Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Emma noticed was the cold.

It was the kind of deep, gnawing chill that seeped into her bones, making her shiver uncontrollably even beneath the thick furs covering her body. The second thing she noticed was the smell—woodsmoke, damp stone, and something faintly metallic. She groaned, trying to push herself up, but her limbs felt weak, unsteady.

What the hell?

Her eyes fluttered open, and she found herself staring up at a wooden ceiling, thick beams overhead, dim candlelight flickering from somewhere nearby. Her body ached, her throat dry as sandpaper, and when she exhaled, she saw her own breath mist in the frigid air.

Where was she?

She tried to sit up, but the movement made her head spin. That’s when she saw her hands—smaller, paler than she remembered. Her fingers were long and delicate, her nails clean but slightly rough as if she were used to working with them. Her pulse quickened.

No, no, no.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she slowly turned her head. The room was nothing like her apartment in Chicago. The walls were stone, thick with age, and heavy curtains hung across a window to keep the cold at bay. Everything looked… medieval.

A dream?

Then the door creaked open.

A man entered, tall and broad, dressed in thick dark robes lined with fur. His face was pale, almost deathly so, with sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and eyes that sent an involuntary shudder down her spine—cold, calculating, and as lifeless as a corpse’s.

Emma knew that face.

Oh, fuck.

Roose Bolton.

Her breath caught in her throat, and suddenly, it all came rushing back.

The wedding. The name they’d called her. Aemma Flint.

She was Roose Bolton’s wife.

She barely watched Game of Thrones—just the first few seasons—but her cousin had been obsessed with the books. He’d gone on and on about how the show skipped a lot of cool stuff from the books, how they changed shit up. Was Roose Bolten worse in the books?

Fuck! Why didn’t she pay more attention. She just feedforwarded to the Danny scenes. She knew almost nothing about the stuff that happened in the north. All she knew was that Roose Bolten and the Frey’s betrayed Robb at the Red wedding. And now she was married to him.

Emma swallowed hard, forcing herself not to panic. Okay, think. What do I actually know about the Boltons?

They flay people. They’re terrifying. Roose is awful, and his son Ramsay is even worse. But for the life of her she could not remember him ever having a wife or killing one. Did Ramsy kill her? Roose definitely did not have a wife in the beginning because he ended up marrying the Fat Frey chick towards the end and then was murdered by his own son.

Shit.

Was she Ramsey’s mom? Roose was watching her, his expression unreadable.

“You’re awake.” His voice was quiet, smooth, but there was no warmth to it. Oh wait Ramsey was a bastard so not hers. Dodged that bullet.

Emma forced herself to nod. “I—Yes.”

Her voice sounded different. Softer, younger.

Roose took a step closer, his gaze never leaving her face. “You were ill for some time. I trust you are feeling better.”

“Better,” she echoed weakly. Think! How does she die? Was it the fever and she lived?

She had to get out of here.

But how the hell do you escape from Roose Bolton?

One thing she did know. She would not die! She was a good person who did not harm anyone. She did not deserve this. She is going to live goddamit. She would stab the night king herself if she had to but she will live. She’d even take the Iron Throne herself if she that was the only way to live.

First things first. Ramsey should never exist. Roose Bolten will die. She just had to figure out how to kill him. She had to learn how to fight. Good thing she is off the North where it was okish for a woman to take up arms. Moon tea was needed she sure as hell would not be producing any baby Boltons. Books! She needed to learn more about the world. Her half arse tv knowledge and podcast rants did not prepare her for this.

She made a mental list

1 kill husband

2 kill all his spawn if they exsist

3 find someone to teach her to fight properly

She was not going to be caught with her pants down in the wars to come. She needed to fight if only to prevent herself from getting killed or worse

4 find dragon glass or get some of that fancy steel. Did the Boltens have valerian steel? Why didn’t she read the books!

5 Have good sex. She was a virgin before she woke up in westoros and missed her wedding night. Aemma Flint’s memories were foggy at best. If Cersei the mother of madness could get laid so could she. Not with Roose though. From Aemma’s vague memories he was missionary and shit at sex. She’d go to a brothel after she’s killed him. Gods what about disease? What did one do to prevent STDs in westoros?

First murder though then sex.

Murder: what would be more believable hunting accident or poison? Neither maybe she could investigate him and go to the Starks with her findings. They’d behead him for her all noble and honerable but Bolten as too cautious and might catch her before she had enough evidence. Then she’d be dead or fucked dead. Too risky.

Poison and a staged hunting accident it was going have to be. But then she might be forced to remarry. Were widows allowed to rule in their husband’s name? was she going to have to kill everyone who could claim the Dreadfort? There is no way she’d be able to get away with that. Ned stark would behead her himself. 

What’s a girl in westeros got to do to survive? Come to think of it everyone of them were fucked. So it was fuck or get fucked.

20 years and Rebellion later

“Joffery puts my father in chains and now he wants his arse kissed?”

"This is a royal command my lord. If you refuse-"

"I wont refuse. His grace summons me to kingslaning I’ll go to kingslanding but not alone. Call the banners!"

"All of them my Lord?"

"They’ve all sworn to defend my father have they not?"

"They have.."

"Now we see what their words are worth"

The great hall of Winterfell was alight with tension. Robb Stark sat at the high table, his fingers tapping idly against the wood as ravens’ messages lay open before him. Outside, the castle bustled with preparations—banners were being sewn, armour was being fitted, and men readied themselves for war.

But it was one letter in particular that had set his mind on edge.

“Lady Bolton has declared for us.” Maester Luwin said, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Robb’s brow furrowed. “Lady Bolton?”

Maester Luwin nodded. “She rides with a force of eight thousand men. By all accounts, most were her husband’s men who swore to her after his death.”

Robb inhaled sharply. “That is… unexpected.”

Unexpected was an understatement. Robb’s lips pressed into a thin line. He had grown up hearing whispered tales of the infamous lady—the one rumoured to buy up whores, force them into service, and indulge in nights of unbridled feasting, pleasure, and pain within the dark corridors of the Dreadfort. Now, it was widely suspected that Roose Bolton was dead—murdered, in hushed tones, by his own wife. The thought sent a shiver down Robb’s spine.

Theon, lounging in his chair, snorted. “So the Lustful Lady joins the war.” He leaned forward, grinning. “I tried to get into the Dreadfort once, you know.”

Robb gave him a warning look, but Theon only chuckled.

“I’ve heard the tales,” Theon continued, undeterred. “She buys up whores and forces them to work for her. Beds men and women alike. They say the Dreadfort is filled with… noises. Feasting, pleasure, pain. A real den of sin.” He grinned wolfishly. “A damn shame I wasn’t allowed past the gates.”

“She has a reputation,” Robb admitted, turning to his mother. “Should we worry about her?”

Maester Luwin was quiet for a long moment. Then she exhaled, her fingers drumming against the table.

“Your father once visited the Dreadfort,” he said, his voice carefully measured. “He went to investigate the rumours about her.”

Robb and Theon exchanged a glance. “And?” Robb pressed.

He hesitated, his expression unreadable. “When he returned, he told me that we had nothing to fear from Lady Bolton.”

Theon raised a brow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Silence stretched between them.

Robb frowned. His father had been a man of honour, but he was also a man who chose his words carefully. If he had chosen not to elaborate on what he saw at the Dreadfort, there had to be a reason.

“What would drive her to join us?” he mused. “She is a Lady. She could have just sent her men. Why does she ride with them? I mean—if the lady who murdered her husband leads her people, what can we expect from her?”

 “Perhaps the horrors we hear of are nothing more than scandal and rumour.” Maester Luwin offered

Robb nodded slowly. “We have called all our banners and Bolten’s numbers are one of the largest. We cannot afford not to take them.”

And so, as dusk turned the sky a deep, brooding red, Robb readied itself for what would be an unpredictable confrontation. The Boltons now rode under a new master, one whose reputation was as dark and scandalous as the Dreadfort itself, and the Starks braced for the storm that was sure to follow.

What game was Lady Bolten playing?

Robb Stark had always believed himself to be a good judge of character, but Lady Bolton was proving difficult to decipher. He stood at the edge of the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the slender figure of Lady Bolton as she rode through Winterfell’s ramparts. There was something disquieting in the way she carried herself—a casual air that set her apart from the other lords and ladies who had pledged their forces to him. Though the banners of House Bolton now flew in her wake, Robb’s eyes were not on mere sigils and colours. He watched the woman herself.

She had arrived only a few days past, and already Robb had noted every detail. Lady Bolton—her reputation from the Dreadfort preceding her—was as audacious as the rumours suggested. He had seen her in the great hall, laughing freely with a goblet of red wine in hand, her eyes alight with mirth.

Since her arrival in Winterfell, Robb had spent more time observing her than speaking to her directly. It wasn’t that she had done anything improper—yet. But she was a contradiction. She drank as heavily as the Umbers, yet never lost her composure. She allowed her hands to stray towards the hips and chests of those in her company, yet never crossed the line into public indecency. And, most notably, her people—soldiers, servants, and even the whores she had taken into her household—were all well-trained in combat. He had seen them sparring in the yard, their movements precise, deadly. Even the supposed pleasure workers carried themselves like warriors.

Robb’s mind whirled with conflicting thoughts. Here was a woman whose very presence challenged the old narratives of honour and chastity he’d grown up with. Yet she was not a mere scandal; her forces were deadly serious, and her conduct on the field was as competent as any knight’s. His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities—if she could be trusted, her contribution might tip the balance of power in his favour. But the very same audacity that impressed him also stirred a deep-seated wariness.

They were in one of Winterfell’s quieter corridors, away from the bustle of the courtyard. Theon was leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed, wearing the cocky smirk that usually meant he was about to say something lewd.

"Alright, I have to admit," Theon began, shaking his head, "I tried."

Robb raised an eyebrow. "Tried what?"

Theon sighed dramatically. "Tried to bed Lady Bolton, of course."

Robb’s expression twisted in amusement and disbelief. "You? Truly?"

Theon scoffed. "Why does that sound so impossible?"

"Because she is not some tavern girl you can charm with a smirk and a few whispered lies," Robb said, still chuckling. "She leads her own men, and by all accounts, she’s not in need of a Greyjoy to warm her bed."

Theon's smirk faltered, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "Aye, well… I didn’t exactly expect what she suggested."

Robb folded his arms. "And what did she suggest?"

Theon hesitated, his usual bravado dimming slightly. He shifted on his feet and muttered, "Let’s just say the rumors about her… appetites? They aren’t exaggerated."

Robb stared at him. "And you didn’t take her up on her offer?"

Theon bristled. "I wouldn’t say that—it is just the things she suggested were not very “ladylike” or even something a gentleman would indulge in"

"She is not an ordinary lady and you ser are no gentleman. Tell the truth. You fled."

"I chose to leave."

Robb laughed, shaking his head. "So even Theon Greyjoy found her too much to handle? Now I am curious. What exactly did she ask you to do?"

Theon scowled, but there was a hint of sheepishness behind it. "Laugh all you want, but I’d be careful if I were you. That woman’s appetites are not natural!"

As Theon departed, Robb lingered a moment longer in the fading light of the day, lost in thought. In that silent vigil, he realized that Lady Bolton’s presence was a riddle—one that could either serve his cause or sow seeds of ruin if misinterpreted. Her bold demeanour and the undeniable skill of her followers made it clear that beneath the layers of rumour and indulgence lay something else.

There was something deeper here, something hidden beneath the layers of reputation and whispered tales. And Robb Stark intended to uncover it.

Chapter Text

Robb had been uncertain about Lady Bolton when she first arrived at Winterfell, but as they marched south, he found himself grudgingly admiring the way she commanded her people.

Unlike some of his more rigid bannermen, she balanced discipline with revelry. Her men and women were organized, following orders without question, yet they also laughed freely and engaged in bawdy camaraderie. They respected her—not out of fear, but because she fought alongside them.

The Mormonts, in particular, took notice.

“She’s not bad,” Lady Maege Mormont had admitted after watching Lady Bolton in the sparring yard. “Not as good as my daughters, mind you, but she holds her own.”

