Blood and Shadows (Game of Thrones)

Jon

It all still felt like a dream. All of it. Since he had taken his vows in the godswood near Castle Black, everything seemed to have been happening to very quickly that he was struggling to keep up with events. Sometimes he still found it hard to believe that his uncle was dead, let alone Bran and Rickon and Robb. Sometimes he found it hard to believe that he had broken his vows and had ridden with the wildlings, had shared meat and mead with Mance Rayder and Tormund Giantsbane, that he had killed Qhorin Halfhand, that he had lain with Ygritte. Ygritte... that was a dream that Jon did not wish to relive. She had been part of the party led by the Magnar of Thenn that had attacked Castle Black from the south. The Magnar and his band of wildlings had died easily enough, cut down by arrows, swords and boiling oil. As the sun was setting that day, Jon Sand had walked down from his place atop the wall knowing that they may have won this battle, but that Mance Rayder was marching south with a host four times as big as anything the watch could call upon. He had found Ygritte lying in a bed of blood two arrows through her chest and heart, he had cradled her head and had held her in his arms as she had died. He had been the one to burn her, on a separate pyre from those of the fallen wildlings and black brothers, his fellow brothers had given him that much space.

He had had barely anytime to grieve when a raven had come from the south, bearing news of Robb's death, how he had been mercilessly slain at his uncle Edmure's wedding along with Aunt Catelyn. The letter written in the hand of the Blackfish spoke of how Robb had gone to the Twins expecting to be allowed north once his uncle was married, but of how the Freys had betrayed him, and how it had been Roose Bolton who had been the one to kill Robb. Something inside Jon already broken from news of his uncle, Bran and Rickon and Ygritte's deaths completely shattered and Jon felt such sadness and anger well up inside him. If he had had his way he would have ridden south there and then to deal with the Ironborn, to deal with the Freys, Boltons and Lannisters. He had sworn to himself that before he died all those who had hurt his family would die, and they would die by his blade. Two days after the letter came bearing news of Robb's death, Robb's widow Alys Stark arrived at Castle Black with her lord father, and 50 men. With Mance Rayder and his host a day's ride away at best; Jon had done what he could to make sure they had safe and warm rooms. The days he did not spend helping to prepare the wall for the oncoming Wildling assault, he sat and spoke with Alys and her lord father and he played with Robb's daughter Shiera, she reminded Jon so much of Sansa that he felt something more in his heart begin to tear and break.

Then the wildlings had attacked. Giants and mammoths and free folk, the army of the wild came out in force in the pitch black. Men died, fires were little, trebuchets were loaded oil was poured and when the dawn finally came, there was still thousands of wildlings, giants and mammoths riding south toward the Wall. Donal Noye had gone to defend the passes underneath the Wall, and had not returned to the Wall. Jon held the wall through thick and thin. As Giants and Mammoths rammed the wall, Wildlings fired arrows and tried to clamber up past the wall, all died, through fire, poured oil or flame arrows, they died. When the sun came to its peak, the fighting stopped and the wildlings fled back to wherever it was Mance was camped with the rest of his host. The Night's Watch had held for the day, they had held and Jon had never felt as relieved as he had then, when he saw Mammoths fleeing back toward wherever it was they lived, to where Mance Rayder hid.

There had not been much time for him to celebrate though, for early the next morning Ser Allister Thorne and Janos Slynt had returned from Eastwatch and Bowen Marsh had returned from the fighting on the Bridge of Skulls, and Jon had been thrown in an ice cell, arrested for desertion. Something that Thorne and Slynt had learnt from Rattleshirt, one of the wildlings Jon had ridden with on the Halfhand's orders who had confessed to Jon's desertion. Jon had been brought before a council of the elder sworn brothers, Maester Aemon, Bowen Marsh, Thorne and Ser Denys Mallister had all stood in trial and listened as Jon had recounted the truth, how the Halfhand had ordered him to do whatever he had to, to learn more about the wildlings and their plans and to never balk from whatever he was bid to do. When he told them how he had been ordered to kill the Halfhand and had done so, he knew that that had turned several of the sworn brothers in the room against him, but he also knew that Maester Aemon, Ser Denys and Bowen Marsh were willing to listen to what he said, and how he had come back to the Wall and warned them of the wildling attack, and upcoming invasion. Thorne and Slynt however, were desperate for his head, Jon knew that Thorne had hated him for the longest of times, and Slynt had been the one to take his uncle's head had been the one to betray his uncle. He was put back in an ice cell after the trial, only to be brought out again and sent to treat- or assassinates- Mance Rayder, if he failed to do so he would be condemned and executed as a traitor.

Just as he had been trying to work out how to do the deed he had been sent for, stood as he was in Mance Rayder's tent, Stannis Baratheon attacked the wildlings and took them in flank. That caused chaos amongst the ill-organised wildlings, which were still to widely spread out from their earlier attempts to take the wall. Stannis Baratheon smashed Mance Rayder's host, and captured the King Beyond the Wall as well as several other important wildling commanders, though some of the wildlings led by Tormund Giantsbane and The Weeper fled back north, for the time being.

Jon was freed from his imprisonment, and then that evening Stannis had called a meeting between himself and the northern lords who had come with Alys from the red wedding. It was during this meeting that Jon was told by Stannis Baratheon, that if he were to marry Alys, Stannis would legitimise him and make him Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. It was something Jon could not believe, when he had been a child back in Starfall and sometimes even in Winterfell itself when he had been fostered there, he would dream of what it would have been like if his father had married his mother, and he was truly the heir to Winterfell, but often those thoughts would make him feel guilty and would hurt too much, and over time he had gradually come to accept what his place in the world was. Besides, he believed that Winterfell truly belonged to Shiera now, though Stannis had said to him there and then, that if he did not marry Alys, then she would be married off to one of Stannis's loyal bannermen and Winterfell would no longer belong to the Starks.

