0000
Jaime Lannister knelt in the mud, deep gashes on his once beautiful face were now leaking blood.
Men ringed us in a widening circle, breathing hard, watching. The fighting had thinned but not ceased; steel still rang deeper in the wood.
Jaime glared at me hatefully despite the pain. Before we heard sounds of approaching men. The Kingslayer looked past me.
Robb rode forward through the churned earth, Grey Wind padding at his side, eyes bright and wet with blood.
Robb looked at his face then at my bloody fists. For a second I thought he might reprimand me, for we had decided to capture him alive, after all he was much more use to us alive than dead.
Thankfully Robb smiled, giving me a nod.
"Chain him up, we have more work to do" he ordered.
Men hauled Jamie up and clapped irons on his wrists. He did not resist. He walked as if attending a funeral.
They led him away in chains. No cheers followed. There was no time.
We bound the rest quickly—lords and knights alike: Westerling, Banefort, Greenfield, Estren, Brax's kin, Willem Lannister, the Frey cousins. Near a hundred knights besides. Valuable men.
The valley still stank of blood.
Robb did not linger.
Brynden Tully was already issuing orders. Cavalry reorganized with brutal efficiency. The northern and riverland horse split into two forces—one under the Blackfish, lean and fast for the northern camp across the Tumblestone; the other under Robb himself.
I cleaned my sword in silence.
This was only the first blade stroke.
Robb caught my eye across the clearing. He did not need to say it. The plan continues. I nodded once.
Around me a few young heirs clapped my shoulder.
"You faced him on foot," one said.
"He nearly took your head," another laughed.
"That was some punch, haha" another complimented.
"Held him long enough," I answered.
That was all.
We mounted before dusk.
The ride to Riverrun was short and hard.
When we crested the final rise, the castle stood ringed in Lannister firelight—three camps encircling it like a tightening fist. Siege towers under construction. Palisades. Rafts gathered along the Tumblestone.
They still believed themselves hunters.
Ser Brynden moved first.
From the north of the Tumblestone, his van fell upon the Lannister camp like a knife in the dark. We heard it before we saw it—the crack of wood, the clash of steel, the sudden screaming as sleeping men died where they lay.
Scouts were cut down before they could mount.
Palisades went up in flame.
Men from the central camp rushed for the rafts to cross and reinforce them.
Lord Andros Brax led them, shouting orders.
Riverrun answered.
Stones rained down from the castle walls. Heavy rocks smashed into rafts and men alike. The Tumblestone churned with overturned wood and flailing arms.
I saw a raft flip.
Men in armor vanished beneath black water.
Among them, Lord Brax.
Then Robb gave the signal.
We moved.
Two columns of armored horse surged from the west—Umbers roaring, Mallisters tight and disciplined. I rode with Robb, close enough to hear his breath.
Grey Wind leapt ahead, a grey blur in the firelight.
Ghost ran beside him, silent as frost.
They hit the first line of Lannister pickets before the men understood what they faced. I saw Grey Wind drag a man from the saddle in a spray of red. Ghost tore at a horse's throat, bringing both rider and beast crashing down.
We smashed into the camp between the rivers.
Tents collapsed beneath hooves. Fires scattered sparks into the dark. Men stumbled from sleep straight into steel.
The Lannisters rallied faster than most.
They formed a shieldwall in the center of the camp, disciplined even leaderless. Our first charge struck it and recoiled in splintered wood and curses.
Robb wheeled his horse, eyes alight.
"Again!"
Before we could reform fully, horns sounded from behind the shieldwall.
The rear of the camp erupted.
Tytos Blackwood led a sortie from Riverrun itself, riverlords pouring out from the gates. The Lannister shieldwall faltered as northern steel struck from one side and river steel from the other.
It collapsed.
Rickard Karstark furious with his sons death led a group of riders to set the unfinished siege towers alight. Flames climbed hungrily, devouring weeks of labor.
