On a low rise on the east bank of the Red Fork stood Tywin Lannister's makeshift command post.
From a distance, the Lord of Casterly Rock looked as calm as ever, but the constant sheen of sweat on his bald head betrayed him. Across the river, the enemy sat, anchored behind the current and their fortifications, blocking him firmly on the eastern shore.
"Damn river… always the river," someone muttered behind him.
Tywin ignored the grumble and continued to study the opposite bank.
There, the banners of House Tully—silver trout on a field of red and blue—snapped in the wind above the defenses of Riverrun's host. Their archers had been loosing arrows without pause since the fighting began. Every volley meant more dead men, more wounded horses, more gold spent for nothing.
Hoofbeats sounded behind him. A stocky knight with a face that resembled his own rode up and drew to a halt at his side.
"My lord," the man said, catching his breath, "the Marbrand men have pulled back. What are your orders?"
Tywin glanced at him—his younger brother, Ser Kevan Lannister.
"Have Greg—"
He broke off. The name had come automatically to his tongue: Let Gregor attack. Then the reality hit him again.
The Mountain was dead.
Yes. Gregor Clegane was gone.
Tywin's gaze slid eastward, unfocusingly, then returned to the far bank. He had planned to use the Mountain as a hammer, to drive a wedge into the scattered forces of the North and Riverlands and shatter them.
Instead, Gregor and his armored host had walked into an ambush.
An ambush laid by Jon Snow.
The more Tywin learned about Eddard Stark's bastard, the less he could dismiss him. Reports had come from all directions: Jon opposing Robb's kingship openly, arguing against letting the Riverlords rush off to retake their own lands, both times seeing further than men twice his age.
His political vision was sharper than that of most lords Tywin had met in his life.
And then there was the Green Fork—Jon's flooded river tactic, improvised under pressure and, according to many, pushed through despite near-unanimous objections from the other commanders. That one maneuver alone had saved the Eastern Northern Army from annihilation.
Tywin found himself thinking of another man.
Jaime.
His "golden son."
Jaime and Cersei had been called the Golden Twins of the Westerlands. Beautiful, arrogant, dazzling. But if Jaime had possessed even half of Jon Snow's strategic mind, Tywin thought bitterly, he would never have lacked for an heir worth his name.
A golden-haired courier galloped up, dismounted, and presented a letter.
"My lord, from King's Landing," the man said.
Kevan took it, then rode the few paces to Tywin and handed it over with both hands. Tywin broke the seal and scanned the contents. His green eyes narrowed. By the time he finished, his face had hardened again, now set with renewed purpose.
He passed the letter back to Kevan.
"Order the host to break off the assault," Tywin said. "We march east. Full speed. King's Landing must be reinforced."
"Brother?" Kevan asked, baffled. "After all the losses we've taken here, we're just… leaving?"
Tywin didn't answer with words; he merely gestured at the parchment. Kevan unfolded it and read, his eyes widening with each line.
"The Tyrells want to ally with us?" he blurted.
"Do they have any better choice?" Tywin asked coolly.
Renly was dead. House Tyrell's dream of their own king had shattered with him. Margaery was only fifteen. Stannis still had a wife, and a single daughter at that. If the Tyrells wanted Margaery crowned, it didn't matter who wore the crown—as long as she stood beside him.
As for Joffrey's true parentage, that grew less important by the day. In this moment, only one thing mattered: if the Lannisters immediately turned back and smashed Stannis's bid for the capital, the game could still be won.
The Westerlands could burn a while. Let Robb Stark gnaw at Casterly Rock's empty edges. Unless the boy could grow wings, he would never take the Rock itself—a fortress hewn from a mountain two hundred feet high.
Casterly Rock does not fall.
Tywin's mouth thinned into something not quite a smile.
"Send riders," he told Kevan. "Scouts, messengers, anyone who can sit a horse. Tell the Tyrell host to march on King's Landing at once—and if they cannot bring all their strength in time, then at least their cavalry vanguard. Stannis must feel pressure before he reaches the city."
He hesitated only a heartbeat before adding, "Tell them this as well: Eddard's bastard might try to intervene."
"That Snow boy?" Kevan asked. "But how could he move an army privately? Robb would never allow it."
Tywin snorted softly.
"He stood in open opposition to Robb's coronation before the entire assembly of Northern lords. Do you truly think he holds Robb's authority sacred?"
Kevan thought about that, then nodded, already turning his horse to carry out the orders.
Soon, the sea of crimson banners began to pull back from the Red Fork, leaving only a thin screen of troops to hold their positions. Across the river, the Tully men cheered as the Lannister host withdrew. On the walls, Edmure Tully stood tall, flushed with triumph.
He had driven back Tywin himself in his first major battle.
He could already picture the victory letter he would send Robb.
---
Robb Stark slammed that very letter onto the rough wooden table inside his tent, then dropped onto his stool, jaw clenched.
"Robb?"
Jeyne Westerling, now his queen, approached with a cup of steaming tea. Seeing his expression, she set it down carefully beside him.
"Did Ser Edmure not drive Tywin back?" she asked. "Shouldn't that be good news?"
Robb stared at the parchment, frustration burning in his chest.
"You don't understand," he said. "I was counting on Edmure not being able to stop Tywin. Once Tywin crossed the river, I could hit him in the Westerlands and crush him there. Now Edmure's forced him back onto the east bank, and— Seven hells, he's ruined the whole plan."
Jeyne felt a pang of unease. She was no general, and her grasp of tactics was shallow, but even to her, it seemed odd that Robb hadn't warned Edmure beforehand if he wanted Tywin to cross the river. Still, she didn't dare say so aloud.
To her, Robb was not just her husband; he was the King in the North, the Young Wolf, never defeated in the field. Surely he had reasons she couldn't see.
"Perhaps it's not so bad, Your Grace," she ventured quietly. "Your brother is still with the Eastern Army, isn't he? Couldn't you and he act together to catch Tywin between you?"
"A pincer attack?" Robb repeated.
The words stirred something like hope. Watching Jeyne offer him counsel eased his mood a little. He reached up and gently pinched her cheek, and as she leaned closer, the heat between them kindled quickly. His lips found hers, and they kissed, long and deep.
When Robb's hands began to wander, Jeyne, breathless and blushing, suddenly pushed him back.
"Your Grace," she whispered, "I… I'm with child."
"With—?" Robb stared, then looked down at her belly as if he might see proof there already. A mixture of joy and panic surged up in him.
"The gods…" he breathed, dropping to one knee and wrapping his arms around her waist.
A name came to him at once.
Eddard.
If it was a boy, he would name him Eddard, in honor of the father he'd lost.
He was still half-lost in that bright thought when a new letter was placed in his hands—a raven from Harrenhal.
Robb's eyes moved across the lines.
Then he went white.
"Mutiny," he whispered. He read the letter again, every word hammering the same impossible reality into his mind: Harrenhal. Jon. Mutiny. King's Landing.
By the time he reached the end, his hands were clenched so tight the parchment crumpled.
Jon Snow—his brother in all but name—had seized Roose Bolton's command and was marching south at the head of a great host.
Jon, what are you doing? Robb's thoughts spun. Is this because I tried to strip you of your army?
His breath came faster, anger and fear tangled in his chest. In the corner of the tent, Grey Wind rose with a low growl, pacing in agitation, the great direwolf mirroring his master's turmoil.
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