That had struck a nerve, there had always been a Stark of Winterfell since the Age of Heroes, if not longer. Winterfell and the north belonged to no other family but the Starks. But Jon could not see how he could make Stannis see this without breaking his vows once more and marrying his cousin's widow. That had been when Rickard Karstark had produced a piece of paper with the seals of several northern and Riverlords, and stated that it was Robb's last will and testament. Stannis had taken the paper and had read it, and then had grunted and passed the paper onto Jon. The minute he set eyes on the paper he knew that it was genuine. He would recognise his cousin's handwriting anywhere, as he read the will and its contents he felt something strange begin to stir inside of him. Robb had named him his heir, the heir to kingdom of the north and the Riverlands. Whilst that in itself had changed Jon's perspective on Stannis's offer- for if his cousin had named him heir as his last wish, and had asked him to protect Alys and Shiera, then Jon was honour bound to do so- it was the phrase that he used to finish the Will that really made Jon stop and think. The hammer will soon be striking the anvil. He had not seen nor heard that phrase in years, not since before the king had come to Winterfell; it had become a family saying in Winterfell just as Winter is Coming were the words of House Stark. He looked at those words written on the paper in Robb's hand, and he knew then that he had to accept Stannis's offer, not only because there should always be a Stark in Winterfell, but because he needed to protect his cousin's widow and daughter now, more so than ever.

And so Jon Sand had been freed from his oaths to the Night's Watch, which had been made under the threat of something much worse from the Lannister Queen, and had bent the knee along with the Northern Lords that had come with Alys, and had risen Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He had married Alys three days later in a ceremony held in the godswood in front of Castle Black. Lord Karstark, Lord Glover, Lady Mormont, The Liddle, The Wull, and The Norrey were all present for the wedding. Once the wedding and the bedding was done with, Jon found himself spending more and more time in council meetings with Stannis and the lords who were now his bannermen. He knew that he would need to prove himself to them, they had fought and bled beside Robb, had seen Robb go from being a boy to a king, he would need to prove himself worthy of their loyalty, just as his uncle had and Robb had.

Stannis had wanted to march straight for the Dreadfort, and Lord Karstark had been in favour of doing so as well. But Jon and Lord Glover had argued against doing so. The Dreadfort had once survived a siege for three years when a King ruled from Winterfell, armies would smash themselves to bits on the castle's strong and thick walls. No it would be better to march west to Deepwood Motte and drive out the Ironborn there, better to win the rest of the north's loyalty. It was whilst they were in Castle Black discussing what to do, that they received a raven from Mors Umber, the man's brother had declared for Roose Bolton, simply because the Freys still held the Greatjon, but Mors assured Jon- for the letter had been written to Jon, not Stannis- that Hothar Umber was still loyal to the Starks, and would do all he could to undermine Roose Bolton. Mors opened the gates of Last Hearth to Jon and Stannis and their men, and so they made plans to march south for Last Hearth.

But before they could do so, Jon's uncle Benjen had returned from the north. He had been gone for two years, had gotten lost in the Land of Always Winter and had reported dangerous and worrying tidings from the north. It had pained Jon to tell his uncle about what had happened to their family since he had been gone. The look of sheer pain that crossed his uncle's face as he told him of Uncle Ned, Robb, Aunt Catelyn and Bran and Rickon's deaths broke Jon up once more. Benjen had agreed that it was right for Jon to take up Robb's place and defend the north from the Lannisters and the Boltons. His uncle had been elected Lord Commander before Jon had left for Last Hearth.

Throughout all this though, Jon always made sure that Alys- his wife now- was well looked after and that she and Shiera were cared for and wanted for nothing. It helped he supposed that they had been friends before he had taken the black. It made it easier to speak with her about his worries and his concerns. One of which included Stannis and his red woman, and her devotion to this Red God. After the battle for Castle Black, several wildlings had been burned alive, including Mance Rayder. Jon had done one last act as a brother of the Night's Watch he had sent Sam, Maester Aemon, Gilly and Mance Rayder's actual babe south on a ship bound for Oldtown, he would not have a child be burnt for some sacrifice. The red woman believed Stannis to be a hero of legend, and whilst Jon was happy for her to go about spouting these claims, he would not let her try and change the religion that the North worshipped. The Andals had tried to invade the north and change it, and had been kicked out, and Jon knew that should Stannis begin burning the weirwood trees in the North, he would lose their support and Jon had no intention of allowing the weirwoods or the godswoods to be burnt.

They arrived in Last Hearth as the snows were beginning to fall properly, heralding the end of autumn and the beginning of winter. The Mountain clans had brought between them some 2000 men; Lady Mormont assured them that her daughter Alysanne would bring with her 500 men and women to Deepwood Motte. Mors Umber had with him some 1000 men though most were green boys- it felt odd calling them that when Jon himself had only been involved in two real battles- Lord Rickard assured them that his uncle Arnolf would bring the remaining men from Karhold with him when they marched on Winterfell. Last Hearth brought with it more dire news, for Mors Umber told them that Ramsay Snow- Bolton's bastard- was marrying Arya Stark. Jon was convinced that it was not the real Arya, but all the same he could not help the feeling of sorrow and anger that engulfed him. He knew then that they would need to take Deepwood Motte and soon before Bolton's bastard could get Arya pregnant- if it were actually her- And so they marched.

They marched through the Wolfswood during the night, through the snow that was becoming ever thicker and caught the Ironborn as they tried to flee back to their longships. It was a fierce fight, but it was short. The Ironborn were disorganized and lacked discipline, it was every man for him. Jon hacked and slashed through the Ironborn, painting the ground red with their blood. Each man he killed was a mark of revenge and justice for Bran and Rickon. Eventually the Ironborn surrendered, and their leader Asha Greyjoy, Theon's sister was taken prisoner along with several other Ironborn. Alysanne Mormont and her bears from Bear Island had burnt the Ironborn's ships to smithereens and those that tried to flee were slain in the wood.