Dacey Mormont, who had bested Lady Bolton in a practice match, simply nodded in agreement. “She’s quick. Knows how to take a hit, too.”

That was high praise coming from the women of Bear Isle.

But it wasn’t just her skill with a sword that had the camp talking. It was what happened when the sun went down.

Robb, like everyone else, had noticed that Lady Bolton did not spend her nights alone. He had seen two men and a woman enter her tent one evening and not emerge until morning. Rumours spread quickly after that.

Some claimed she took eight men at a time, which Robb found ridiculous. Theon, however, seemed entirely willing to believe it.

“Eight men?” Theon had said, smirking. “Aye, I could see it.”

Theon had still not told Robb what deeds she asked him to perform but the way Theon fled every time he saw her made Robb wonder.

“You’d believe any nonsense if it involved a Lady Bolten,” Robb had replied, shaking his head.

But after one particular night, even Robb had to admit that the rumours seemed less far-fetched.

The sounds coming from Lady Bolton’s tent had been impossible to ignore—laughter, pleasure, the occasional crash of something knocking over. The entire camp had heard it. The next morning, men and women alike were grinning, exchanging knowing looks. Even the more serious lords were muttering about it, some scandalized, others amused.

Catelyn was not amused.

She sought Lady Bolton out in the morning, and though Robb was not privy to their conversation, he caught the end of it.

“This is a war camp Lady Bolten. And you are a Lady of two noble houses. I only ask that you behave with some discretion,” Catelyn said in a low, measured tone.

Lady Bolton gave her an amused smile. “Of course, Lady Stark. I shall endeavour to keep the noises down.”

She then gave Catelyn a perfect curtsy.

Robb, who had been listening nearby, couldn’t help but laugh.

Catelyn shot him a look but said nothing.

Lady Bolton turned to look at him and approach directly.

“I would like a private word, Lord Robb,” she said smoothly.

The words alone were innocent enough, but the men and women nearby immediately sniggered. Robb saw them exchanging glances, some outright smirking.

“She means to bed him next,” someone muttered under their breath.

Catelyn, hearing the whispers, stepped forward as if to intervene. “Perhaps another time. My son has much to see to.”

But Robb, curious and unbothered by the rumours, nodded. “It’s fine, Mother. I’ll hear her out.”

He ignored the laughter and knowing looks that followed as he walked with Lady Bolton toward her tent.

He had no idea what she wanted—but he intended to find out.

Robb had expected many things when he stepped into Lady Bolton’s tent—flirtation, more scandalous behaviour, skulls and bones, instruments of torture or sex. However, the tent was comfortable and not in any way unusual. It was large, smelled of wine and spices, the air had a familiar smell to it.

Lady Bolton lounged in her furs, her expression unreadable, but there was a sharpness in her eyes as she regarded him.

"May I offer some unsolicited advice, Lord Robb?" she asked.

Robb folded his arms. "If I say no, I have the feeling you’ll give it anyway."

Her lips curled into an amused smile. "Aye I will," She leaned forward, her voice lowering just slightly. "Send a raven to King’s Landing. Say you’re coming to swear fealty to Joffrey. You and some of your household guard."

Robb stiffened, his jaw tightening. "Absolutely not. I will not swear fealty to that—"

She waved a hand dismissively, cutting him off. "You don’t actually have to go. That’s the beauty of it. You only need to make them believe you might."

Robb frowned, but she continued before he could protest further.

"If your father is alive, he can demand a trial by combat," she explained. "Joffrey might refuse, but Cersei and his advisors? They will have to consider it.”

She was interrupted by a commotion from out. Grey Wind bound into her tent and hopped onto her furs for a nap looking very contented.

“Hello gorgeous!” Lady Bolten cooed scratching his head and removing stray bristles from his fur. Robb stared as Grey Wind stretched out on her furs. It clicked in his mind. The smell was Grey Wind! He seemed to have spent enough time with Lady Bolten that his scent was all over her tent.

Lady Bolten glanced at Robb looking a bit guilty

“I give him bones from my plate sometimes” she offered by way of explanation. Grey Wind did get scraps from a lot of his bannermen but he was never this friendly. Robb continued to stare. 

“The Lannisters pride themselves on their strength—denying a trial by combat would make them look weak.” She continued with her case, “And if that happens, all you need is one man who can fight and win. Someone who can best the Mountain… or Jaime Lannister."

Robb hesitated. The plan had merit, but it wasn’t that simple.

"I can’t abandon the army to sail off to King’s Landing," he said firmly. "And even if I could, this… it’s not honorable. My father might not demand trial by combat. Then it will all be for naught"

Lady Bolton let out a soft sigh, shaking her head. "My Lord, you don’t have to go. You only need to send people you trust. If Lord Stark does not call for trial by combat, your people can at least sneak Arya and Sansa out of the city before it’s too late. If you’re going to war, you don’t want to be fighting with hostages in the capital. This way, you have options."

Robb exhaled, running a hand through his curls. He hated deception, but war was not honourable to begin with. Every decision had consequences.

"I’ll consider it," he finally said.

Lady Bolton smiled. "That’s all I ask."

Robb turned to leave expecting Grey Wind to follow but the direwolf was not the least bothered. He left her tent even more confused by Grey Wind’s behaviour. He found himself turning her words over in his mind. It was risky, but then again, so was war. And if it meant saving his father, his sisters, and his men…

Perhaps it was a risk worth taking.

When Robb left Lady Bolton’s tent without offering an explanation, the rumors started almost immediately.

He was used to his men talking, but this was different. Smirks, knowing glances, and the occasional ribald joke followed him wherever he went. No matter how many times he ignored them, the assumptions only grew stronger.

Theon was the worst of them all.

“Come on, Stark,” Theon said with a wicked grin as they rode together later that day. “You might as well tell me. Was it as scandalous as they say? I’ve heard she’s got a very open mind.”

Robb shot him an exasperated look. “We spoke.”

Theon scoffed. “Aye, and I’m a septon.”

Robb let out a frustrated sigh and rode ahead, ignoring Theon’s continued pestering.

If Theon was annoying, his mother’s reaction was downright infuriating.

Catelyn’s lips were pressed into a thin line when she cornered him that evening. “Whatever happened in that tent, I hope you understand the consequences of your actions, Robb.”

“You neednt worry mother,” Robb said, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

His mother wasn’t convinced. “Then why won’t you say what was discussed?”

“Because it doesn’t concern anyone else.”

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed. “If you have been compromised—”

“I haven’t,” he interrupted. “I know what I’m doing.”

She didn’t look pleased, but she let the matter drop—for now.

Later that night, as Robb walked through the trees outside camp, he stumbled upon Lady Bolton just as she was finishing her business.

She noticed him immediately, standing up and smoothing down her skirts with a smirk. “My lord,” she said in mock horror, “I knew you were interested, but I never thought you were the sort to spy on a lady in the woods.”

Robb snorted. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“But you did.” She tilted her head. “You’re not getting shy on me now, are you?”

Robb smirked. “I don’t know, my lady. You’re the one who’s flustered.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Hardly. It takes more than a Stark pup catching me pissing in the woods to unsettle me.”

Robb chuckled but then turned serious. “I actually came to ask for a favour.”

Lady Bolton crossed her arms. “Oh? And what could I possibly offer the Young Wolf?”

He hesitated before speaking. “Your plan has merit. But if too many people know, the Lannisters will catch wind of it. We need to be careful.”

She nodded. “Agreed. So, what do you need from me?”

Robb exhaled. “We need to gather the right people in your tent to discuss this—fighters we can trust, men strong enough to win a trial by combat. But it needs to be done discreetly.”

Lady Bolton grinned. “And you think my tent is the best place for secrecy? I suppose it does have a reputation.”

Robb smirked. “That reputation is exactly why I need your help.”

Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “You’re asking me to forgo a night of debauchery?”

“Just one night.”

She sighed dramatically. “Robb Stark, you drive a hard bargain.” Then her grin returned. “Fine. I’ll handle it.”

Theon’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. “Robb,” he said in disbelief, “did you bring me to an orgy?”

Robb rolled his eyes. “No.”

Theon looked around again. “Are you sure? Because this definitely looks like the start of one.”

Robb ignored him and stepped forward. “I asked you all here for something important.”

The candlelight flickered inside Lady Bolton’s tent, casting long shadows on the walls. The warriors gathered there were men Robb trusted—fighters from Bear Isle, the Umbers, and a handful of others who had proven their loyalty. They sat in a loose circle, some lounging on furs, others leaning against wooden beams, waiting for him to speak.

Robb took a deep breath and turned to Theon.

“I need you to sail for White Harbor at first light. From there, you’ll take a ship south.”

Theon’s smirk faded. “What?”

 “A ship? If we’re going to King’s Landing, why not ride?” Jon Umber asked

“Because it’s faster,” Robb said. “And because we need to keep up appearances. If the Manderlys ask where you’re going, you’ll tell them you’re headed to Pyke—to rally your father’s fleet for our cause.”

Theon blinked, then let out a dry laugh. “Oh, that’s a good one. My father will be thrilled.”

“You won’t actually be going to Pyke.” Robb pulled a sealed letter from his belt. “Once you’re at sea, you’ll open this. It contains my true orders—to sail for King’s Landing. Once there you will find a way to free Lord Stark and my sisters.”

The warriors exchanged glances, some shifting uneasily. It was a bold plan, one that required deception, and Northerners were not known for their subtlety. This was risky, bordering on reckless. If they were caught, they would all die.

Robb continued. “We need to keep this quiet. If word reaches the Lannisters before you set sail, it’s over.”

Theon smirked. “So that’s why you called us into Lady Bolten’s tent instead of the war council. And why you sent the whores to distract the others.”

Lady Bolton gave an exaggerated sigh. “I was going to partake in tonight’s pleasures, but your plan requires my sacrifice. A shame.”

Theon raised a brow. “You? Sacrificing a night of pleasure? Unbelievable.”

She smirked. “Careful, Greyjoy, or I might decide to take my frustrations out on you.”

A few of the warriors chuckled, but Robb quickly pulled them back to focus.

“When you reach King’s Landing, you’ll go under the pretense of swearing fealty to Joffrey,” Robb continued. “If my father demands trial by combat, you’ll be there to fight for him. If he doesn’t, you’ll extract my sisters and get them out before we march south.”

The men nodded, understanding the gravity of their mission.

 “You’re the perfect choice.” Robb gestured toward Theon. “Nobody in King’s Landing knows your face. You could pass as a sellsword or a servant. More importantly, my sisters know you. If anyone else tries to get them out, they might not trust them—but they’ll trust you.”

Theon exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face. “Bloody hell, Robb.” Then, after a moment, he grinned. “Alright. Fine. But if I get caught, you’d better send an army to get me out. Or name your firstborn or something after me for the trouble.”

“I’ll name a ditch after you if you fail,” Robb quipped.

Theon grinned. “Fair enough.”

 Robb smiled faintly but said nothing.

Lady Bolton tilted her head. “And what of their cover? The good people of this camp will wonder why a handful of your strongest warriors are leaving.”

"Because you my Lady have thoroughly offended these good men and women.” Robb replied promptly

She laughed and turned to the gathered men. “Alright, lads and lasses. You’re going to spread a rumor that I tried to do unspeakable things to you. That you barely escaped with your virtue intact and had no choice but to ride ahead to the Twins.”

Laughter rippled through the group.

One of the Umbers, a burly man with a thick beard, grinned. “Unspeakable, eh? Care to give us an example?”

Lady Bolton leaned forward, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Oh, you wouldn’t survive the night if I told you.”

More laughter erupted, louder this time.

Laughter rippled through the tent.

One of the Umbers clapped his hands. “That’s the best excuse I’ve ever had for running away.”

Lady Bolton leaned in, her voice sultry. “You have no idea what you’re missing.”

Theon, ever the performer, suddenly let out a loud, exaggerated moan. “Oh gods, Lady Bolton, no!”

Lady Bolton immediately joined in, making exaggerated sounds of pleasure.

The others caught on and, one by one, the Umbers and Mormonts soon followed, the tent erupting in a ridiculous cacophony of moans and groans filling the tent with the absurd chorus of a very fake orgy. Even the more serious warriors couldn’t help but chuckle, and the laughter soon turned genuine.

