know Stannis offered one last chance?" His voice was low and dangerous like a wolf's growl before it was about to strike.

Catelyn froze. "I..."

"He told you didn't he?" Robb stood from the chair, still holding her hand in his.

"Robb-"

"-Didn't he!" Robb snarled squeezing her hand. "What happened to family!" He squeezed her hand even tighter. "What happened to duty!" Catelyn cried as Robb pulled her from her bed. "What happened to honour!" Robb's face was twisted by his sudden rage.

"Robb. Robb please you're hurting me!"

Robb's anger seemed to disappear as quickly as it had arrived. "I. I. I'm sorry. I. I didn't mean..." Robb fled her tent not even remembering to take his cloak.

Catelyn lay still on the ground for several long moments, all but helpless until her guard entered the tent.

"Mi'lady, what happened? What did the king-"

"-help me up and do not speak of this to anyone," Catelyn pushed herself up as the guard helped her back into her bed. What's happened to you my son?