Deepwood Motte was liberated from the Ironborn, and the Northmen began to rally even further to Stannis's side. There was some feasting and celebrating in the Motte after the victory, but it was not too over the top, for Winterfell still stood in Bolton hands, and so long as it did the north would never be rid of the Lannisters and their lackeys. Good news came through in the form of a coded letter from Hothar Umber to his brother. Mors read that there was tension amongst the northmen in Winterfell. Bolton's hold on their allegiance was fragile at best, many were angry with the man for siding with the Freys because of the red wedding, and because of the atrocities that his bastard had committed in the past. Of Arya there was little mentioned except that the Bastard of Bolton had wed her and bedded her. Alys also sent a letter stating that she and Shiera were doing well in Last Hearth and that she was with child. Jon had been surprised at that, they had only lain together twice since their marriage- the day of their wedding, and the night before he rode off for war- he had not wished to do anything to soon because of what had happened with Robb. He saw his wife more as a friend and confidant than as a lover, but he was happy nonetheless it was something he had always dreamed of, having a wife and a family to love.

Once the celebrations were ended, they began planning how to take Winterfell. Here was where Jon truly felt useful, he had spent six years in Winterfell and had gotten to know it very, very well during that time, mainly because Robb and Uncle Ned had allowed him to. SO it was that he advised Stannis. "It would not do to go for a direct attack, or siege of Winterfell. No matter if the castle is burnt and a ruin of a former glory. It will stand a siege for time that we do not have Your Grace. Roose Bolton is too cautious a man to draw out into open battle. So you must make him curious. I would send out scouts here, (he pointed to the Crofter's Village) and here (he pointed to the Tumbledown tower) send them waiving your banner, and the man's own scouts will capture them and draw Bolton out. Then I would send a man, just one not more to the gates of Winterfell where he could be captured. Have that man report that you are in the Crofter's Village. Roose Bolton will begin to panic. If his control over the men is as lax as Whorsebane says it is, he will want to separate them, he will send his bastard out to deal with you. Keep the main body of your host camped in the middle of the Wolfswood, and have your scouts in the Crofter's Village lead Ramsay Snow to you, then bring the men from the Tumbledown back and have men situated behind the trees, Ramsay Snow will walk into butchery."

The northern lords agreed to the plan as did Stannis, and so they marched. Winter was coming for House Bolton and House Frey, and when it came and went, they would not be alive; Jon would make sure of that.

Jaime

It had been a long and tiring journey back to King's Landing. Lady Catelyn had freed him, and then her brother had sent riders after himself, Brienne and his cousin Cleos. The riders had missed them, but the Brave Companions had not. Vargo Hoat and his men had killed Cleos and then had been about to rape Brienne, when Jaime had got involved. His words had cost him his left hand, not his sword hand no, but it had still made him a cripple. He had been brought before Roose Bolton and Bolton had discussed various things, such as the northern attack on Duskendale, the Lannister-Tyrell alliance and the fall of Winterfell. He had then discussed what he was to do with Jaime, considering that a bounty had been put on his head by Robb Stark, who was Bolton's king. Bolton had said that a good lord would return the Kingslayer to his king and get the rewards, but then he had said, but how was said king to give the reward when he was without a kingdom, and besides there was three kings in the realm and which one was the one that would benefit him the most. Eventually Bolton had sent him on his way back to King's Landing with his maester Qyburn and some of his men. He had deigned to leave Brienne behind though, for the Goats entertainment.

Something about that had sat poorly with Jaime, he knew not what it was even now. Perhaps it had something to with this new perspective he had gained from losing his hand, but like a fool he had gone back to Harrenhal and had rescued Brienne and had brought her with him to King's Landing. No one recognised him when he entered the city gates, he had cut his hair and had a scraggly beard, and so he had managed to go by relatively unnoticed in the streets. Brienne had not. But Jaime had managed to smooth talk both of their ways through the city relatively unscathed and had even managed to bring himself to his sister's rooms, expecting to be reunited with her passionately. Instead he heard the sounds of her being pleasured, curious he had opened the door by just a fraction and had found some brute of a man pounding away on her as she writhed and moaned in pleasure. He had felt such anger then, and had he been the man he had been before the war had started he would have walked right in then and there and cut the man off his sister before burying his sword in the man's throat. But he was not that man anymore; he had merely closed the door quietly behind him and walked on to find his father.

His father had looked at him with something akin to horror and then relief when he realised that it was not Jaime's sword hand that was missing. His father had told him there and then about Joffrey's death and how Cersei was accusing Tyrion of doing the deed. When he asked his father if he believed her, Lord Tywin said nothing merely stared at Jaime with a piercing look. His father then proceeded to give him a Valyrian steel sword made out of Ned Stark's own blade Ice and also asked him once more to resign from the Kingsguard and assume his position as heir to Casterly Rock. He had been unsure how to answer, at one point in time he knew he would have argued with his father about doing such a thing, he would have wanted to stay in the Kingsguard, stay near Cersei. But after seeing her with that brute of a man, and clearly enjoying herself he was not so sure. He asked his father time to consider the offer before he made his decision. And surprisingly his father consented.