Robb pinched the bridge of his nose but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright, that’s enough.”

Lady Bolton sighed dramatically. “Pity. I was enjoying myself.”

Robb rolled his eyes. “Get ready. We leave before dawn.”

As the laughter faded, the weight of what they were about to do settled over them. A dangerous mission, a risky deception—but if it worked, they could change the course of the war before it even began.

And if it failed…

Robb pushed the thought away.

Failure was not an option.

Chapter Text

The darkness of the black cells pressed down on Eddard Stark, damp and unyielding, as he sat on the cold stone floor. Eddard Stark sat hunched on the cold ground, the weight of his shackles pressing against his wrists. Sleep eluded him, leaving his mind to wander through past choices, past regrets, leaving him alone with his thoughts—memories of Winterfell, his family, and the path that had led him here.

And, strangely, his thoughts, unbidden, turned to the Dreadfort and the woman who ruled it now.

Lady Bolton.

The rumours about her had been wild and far-fetched. She was said to host orgies, to indulge in all manner of pleasures, and to rule the Dreadfort with a scandalous mix of vice and cruelty. He had ridden north alone, against the counsel of his bannermen, determined to uncover the truth. Whispered stories of feasts that lasted until dawn, of men and women alike lured into depravity, by a widow who ruled with as much cruelty as her late husband but far more cunning. But when he had arrived to investigate, he had found something else entirely.

Lady Bolton had greeted him with all the proper courtesies.

She stood in the great hall of the Dreadfort, her gown of pitch black pooling at her feet, she offered him bread and salt with an easy smile on her lips. “Lord Stark. What an unexpected honour.”

Ned had been prepared for arrogance or mockery, but her voice was smooth and composed. Her expression betrayed no concern, no fear—only mild fascination.

She gestured to a servant. “Would you care for wine or some refreshments?”

“No,” he said. “I won’t be staying long.”

She inclined her head and dismissed the servant with a flick of her wrist. “Then to what do I owe this visit?”

Ned studied her carefully. She was far younger than Roose Bolton had been, and much younger than what he expected. Her beauty was striking, but there was something in her gaze that unsettled him—a wide-eyed look like he was the most interesting thing she had ever seen that made him wary.

“I came to offer my condolences,” he said at last. “Lord Bolton was a… formidable man.”

Lady Bolton smiled. “How kind. Though I must confess, I was not particularly fond of him.”

Her tone was casual, almost flippant, and Ned stiffened. “That is an unusual thing to say about one’s husband.”

She sighed, swirling the wine in her goblet. “Perhaps. But I see no reason to lie, my lord. My husband was a man of tradition, and I… am not.”

Ned ignored the implication. “There have been allegations made against you.”

Her smile faded. “Allegations?”

“Disturbing ones.”

She straightened, her expression unreadable. “Then I demand a trial by combat.”

Ned blinked. “You are not on trial.”

She exhaled, visibly relieved. “Ah. Good.” She took a sip of her wine and then tilted her head at him. “Still, you should always demand a trial by combat, Lord Stark. If you have good fighters on your side, you will always win.”

He frowned. “Justice is not about winning.”

She laughed softly. “That is a very honourable thing to say. But tell me—if you were on trial for your life, who would you name your champion?”

“I fight for myself,” Ned said firmly.

She studied him with interest. “Of course, you do. But I am only a feeble lady, so I cannot defend myself. I would name Jory as my champion.” She turned toward one of the larger men in the hall, a brute of a warrior who grinned at the mention of his name.

Ned was taken aback. “Jory is your champion?”

“Why not?” she said with a shrug. “He is strong and loyal. And he is mine.”

Ned did not know what to say to that.

Lady Bolton took another sip of wine and continued, “It is a shame that you killed Ser Arthur Dayne. He would have been a fine champion for you.”

The mention of Dayne sent a jolt through Ned’s chest as he remembered that day at the Tower of Joy—the blood, the grief, the last words of his sister.

She continued prattling on seemingly unaware of his discomfort. “But there is still Ser Barristan the Bold. If you ever find yourself in need of a champion, he would be an excellent choice.”

“I have no need of a champion,” Ned said.

Lady Bolton demurred. “Of course. I would expect nothing less from the Warden of the North. But alas I am but a feeble lady and would need a champion to defend me if I was on trial which I am not as you said”

Before Ned could respond, a sudden crash echoed through the hall.

A group of men had tumbled in from one of the side doors, brawling with fists and elbows, shouting curses that filled the chamber. Servants scrambled out of the way as the fight spiralled into chaos.

Lady Bolton sighed dramatically. “Excuse me, my lord.”

She strode toward the brawling men with an air of practiced ease, grasping one by the collar and yanking him backward with surprising strength. She kicked another in his stomach, thus separating them effectively, her voice sharp and commanding.

“Enough!” she snapped. “I will not have my hall turned into a tavern brawl.”

The men stilled, chastened beneath her glare.

Ned arched his eyebrow. Feeble woman indeed. 

She turned back to Ned with a sheepish smile. “Apologies, Lord Stark. Men will be men.”

Ned exhaled slowly. “I believe we have much to discuss.”

Yes, she admitted freely that she had bought whores, but not for the reasons the whispers claimed. She had sought out those who did not want to be whores, women and men alike who had been forced into lives they did not choose. At the Dreadfort, she gave them a choice. She trained them to fight, gave them gold, and let them decide their own futures. Some stayed, swearing loyalty to her. Others took their coin and left, armed with the skills to protect themselves.

She had opened her halls to anyone—man or woman—who wished to learn to defend themselves. Some trained and moved on, forging new lives with the strength she had given them. Others stayed, bound not by fear but by gratitude and loyalty.

And as for the more salacious tales—Lady Bolton had merely laughed when he brought them up.

“I am a noble woman, my lord,” she had said with a smirk, sipping her wine. “If any man bedded me I would marched straight to a hart tree and if any man forced me my family would have come to you and made demands.”

Ned looked at her in disbelief

“Tell me true Lord Stark. If there were rumours circulating about me and I was a man would you have come all this way?”

“No" he admitted, "but if you were a man I would not worry about him being taken advantage of. You are, as you said a noble lady”

“I can assure you Lord Stark, I am not being taken advantage of, and I have taken advantage of no one” she smiled at him with a wide eyed innocence making him snort with laughter. 

Assurances aside, Ned made his own inquiries had only reinforced what she had told him. She did not force herself on anyone, nor did she allow such things to happen in her lands.

Roose Bolton, however, had been another story entirely.

Ned had learned enough to suspect that Roose had been a terrible husband, cold and cruel in ways that made even other lords uneasy. Lady Bolton had never spoken ill of him other than admit that she was not fond of him, but her actions spoke for themselves—she had ensured that no woman under her protection would suffer the way she had.

In the dim torchlight of the black cells, Ned sighed heavily. Perhaps she was not the villain so many claimed her to be.

But more than that, he remembered something else—her words about a trial by combat.

"Always demand trial by combat, Lord Stark. If you have good fighters on your side, you will always win."

At the time, he had dismissed the idea. It was dishonourable, it was unpredictable, and it was not the way of a Stark.

But now?

Now, his daughters were in the lion’s den. His men were scattered. His life hung by a thread.

And the one thing he still had was his honour.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft shuffle of footsteps. He lifted his head as a hooded figure stepped into the dim light. Varys.

“My lord,” the eunuch said, voice smooth as ever. “I come with an offer.”

Ned already knew what it was. He had spent enough time in this cell to understand what was coming.

“Take the black,” Varys murmured. “Confess your treason. Swear fealty to Joffrey, and he will allow you to live. You will ride to the Wall and spend the rest of your days as a man of the Night’s Watch. It is the only way to save yourself.”

Ned was silent for a long moment. Then, carefully, he said, “I would have terms.”

Varys tilted his head. “Oh?”

“I want a meeting with Ser Barristan Selmy.”

For the first time, Varys hesitated.

A slow, creeping unease settled in Ned’s chest.

Finally, the eunuch sighed. “I fear that is… impossible, my lord. The King dismissed Ser Barristan from the Kingsguard. The old knight has left King’s Landing.”

Ned’s heart dropped. The one man who could have fought for him, the one man whose victory would have been assured, was gone.

 “How long has it been since he left?” Ned asked, his voice quieter now.

“Not long,” Varys admitted. “My little birds may yet catch up to him, should you wish it.”

Hope flickered in Ned’s chest, faint but stubborn.

Lady Bolton’s words echoed in his mind once more.

"If you have good fighters on your side, you will always win."

He had thought she was speaking of herself. Perhaps she had been speaking of him.

Ned took a deep breath.

“Find him.”

The black cells were silent except for the distant dripping of water against stone. Eddard Stark sat on the cold floor, his back against the rough wall, his head bowed. He had spent his life fighting his own battles. He had taken up a sword when he was but a boy, had bled on the battlefields of the Rebellion, had stood against foes who threatened his home and honour. Never had he asked another to fight in his stead.

But now, his leg ached with the reminder of his fall, the shattered bone that had not healed right. He was weak, shackled, and alone. If not for his leg, he would have wielded Ice himself. But he could not.

So now, Barristan Selmy stood before him.

The old knight’s face was lined with age, but his eyes were sharp, his stance as steady as ever. The years had not yet stolen his strength.

Varys had worked his magic, whispering to his little birds, tracking the knight before he could vanish from the realm altogether. And now, against all odds, Ser Barristan stood in the damp, torchlit cell, his Kingsguard armour gone, dressed instead in the simple clothes of a traveling knight. A man without a lord, without a home. A man cast aside.

“I had not thought to see you again, Lord Stark,” Selmy said, his voice grave.

Ned inclined his head. “Nor I you.”

Varys stood nearby, watching the exchange in silence. He had done his part, but what happened next was up to them.

Ned’s throat tightened. He had asked Varys to find Barristan, but now that the knight stood before him, he could not bring himself to say the words. His pride, his honour—both warred within him. He had never begged for his own life before, and he would not start now.

He would rather die with dignity than plead for another man to fight in his stead.

So, he said nothing.

But Ser Barristan Selmy was no fool. He had seen the way Ned’s fingers tightened into fists, the way his jaw clenched as he fought against his own nature. He had served kings his whole life—some good, some cruel, some mad. He had witnessed men struggle between duty and pride. And he understood what was unsaid.

“You mean to demand a trial by combat.” It was not a question.

Ned exhaled slowly, nodding once.

A flicker of something crossed Barristan’s face—understanding, perhaps.

Ned could not meet his gaze.

Selmy understood. Ned Stark was a man of honour, a man of duty, a man who had carried his own burdens his entire life. It was not in him to ask another to fight his battles. And yet, for his daughters, he would. He just couldn’t bring himself to say it.

And Barristan Selmy, too, was a man of honour.

“You should know my Lord that I was dismissed from the Kingsguard for being too old and unable to properly defend the king”

It still stung. His wounds from Joffery’s taunts were fresh. He had been stripped of his white cloak, cast aside as if his decades of service meant nothing. Joffrey had mocked him, called him old and slow, unworthy of a place in the Kingsguard. He had left King’s Landing, humiliated and lost. A part of him thought maybe the king was right and he was old. He was old. This much was true.

“Joffery is a fool” Ned replied.

And just like that all of the doubts and insecurities that plagued Barristan after Joffery’s cruelty was gone.

Aye, he was old, but he was not done. His sword might be old, but it was still sharp.

And before him sat a man worth fighting for.

Barristan let out a breath, then straightened.

“It will be my honour to fight for you, Lord Stark.”

Ned’s head snapped up.

The old knight met his gaze, his voice steady. “I have spent my life serving kings I did not always respect. If I am to raise my sword again, let it be for a man who deserves it.” He squared his shoulders. “I will do my best, even if they name the Mountain as their champion.”

Ned’s throat felt tight.

Barristan wanted to be bold again.

And perhaps, for the first time in his life, Eddard Stark would let another man fight for him.

