The Twins
Walder Frey was having a bad day.
Usually, a bad day for the Lord of the Crossing involved a grandkid asking for money or a wife dying before he'd secured a replacement. Today, however, was special.
He was trembling with rage. The Twins were his tollbooth. His leverage. He had waited, sitting comfortably on his fence, watching the dragons and the stags fight, knowing that eventually, someone would need to cross his river. And when they did, he would extract a price that would elevate House Frey to the high lords.
And Ned Stark had just walked right past him.
"He mocked us," Walder muttered, sinking back into his chair. "He left the bridge standing?"
"Yes, Father. He said... he said you could look at it and remember the toll you didn't get."
Walder's face turned a dangerous shade of purple. He gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles were white.
"He thinks he's clever," Walder rasped. "He thinks he can ignore me. But the war isn't over. The dragons have fire. Let's see if his wooden bridge can stop that."
He looked at Stevron.
"Send a raven to King's Landing. Tell Aerys... tell him the North has marched. Tell him I tried to stop them."
Stevron blinked. "But Father, if the Rebels win..."
"If they win, we tell them the raven got lost!" Walder snapped. "Now get out of my sight!"
The Kingsroad
While Walder Frey fumed, the Northern army was moving with a speed that defied medieval logistics.
Ned rode at the head of the column, flanked by the Greatjon and Roose Bolton. The mood in the army was electric. They had beaten the terrain, beaten the Freys, and were now marching south with the momentum of a landslide.
Ned, however, was focused on the horizon.
Force Sense: Long Range.
He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of the horse's gait lull him into a trance. He pushed his awareness south. It was getting easier. The "map" in his head was sharper now. He could feel the cold damp of the Trident miles away.
And he could feel something else. A large, orderly mass of "life" approaching from the East.
"Riders," Ned announced, opening his eyes.
The Greatjon looked around. "I don't see anything, my Lord."
"Over that ridge," Ned pointed. "Two thousand cavalry. Heavy horse. Vale banners."
Ten minutes later, the first scouts crested the hill. They bore the Falcon of Arryn.
The Greatjon looked at Ned, shook his head, and laughed. "I swear, Stark, you've got eyes in the back of your head. And the front. And the sides."
"Just good instincts," Ned deflected.
Jon Arryn rode to meet them. The Lord of the Eyrie looked tired but relieved. When he saw the sheer size of the Northern host—nearly twenty thousand men stretching back as far as the eye could see—his jaw practically hit his breastplate.
"Ned," Jon breathed as they brought their horses together. "By the Seven... how? I expected you to be stuck at the Twins for another week. How did you get past Walder?"
"We didn't," Ned said, shaking Jon's hand. "We went around. Turns out, trees are free."
"He built a bridge, Lord Arryn!" the Greatjon boomed effectively deafening everyone nearby. "Built it in four days! You should have seen it! We left old Frey crying in his castle!"
Jon looked at Ned, seeing the changes in the young man he had fostered. The shaggy beard, the hardened eyes, the quiet confidence that seemed to radiate off him like heat.
"You surprise me, Ned," Jon said warmly. "You truly do. Come, we ride for Riverrun. Hoster Tully is waiting."
Outside Riverrun
The combined armies of the North and the Vale—nearly thirty-five thousand men—camped in the fields between the Tumblestone and the Red Fork. It was a massive display of power.
Ned stood in his command tent, looking at a map of the Riverlands. Jon Arryn stood beside him, pouring two cups of wine.
"Hoster has sent terms," Jon said, sliding a cup to Ned. "He's opened the gates for a parley, but he's making his position clear. He wants security. He wants marriage."
Ned took a sip. "Swords for daughters."
"Exactly," Jon nodded. "He proposes a double alliance. I am to marry Lysa. You are to marry Catelyn."
Jon paused, watching Ned's face.
"It is a good match, Ned. Catelyn is strong, dutiful. She brings the Riverlands with her. Without Hoster, we are fighting the Reach and the Crownlands alone."
Ned set the cup down. This was the moment. The divergence point.
"I can't marry her, Jon," Ned said quietly.
Jon blinked. "Can't? Or won't? Ned, I know you grieve for Brandon, and I know it feels strange to take his betrothed, but—"
"It's not that," Ned interrupted. He turned to look at his mentor. "I am promised to another."
Jon frowned. "Promised? Since when? Rickard never mentioned—"
"Harrenhal," Ned said.
It wasn't a lie. When the memories had flooded back in the Eyrie, the memory of Ashara Dayne had been the sharpest of them all. He remembered the haunting purple eyes, the smell of lemons and sea salt in her hair, and the whispered vows exchanged in the darkness of a tent while the tourney raged outside. He had promised to return. And he intended to keep that promise.