He then spent the next few days at Tyrion's trial and gathering what information he could about the events of Joffrey's death and Sansa Stark's suspicious disappearance. No one knew where she could have gone to, though some of the servants and the minor nobles of the court, no doubt keen to get better acquainted with the Kingslayer and perhaps earn his favour, told him that they had seen the Stark girl spending an unusual amount of time with the Dornishmen. That did not surprise Jaime, he knew that the Stark Girl had a Dornish cousin- a bastard- but still a cousin, who was a girl, whom if he remembered correctly had been the reason Jon Sand had been sent to the Wall because he had beaten Joffrey to an inch of his life for insulting said girl. He thought nothing of it, and when Tyrion was pronounced guilty during his trial by combat because all thought that Prince Oberyn was dead, Jaime could not stand by and let his little brother be killed. He had pressured Varys into freeing his brother, and then like a fool had told him about Tysha, and Tyrion had reacted as Jaime had feared he would do all those years ago, and then had told him that Cersei had been fucking Lancel, the Kettleblacks and Moonboy. Before leaving.

The next day Lord Tywin was found dead, an arrow through his stomach, a whore strangled to death in his bed. Tyrion was responsible for the deed, Jaime knew and yet he could not bring himself to tell his sister that he had been the one to free Tyrion, and therefore was indirectly responsible for their father's death. No instead he led several fruitless searches of the black cells for Tyrion and even more to find Varys, the spider who had wisely disappeared into the ether after that night and had not been seen since. Something had changed between Jaime and Cersei as well. He no longer lusted or longed for her as he did in the past, something about seeing her with another man and moaning in pleasure had broken him, he refused all of her advances and refused her offer to become Tommem's hand and instead suggested that she make their uncle Kevan hand or perhaps even Randyll Tarly. She rebuked his suggestions and called him a fool.

It was nearly a relief when she sent him off to Riverrun to lift the siege there.

The brooch that fastened Ser Brynden Tully's cloak was a black fish, wrought in jet and gold. His ringmail was grim and grey. Over it he wore greaves, gorget, gauntlets, pauldron, and poleyns of blackened steel, none half so dark as the look upon his face as he waited for Jaime Lannister at the end of the drawbridge, alone atop a chestnut courser caparisoned in red and blue.

He loves me not. Tully had a craggy face, deeply lined and windburnt beneath a shock of stiff grey hair, but Jaime could still see the great knight who had once enthralled a squire with tales of the Ninepenny Kings. Honor's hooves clattered against the planks of the drawbridge. Jaime had thought long and hard about whether to wear his gold armor or his white to this meeting; in the end, he'd chosen a leather jack and a crimson cloak.

He drew up a yard from Ser Brynden, and inclined his head to the older man. "Kingslayer," said Tully.

That he would make that name the first word from his mouth spoke volumes, but Jaime was resolved to keep his temper. "Blackfish," he responded. "Thank you for coming."

"I assume you have returned to fulfill the oaths you swore my niece," Ser Brynden said. "As I recall, you promised Catelyn her daughters in return for your freedom." His mouth tightened. "Yet I do not see the girls. Where are they?"

Must he make me say it? "I do not have them."

"Pity. Do you wish to resume your captivity? Your old cell is still available. We have put fresh rushes on the floor."

And a nice new pail for me to shit in, I don't doubt. "That was thoughtful of you, ser, but I fear I must decline. I prefer the comforts of my pavilion."

"Whilst Catelyn enjoys the comforts of her grave."

I had no hand in Lady Catelyn's death, he might have said, and her daughters were gone before I reached King's Landing. It was on his tongue to speak of Brienne and the sword he'd given her, but the Blackfish was looking at him the way that Eddard Stark had looked at him when he'd found him on the Iron Throne with the Mad King's blood upon his blade. "I came to speak of the living, not the dead. Of those who need not die, but shall . . ."

". . . unless I hand you Riverrun. Is this where you threaten to hang Edmure?" Beneath his bushy brows, Tully's eyes were stone. "My nephew is marked for death no matter what I do. So hang him and be done with it. I expect that Edmure is as weary of standing on those gallows as I am of seeing him there."

Ryman Frey is a bloody fool. His mummer's show with Edmure and the gallows had only made the Blackfish more obdurate, that was plain. "You hold Lady Sybelle Westerling and three of her children. I'll return your nephew in exchange for them."

"As you returned Lady Catelyn's daughters?"

Jaime did not allow himself to be provoked. "An old woman and three children for your liege lord. That's a better bargain than you could have hoped for."

Ser Brynden smiled a hard smile. "You do not lack for gall, Kingslayer. Bargaining with oathbreakers is like building on quicksand, though. Cat should have known better than to trust the likes of you."

It was Tyrion she trusted in, Jaime almost said. The Imp deceived her too. "The promises I made to Lady Catelyn were wrung from me at swordpoint."

"And the oath you swore to Aerys?"

He felt his phantom fingers twitching. "Aerys is no part of this. Will you exchange the Westerlings for Edmure?"

"No. My king entrusted Lady Jeyne to my keeping, and I swore to keep her safe. I will not hand her over to a Frey noose."

"The girl has been pardoned. No harm will come to her. You have my word on that."

"Your word of honour?" Ser Brynden raised an eyebrow. "Do you even know what honour is?"

A horse. "I will swear any oath that you require."

"Spare me, Kingslayer."

"I want to. Strike your banners and open your gates and I'll grant your men their lives. Those who wish to remain at Riverrun in service to Lord Emmon may do so. The rest shall be free to go where they will, though I will require them to surrender their arms and armour."

"I wonder, how far will they get, unarmed, before 'outlaws' set upon them? You dare not allow them to join Lord Beric, we both know that. And what of me? Will I be paraded through King's Landing to die like Eddard Stark?"

"I will permit you to take the black. Ned Stark's brother is the Lord Commander on the Wall."

The Blackfish narrowed his eyes. "Thank you but no. I would rather die with lion blood on my sword than take the black."

"Tully blood runs just as red," Jaime reminded him. "If you will not yield the castle, I must storm it. Hundreds will die."