Chapter Text

The sun beat down on Eddard Stark as he was dragged through a screaming crowd. They were all calling for his blood, guards surrounded him to ensure his protection and to make sure he wouldn't run. He finally stood before the crowd, bound and weary, yet still a wolf. They all came expecting his confession, to witness him throw away his honour in front of the great Lords and smallfolk.

But then he saw her.

Dark hair, dirt-streaked cheeks—Arya.

She was alive. Hidden among the crowd, unnoticed by the queen’s men. If he confessed, if he surrendered, she would be safe, and Sansa. Beautiful and innocent Sansa who was now as much hostage as him.

Ned lifted his head and saw Barristan clad in his simple clothes but ready to fight for him. Then instead of bending, he spoke.

“I demand trial by combat.”

A stunned silence rippled through the square. Even the High Septon seemed taken aback.

From her place beside Joffrey, Cersei Lannister let out a quiet, amused breath. She turned to him with a mocking smile.

“Oh, Lord Stark,” she purred. “And who, exactly, will fight for you?”

She knew his household was dead or scattered. Jory, Wyl, Heward—cut down in the streets. The North was far away, his bannermen unreachable but she did not know of Barristan the Bold.

And then a voice boomed from the crowd.

“I will fight for Lord Eddard Stark!”

The crowd parted as a mountain of a man strode forward, Greatjon Umber, towering over those around him, his grin feral.

“I’ll stand for him,” he said again, voice thundering across the square. “I’ll fight your pretty brother even the fucking Mountain if I have to I will.”

A murmur spread through the gathered smallfolk, excitement building.

On the steps of Baelor, Joffrey leaned forward, eyes glinting with delight.

Cersei, however, went still. Her grip tightened around the edge of her seat.

“You dare?” she hissed.

Somewhere among the crowd, unseen by most, Barristan Selmy stood in silence. He had been watching, waiting, ready to step forward if need be. He had been prepared to offer his sword for Eddard Stark.

But now, another warrior had taken up the challenge.

Barristan’s grip on his cloak tightened, his gaze locked on the Greatjon. He had seen the man fight before. He was strong, a true Northman, but the Mountain…

He exhaled slowly.

Joffrey turned to his mother, gleeful. “I want to see him fight!” he declared. “Let him have his trial!”

Cersei’s fingers dug into her armrest. She had no choice.

The High Septon hesitated, then nodded.

The roar of the crowd had barely died down before Cersei Lannister stood, her golden hair gleaming like a lioness ready to pounce.

Her voice was cold, sharp as a blade.

“Where is Robb Stark?” she demanded.

A hush fell over the Sept.

Even Ned turned in surprise. Robb?

He saw the confusion mirrored in Sansa’s wide blue eyes.

Cersei’s green gaze swept the crowd, her lips curled in contempt.

“The Young Wolf sent a raven, declaring he was on his way to bend the knee,” she spat. “Yet he is not here. Instead, he sends his bannermen to mock the king? To insult House Lannister?”

A murmur ran through the assembled crowd, smallfolk whispering, sensing the tension thickening in the air.

Ned’s mind raced. Had Robb truly sent such a message? Was this some deception crafted by his bannermen? Or—

A voice cut through the silence.

“If it pleases your Grace,” a woman said, stepping forward.

Ned’s gaze snapped toward the source, and his breath hitched in shock—Dacey Mormont.

She was tall and strong, dressed in furs and leathers, with the weathered confidence of a warrior. He could see the sigil of Bear Isle stitched into her cloak.

His sharp eyes scanned the crowd—and there.

Theon.

He was moving swiftly, his stance relaxed but purposeful, guiding Arya away through the press of bodies.

Ned let out a slow breath. At least one of his daughters was safe.

The woman from Bear Isle did not falter under the queen’s scrutiny.

“Lord Stark’s heir means no disrespect, your Grace,” she said smoothly. “He is on his way.”

Cersei’s lip curled. “Then where is he?”

“We had… trouble on the road.” The Northwoman inclined her head, keeping her voice carefully measured. “We were delayed at the Twins. Lord Frey is cautious, as always. And then he had a disagreement with one of the bannerwoman that needed to be settled. Robb sent us ahead to assure the king of his loyalty. He will arrive soon.”

A clever lie, well told.

But Cersei was no fool.

She turned back to Ned, her green eyes burning with suspicion.

“So your son bends the knee while his father refuses?” she asked. “Strange, don’t you think?”

The accusation hung heavy in the air.

Cersei’s gaze swept over the gathered Northerners—only three of them stood before her. The Greatjon, this Bear Island warrior, and one other. Three Northerners against the Crown.

Her lips twisted into a smirk.

“No,” she said silkily. “This is not a trial by combat. Not when the North defies the crown.”

She lifted her chin, voice ringing with authority.

“This shall be a Trial by Seven.”

A stunned murmur rippled through the square.

Ned’s blood ran cold.

A Trial by Seven was almost unheard of. Seven champions against seven champions—a trial of the gods and warriors, the last invoked nearly a century ago.

He met Cersei’s gaze, saw the cold triumph in her eyes. She knew that Robb’s forces would not arrive in time. She knew that the Freys would not let them pass.

She was setting him up to fail.

Before he could speak, the Bear Isle woman did.

“If that is the queen’s will,” she said, voice firm, “then we shall see it done.”

She glanced at the Greatjon, then back to Cersei.

“Though, out of fairness, perhaps a raven should be sent to Robb Stark,” she added. “So that he may send more fighters of his own.”

Cersei’s smile did not waver.

“By all means,” she said smoothly. “Send your raven.”

Then she leaned forward, her eyes glittering with cold amusement.

“But the trial will take place in seven days.”

A ripple of shock passed through the gathered crowd.

Ned’s heart sank.

A raven would never reach Robb in time.

The Freys would not let them cross.

Cersei knew it.

This was a death sentence wrapped in false courtesy.

But the Greatjon only grinned, his teeth flashing like a wolf’s.

“Seven days it is,” he said eagerly.

And beside him, the Dacey Mormont smiled.

Let the game begin.

Ned Stark was a man who had spent his life standing tall, unbending, even in the face of death. But now, as he strode into his assigned quarters with the Greatjon, Smalljon, and Dacey Mormont at his side, he felt a rare and unfamiliar thing—uncertainty.

He turned to them the moment the door shut.

“What in the seven hells is going on?” His voice was calm, but his grey eyes were hard.

The Greatjon let out a deep belly laugh, slapping his hand against his chest.

“Robb sent us ahead,” he said. “Figured you might demand a trial by combat, and if you did, he wanted some good Northmen at your side.”

Ned exhaled sharply. That did not sound like Robb. He only know one of his bannermen or rather bannerwoman capable of such trickery. Did she also remember their conversation from years ago about trial by combat?

He ran a hand down his beard. “And yet, it was not a trial of by combat, but trial by seven.”

Smalljon grinned, his eyes flashing with battle-hunger.

“Aye, we didn’t expect that,” he admitted. “But no matter. We’ve enough.”

Ned was not reassured.

He had seen Cersei’s cunning firsthand. He knew she would not have agreed to this trial unless she believed it would lead to his death.

But before he could voice his doubts, Dacey Mormont spoke.

“Ned,” she said, urgency in her voice, “where is Arya?”

Ned blinked, startled.

“She’s safe.” He frowned. “I saw Theon taking her away.”

Dacey exhaled sharply, relieved.

“I was worried when I saw Sansa standing alone.”

Ned nodded, reassured that Arya had made it out—but his relief was short-lived.

“Where did Theon take her?” he asked.

There was a pause.

The Greatjon scratched his beard.

“Theon took her to Littlefinger’s brothel.”

The words hung in the air like a blade over Ned’s throat.

His entire body stiffened.

“He took my daughter—to a brothel?”

His voice was low, dangerous.

The Greatjon shrugged.

“Theon knows someone there. Thought it was a safe place.”

“Littlefinger cannot be trusted!” Ned’s temper snapped, his fists clenching. “He swore the Gold Cloaks were wound answer to me and then betrayed me to Cersei! You think he will not sell her out to the Lannisters the moment it benefits him?”

Dacey held up her hands, trying to calm him.

“We don’t know if Littlefinger even knows she’s there.”

“That does not make it better.”

Dacey nodded.

“I’ll send word,” she said quickly. “Tell Theon to get her out or, at the very least, lay low.”

Ned inhaled deeply, forcing himself to breathe.

It was done. He could not change what had already happened.

“See to it,” he muttered.

Dacey nodded sharply and left the room to pass along the message.

As soon as she was gone, Ned turned back to the Umbers.

“So tell me, truly—how many fighters are here?”

The Greatjon grinned.

“We’ve enough men for the trial,” he said confidently. “Not to worry, Lord Stark. We’ll cut them down like a pack of wolves on a deer.”

Before Ned could respond, the door opened again.

A new figure stepped inside.

Ned’s breath hitched in his throat.

The room seemed to shrink around them as Ser Barristan Selmy stepped forward.

His weathered face was as calm as ever, but there was a fire in his eyes—a fire that had not been there for years.

Dacey, just returning, grinned broadly.

“Well,” she said, crossing her arms. “I think we’ve got more than enough now.”

Ned Stark sat in his chambers, his leg aching from the relentless training session that had just ended. The room stank of sweat and steel, the air thick with tension. He exhaled, pressing a cloth to his brow.

Across from him, the Greatjon was grinning fiercely, his massive arms folded across his chest.

“Cersei thinks she can cripple us by banning women from the trial?” he scoffed. “The bloody Lioness has no idea who she’s dealing with.”

But Ned was not as confident.

They had been left two fighters short with Cersei’s decree that no women can fight in the trial by seven after seeing two women from Bear Isle and hearing tales of their battle prowess.

And the men they would be facing—Jaime Lannister, the Hound, and the Mountain—were some of the deadliest swords in the Seven Kingdoms.

Ned glanced at Theon Greyjoy, who was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, face pale but determined.

“I’ll fight,” Theon had said the moment he heard of their predicament.

He had said it as if resigning himself to death.

Ned hadn’t argued.

With no other options, he had agreed. But it was clear to all of them that Theon was not strong enough to face a warrior like Gregor Clegane.

And as for himself—his leg betrayed him.

Once, he had been a warrior. Now, he was a liability.

That was why, after three nights of gruelling training, the Umbers had devised a strategy.

Ned and Theon would watch their backs. They would guard against surprise attacks, keeping the enemy contained while the strongest fighters—Greatjon, Smalljon, Barristan, would take the mountain while the Karstarks, their best sword arms—cut down the rest.

It wasn’t ideal.

But it was all they had.

And so they practiced. Night after night, in Ned’s cramped chambers, sneaking fighters in through the window to avoid suspicion.

If Cersei realized they had all seven fighters, she would find some way to take them away.

The training was exhausting.

Ned’s body protested every motion. 

Theon struggled with his lack of strength, though he dodged well and could strike quickly and accurately.

The Greatjon and Smalljon adapted their fighting style, making sure to cover the weakest links in their formation.

And then, one night, something unexpected happened.

The window swung open.

A tall, lean figure dropped into the room with the grace of a panther.

For a tense second, the Northmen snatched for their weapons.

Then the newcomer straightened, a smirk on his lips.

“Seven hells,” the Greatjon muttered, lowering his sword.

Ned Stark found himself staring at Oberyn Martell.

The Red Viper of Dorne.

Oberyn glanced around the sweat-drenched, overcrowded chamber, his sharp eyes flicking from Ned to Theon to the Umbers and Karstarks.

Then he smirked.

“Well,” he said. “I was going to offer my spear in your defence, Lord Stark.”

He tilted his head.

“But it seems you already have your seven.”

The room erupted into tension as the Northmen turned to Oberyn Martell, their hands hovering over their weapons.

“How in the seven bloody hells did you find us?” growled Smalljon Umber.

“And who else knows?” Harrold Karstark demanded, stepping closer.

Oberyn grinned, unbothered. He glanced at Ned Stark, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“I received a raven,” he said, his tone almost lazy. “It claimed that if I wished to destroy a mountain, I would get my chance in King’s Landing. That I could kill Gregor Clegane without fear of retaliation from the Crown or Lord Tywin.”

Ned’s breath caught.

That was Lady Bolton’s doing.

She had sent the message.