Blackwood's men cut down guards and freed prisoners taken under Riverrun's walls. I glimpsed Edmure Tully among them, staggering but alive, shouting hoarsely as he seized a blade.
The southern camp began to break.
A Tyroshi freerider struck his banners and turned cloak, his men melting away rather than dying for a lost cause. Ser Forley Prester tried to salvage what he could, retreating south with two thousand spears and bowmen when he saw the field was beyond saving.
I did not see him leave.
I was too busy fighting.
A Lannister knight charged me near the edge of the river. I turned his cut and drove him from the saddle. Another came with a spear; I leaned low and slashed his thigh open.
Mud. Firelight. Screams.
Ghost moved in and out of the chaos, red-mouthed and tireless.
At one point I found myself nearly unhorsed again when a dying man grabbed my leg. I kicked free and rode on.
It did not feel like glory.
It felt like work.
Necessary, relentless work. By dawn, the camps were ash and corpses. Riverrun's gates stood open. The lion's ring had been broken in a single night.
I reined in beside Robb as the sun crept over the river, turning smoke gold.
He looked younger in that light.
And older.
The Young Wolf, they would call him.
And again I promised myself, this time I wouldn't let things go wrong.
0000
A week had passed since the Whispering Wood. They were already calling it that. And the Battle of the Camps.
Men in Riverrun's yards spoke of it like something out of songs—the night the Young Wolf broke the lion's siege in a single stroke. The name was spreading faster than the ravens could fly.
Word had come as well from the south: Lord Tywin Lannister had smashed the host that faced him at the Green Fork.
But that had been the design.
Jon Umber had done exactly what was needed—bleed, delay, withdraw. Tywin now marched for Harrenhal
The riverlords were returning too.
Broken men, scattered banners, lords who had fled the first wave of Lannister fury—they trickled back to Riverrun now that the lion's claws had been cut. The courtyards filled each day with fresh colors and cautious hope.
Jon moved through it all quietly. He could feel the difference.
Where once men had glanced at him and then away, unsure how to treat the bastard of Winterfell, now they nodded. Some clasped his shoulder. Others offered quiet words of respect for the duel in the wood.
He did not correct the embellishments. He did not encourage them either.
Catelyn Stark still looked at him as she always had.
Cold. Measured. Unyielding.
But this was her home, and in Riverrun she was not the only voice that mattered.
Brynden Tully had clasped Jon's forearm the morning after the camps fell.
"Well fought," the Blackfish had said simply.
Edmure, newly freed and still sore from chains, had been more effusive.
"You held him? On foot? Gods be good," he'd laughed. "I would have paid coin to see that."
There had been no hostility in it. No contempt.
Jon found he did not mind Riverrun.
The Red Fork ran swift and clean beneath its walls. The godswood was small compared to Winterfell's, but it had a heart tree nonetheless—pale and watching.
From the battlements the land looked almost peaceful.
Almost.
But peace was a lie.
Jon felt it in his bones. Any day now. A raven would come. From King's Landing. With black words written in careful ink.
He could already see it.
Joffrey Baratheon standing before a crowd. Sansa pleading. The executioner raising a blade. His father kneeling.
He forced the image away. It would come soon. He was certain of it.
And there was Theon.
Theon lay in a chamber below, feverish and pale, his right arm gone at the elbow. Maesters said he would live. He would never fight the same, but he would live. Jon had half a mind to ask Samwell to give him some kind of poison, but that wouldn't help, Balon would still attack the north, with or without Theon.
And when Theon recovered—
He would ask.
Jon could see that too.
Theon would demand to be sent to Pyke. To prove himself. To bring Balon Greyjoy to the Stark cause.
And Robb, out of friendship or guilt, might grant it.
That could not happen. Jon would not allow it. Too many futures bled from that choice.
The weight of it pressed on him until the walls of Riverrun felt too tight.
That night, as torches dimmed and the castle quieted, Jon sought Robb.