"Hundreds of mine. Thousands of yours."

"Your garrison will perish to a man."

"I know that song. Do you sing it to the tune of 'The Rains of Castamere'? My men would sooner die upon their feet fighting than on their knees beneath a headsman's axe."

This is not going well. "This defiance serves no purpose, ser. The war is done, and your Young Wolf is dead."

"Murdered in breach of all the sacred laws of hospitality."

"Frey's work, not mine."

"Call it what you will. It stinks of Tywin Lannister."

Jaime could not deny that. "My father is dead as well."

"May the Father judge him justly."

Now, there's an awful prospect. "I would have slain Robb Stark in the Whispering Wood, if I could have reached him. Some fools got in my way. Does it matter how the boy perished? He's no less dead, and his kingdom died when he did."

"You must be blind as well as maimed, ser. Lift your eyes, and you will see that the direwolf still flies above our walls."

"I've seen him. He looks lonely. Harrenhal has fallen. Seagard and Maidenpool. The Brackens have bent the knee, and they've got Tytos Blackwood penned up in Raventree. Piper, Vance, Mooton, all your bannermen have yielded. Only Riverrun remains. We have twenty times your numbers."

"Twenty times the men require twenty times the food. How well are you provisioned, my lord?"

"Well enough to sit here till the end of days if need be, whilst you starve inside your walls." He told the lie as boldly as he could and hoped his face did not betray him.

The Blackfish was not deceived. "The end of your days, perhaps. Our own supplies are ample, though I fear we did not leave much in the fields for visitors."

"We can bring food down from the Twins," said Jaime, "or over the hills from the west, if it comes to that."

"If you say so. Far be it from me to question the word of such an honorable knight."

The scorn in his voice made Jaime bristle. "There is a quicker way to decide the matter. A single combat. My champion against yours."

"I was wondering when you would get to that." Ser Brynden laughed. "Who will it be? Strongboar? Addam Marbrand? Black Walder Frey?" He leaned forward. "Why not you and me, ser?"

That would have been a sweet fight once, Jaime thought, fine fodder for the singers. "When Lady Catelyn freed me, she made me swear not to take arms again against the Starks or Tullys."

"A most convenient oath, ser."

His face darkened. "Are you calling me a coward?"

"No. I am calling you a cripple." The Blackfish nodded at Jaime's golden hand. "We both know you cannot fight with that."

"I had two hands." Would you throw your life away for pride? a voice inside him whispered. "Some might say a cripple and an old man are well matched. Free me from my vow to Lady Catelyn and I will meet you sword to sword. If I win, Riverrun is ours. If you slay me, we'll lift the siege."

Ser Brynden laughed again. "Much as I would welcome the chance to take that golden sword away from you and cut out your black heart, your promises are worthless. I would gain nothing from your death but the pleasure of killing you, and I will not risk my own life for that . . . as small a risk as that may be."

It was a good thing that Jaime wore no sword; elsewise he would have ripped his blade out, and if Ser Brynden did not slay him, the archers on the walls most surely would. "Are there any terms you will accept?" he demanded of the Blackfish.

"From you?" Ser Brynden shrugged. "No."

"Why did you even come to treat with me?"

"A siege is deadly dull. I wanted to see this stump of yours and hear whatever excuses you cared to offer up for your latest enormities. They were feebler than I'd hoped. You always disappoint, Kingslayer." The Blackfish wheeled his mare and trotted back toward Riverrun. The portcullis descended with a rush, its iron spikes biting deep into the muddy ground.

Jaime turned Honor's head about for the long ride back to the Lannister siege lines. He could feel the eyes on him; the Tully men upon their battlements, the Freys across the river. If they are not blind, they'll all know he threw my offer in my teeth. He would need to storm the castle. Well, what's one more broken vow to the Kingslayer? Just more shit in the bucket. Jaime resolved to be the first man on the battlements. And with this golden hand of mine, most like the first to fall.

Back at camp, Little Lew held his bridle whilst Peck gave him a hand down from the saddle. Do they think I'm such a cripple that I cannot dismount by myself? "How did you fare, my lord?" asked his cousin Ser Daven.

"No one put an arrow in my horse's rump. Elsewise, there was little to distinguish me from Ser Ryman." He grimaced. "So now he must needs turn the Red Fork redder." Blame yourself for that, Blackfish. You left me little choice. "Assemble a war council. Ser Addam, Strongboar, Forley Prester, those river lords of ours . . . and our friends of Frey. Ser Ryman, Lord Emmon, whoever else they care to bring."

They gathered quickly. Lord Piper and both Lords Vance came to speak for the repentant lords of the Trident, whose loyalties would shortly be put to the test. The west was represented by Ser Daven, Strongboar, Addam Marbrand, and Forley Prester. Lord Emmon Frey joined them, with his wife. Lady Genna claimed her stool with a look that dared any man there to question her presence. None did. The Freys sent Ser Walder Rivers, called "Bastard Walder," and Ser Ryman's firstborn Edwyn, a pallid, slender man with a pinched nose and lank dark hair. Under a blue lambswool cloak, Edwyn wore a jerkin of finely tooled grey calfskin with ornate scrollwork worked into the leather. "I speak for House Frey," he announced. "My father is indisposed this morning."

Ser Daven gave a snort. "Is he drunk, or just greensick from last night's wine?"

Edwyn had the hard mean mouth of a miser. "Lord Jaime," he said, "must I suffer such discourtesy?"

"Is it true?" Jaime asked him. "Is your father drunk?"

Frey pressed his lips together and eyed Ser Ilyn Payne, who was standing beside by the tent flap in his rusted mail, his sword poking up above one bony shoulder. "He . . . my father has a bad belly, my lord. Red wine helps with his digestion."