Oberyn spread his hands. “Naturally, I thought it was a trap. But then I docked in King’s Landing and what do I hear? A trial by seven. The Mountain is named as a champion. And what do I find? A ship carrying a fierce lady who showed me how to reach Lord Stark’s chambers without detection.”

Ned exchanged a glance with the Greatjon.

Dacey Mormont. It had to be her.

“She told you how to get here?” Ned asked.

Oberyn smirked. “Among other things.”

The Greatjon crossed his arms. “So you came all this way for a chance at revenge?”

Oberyn’s face darkened.

“For my sister and her children?” His voice was deadly quiet. “Yes.”

He leaned forward. “And now, I hear Ser Amory Lorch will also be fighting in the trial. Meaning I can kill both of Elia’s murderers on the same day.”

The Northmen exchanged glances.

There was no doubting his conviction.

Oberyn Martell was here for blood.

Ned took a breath. He looked at Theon, who was standing rigid beside the Greatjon.

“Theon,” Ned said.

The young man snapped to attention.

“You don’t have to fight,” Ned said. “Oberyn will take your place.”

Theon’s relief was visible, but he forced himself to hesitate.

“I should stay,” he insisted. “I will fight Lord Stark, we need you alive and your leg....”

Ned shook his head.

“You have a more important task.”

Theon frowned.

“I need you to get Sansa out while the trial is happening,” Ned said. “No one will be watching her. The Lannisters will be too focused on the fight.”

Theon stiffened.

“My Lord—”

“I trust you to do this,” Ned interrupted. His gaze was firm. “I will fight my own battles.”

Theon was silent for a long moment.

Then he exhaled and nodded.

Oberyn clapped his hands. “Good. Now that that’s settled…”

He grinned, flashing sharp white teeth.

“Let’s talk about how we’re going to kill a Mountain.”

Chapter Text

The day of the trial of seven dawned. On one side stood Gregor Clegane, the Mountain — a towering slab of armoured rage — flanked by Amory Lorch, Sandor Clegane, Jaime Lannister, Ser Addam Marbrand, and two other knights sworn to the Lannisters.
Opposing them were: Ser Barristan Selmy, Eddard Stark, Oberyn Martell, Greatjon Umber, Smalljon Umber, Harrion Karstark, and Torrhen Karstark.  

Ser Barristan led the charge heading straight for the Mountain, steel flashing.
A reckless tactic? Perhaps. But wiser men knew: kill the Mountain first — or die later at his hands.

Jaime Lannister smirked under his helm. He had seen it coming.

As Harrion Karstark rushed past, single-minded toward Gregor, Jaime slid sideways into his path. His boots found grip in the mud at just the right angle, weight shifting to his back leg, sword rising in a low guard.
In a blink, he riposted — a precise thrust beneath Harrion’s raised arm, exploiting the gap in his mail.
Harrion gasped, a wet, gurgling sound, and fell to the earth clutching his side.

Steel rang as Ned Stark and Torrhen turned on Jaime, furious.

Ned’s footwork was stiff — the leg wound curtesy of the Lannisters still slowed him, yet his strikes were powerful.
Torrhen compensated, rushing Jaime with youthful aggression, but Jaime’s swordsmanship was a thing of beauty: a parry with the strong of his blade, a twist of the wrist, a countercut at Torrhen’s exposed shoulder that sent him stumbling.

Jaime pressed the advantage, forcing them back step by step, waiting for the perfect opening.

Meanwhile, chaos raged elsewhere. Oberyn Martell danced circles around Ser Amory Lorch. He stayed low, spear flickering in and out with deceptive feints.
Amory, heavy and slower in the rain-slick mud, hacked wide, telegraphing each blow.

Oberyn struck like a snake — a thrust to the thigh to slow Lorch, then a pivot on his back foot and a savage lunge to the gap under Lorch’s raised arm.
Blood sprayed.
Lorch screamed, but Oberyn wasn’t done. Again and again, he thrust — abdomen, throat, eye-slit — until Lorch twitched no more.

At the centre, Greatjon Umber had grappled Gregor Clegane. Gregor fought like a siege tower: immovable, methodical. He swatted Greatjon’s sword aside with a sweep of his massive blade, grabbed the larger man around the midsection, and hurled him into the mud.
Greatjon scrambled atop him, raining furious overhead blows.
Each strike rang against Gregor’s gorget and spaulders, denting the steel but not breaking it.
Gregor’s gauntlet caught Greatjon’s arm in a brutal twist, and with a roar, he threw him bodily off.

The Greatjon hit the ground with a sickening CRACK, skull splitting open as he landed head-first on a jutting stone.

The crowd gasped.

Gregor rose like a vengeful god, gore dripping from his breastplate, turning his black visor toward Oberyn’s exposed back.

Oberyn, still catching his breath from killing Lorch, sensed death coming —
—only for Sandor Clegane, the Hound, to intercept his brother’s downward stroke.

Their swords crashed together, and the ground seemed to shake.

Sandor's shield trembled under the Mountain's assault, the force numbing his arm. He grit his teeth, absorbing another brutal hammer-blow, then answered with a vicious counter-slash aimed at Gregor’s thigh.

Oberyn, understanding the dance, came at Gregor's flanks, spear darting low and high in rhythm with Sandor’s heavy cuts.

Together — speed and strength — they began to wear the Mountain down.
Armor dented. Mail tore. Blood slicked the ground.

Theon made his way to Sansa pretending to be a wine server.

While everyones attention was on the duel below, Theon slipped close enough to her.

“Sansa,” he whispered, She stiffened, then turned—her blue eyes filled with shock.

 “Come now. We have to leave.”

She hesitated. “But Father—”

“You are no use to your father here. We need to get you out no matter what happens at the trial!”

It was harsh but Sansa understood.

They slipped back slowly. Nobody noticed as they were enraptured by the melee.

Theon led her through the side passages of the Sept, out through a small door where a trusted contact—a woman from Littlefinger’s brothel—waited with cloaks to disguise them.

At the edge of the field, Smalljon Umber defended his fallen father, carving through the Lannister knights who tried to finish Greatjon.
The Umber roared as he split a man’s helm in two with a brutal axe blow, the sound wet and final.

The two of them joined Oberyn and the Hound. Finally, with a sickening series of thrusts — a spear driving under Gregor's armpit, a sword slicing behind his knee — the Mountain fell.
He dropped to one knee, then to the mud, his gauntlets pawing helplessly.

Sandor stood over him, chest heaving.

Gregor Clegane, the Mountain that Rides, died gasping like a fish on dry land.

The field grew silent.

Even Jaime Lannister paused as they took in the scene

In the stands, Cersei Lannister rose, face white with rage.
"SANDOR! Fight for your King!" she screamed.

The Hound’s head lowered, jaw clenched. For a long moment, he stood between two worlds.
Then, grim-faced, he walked and stood beside Jaime and Ser Addam Marbrand.

The fight resumed, furious now.

Jaime moved like a golden blur, smashing Ned aside with a brutal cut to the ribs. Ned stumbled and crashed into Greatjon who was still disoriented. Small Jon Umber stood in front of his liege lord and father. Ready to strike anyone who approached.

Ser Barristan and Oberyn clashed with Jaime, Sandor, and Ser Addam.
The Karstark boy, Torrhen, fought bravely — but Marbrand stabbed him low, under the mail skirts, driving a short sword up into his guts. Torrhen sagged forward, breath leaving him in a shudder.

Three against two now.

Barristan fought like a storm. His footwork was a masterclass — short, balanced steps; tight pivots; economy of motion. He deflected Jaime’s thrusts and Sandor’s heavy cuts, keeping both at bay with a flurry of short, controlled ripostes.

Oberyn, meanwhile, faced Ser Addam. Marbrand was fast, but not fast enough.
Oberyn baited him into an overcommitment — a wide cut — and countered with a spinning thrust through the gap at Marbrand’s throat.

Addam gurgled and dropped.

Jaime, furious at the sight, abandoned caution, rushing Oberyn with savage strikes.

Barristan and Sandor dueled alone. Blades kissed and sparked.
Finally, Barristan landed a disarming blow, slashing Sandor’s vambrace and sending his sword spinning into the mud.

The Hound dropped to one knee, panting.
"Yield," Barristan said again.
This time, Sandor bowed his head and yielded.

Barristan turned, sprinting toward Jaime and Oberyn.

Jaime knocked Oberyns spear out of his hand. The spear flew. Barristan’s blade flashed. Jaime fought like a cornered lion — fast, deadly, ferocious —A cut opened on Jaime’s thigh. Another on his forearm. His strength began to flag.

Finally, Barristan's blade disarmed him, and Jaime Lannister knelt, bloodied but defiant, in the mud.

The melee was over.

“Yield” Ser Barristan ordered

Cersei was white with rage, her hands clenched.

But before she could order another attack, Ned Stark stepped forward.

“The trial is over,” he said, his voice carrying across the Sept. “We won.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed.

Joffrey’s face twisted in fury.

But they had no choice.

The trial was over.

And House Stark had won.

The Sept of Baelor was still buzzing with the aftermath of the trial. The smallfolk whispered among themselves, stunned by what they had witnessed—the fall of Ser Gregor Clegane, the betrayal of the Hound, and the defeat of Jaime Lannister.

But Lord Eddard Stark was not done.

Blood splattered, he turned to face Cersei Lannister, who remained standing, her face pale but furious.

"The trial is over," Ned declared, his voice steady. "People of Kingslanding, before he died King Robert named me Protector of the Realm. As protector of the Realm it is my duty to inform you that Robert Baratheon died with no trueborn heirs!"

Whispers began to spread. He turned to the Kingsguard, who remained in formation, unsure of what to do now that both Jaime and the Mountain had fallen.

"Until rightful succession is determined, the Queen Regent and her children are to be confined to their quarters."

Cersei’s eyes flashed with rage.

"You wouldn’t dare!"

Ned’s expression did not waver.

"The Iron Throne does not belong to Joffrey," he said. "By the laws of gods and men, Stannis Baratheon is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms."

A shocked murmur spread through the hall.

"Liar!," Cersei shouted

Ned gestured to the remaining city guards, who hesitated only for a moment before seizing Cersei, Tommen, and Myrcella.

"I am your king!" he shrieked, but nobody moved to help him.

At Ned’s signal, he too was forcibly removed.

And just like that, House Lannister’s grip on King’s Landing was broken.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep was drenched in blood.

Cersei Lannister was not among the bodies.

By dusk, it was confirmed: she was gone. As were Joffrey and the wounded Ser Jaime. Smuggled out through the tunnels of the Red Keep under the noses of Ned’s own men — the Red Keep was too infested with Lannister men and those who loved Lannister coin.

The commander Ned had trusted — a burly knight with no ties to Lannisters — was found in a cell, beaten senseless. Others had vanished entirely.

It was not hard to figure out what had happened. Gold.

Littlefinger was missing as well. When he wasn’t found after the Trial Ned assumed he had fled fearing for his life. He had underestimated Baelish again. He had the Goldcloaks with them and the Lannister guards around the easily overpowered Ned’s meagre forces.

Maege Mormont lay half-conscious, her leg shattered by a Lannister ax. A gaping wound in her stomach. Infection spread like wildfire. The maesters had done what they could — but it was not enough.

She clutched Ned’s wrist with surprising strength.
"My Lyanna... keep her safe. Tell Dacey she needs to be strong. My girls Ned they are strong. They’ll serve you well. We are of the North"

Ned immediately called for Dacey

“Mother!” she cried

“Dacey?”

“I’m here mother. I’m right here!” Dacey grabbed her mothers hand feeling the warmth slip away.

“Here we stand” even the last whisper of Lady Maege Mormont was strong

By dawn, she was gone.

The bells of King's Landing did not ring for the new king.

They groaned in rusted silence, sea-wind whistling through their cracks as Stannis Baratheon’s fleet pulled into Blackwater Bay like a tide of iron. His banners flew — the crowned stag set ablaze — high above grim black sails. Warships, black and gold and battered from storm and siege, filled the bay like a forest of masts.

The smallfolk did not cheer.

They watched from rooftops and slums with hollow eyes, clutching children and bread crusts alike.