"Ashara Dayne."
Jon's eyes widened. "The Sword of the Morning's sister? Ned... that was a dance. A flirtation."
"It was more than that," Ned said, the emotion in his voice entirely genuine. "We made vows before the Old Gods and the New. I promised to return to her. I promised to marry her."
He looked down at his hands.
"I cannot break that vow, Jon. Not for Hoster Tully. Not for an army. If I start this rebellion by breaking my word, what kind of King's Justice am I fighting for?"
Jon sighed, rubbing his temples. He looked pained. "Ashara Dayne is Dornish. The Martells are loyalists. Her brother is in the Kingsguard. Ned, this... this complicates things. Hoster will not accept a vague promise of 'friendship.' He needs a blood tie."
"I know," Ned said. "Which is why I have a better offer for him."
"Better than the Lord of Winterfell?"
"The brother of the King," Ned stated.
Jon froze. "King? We have no King, Ned. We are rebels."
"We will win eventually, if not, then die," Ned corrected. "And when we win, Aerys dies. Rhaegar dies. Who sits on the throne? Viserys is a child of a madman. Aegon is an infant. The realm won't accept another dragon, not after this."
He pointed to the map, tapping Storm's End.
"Robert," Ned said. "His grandmother was a Targaryen. He has the best claim. He is the charismatic leader of this rebellion. He will be King."
Jon stared at the map, the gears turning in his head. "Robert... King. He never wanted a crown."
"He doesn't want it, but he's the only one who can hold it," Ned argued. "And if Robert is King... who is his heir?"
"Until he has sons... Stannis," Jon realized.
"Stannis Baratheon," Ned nodded. "He is currently holding Storm's End against the entire might of the Reach. He is iron, Jon. And when the war ends, he will likely be the Lord of Storm's End and the King's brother."
Ned leaned forward.
"Offer Hoster Tully that match. Catelyn marries Stannis. She becomes the sister-in-law of the King. Her children will be cousins to the Crown Prince. She gets Storm's End, one of the strongest castles in the realm. And Hoster gets a direct line to the Iron Throne."
Jon stroked his beard, pacing the tent. "Stannis... he is a hard man. Not like Robert. Not like you."
"He is dutiful," Ned countered. "And so is Catelyn. They understand duty above all else. They will respect each other. It's a solid match, Jon. Perhaps better than me. I belong in the North. My heart is... elsewhere."
Jon stopped pacing. He looked at Ned with a mix of frustration and admiration.
"You really are your father's son," Jon muttered. "Stubborn as a mule."
"It runs in the family."
"Fine," Jon agreed. "I will marry Lysa. We will offer Catelyn to Stannis. But you... you have to sell this to Hoster. He won't like being told 'no'."
"I'll handle Hoster," Ned promised.
The Great Hall of Riverrun
Hoster Tully sat on his high seat, looking every inch the Lord Paramount of the Trident. He was a broad, powerful man, though his eyes betrayed the stress of sitting between two warring armies.
To his right stood the Blackfish, looking grim and ready for a fight. To his left stood his daughters. Lysa looked terrified, clutching her skirts. Catelyn looked composed, her blue eyes scanning the men who had entered her father's hall.
Ned walked in, flanked by Jon Arryn. The contrast was stark. Jon was the elder statesman, polished and diplomatic. Ned was the Wolf—dressed in simple grey wools, mud on his boots, Ice strapped to his back, radiating that unsettling, quiet power.
"Lord Arryn," Hoster greeted. "Lord Stark. You are welcome in my hall."
"Your hospitality is appreciated, Lord Hoster," Jon said smoothly.
"We have discussed your terms," Hoster said, wasting no time. "The double marriage. It secures the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands in a single bond."
"We agree to the alliance," Jon began. "And I would be honored to take the Lady Lysa as my wife."
Lysa let out a small squeak, but Catelyn remained impassive.
"And Lord Stark?" Hoster turned his gaze to Ned. "Will you honor your brother's betrothal? Will you take Catelyn?"
The room went silent. Catelyn looked at Ned. He wasn't the wild, handsome Brandon. He was solemn, plain-faced, and intimidating.
"I cannot, Lord Hoster," Ned said clearly.
Murmurs broke out in the hall. Hoster's face darkened instantly.
"Cannot?" Hoster growled. "You refuse? You march through my lands, ask for my swords, and refuse my daughter? Do you take me for a fool, Stark?"
"I take you for a man who wants the best for his House," Ned said, stepping forward. He didn't shout. He didn't look apologetic. He just projected authority. "I cannot marry Lady Catelyn because I am sworn to another. A vow made before the war."