"He must be digesting a bloody mammoth," said Ser Daven. Strongboar laughed, and Lady Genna chuckled.

"Enough," said Jaime. "We have a castle to win." When his father sat in council, he let his captains speak first. He was resolved to do the same. "How shall we proceed?"

"Hang Edmure Tully, for a start," urged Lord Emmon Frey. "That will teach Ser Brynden that we mean what we say. If we send Ser Edmure's head to his uncle, it may move him to yield."

"Brynden Blackfish is not moved so easily." Karyl Vance, the Lord of Wayfarer's Rest, had a melancholy look. A winestain birthmark covered half his neck and one side of his face. "His own brother could not move him to a marriage bed."

Ser Daven shook his shaggy head. "We have to storm the walls, as I've been saying all along. Siege towers, scaling ladders, a ram to break the gate, that's what's needed here."

"I will lead the assault," said Strongboar. "Give the fish a taste of steel and fire, that's what I say."

"They are my walls," protested Lord Emmon, "and that is my gate you would break." He drew his parchment out of his sleeve again. "King Tommen himself has granted me—"

"We've all seen your paper, nuncle," snapped Edwyn Frey. "Why don't you go wave it at the Blackfish for a change?"

"Storming the walls will be a bloody business," said Addam Marbrand. "I propose we wait for a moonless night and send a dozen picked men across the river in a boat with muffled oars. They can scale the walls with ropes and grapnels, and open the gates from the inside. I will lead them, if the council wishes."

"Folly," declared the bastard, Walder Rivers. "Ser Brynden is no man to be cozened by such tricks."

"The Blackfish is the obstacle," agreed Edwyn Frey. "His helm bears a black trout on its crest that makes him easy to pick out from afar. I propose that we move our siege towers close, fill them full of bowmen, and feign an attack upon the gates. That will bring Ser Brynden to the battlements, crest and all. Let every archer smear his shafts with night soil, and make that crest his mark. Once Ser Brynden dies, Riverrun is ours."

"Mine," piped Lord Emmon. "Riverrun is mine."

Lord Karyl's birthmark darkened. "Will the night soil be your own contribution, Edwyn? A mortal poison, I don't doubt."

"The Blackfish deserves a nobler death, and I'm the man to give it to him." Strongboar thumped his fist on the table. "I will challenge him to single combat. Mace or axe or longsword, makes no matter. The old man will be my meat."

"Why would he deign to accept your challenge, ser?" asked Ser Forley Prester. "What could he gain from such a duel? Will we lift the siege if he should win? I do not believe that. Nor will he. A single combat would accomplish nought."

"I have known Brynden Tully since we were squires together, in service to Lord Darry," said Norbert Vance, the blind Lord of Atranta. "If it please my lords, let me go and speak with him and try to make him understand the hopelessness of his position."

"He understands that well enough," said Lord Piper. He was a short, rotund, bowlegged man with a bush of wild red hair, the father of one of Jaime's squires; the resemblance to the boy was unmistakeable. "The man's not bloody stupid, Norbert. He has eyes . . . and too much sense to yield to such as these." He made a rude gesture in the direction of Edwyn Frey and Walder Rivers.

Edwyn bristled. "If my lord of Piper means to imply—"

"I don't imply, Frey. I say what I mean straight out, like an honest man. But what would you know of the ways of honest men? You're a treacherous lying weasel, like all your kin. I'd sooner drink a pint of piss than take the word of any Frey." He leaned across the table. "Where is Marq, answer me that? What have you done with my son? He was a guest at your bloody wedding."

"And our honored guest he shall remain," said Edwyn, "until you prove your loyalty to His Grace, King Tommen."

"Five knights and twenty men-at-arms went with Marq to the Twins," said Piper. "Are they your guests as well, Frey?"

"Some of the knights, perhaps. The others were served no more than they deserved. You'd do well to guard your traitor's tongue, Piper, unless you want your heir returned in pieces."

My father's councils never went like this, Jaime thought, as Piper came lurching to his feet. "Say that with a sword in your hand, Frey," the small man snarled. "Or do you only fight with smears of shit?"

Frey's pinched face went pale. Beside him Walder Rivers rose. "Edwyn is no man of the sword . . . but I am, Piper. If you have more remarks to make, come outside and make them."

"This is a war council, not a war," Jaime reminded them. "Sit down, the both of you." Neither man moved. "Now!"

Walder Rivers seated himself. Lord Piper was not so easy to cow. He muttered a curse and strode from the tent. "Shall I send men after him to drag him back, my lord?" Ser Daven asked Jaime.

"Send Ser Ilyn," urged Edywn Frey. "We only need his head."

Karyl Vance turned to Jaime. "Lord Piper spoke from grief. Marq is his firstborn son. Those knights who accompanied him to the Twins were nephews and cousins all."

"Traitors and rebels all, you mean," said Edwyn Frey.

Jaime gave him a cold look. "The Twins took up the Young Wolf's cause as well," he reminded the Freys. "Then you betrayed him. That makes you twice as treacherous as Piper." He enjoyed seeing Edwyn's thin smile curdle up and die. I have endured sufficient counsel for one day, he decided. "We're done. See to your preparations, my lords. We attack at first light."

The wind was blowing from the north as the lords filed from the tent. Jaime could smell the stink of the Frey encampments beyond the Tumblestone. Across the water Edmure Tully stood forlorn atop the tall grey gallows, with a rope around his neck.

His aunt departed last, her husband at her heels. "Lord nephew," Emmon protested, "this assault on my seat . . . you must not do this." When he swallowed, the apple in his throat moved up and down. "You must not. I . . . I forbid it." He had been chewing sourleaf again; pinkish froth glistened on his lips. "The castle is mine, I have the parchment. Signed by the king, by little Tommen. I am the lawful lord of Riverrun, and . . ."