On the city walls, Eddard Stark stood waiting, flanked by men in the grey-and-white of the North. His face was pale, his beard shot through with new streaks of grey. He had not slept since the melee. He had not eaten since word came that Cersei had escaped.

The great chain still stretched across the harbour mouth, raised to protect against invasion. But Ned had ordered it lowered.

Stannis had come to claim what he believed was his. And he would take it.

At the gate, the Baratheon host assembled in silence. Knights in storm-painted plate, squires mud-spattered and grim. Black-armoured men from the Stormlands stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Tyrell bannermen and men from Dragonstone — none spoke. Their eyes were hard. Their king rode at their front.

Stannis Baratheon was dressed in a simple black doublet with his sigil emblazoned in red. He wore no crown. His jaw was clenched like a vice.

As the gates opened, Ned descended the stairs slowly.

The two men met.

No horns blew. No greetings offered.

Stannis dismounted without assistance and looked Ned over, eyes sharp and accusing.

"You let her go," Stannis said, without preamble.

Ned’s jaw tightened. "We fought to keep her here. I lost many of my people doing it."

"You lost her," Stannis replied. "That's what matters."

"We held the Red Keep," Ned said coldly. "We held the city."

"She took the boy and Jaime Lannister with her," Stannis said. He stepped forward, boots crunching gravel. "You let them slip through your fingers like water. Or did you think your honour would seal the gates tighter than steel?"

A flicker of anger passed over Ned’s face.

"I posted good men at every escape point," he said. "Ser Mollen was beaten near to death. Two of my men were cut down by their own brothers in the goldcloaks, as was Lady Mormont. The rest? Outnumbered and overrun. The queen had bought them all. She had Lannister guards hidden in the city — ones we hadn’t accounted for. I did not let her go."

Stannis stared at him for a long, grim moment.

Then he gave a short, cold nod. "So your honour didn't betray you. Only your lack of imagination."

Ned turned away before the fury could rise further. "We managed to keep Tommen and Myrcella"

Stannis looked up. "And? You didn’t keep them. They left them behind knowing they are usesless.”

"They're children." Ned protested

"They’re Lannisters," Stannis replied. "And bastards born of incest. As long as they breathe they are a threat to the crown."

"You would kill children?"

Stannis's eyes darkened. "I am not without mercy. But mercy is not the same as softness. You, of all men, should understand that."

Ned clenched his fists. "They’re not Joffrey. They’ve done nothing. Tommen is no more fit to wear a crown than a kitten. And Myrcella... she reads tales of knightly valour and dreams of gardens. They are innocent, even if their blood is not."

Stannis was quiet for a moment. Then:
"They still have traitorous blood."

He paced a few steps through the courtyard, stone-faced. His knights stood silent behind him. Finally, he turned back.

"I will not have them killed. But they are no longer heirs. They are not Baratheons. Not Lannisters. They are nothing."

Ned exhaled — some tension gone, but not all.

"What then?"

Stannis crossed his arms. "The boy is yours. Raise him in the North. He will take the black when he comes of age."

Ned blinked. "You would send him to the Wall?"

"He is a bastard born of treason. Let him defend the realm he will never rule."

"And Myrcella?"

"She will be given to Renly. Let her be a ward, not a hostage. When she is grown, she may take vows and join the Faith."

"You’d make a Septa of her?" Ned asked.

Stannis nodded once. "She will never be a queen. Let her serve the gods instead of men."

Ned was quiet.

Later, after the dust settled and the banners were raised, Ned Stark watched from the ramparts of the Red Keep as the Baratheon sigil replaced the lion.

He had expected to feel relief. He felt... nothing.

Just the sea wind and the cawing of crows.

Then came the raven: The Riverlands burned.

Tywin Lannister had moved his forces out of the Westerlands — tens of thousands strong — and was laying waste to the lands along the Trident.

Ned turned to Stannis at once. "We must ride. We must fight."

But Stannis only stared out the window of the Tower of the Hand.

"That’s what he wants. Draw us out. Leave King’s Landing empty, and he will sweep it back beneath his banner. I will not play his game."

"Then the Riverlands will burn!"

"They are not without resource. I’m told your son had marched to save your head" Stannis turned, his face unreadable, “he and his army are still at the Twins are they not?"

“He’s a boy! A boy of four and ten!” Net protested

“With plenty of seasoned advisers” Stannis countered, “He and the rest of the North were prepared to march to Kingslanding for your their liege Lord, now they can march for their King. I have sent word charging him to defend the Riverlands in my name.”

Ned said nothing.

“I need to organise the defence of Kingslanding first! We cannot lose the capital. There are too many still on Lannister pay here” Stannis stated, “Fear not Lord Stark. Your boy need only hold Tywin at bay. Renly has mustered a host that will crush Tywin from the south. I will sail to Lannisport myself.”

Ned knew Stannis spoke true but that did not stop the weight of it crushing his chest.

Later, alone in the in his chambers, Ned looked out the window, a gentle wind blew.

He thought of Robb, riding through the Neck.
Of Riverrun, under siege.
Of Tommen, crying himself to sleep.
Of Myrcella, praying to her Gods that would never answer.
And of Stannis, cold and unyielding, calculating the cost of every soul like weights on a scale.

It struck Ned then — a terrible, quiet realization:

Kings were all the same Robert, Stannis, they were no better than Tywin.

They played the Game of Thrones while good men and women bled and died

“No” said Lady Bolten firmly

“But-“ Robb protested

“No!” she snapped

“I didn’t even-“

“No!” she cut him off

“Will you let me finish!” Robb yelled

“No!”

Robb sighed. Lady Bolten might be a valuable allay and was always respectful in front of his bannermen but when it was just the two of them she was something else entirely!

A few moments earlier.....

Robb pulled back the tent flap and stepped inside—only to stop dead in his tracks.

The scene before him was indecent.

Lady Bolton lounged on her furs, clad in nothing but a loose robe slipping off her shoulders, revealing far too much pale skin in the candlelight. A man and woman—both bare-chested and eager—lay beside her. The woman had her mouth on her neck, the man ran his hand down her side while the other cupped her breast.

Robb's throat went dry.

Lady Bolton tilted her head toward him lazily, eyes dark with amusement.

"Ah, Young Wolf," she purred, trailing a finger down her own collarbone before dipping it lower, tracing slow circles over the bare skin above her chest. "What brings you to my bed at this hour?"

Robb snapped his gaze to the ceiling, ears burning. "I—uh—I need to—" He coughed, trying to collect himself. "That is, there's—there’s something important. A plan."

Lady Bolton sighed theatrically, then stretched, letting her robe slip even lower. "A plan, you say? And here I thought you were here for something much more… entertaining."

Robb squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "Could you—could you cover yourself, please?"

She smirked and dragged her fingers slowly down her throat to her chest, then lower, as if considering his request. "Oh, but you're the one who barged into my tent uninvited. Would you like to join us?”

Robb made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and snapped his gaze to the ceiling. "I—no! No, I—" He cleared his throat, trying again. "I need to speak with you. Alone."

Lady Bolton sighed theatrically and waved her hand. "You heard our Lord, darlings. Out."

“Well” Lady Bolten asked not bothering to coverup.

Robb gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. "I—I need you to speak with my mother," he said, words coming out too fast. "And—and accompany her to the Twins."

And that is how they ended up having an entirely juvenile argument where Lady Bolten refused to listen to anything he said.

“Would you-”

“No!”

“We need-“

“No”

“The Freys-”

“NO!”

“They are not to be disturbed!” a voice came from out

Lady Catelyn marched into the tent.

“Mother!” Robb was horrified

“Lady Stark”

Robb glanced back to her. It was as he feared. Lady Bolten had not bothered to cover up.

“Its not what it looks like!” Robb offered weakly

“Robb perhaps you should leave while Lady Bolten dresses”

Robb walked out but did not go far. He stayed at the entrance of the tent. Some of his bannermen gave him knowing smirks others avoided him.

Inside the tent Catelyn was more wolf than fish.

“Lady Bolten, I no not what you hope to gain from my son, but you should know seducing him will not help you. Given your, no one will believe that Robb seduced you, even if you claim to be having his child!”

Lady Bolten burst out laughing

Robb barged in. He was clearly eavesdropping.

“NOTHING HAS HAPPENED BETWEEN US!”

“You were begging her to let you finish Robb! Everyone heard!”

Robb gapped. Lady Bolten was of no help as she doubled over laughing.

“Speaking!” Robb protested, “She did not let me finish speaking to her!” his face was matching his hair, “I wanted Lady Bolten to accompany you to the Twins.”

“No”

“And that is the only word Lady Bolten has been saying since I mentioned the Freys” Robb sighed

“I do not need Lady Bolten to accompany me. I will go myself!” Catelyn snapped

“Aye” Robb agreed

“NO!”

“Lady Bolten you don’t need to accompany my mother!” Robb said stiffly, “Clearly you have something against the Freys so it might be better you don’t accompany her”

"No!" Lady Bolten said firmly, “I’ll go with your mother” 

“You will?” Now Robb was surprised

“If you and some Frey-” Catelyn started

“I swear to you on all the Gods that I have done nothing to give offence to any Freys” Lady Bolten stated with far more seriousness that Robb was used to.

“If you are sure..” he trailed off

“Aye!” she sighed. She made her way around her tent picking up vials, daggers and swords hiding them on her person muttering something about lecherous old men, weasels and pies. She said something about fucking at a Red Wedding and other nonsenses. Robb could not make out head or tail of what she was saying.

“You are not heading to battle” He informed her as she tried to hide an arakh

“I’m aware!” she snapped as she pulled a massive gown from her trunk and threw it over her britches and tunic effectively concealing all her weapons. She then strapped a scabbard with a long sword at her back and a short dagger at her waist.

Robb and Catelyn looked at her incredulously.

“What I have to hand over some weapons!” she said, “It will be even more suspicious if we went unarmed!”  

“Well at least I can be assured of your safety” Robb mused

 “And be prepared to offer your virginity, cock, castle and your first born, mayhaps a few daughters and your sisters for this stupid bridge!” Lady Bolten snapped as she marched out.

“She’s not wrong...”

Robb gaped at his mother

“Walder Frey will demand a steep price for his bridge. Are you prepared to pay for it?” Catelyn asked with worry

“Have you seen any of his daughters?” Robb asked

His mother looked unimpressed.

“I’ll marry on of his daughters.” He sighed, regretting for the first time not taking Lady Bolten up on any of her offers.

Chapter Text

A guard burst in

“We captured a Lannister scout”

Theon panicked and covered the map with their battle plans

“Don't worry lad he won't be leaving this tent with his head” Rickhard Karstark said with an evil grin

“Where did you find him?” Robb demanded

“In the brush above the encampment he looked to be counting” the guard offered

Robb walked slowly and deliberately towards the Lannister scout. Like a wolf stalking its prey.

“How high did you get?” he demanded

“20,000 maybe more…” the boy whispered

“You don't have to do this yourself your father would understand…” one of his lords offered. Robb did not know weather he should be insulted or not. Instead he said

“My father understands mercy when there is room for it, and he understands honour and courage. Let him go”

“Rob!” Catelyn cried out

Robb glared at her sharply. She sat down contritely as he turned back to the scout.

“Tell Lord Tywin winter is coming for him. 20,000 Northerners marching south to find out if he really does gold.”

“Yes my lord”

“Are you touched BOY!” Rickard shouted when the scout left

“Call me boy again” Robb dared him as Greywind growled

“So we march on Tywin!” on if the Lords declared. Cheers went up.

“Aye…; and the Kingslayer” Robb added with a wolfish grin

He turned to Robett Glover, who had been silent.

"You will lead the vanguard south on the Kingsroad. You’ll have men from the Cerwyns, the Hornwoods, Bolten’s, and my own. Your task isn’t to win — it’s to keep Tywin looking south and west. Keep him guessing. Stretch his supply lines. Strike, fall back, harass, bleed him, but do not engage his full host. The rest of us will go through the Twins and we’ll crush Jamie Lannister. You will meet us at Riverrun once we have cleansed it of its Lannister pests"

Murmurs of approval spread through the tent.

