Harrenhal.
Daeron sat by the hearth, grinning like a man watching the best show in Westeros.
Lord Wyman Manderly had changed into a loose robe and was attacking a platter of roast boar with both hands, cheeks bulging, washing it down with huge gulps of red wine.
"So tell me, my lord," Daeron asked, still smiling, "how exactly did you end up like this?"
Wyman's round face flushed. He chewed faster, swallowed, and muttered, "You know how it is. House Stark has been good to House Manderly. When Lord Eddard called the banners, I had no choice but to answer."
Daeron knew the history. The Manderlys weren't originally Northern. They'd once been one of the richest houses in the Reach, lords along the Mander River itself. Then the Green Hand kings turned on them, the Peakes stabbed them in the back, and the Manderlys were driven out. They wandered north, and the Starks gave them White Harbor and the Wolf's Den. Over centuries they'd grown fat and wealthy there.
But that wasn't what Daeron was asking.
He gestured at Wyman's massive belly. "Look at you. You're built like a prize hog. What made you think marching to war was a good idea?"
Wyman gave an awkward laugh. "Couldn't exactly trust a boy fresh out of the Eyrie to lead the North on his own, could I?"
Daeron nodded, smile fading. His purple eyes turned cold as he studied the fat lord.
He and Wyman were old acquaintances. White Harbor was one of the Five Ports. Wyman had sailed to King's Landing plenty of times for tourneys and feasts, kissing Aerys's ass and eating half the royal kitchens dry. They'd met more than once.
"Full yet?" Daeron asked, crossing one leg over the other.
Wyman glanced at the empty platter, belly still rumbling, and forced a smile. "Quite full, Your Highness. My thanks for the meal."
"Good." Daeron clapped once.
Ser Jon stepped in from the doorway and grabbed Wyman by the shoulder.
The fat lord panicked. "Wait! I'm not full! Not full at all!"
Daeron waved Jon off. Wyman dropped back into his chair with a yelp as the arrow wound in his ass flared up.
Daeron pinched the bridge of his nose. Gods, how can one man be this dense?
Luckily Wyman wasn't actually stupid. He slid off the chair, crawled on his knees to Daeron's feet, and started blubbering.
"Your Highness, I wanted to be loyal to the Iron Throne—truly I did! But the Starks wouldn't let me refuse! They saved my family centuries ago, I had to repay the debt—"
Daeron let him ramble for a minute, then stood and hauled the fat man up himself.
"You're a prisoner now," he said quietly. "I'll decide what to do with you later. Until then, enjoy the Widow's Tower dungeon. It's comfortable enough."
Wyman didn't dare argue. He let Ser Jon lead him away.
"House Manderly is worth more than half the North put together," Daeron muttered once the door closed.
He already had plans. White Harbor would answer directly to the Iron Throne. Cut the Neck, make the city a royal port. The North could thank him later.
The next morning, 5:45 a.m.
Daeron was yanked awake by Shaena shaking his shoulder. He checked the panel and groaned. Farmers got up at six, damn it.
"Randyll called a war council," she said. "You need to go."
Daeron dragged himself out of bed, dressed, and headed for the meeting.
After the slaughter at the Red Fork, the Riverlands were quiet. Every rebel force south of the Trident had been crushed or scattered. The whole region now flew the dragon.
Scouts reported the surviving Northern troops had linked up with the Vale army on the far bank.
"I'm Jon Arryn—I wouldn't fight here either," Randyll said flatly, laying out the situation.
The rebels had lost House Tully and half their Riverlords. Their numbers were down to maybe twenty thousand at best.
Tywin, still nursing his wounded arm, spoke from his chair. "We push forward and camp at the crossroads inn on the far side of the Trident. Force them back into the Mountains of the Moon."
Randyll frowned but held his tongue. "Crossing the river means battle. Better to wait for the Reach host and the Dornish spears. They'll be here in ten days."
The Riverlords muttered among themselves, all of them smelling blood and fresh titles.
Daeron raised a hand. "We follow Lord Randyll's plan. Camp on the Trident, stare the rebels down, and wait for the rest of the army."
He could have forced the crossing right now with Caraxes, but there was no need to bleed good men when numbers would do the job cleaner. Besides, Randyll was his man. He'd give the new Field Marshal room to work.
On the far bank of the Trident.
Eddard Stark sat in his tent with a face like a man who'd swallowed broken glass while his lords listed the butcher's bill from the Red Fork.
Six thousand dead or missing. His original thirteen thousand five hundred Northerners were now barely six thousand.
"If this keeps up the army will melt away before winter," he said quietly.
Shouts erupted outside.
"Eddard! Half the Riverlords just rode off with their men, horses, and supply wagons!" Ser Denys Arryn burst in, flushed and furious.
The four-kingdom alliance was down to Northmen and Valemen.
Eddard rubbed his temples. "Hoster Tully surrendered. The new Warden of the River Road is Prince Daeron Targaryen. Every Riverlord has gone over to the loyalists."
"House Tully surrendered?!" Denys looked like he'd been slapped.
Eddard waved the other lords out and waited until only he and Denys remained.
"I'm more shocked than you are," he said, voice hollow. "And a lot more sick about it."
Catelyn was pregnant. She was now in Targaryen hands.
"My wife… she's carrying my child."
Eddard closed his eyes, unable to imagine what might happen to her.
He had failed his father, his brother, his sister, and now his new wife. At twenty years old, the weight was crushing him.
"This war stopped making sense months ago," Denys muttered, dropping into a chair.
They sat in heavy silence.
Finally Eddard asked, "How's Robert? Any word from Jon Arryn?"
"Robert's almost healed," Denys said. "Lord Arryn's latest raven says hold the Trident. Don't let the loyalists cross easily."
"That order came before the Red Fork," Eddard pointed out.
With twenty thousand men they couldn't stop the royal host.
Denys shrugged. "We should call a council—your Northern lords and the Vale captains. Decide whether we stay or fall back."
The Vale's greatest strength was the Bloody Gate. Once they retreated through the Mountains of the Moon, winter snows would seal the passes. No one would get in or out.
"All right," Eddard said. "And make sure you invite Bronze Yohn Royce. He's fought the mountain clans for years—he knows war."
Outside the tent, Northern lords were already grumbling.
"Stark's still a green boy. Look what his command got us."
One lord spat. "Even the Greatjon's dead. Who the hell stands against a dragon?"
A fist slammed into the speaker's face.
A pale, shaved-head youth sat on the man's chest and punched him twice more. When the lord tried to fight back, a dagger pressed against his throat.
"Don't move," Roose Bolton said softly. "Neither of us wants blood, do we?"
The lord froze.
Roose's voice stayed calm and cold. "Let me hear one more word against Lord Eddard Stark and I'll open your throat myself."
The other Northern lords backed away quickly.
Roose wiped the dagger on the man's cloak, stood, and sheathed it. "The South is warm," he murmured, "but it has dragons in it."
He was Lord of the Dreadfort, head of the Red Kings. His family's name carried as much fear in the North as the Starks' did honor.
He had followed Eddard south into a war that was already lost.
"The Twins have sealed the Neck," he whispered to himself. "The Northmen can't go home."
His pale eyes flickered with calculation.