"Not so long as Edmure Tully lives," said Lady Genna. "He is soft of heart and soft of head, I know, but alive, the man is still a danger. What do you mean to do about that, Jaime?"

It's the Blackfish who is the danger, not Edmure. "Leave Edmure to me. Ser Lyle, Ser Ilyn. Attend me, if you would. It's time I paid a visit to those gallows."

The Tumblestone was deeper and swifter than the Red Fork, and the nearest ford was leagues upstream. The ferry had just started across with Walder Rivers and Edwyn Frey when Jaime and his men arrived at the river. As they awaited its return, Jaime told them what he wanted. Ser Ilyn spat into the river.

When the three of them stepped off the ferry on the north bank, a drunken camp follower offered to pleasure Strongboar with her mouth. "Here, pleasure my friend," Ser Lyle said, shoving her toward Ser Ilyn. Laughing, the woman moved to kiss Payne on the lips, then saw his eyes and shrank away.

The paths between the cookfires were raw brown mud, mixed with horse dung and torn up by hooves and boots alike. Everywhere Jaime saw the twin towers of House Frey displayed on shield and banners, blue on grey, along with the arms of lesser Houses sworn to the Crossing: the heron of Erenford, the pitchfork of Haigh, Lord Charlton's three sprigs of mistletoe. The arrival of the Kingslayer did not go unnoticed. An old woman selling piglets from a basket stopped to stare at him, a knight with a half-familiar face went to one knee, and two men-at-arms pissing in a ditch turned and sprayed each other. "Ser Jaime," someone called after him, but he strode on without turning. Around him he glimpsed the faces of men he'd done his best to kill in the Whispering Wood, where the Freys had fought beneath the direwolf banners of Robb Stark. His golden hand hung heavy at his side.

Ryman Frey's great rectangular pavilion was the largest in the camp; its grey canvas walls were made of sewn squares to resemble stonework, and its two peaks evoked the Twins. Far from being indisposed, Ser Ryman was enjoying some entertainment. The sound of a woman's drunken laughter drifted from within the tent, mingled with the strains of a woodharp and a singer's voice. I will deal with you later, ser, Jaime thought. Walder Rivers stood before his own modest tent, talking with two men-at-arms. His shield bore the arms of House Frey with the colors reversed, and a red bend sinister across the towers. When the bastard saw Jaime, he frowned. There's a cold suspicious look if ever I saw one. That one is more dangerous than any of his trueborn brothers.

The gallows had been raised ten feet off the ground. Two spearmen were posted at the foot of the steps. "You can't go up without Ser Ryman's leave," one told Jaime.

"This says I can." Jaime tapped his sword hilt with a finger. "The question is, will I need to step over your corpse?"

The spearmen moved aside.

Atop the gallows, the Lord of Riverrun stood staring at the trap beneath him. His feet were black and caked with mud, his legs bare. Edmure wore a soiled silken tunic striped in Tully red and blue, and a noose of hempen rope. At the sound of Jaime's footsteps, he raised his head and licked his dry, cracked lips. "Kingslayer?" The sight of Ser Ilyn widened his eyes. "Better a sword than a rope. Do it, Payne."

"Ser Ilyn," said Jaime. "You heard Lord Tully. Do it."

The silent knight gripped his greatsword with both hands. Long and heavy it was, sharp as common steel could be. Edmure's cracked lips moved soundlessly. As Ser Ilyn drew the blade back, he closed his eyes. The stroke had all Payne's weight behind it.

"No! Stop. NO!" Edwyn Frey came panting into view. "My father comes. Fast as he can. Jaime, you must . . ."

"My lord would suit me better, Frey," said Jaime. "And you would do well to omit must from any speech directed at me."

Ser Ryman came stomping up the gallows steps in company with a straw-haired slattern as drunk as he was. Her gown laced up the front, but someone had undone the laces to the navel, so her breasts were spilling out. They were large and heavy, with big brown nipples. On her head a circlet of hammered bronze sat askew, graven with runes and ringed with small black swords. When she saw Jaime, she laughed. "Who in seven hells is this one?"

"The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," Jaime returned with cold courtesy. "I might ask the same of you, my lady."

"Lady? I'm no lady. I'm the queen."

"My sister will be surprised to hear that."

"Lord Ryman crowned me his very self." She gave a shake of her ample hips. "I'm the queen o' whores."

No, Jaime thought, my sweet sister holds that title too.

Ser Ryman found his tongue. "Shut your mouth, slut, Lord Jaime doesn't want to hear some harlot's nonsense." This Frey was a thickset man with a broad face, small eyes, and a soft fleshy set of chins. His breath stank of wine and onions.

"Making queens, Ser Ryman?" Jaime asked softly. "Stupid. As stupid as this business with Lord Edmure."

"I gave the Blackfish warning. I told him Edmure would die unless the castle yielded. I had this gallows built, to show them that Ser Ryman Frey does not make idle threats. At Seagard my son Walder did the same with Patrek Mallister and Lord Jason bent the knee, but . . . the Blackfish is a cold man. He refused us, so . . ."

". . . you hanged Lord Edmure?"

The man reddened. "My lord grandfather . . . if we hang the man we have no hostage, ser. Have you considered that?"

"Only a fool makes threats he's not prepared to carry out. If I were to threaten to hit you unless you shut your mouth, and you presumed to speak, what do you think I'd do?"

"Ser, you do not unders—"

Jaime hit him. It was a backhand blow delivered with his golden hand, but the force of it sent Ser Ryman stumbling backward into the arms of his whore. "You have a fat head, Ser Ryman, and a thick neck as well. Ser Ilyn, how many strokes would it take you to cut through that neck?"

Ser Ilyn laid a single finger against his nose.