"Tywin try to bait us into open battle," Robb said. “You must not take the bait. His host is larger than ours-"

Just then, the tent flap opened with a gust of wind and a burst of rain. A very short man, cloaked in mottled green and grey, stepped inside.

He moved with a quiet confidence, brushing mud from his boots without meeting anyone’s eyes. He made a low bow.

"My apologies," he said softly, voice reedy but smooth. "The trail was... thicker than I’d hoped."

Without waiting for acknowledgment, he crossed the tent and stood near Lady Bolton, his presence at her side more familiar than formal.

Several of the Northern lords glanced at him with suspicion, especially the older Karstark men. Robb’s eyes narrowed — but he said nothing.

He returned to the map.

"Lord Glover," he continued, "your march starts at dawn. Engage, then melt away. Tywin must believe our strength is focused on him."

Glover nodded again, but his eyes shifted warily toward the small man.

Then Robb turned to his mother, Catelyn Stark, seated at the edge of the war table, her hands clenched in her lap.

"Mother, send word to the Twins. Tell Lord Frey I accept his terms."

That caused more than murmurs. Lady Bolton stepped forward, her voice sharper than before.

"That would be unwise."

"Watch your tone lass!" said Rickard Karstark, folding his arms.

Lady Bolton gestured to the map. "There’s a path through the bogs west of the Twins. Narrow. Forgotten by most. My scouts have found it again. If we use it, we can bypass the Freys entirely."

Her companion gave a small nod. "The trail is old. My people — the crannogmen — still use it. Two days of hard march, and you’ll be across the river."

Robb considered the words carefully. Then:
"And the horses?"

The short man hesitated. "Some can make it. Not many. And not without risk. The ground sinks fast if the wrong step’s taken. But a small party could pass without being noticed."

The tent fell silent. Rain tapped harder.

At last, Robb looked up — first at Catelyn, then at his bannermen.

"Write to Lord Frey. Tell him I accept his terms — I will take his men now and I’ll marry his daughter if he grants me and my host crossing. Be very specific in the wording. Only if I use his crossing will I marry his daughter."

Lady Bolton’s grin returned, wicked and pleased as she figured Robb’s plan.

“I’ll go through the bogs with men on foot including my new Frey squire who will stand witness should I need out of this betrothal. We will meet you on the other side in two days.”

But unease swept through the tent. Lord Manderly, heavy and bearded, exchanged a grim look with Rickard Karstark.

"The title of Lady of Winterfell means something." Robb addressed his discontented bannermen.

Several lords shifted uncomfortably.

Robb pressed on. "That bridge stands in the Riverlands — not the Twins. It belongs to the realm, not to Walder Frey. The Riverlands answer to my grandfather, Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount. And by law, they now answer to King Stannis, not to Frey’s pride. I will not make false promises, but neither will I be bound by the word of a man who might turn his cloak before the ink dries."

No one spoke.

Then Robb added, more quietly, “I would prefer a Northern match.”

His eyes swept the room — and all at once, every man glanced toward Lady Bolton.

She did not move. She did not blink. She did not smile.

She stood like a statue — grey and calm, her expression smooth.

Catelyn Stark looked between them but said nothing.

“But if the Freys prove their loyalty to me and the Riverlands I’ll give them their due.”

Rickard Karstark frowned. "It’s risky."

"Everything is risky," Robb replied. "But I won’t gamble the future of the North on Walder Frey"

There were nods, slow and uncertain — but understanding nonetheless.

"My word will be kept if his is," Robb added, softer now. "But I will not tie my house to men who do not honor theirs."

And with that, the matter was settled.

The rain had stopped by nightfall, but the ground was still soft, and the campfires hissed with every step. Robb walked alone through the muddy rows of tents, his guards trailing behind at a respectful distance.

He stopped before the one he knew to be hers — grey canvas trimmed in black, no sigils displayed.

He paused only briefly before lifting the flap.

Lady Bolton sat alone, her armor gone, replaced by a high-necked wool tunic the color of cold ash. Her back was to him, a glass of wine remained untouched.

She didn’t turn “Leave it open.”

Robb blinked, then gave a low chuckle. “You never cared for propriety before. Why now?”

Lady Bolton stood and finally looked at him, expression even.

“Leave the flap open.” Lady Boltens tone was harsher than he expected, “Let them know there’s nothing to whisper about.”

Robb stepped inside anyway. He let the canvas fall shut behind him with a soft flap.

Her mouth twitched. “You’re a reckless man, my Lord.”

“I came here to tell you something,” Robb said, his tone clipped, as if the words itched inside his chest. “I’m not going to bed you. Or marry you.”

She blinked once — and for a heartbeat, she seemed to hold her breath.

Then she exhaled and sat back in her chair. “Well. That’s... a relief.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You seem very relieved.”

“I am.”

But then Robb took a step forward — slow, deliberate.

“And yet,” he said softly, “you didn’t ask me to leave.”

Lady Bolton looked up sharply.

He took another step. “You said it yourself. I’m reckless.”

Her voice was low now. Measured. “What do you want from me, Robb?”

“An answer.”

“To what?”

He leaned closer. “Why does the idea of marriage scare you?”

She stiffened but didn’t step away. Her eyes flicked toward the tent flap, still closed. Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper.

“You want honesty?” she said.

“I’ve never wanted anything else from you.”

A pause.

“I have power,” she said finally. “As a widow, I command my own men. I answer only to your father, and even that—” she gave a slight smile, “—is mostly courtesy. The North is vast, and Lord Eddard does not waste time interfering in the lives of those who keep his peace.”

She reached for her glass of wine. Her hand trembled, just faintly.

“If I marry again, I belong to someone. Every choice I make — who I send to war, which bannerman I support, even what I do with my own keep — will be subject to another man’s approval.”

She turned to face him. Her gaze was steady now.

“You may be a good man, Robb. Like your father. But even good men expect obedience. Marriage is a bargain. One I don’t care to make.”

Robb said nothing.

Then: “You wouldn’t trade that freedom... even for love?”

A pause. Her lips parted. Then closed again.

“No,” she said, simply.

The tent was quiet save for the rain dripping from the canvas edges. The fire in the brazier cracked softly.

Then, almost reluctantly, she asked, “Does that make me a bad person?”

Robb looked at her for a long moment. The flickering light cast shadows across her face — proud, tired, beautifully human.

“No,” he said finally. “I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

She looked away. But not for long.

Robb turned toward the flap, pulling it open again. Cool air rushed in.

Before he stepped out, she said, “When eventually you do marry... I hope it’s someone who knows your worth. You’re a good man Robb Stark. And you will find love.”

Robb hesitated. Then nodded once and left without a word.

Chapter Text

Lady Bolton stood atop a small ridge, scanning the distant horizon where the dust of approaching armies billowed into the sky. Her stomach twisted with unease. She knew this ambush should work—on paper, it was solid. They had the high ground, the right positioning, and the element of surprise. But war wasn’t just about theory.

Her knowledge of Game of Thrones came from the show, which had already proved unreliable. The books, which her cousin had ranted about endlessly, were apparently much more accurate. She cursed herself for never bothering to read them. The only books she’d ever devoured were the kind with bare-chested men on the covers, not military strategies.

Still, she’d done her best. Since waking up in the body of Roose Bolton’s wife, she had trained relentlessly, learned everything she could about Westerosi warfare, and surrounded herself with competent fighters. The women she had freed from brothels were now able warriors. Her archers, many of them former outcasts, had been drilled to near perfection. And now, they lay hidden among the trees, waiting for the signal.

She tried to push aside her doubts. Roose had been the only real threat to Robb in the North. She had made sure of that—his death had been as brutal as he deserved. With him gone, there shouldn’t be anyone left to betray Robb. But the problem was, she didn’t know all of these men. They weren’t her people, not yet. And if there was one thing Westeros was good at, it was betrayal.

The glint of armour caught her eye. Tywin’s forces had finally arrived. The banners of House Lannister, red and gold against the afternoon light, moved in a disciplined wave. Lady Bolton clenched her fists.

"Hold," she murmured under her breath.

The ambush had to be perfect. If they struck too early, the Lannisters could regroup. Too late, and they’d lose the advantage.

The Lannister forces funneled into the trap. The signal was given.

And then, with a roar, the North fell upon the lions.

A rain of arrows streaked down from the ridges, striking with deadly accuracy. Lannister men fell screaming as horses reared and bucked in panic. Before the enemy could even react, the Northern cavalry surged forward from the tree line, crashing into their flanks like a tidal wave of steel and fury.

Lady Bolton leaped from her hiding place and sprinted forward with her own forces, sword raised. She had fought before, but never in a battle of this scale. The moment she reached the fray, everything became a blur of movement—flashes of metal, the wet crunch of steel meeting flesh, the deafening clash of weapons.

A Lannister soldier swung at her with a longsword. She ducked, rolled, and drove her blade up beneath his breastplate. He let out a choked gasp and collapsed. Another man charged at her, but one of her archers put an arrow through his throat before he got close.

The battle raged for what felt like an eternity. The Lannisters, despite their superior numbers, were completely outmaneuvered. The Northerners fought with relentless ferocity, their ambush shattering any sense of order within Tywin’s army.

But it was not enough

The retreat had been hard, and everything but clean.

Glover’s forces fell back in good order through the burning Riverlands, their banners tattered, their numbers bloodied but intact. But no one spoke of glory. Not when victory had seemed close enough to taste — and had been lost.

She forced herself to breathe. Robb was smart, capable, and a better commander than she could ever be. If she held her ground, if she played her role right, then maybe—just maybe—history wouldn’t repeat itself.

Lady Bolton rode at the head of her column, her jaw clenched, her eyes distant

She did not speak to anyone. She did not explain. She barely slept. Her men, trained and loyal, did not question her orders. 

At every camp, at every checkpoint, Lady Bolton barged into healer’s tents, her gauntlets still muddy, voice like a blade. Her tone was the same each time:

"Where is he?"

When she did not find who she sought, she would stare for a breath too long, then turn and storm out without another word.

Robb was in the thick of it, his direwolf Grey Wind tearing through the enemy ranks like a demon from the Old Gods. His sword moved in a deadly arc, cutting down Lannisters as he called orders to his men. Slashing through enemy soldiers with brutal efficiency. Blood splattered his face, but he ignored it, focused on the battle.

The tide had turned.

The Lannister lines broke. Soldiers began to flee, throwing down their weapons in surrender. A great cheer rose from the Northmen as they pursued the retreating enemy, cutting them down as they ran.

Robb staggered back, breathless and covered in blood, his muscles screaming in protest. The field was littered with bodies, the banners of Lannister trampled in the dirt. The North had won.

He sheathed his sword, rolling his shoulders, exhaustion beginning to seep into his bones. His mother was waiting for news and they had more than news to share with her and the riverlords.

They galloped back to their camp with the prisoners and spoils. His mother's relief was plain to see. He gave her a wan smile as he and the men reached them.

“By the time they knew what was happening it had already happened!” Theon boasted with a grin.

Jamie Lannister was thrown unceremoniously on the muddy ground. 

“Lady Stark, I’d offer you my sword but I seem to have lost it” 
"You lost far more than your sword kingslayer!" Catelyn snapped back
“Kill him Rob send his head to his father. He cut down ten of our men you saw him!”

“He’s more use to us alive than dead. take him away and put him in irons" Robb ordered

“We could end this war right now Boy save thousands of lives you fight for the Starks I fight for the Lannisters. Swords, Lance's teeth nails choose your weapons and let's end this here and now!”

There was a sudden hush. Catelyn's eyes were alight with fear. Robb turned away from her very deliberately as he replied to the Kingslayer.

“If we do it your way Kingslayer you'd win. We're not doing it your way”

“Come on pretty man!” the Northerners jeered as they led him away. 

“I sent 2,000 men to their graves today” Robb whispered to Theon.

“The bards will sing songs of their sacrifice!"

"Aye but the dead won't hear them" Robb replied

The banners of the wolf and trout fluttered above the battlements as the weary remnants of Glover’s host rode into Riverrun. The great hall was quiet but tense — full of Northern and Riverlords, anxious for word, uneasy with rumors.