"Vows can be broken," Hoster snapped. "Especially vows made by second sons."
"Not by this son," Ned said. "But I did not come here to insult you. I came here to offer you a crown."
Hoster blinked. "A crown?"
"When this war ends," Ned said, his voice echoing in the hall, "Aerys will be dead. Rhaegar will be dead. The Targaryen dynasty is over. A new King will sit on the Iron Throne."
"Robert," the Blackfish murmured, catching on.
"Robert Baratheon," Ned confirmed. "He will be King. And his heir, until he gets an heir of his own body, will be his brother."
Ned gestured to the south.
"Stannis Baratheon holds Storm's End. He is a man of iron will. He is the future Lord of the Stormlands and the brother to the King. I offer you him, Lord Hoster."
Hoster frowned, processing the pivot. "Stannis? He is besieged. He might be dead already."
"He is not dead," Ned said with absolute certainty (thanks to the Lore knowledge). "He will hold. And when we lift that siege, he will be a hero of the rebellion."
Ned looked at Catelyn.
"Lady Catelyn deserves to be more than just the wife of a Warden of the North," Ned said, laying it on thick. "The North is cold, hard, and distant. Storm's End is the seat of kings. Her sons would be cousins to the crown. They would walk the Red Keep not as guests, but as kin."
He turned back to Hoster.
"Marry Lysa to Jon, the Lord of the Vale and the Hand of the King—for that is what he will be. Marry Catelyn to Stannis, the King's brother. You will have a daughter in the East and a daughter in the South, binding the realm together. Or... you can marry her to me, and she can freeze in Winterfell while I brood about my broken vows."
Hoster looked at Jon Arryn. "Is this true? Robert will take the crown?"
"He has the claim," Jon confirmed. "And with your swords, he will have the victory."
Hoster looked at Catelyn. She was pale, but her eyes were calculating. Stannis Baratheon. The King's brother. It was a gamble, but the potential payoff was higher than being the Lady of Winterfell.
"And what of you, Stark?" Hoster asked suspiciously. "What do you gain?"
"I gain allies who are fighting for the future, not just a marriage pact," Ned said. "And I keep my honor."
Hoster sat back, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair. He looked at the Blackfish. Brynden shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips.
"It's a bold offer, brother," Brynden said. "Stannis is a sour man, they say, but he is highborn and durable."
Hoster sighed. He looked at Ned with a mixture of annoyance and respect.
"Very well," Hoster grunted. "Lysa to Arryn. Catelyn to Stannis Baratheon... assuming he survives. If he dies, Stark, we will have words."
"He won't die," Ned promised.
"Then we have an accord," Hoster declared. "Riverrun stands with the rebels."
The Camp at Riverrun
The wedding of Jon Arryn and Lysa Tully took place in the sept of Riverrun. It was a hasty affair, lacking the songs and tourneys of peacetime, but it served its purpose. The banners of the Trout were now firmly tied to the Falcon and the Wolf.
Once the cloaks were exchanged and the vows spoken, the celebration ended as quickly as it had begun. There was no time for feasting.
The camp outside the castle became a beehive of organized chaos. The Riverlands were waking up.
Hoster Tully had wasted no time. Ravens had flown from the rookery of Riverrun the moment the accord was struck. Riders were dispatched to every holdfast from the Red Fork to the Trident.
Ned walked through the camp, watching the preparations. He saw the black banners of House Blackwood, with their dead weirwood sigil, setting up camp next to the Stark wolves. He saw the purple eagles of House Mallister sharpening their spears.
The Brackens, the Pipers, the Vances—they were all moving.
"Hoster didn't lie about his influence," the Blackfish said, walking up beside Ned. He was dressed in his scale armor, his helm under his arm. "My brother has sent word to Stone Hedge and Raventree Hall. They will meet us on the march."
"And the Freys?" Ned asked, though he knew the answer.
"Still sitting in their towers," Brynden scoffed. "Waiting for a winner. But the rest of the Riverlands is answering the call. We'll pick up another ten thousand men before we reach Stoney Sept."
"Good," Ned said, looking south. "We'll need every sword."
He walked over to the map table that had been set up in the center of the camp. Jon Arryn was there, looking tired but determined, flanked by Hoster Tully.
He looked around the circle of lords. Northmen, Valemen, Riverlanders. Three kingdoms united against a mad dragon.
"We march at dawn," Ned commanded. "We don't stop for rain. We don't stop for sleep. We join Robert's army."
The horns blew across the river valley, a deep, resonant sound that signaled the beginning of the end for the Targaryen dynasty. The massive host began to shift, turning south like a great, steel beast waking from slumber.
Ned Stark mounted his horse, feeling the hum of the Force.