Jaime laughed. "An empty boast. I say three."

Ryman Frey went to his knees. "I have done nothing . . ."

". . . but drink and whore. I know."

"I am heir to the Crossing. You can't . . ."

"I warned you about talking." Jaime watched the man turn white. A sot, a fool, and a craven. Lord Walder had best outlive this one, or the Freys are done. "You are dismissed, ser."

"Dismissed?"

"You heard me. Go away."

"But . . . where should I go?"

"To hell or home, as you prefer. See that you are not in camp when the sun comes up. You may take your queen of whores, but not that crown of hers." Jaime turned from Ser Ryman to his son. "Edwyn, I am giving you your father's command. Try not to be so stupid as your sire."

"That ought not pose much difficulty, my lord."

"Send word to Lord Walder. The crown requires all his prisoners." Jaime waved his golden hand. "Ser Lyle, bring him."

Edmure Tully had collapsed facedown on the scaffold when Ser Ilyn's blade sheared the rope in two. A foot of hemp still dangled from the noose about his neck. Strongboar grabbed the end of it and pulled him to his feet. "A fish on a leash," he said, chortling. "There's a sight I never saw before."

The Freys stepped aside to let them pass. A crowd had gathered below the scaffold, including a dozen camp followers in various states of disarray. Jaime noticed one man holding a woodharp. "You. Singer. Come with me."

The man doffed his hat. "As my lord commands."

No one said a word as they walked back to the ferry, with Ser Ryman's singer trailing after them. But as they shoved off from the riverbank and made for the south side of the Tumblestone, Edmure Tully grabbed Jaime by the arm. "Why?"

A Lannister pays his debts, he thought, and you're the only coin that's left to me. "Consider it a wedding gift."

Edmure stared at him with wary eyes. "A . . . wedding gift?"

"I am told your wife is pretty. She'd have to be, for you to bed her while your sister and your king were being murdered."

"I never knew." Edmure licked his cracked lips. "There were fiddlers outside the bedchamber . . ."

"And Lady Roslin was distracting you."

"She . . . they made her do it, Lord Walder and the rest. Roslin never wanted . . . she wept, but I thought it was . . ."

"The sight of your rampant manhood? Aye, that would make any woman weep, I'm sure."

"She is carrying my child."

No, Jaime thought, that's your death she has growing in her belly. Back at his pavilion, he dismissed Strongboar and Ser Ilyn, but not the singer. "I may have need of a song shortly," he told the man. "Lew, heat some bathwater for my guest. Pia, find him some clean clothing. Nothing with lions on it, if you please. Peck, wine for Lord Tully. Are you hungry, my lord?"

Edmure nodded, but his eyes were still suspicious.

Jaime settled on a stool while Tully had his bath. The filth came off in grey clouds. "Once you've eaten, my men will escort you to Riverrun. What happens after that is up to you."

"What do you mean?"

"Your uncle is an old man. Valiant, yes, but the best part of his life is done. He has no bride to grieve for him, no children to defend. A good death is all the Blackfish can hope for . . . but you have years remaining, Edmure. And you are the rightful lord of House Tully, not him. Your uncle serves at your pleasure. The fate of Riverrun is in your hands."

Edmure stared. "The fate of Riverrun . . ."

"Yield the castle and no one dies. Your smallfolk may go in peace or stay to serve Lord Emmon. Ser Brynden will be allowed to take the black, along with as many of the garrison as choose to join him. You as well, if the Wall appeals to you. Or you may go to Casterly Rock as my captive and enjoy all the comforts and courtesy that befits a hostage of your rank. I'll send your wife to join you, if you like. If her child is a boy, he will serve House Lannister as a page and a squire, and when he earns his knighthood we'll bestow some lands upon him. Should Roslin give you a daughter, I'll see her well dowered when she's old enough to wed. You yourself may even be granted parole, once the war is done. All you need do is yield the castle."

Edmure raised his hands from the tub and watched the water run between his fingers. "And if I will not yield?"

Must you make me say the words? Pia was standing by the flap of the tent with her arms full of clothes. His squires were listening as well, and the singer. Let them hear, Jaime thought. Let the world hear. It makes no matter. He forced himself to smile, "You've seen our numbers, Edmure. You've seen the ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my coz will bridge your moat and break your gate. Hundreds will die, most of them your own. Your former bannermen will make up the first wave of attackers, so you'll start your day by killing the fathers and brothers of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, I have no lack of those. My westermen will follow when your archers are short of arrows and your knights so weary they can hardly lift their blades. When the castle falls, all those inside will be put to the sword. Your herds will be butchered, your godswood will be felled, your keeps and towers will burn. I'll pull your walls down, and pert the Tumblestone over the ruins. By the time I'm done no man will ever know that a castle once stood here." Jaime got to his feet. "Your wife may whelp before that. You'll want your child, I expect. I'll send him to you when he's born. With a trebuchet."

Silence followed his speech. Edmure sat in his bath. Pia clutched the clothing to her breasts. The singer tightened a string on his harp. Little Lew hollowed out a loaf of stale bread to make a trencher, pretending that he had not heard. With a trebuchet, Jaime thought. If his aunt had been there, would she still say Tyrion was Tywin's son?

Edmure Tully finally found his voice. "I could climb out of this tub and kill you where you stand, Kingslayer."

"You could try." Jaime waited. When Edmure made no move to rise, he said, "I'll leave you to enjoy your food. Singer, play for our guest whilst he eats. You know the song, I trust."

"The one about the rain? Aye, my lord. I know it."

Edmure seemed to see the man for the first time. "No. Not him. Get him away from me."

"Why, it's just a song," said Jaime. "He cannot have that bad a voice."

That was when the raven came, bearing the wolf of Winterfell and the Stag of House Baratheon.