NOTE – Just like GRRM’s books, chapters will be titled based on the character POV; it will not always be the character being played
Part I: Catelyn
“Then I don’t have a choice. Lord Roose, bring me his head.”
All at once the tent erupted into chaos, as the Lords of the North reacted to Robb’s sudden – not to mention controversial – decision. Robb looked around at all his lords before pushing at the crown atop his head and ordering the room silenced. Merely king a few weeks, Cat noticed, yet still he had begun to act like one.
“Please, my lords, speak not at the same time,” the King ordered.
Lord Reed stood up in the back of the tent. “You currently have just this one thing to hold against our enemies. Do you seriously intend to give all that up, for this?”
“Aye, Reed,” roared the Greatjon. “You can’t let this threat go unanswered.”
“Let the gods punish him, I say,” Reed retorted. “Strategically, we will gain nothing from removing his head from his shoulders, and we will anger the Lannisters!”
“LET BLOODY TYWIN LANNISTER BE ANGRY!” Umber stood and yelled at the Lord of the Neck. “They sent an assassin under a bloody peace banner! We have the right to retribution!”
At that, Cat had had enough. “Your Grace, remember your sisters. Sansa is still in King’s Landing, and we haven’t heard from Arya since my lord husband’s death. Please. DO NOT KILL HIM!
“Please….for the girls.”
Her words hung in the air for five seconds, ten seconds. He began to speak, then hesitated, looking at her. He’s just a boy, she thought. As much as he pretends, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’ s still a boy.
Finally Edmure Tully stood. “Your Grace, my nephew, I speak on behalf of my lord father Hoster, Lord of Riverrun, who is currently living out his last days, your royal cupbearer. And I say this – the Kingslayer’s armies have pillaged the Riverlands, have laid waste to towns and villages, burned farmlands, slaughtered livestock, and butchered families. The people want blood; give them his head, and they will flock to your banners.”
Once again Cat and Robb locked eyes. This time, though, there was a hardness to them, a certainty, a purpose.
“Robb,” she pleaded. “Remember the girls.”
Her son looked at her and whispered, “I’m sorry, mother.” Then the king addressed the gathered lords. “As I said, bring me the Kingslayer’s head.”
She took another glance at the dish offered her before refusing it. It was boiled rabbit seasoned with the finest Dornish wine and extravagant Eastern spices. Was this the thirty-seventh or thirty-eighth? Cat was not totally sure, except for one thing of course – Lord Walder spared no expense for this wedding.
Robb and his newlywed, Lady Roslin, sat in the seat of honor, sharing Lord Walder’s own seat, feeding grapes to one another and drinking the fine vintage from a golden chalice, blazed with both the Stark direwolf and the Frey towers, the symbols of the union of the two houses. Beneath them sat the many sons and grandsons of the Lord of the Crossing, eager to join the Northern armies and bring their father glory, as well as scores and scores of daughters and granddaughters, almost all of them weeping. Unfortunately for them, only the new Queen took after her beautiful mother, and now the money set aside for their weddings had been spent on the daughter already blessed by the gods, leaving them with nothing.
“Lady Stark, may I be honored with a dance?” She turned to find Ser Rodrik.
“I am in no mood for dancing, my friend.”
Ser Rodrik, however, would not be denied. “My lady, I insist; I must have this dance.” Something was amiss, Catelyn thought; otherwise Rodrik would not be so persistent, so she relented.
They talked of little things for a few minutes – the dress Rosin had been given as a wedding gift from Lord Karstark, the ever-panicky Night’s Watch, the pigeon pie – before finally Lady Stark said, “Enough of this talk. What’s the matter?”
Ser Rodrik glanced around to make sure nobody overheard. “My lady, I just received a raven from Maester Luwin in Winterfell. Balon Greyjoy has called himself King of the Iron Isles and the North and has landed on our western shores.”
So – just as she predicted – Robb’s scheme failed; Greyjoy had betrayed them, the treacherous ironborn as he was. “My son should be informed of this.”
“Not on his wedding night; this matter can wait. In any case, for now the matter can wait, I believe. The ironborn strength is on the sea; truly, they will not threaten Winterfell for some time. Until then, we must focus on the battle at hand.”
“And by that you mean what, Rodrik?”
The castellan turned toward the Blackfish, and, addressing Catelyn, said, “Did Robb not tell you? On the morrow, we ride for Harrenhal.”
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