He found him overlooking the river, Grey Wind stretched at his feet.
"You look like you're about to lecture me," Robb said looking at his grim face.
Jon gave a faint huff.
"I had another dream."
Robb glanced sideways. "Bad?"
"Worst I've ever had."
Robb studied him a moment, then nodded.
"The godswood?"
"Yes."
-
The godswood at Riverrun was smaller than Winterfell's, but the heart tree still had a face.
Pale bark. Red eyes. Watching.
Robb stood across from me, the river murmuring beyond the walls. Torchlight from the castle did not quite reach here. The world felt narrowed to white bark and dark water.
"You said it couldn't wait," Robb said.
"It can't."
He studied me a moment. "Another dream?"
"Yes."
He exhaled through his nose. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just bracing himself.
I forced myself to speak steadily. "I saw King's Landing."
His posture changed at once.
"I saw Father brought before the Great Sept of Baelor. Not the throne room. The Sept." I swallowed. "The crowd was thick—smallfolk, gold cloaks, banners with the crowned stag."
Robb's jaw tightened.
"Joffrey sat the throne set upon the steps," I continued. "Cersei at his side. The High Septon there. Varys. Littlefinger. I could see them as if I stood among the crowd."
"You weren't," Robb said quietly.
"No."
But it had felt real enough to smell the city.
"Father confessed," I said. "He said he had plotted against the crown. He said Joffrey was the true king."
Robb flinched.
"He did that to save Sansa," I said quickly. "To spare her."
"And?"
"Joffrey smiled." My hands curled unconsciously. "He looked bored. Then pleased. He said mercy was weakness. He ordered Ser Ilyn Payne to bring him Father's head."
Robb went still.
"Sansa screamed. She begged. She fell to her knees." I forced myself to continue. "Arya was in the crowd. Dirty. Disguised as a boy. A man of the Night's Watch saw her—Yoren. He dragged her away before the blade fell. The Lannisters don't have her, but she's still in enemy territory."
The silence between us deepened.
"I saw Father kneel," I said softly. "I saw the sword rise."
Robb shook his head.
"It was just a dream."
"I heard it."
The river kept moving.
"He dies, Robb."
His breathing had grown uneven.
"You can't know that."
"I saw it."
He turned away, pacing two steps before turning back.
"Dreams twist things," he said. "You've seen battles before they happened. Movements. Not… this."
"There's more."
He laughed once under his breath. It wasn't humor.
"Of course there is."
"When the raven comes," I continued, "our bannermen gather in the Great Hall at Riverrun. They shout for vengeance. They shout for independence."
"That much I can believe," he muttered.
"Greatjon is the loudest, or would have been if we hadn't sent sent him instead of Roose." I said. "He draws his sword and names you King in the North."
Robb's eyes narrowed.
"The riverlords hesitate at first," I went on. "But then they follow. They name you King of the Trident."
"I don't want that."
"I know."
"You're speaking treason like it's already done."
"I'm telling you what I saw."
He stared at the ground, then back at me.
"And Theon?" he asked, quieter now.
"In my dream," I said carefully, "he heals. He laughs about his missing arm as if it were a trophy. Then he asks you to send him to the Iron Islands. To bring his house to our side."
Robb didn't answer.
"You agree."
"Because he's my friend," Robb snapped.
"Friend not family."
I held his gaze.
"Balon Greyjoy crowns himself king again. He declares himself King of the Isles and the North. He hates us Robb, father put down his rebellion and took his last son hostage."
Robb's lips parted slightly but I continue on.
"He sends longships. They raid the western shore first. Then deeper."
"That's speculation."
"No."
I took a step closer.
"Theon takes Winterfell."
The words hung in the cold air.
"He cannot," Robb said flatly.
"I'm just telling you what I saw."
"How?" Robb almost shouts.
"With trickery. Speed. He takes it with few men, but enough, he has lived there his whole life, he knows the castle inside and out. He captures Bran and Rickon."
Robb's face drained further.
"In the dream," I continued, forcing the words out like stones, "their bodies are burned. Charred beyond recognition. Hung for all to see."
"That's enough," Robb whispered.
"It isn't."
His eyes flashed.
"Jon—"
"It's not Theon who kills them," I said quickly. "Not truly. But the world believes he does."
Robb stared at me, uncomprehending.
"Roose Bolton's bastard," I said. "Ramsay Snow. He comes later. He turns on Theon. He sacks Winterfell in our name. He wears our colors while he murders there."
Robb's hands trembled now.
"I kept Roose close because of you," he said faintly.
"I know."
"And you're telling me even that isn't enough."
"I'm telling you his blood is poison."
The river whispered. It's rushing sound the only thing between us as I let Robb contemplate my words.
After a few minutes. I clear my throat.
"There's more."
"What?" Robb asks, voice hollow.
I swallowed.
"Lady Stark, She rides south to treat with Renly Baratheon. She meets him in his camp. I saw his banners—the crowned stag in green. I saw Brienne of Tarth sworn to him."
Robb said nothing.
"They speak of alliance. Of joining strength against the Lannisters."
"That's not unreasonable." Robb looks up, finally something positive.
"No."
I forced myself to finish it.
"That night, in Renly's tent, a shadow appears. Not a man. Not truly. A thing shaped like Stannis Baratheon. It has his face. His build. It carries a blade made of darkness."
Robb stared at me as if I had gone mad.
"It kills Renly," I said. "In front of Lady Stark. The guards see nothing but a shape. They accuse her."
"That's impossible."
"I know."
"You expect me to believe shadows murder kings now?"
"I expect nothing," I said quietly. "I'm telling you what I saw."
I continue ahead, now that I've started what's a few more revelations.
"When Lady Stark learns of our brother's fate, she free's Jamie Lannister. In the hope that he will return to Kingslanding and return Sansa and Arya."
Robb's tounge is tied, he cannot even imagine these things happening. The madness.
"How can..... How....." He stammers.
"You are in the Westerlands then, raiding Tywins lands and crushing the new army he has ordered to be trained there."
This new set of information acts as the breaking point. He looks away from me, toward the heart tree. Robb is quiet for a long time, so much so that I fear I might have lost his confidence.
"For the last few months," he said slowly, "you've warned me of things before they happened. Walder Frey's demand. Jaime riding from Riverrun. Bolton's nature. And each time you were right."
I swallow, thinking about the past month, I had given him his plans before he could dream them up, we had accomplished so much but it still felt too little.
"But this…" He looked back at me. "This is....."
I nodded.
"I know."
The leaves rustled.
Grey Wind stepped from the darkness first.
Robb's wolf moved straight toward him.
Ghost emerged moments later, silent as snowfall.
They stopped between us.
Grey Wind lifted his head and looked into Robb's eyes.
Something passed there. Something I couldn't name. Then, without warning, Grey Wind turned.
He walked to me. And stood at my side.
Ghost pressed close to my other leg. I hadn't called him. I hadn't moved.
I felt a chill run through me.
Robb stared at the wolves as if seeing them for the first time.
"What is this?" he whispered.
"I don't know." I replied, equally confused.
Grey Wind did not look back at Robb. He remained with me.
Robb's face shifted—from anger, to disbelief, to something dangerously close to fear.
"I don't want to believe you," he said.
"I don't want to believe myself," I answered.
The heart tree watched.
"Wait," I said. "One day. Two."
"For what?"
"For the raven from King's Landing."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"If it comes…Then you'll know."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then I'll thank the gods for making a liar of me."
Robb stood there a long moment.
Finally, he nodded once.
"I hope your dreams are wrong."
He turned and walked back toward the castle.
Grey Wind hesitated—just a breath—then followed him.
Ghost remained with me beneath the weirwood.
And far to the south, I knew, events were already in motion.
0000