Robb stood at the high seat beneath the Tully banner, his face unreadable.

Lady Bolton entered with her usual self-possession, but something in her gait was tighter, more guarded. Her armor was scuffed, her left pauldron bent slightly where a blow had caught her.

Robett Glover was already there — helmet under his arm, his beard soaked with sweat and anger.

He bowed stiffly to Robb, then straightened. "Lord Robb," he said, "we had the lion by the throat. We could’ve ended this war in the fields outside Harrenhal."

Lady Bolton didn’t flinch.

Glover pointed, voice rising. "We had him. And she forced a retreat."

“She saved your men,” one of her soldiers snapped from the rear.

Lady Bolton turned her head sharply. “Stand down.”

The man obeyed immediately, though not without bitterness.

Robb leaned forward on the dais, fingers steepled. “Is it true?”

Lady Bolton nodded. “Tywin exposed his flank. Lightly guarded. I saw it.”

"And?" Robb asked.

"It was too easy," she said flatly. "Tywin Lannister does not leave his belly open unless he wants you to strike. I feared it was a trap. Maybe I was wrong. But I would not gamble the North’s future on maybes.”

A silence fell.

Glover's voice cracked with frustration. "Men died anyway. Good men. And now Tywin lives to fight another day."

Robb let that settle. He studied Lady Bolton for a long time, his expression carefully blank.

Lady Bolton bowed her head. “I’ll accept whatever punishment you deem fair, my Lord.”

Behind her, her captains stiffened, but she raised a hand, silencing them before they could speak.

Robb rose to his full height.

“You will order your men to answer to Lord Glover,” he said at last. “From this day forward, he and he alone commands your forces.”

A murmur swept through the room. Some of her men looked outraged, others simply stunned.

Then Robb added: “You will remain with me. Not as a prisoner, not as a lady of court, but as a permanent part of my honour guard.”

Several of the Riverlords exchanged glances. To most, being named to the king’s personal guard was a distinction few could hope for — a mark of favor.

But Robb’s eyes pinned her.

“Do not mistake this for honor,” he said quietly. “If you fail me again — if you undermine my commands, or the orders of your superior commander without a damn good reason — you will forfeit your lands and your title.”

His voice was like cold steel.

“You are not a battle commander. On the battlefield I expect you to follow. It is only because your counsel has helped us in the past. That is why I offer this. If you were anyone else, you’d forfeit your life.”

For a long beat, no one moved.

Lady Bolton lowered herself to one knee. Not with deference, but with grim acceptance. “As you command, my Lord.”

Robb gave a curt nod. “Rise. You ride with me tomorrow.”

She rose without a word. And this time, no one met her eyes as she left the hall.

Chapter Text

The hallways of Riverrun were quiet by moonlight, lit only by the flicker of torches and the occasional creak of stone settling. Robb Stark moved with purpose, his boots soft on the worn rugs. His guards remained at a distance. He wanted privacy.

He paused outside her chamber — one of the smaller Tully guest rooms, sparse and dimly lit. Her men stood watch but stepped aside wordlessly at the sight of him.

Robb knocked once, then entered.

Lady Bolton was seated by the hearth, a book half-open in her lap, boots off, her hair unbraided for the night. For once, she looked not like a warrior or a bannerman, but simply a woman at ease.

She glanced up with a spark of amusement.

“Well?” she asked, smile curling at the corner of her mouth. “Did you meet anyone?”

Robb blinked. “What?”

She closed the book. “You’ve been back a day. That’s enough time to meet someone. A lady from the Riverlands? A bold camp follower? A swordswoman from the Free Cities?”

Robb crossed his arms. “Where would I even meet a woman, in the middle of a war camp?”

Lady Bolton smirked. “There are women who do battle, my Lord. You of all people should know that.”

Robb gave a quiet laugh despite himself. “True. But no, I didn’t meet anyone. I’m already promised.”

The fire crackled between them. For a moment, the teasing faded.

Robb cleared his throat. “I came here because... I wanted to ask… I mean I know I was a little harsh…maybe too harsh with you….”

Lady Bolton looked at him for a long beat. Then she stood.

“Yes,” she said bluntly. “You were.”

Robb flinched slightly.

“You used what I told you in confidence — about power, freedom, fear of marriage — and turned it into a blade. You threatened my title and my lands, knowing that would be the one threat I’d never ignore.”

Robb opened his mouth, but she didn’t let him speak.

“You were precise. Calculated. And effective. Tywin Lannister would be very impressed with you.”

That stung.

“I am not Tywin Lannister,” Robb said, stiffening.

“No,” she agreed. “But you could be.”

She stepped closer.

“You need to make a choice, Robb Stark. Do you want to rule with honour, or with ruthlessness? Peace favours one. War demands the other. Trying to serve both masters will tear you in half.”

Robb’s voice dropped. “I will be ruthless — when I must. I had to be harsh with you. It already looked like I favoured you. If I’d shown you mercy, it would’ve undermined everything.”

Lady Bolton cocked her head. “You wanted to show me mercy?”

He hesitated. Then nodded once. “Yes.”

She stared at him.

Then she laughed — not cruelly, but genuinely amused. “You’re an idiot.”

Robb scowled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a noble fool,” she said, turning back to the hearth and pouring herself wine. “You should’ve left well enough alone. I didn’t expect you to rule in my favour. I understood why you couldn’t. But now...”

She turned, holding the cup between her fingers like a dagger.

“Now you’ve shown me your guilt. Your soft underbelly. Hence — idiot.”

Robb stared at her, shocked. “You’d manipulate me?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you, in my place? Don’t look so hurt. This is war, Young Wolf. Take this as a lesson Robb Stark.”

She stepped toward him, voice softer now.

“When you choose to be ruthless — mean it. Don’t come crawling back with regret and apologies. It undoes the lesson. Shows your enemies where to strike.”

Robb’s mouth went dry. His voice rasped. “And here I thought we were friends.”

Lady Bolton didn’t flinch.

“We were friends young wolf,” she replied, “And then you used what I told you as a friend against me. So now you are heir to my liege Lord and will be my future Lord.”

Robb looked stricken. He was silent for a while then

“What can I do to make things back to what it was?” he asked softly

“You’re an idiot” Lady Bolten replied, “I just told you I will use your guilt against you!”

“Aye you did,” Robb replied, “So what do you want?”

Lady Bolten looked at him incredulously and then she smiled and Robb knew he was fucked. Whatever she wanted was going to get him fucked.

“I want Jaime Lannister.”

Robb’s brow furrowed. “You want him... dead?”

“No.” Her eyes gleamed. “I want him alive. In my custody.”

Robb stared at her He would definitely get fucked if he did this. “And what do you intend to do with Jaime Lannister in your custody?”

Lady Bolton smiled.

“So many things, Robb Stark, so many, many things"

So fucked

Jamie Lannister was filthy. A far cry from the golden knight Robb remembered riding into Winterfell as part of King Robert’s entourage.

Dare he do it? Handing Jamie over to Lady Bolten would not bode well with the Lords and it defiantly would not go well for the Kingslayer. Whatever she planed to do with him Robb did not want to know. It might even be cruel to turn him over to her but if if he could trust anyone not to kill Jamie and stand up to Tywin Lannister... it would be her. 

“The Young Wolf!” he called out in a mocking tone. He might not look like the golden knight but he was still just as proud and arrogant, “I keep expecting you to leave me in one castle or another for safe keeping but you drag me from camp to camp. Have you grown fond of me Stark? Is that it? I’ve never seen you with a girl”

That's it he was turning him over to Lady Bolten.

“If I left you with one of my bannermen your father will know it in a fortnight. My bannermen would receive a raven with a message 'Release my son you'll be rich beyond your dreams refuse and your house shall be destroyed root and stem.." 

"You don't trust the loyalty of the men following you into battle?" Jamie asked mockingly. 

"I trust them with my life," Robb stated, "I just don't trust them with yours"

"Smart boy" Robb twitched the Kingslayer caught it

"What's wrong? Don't like being called boy? Insulted?"

Greywind growled. Jamie flinched and Robb felt satisfaction. The scent of fear was in the air as Greywind prowled around Jamie's pen to stand by his side. He ran his hand through the wolf's fur. 

"You insult yourself KingSlayer" he said calmly, "you've been defeated by a boy, you're held captive by a boy, perhaps you'll be killed by a boy… Stannis has taken Kingslanding and his army is coming. You've lost. I'm sending one of your cousins down to Harrenhall with my peace terms."

"You think my father's going to negotiate with you? You don't know him very well"

"No but he's starting to know me" Robb smirked

"Three victories don't make you a conqueror!" Jamie retorted

"it's better than three defeats" 

And with that Robb opened the pen and hauled Jamie to his feet

Robb Stark marched down the stone corridor of Riverrun, flanked by two guards and dragging a shackled, filthy Jaime Lannister behind him. Jaime’s golden hair was matted with dirt, his face smudged with dried blood and the scent of piss.

“This a special occasion?” Jaime muttered, grinning despite the bruises. “New cell? Or am I finally getting my golden chains back? I thought you didnt trust your Lords with my life”

Robb didn’t answer.

When they stopped outside a heavy wooden door, Jaime looked at it, then back to Robb — and grinned wider.

“Don’t tell me,” he drawled. “You dragged me to a lady’s chambers. You and I, and a bit of northern spice?” He leered. “I’m open to it. If you’re ready, I am.”

Robb stiffened, murder in his eyes — but before he could speak, a cool, feminine voice floated from within.

“Well,” said Lady Bolton, emerging into view like smoke from shadow, “that is a brilliant idea.”

Jaime blinked.

She stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Strip.”

“What?”

“Strip,” she said again, as if asking him to hang up his cloak. “You can keep the smug look, but the rest comes off.”

Jaime looked at Robb, then back at her. “I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

Robb rubbed his temple. “Gods preserve me.”

Lady Bolton turned to him, calm and amused.

“I expect you to get intelligence from him,” Robb growled. “I have informed the bannermen that he’s under your interrogation. I want results.”

“I don’t recall promising anything of that sort,” she said, still not looking at him.

Robb glanced at Jaime, then back at her. “This makes us even?”

“It’s a start” Lady Bolten smirked. She started to loosen her gown and Robb fled muttering about traitorous Boltens.

Chapter Text

The door closed behind him.

Jaime stood in the middle of the chamber, still half-expecting her to run him through with a sword or chain him to something.

But she didn’t.

She moved gracefully to the table, poured herself a cup of wine, and said, “I won’t ask again.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious.”

Lady Bolton sipped delicately. “You reek of shit and defeat. If we’re to play, you’ll strip. Either way, your clothes are offensive.”

Jamie tilted his head, mouth twisting in a smirk. “Play? What would your lord husband say? If he saw you playing hostess to a chained knight in your private chambers?”

She didn’t blink. “Nothing. Dead men don’t have opinions.”

Jaime’s brow lifted. “Well. My condolences.”

“Unnecessary.”

“Widowhood suits you.” She met his gaze, calm and cool.

Lady Bolton moved to the bellpull and gave it a firm tug. Moments later, a pair of silent girls arrived with steaming buckets and a copper tub.

“A bath,” she said.

Jaime glanced at the tub, then at the girls, and then at her.

She sipped her wine again.

He narrowed his eyes. “You're not going to watch, are you?”

“I watch everything, Ser Jaime. But for now...” she stepped away, setting the cup down, “...I’ll give you the illusion of privacy.”

He hesitated. Then grinned. “Tell me, Lady Bolton. Do you always get what you want?”

Her voice followed her toward the far wall, soft and cold as snow.

“No. But I never settle for less.”

Whispers moved through Riverrun like smoke through a weirwood grove.
They began with curiosity, then grew into speculation, and by week’s end, had twisted into something far darker.

No one had seen Lady Bolton or Ser Jaime Lannister emerge from her chambers in days. No voices. No shouting. No sounds of chains or screams. Just silence.

And yet—food was sent for. Wine jugs returned empty. Meat scraped clean from the bone. The serving maids reported both prisoners to be in "excellent health."

Too excellent.

The castle was a boiling pot of rumour.

“She’s seducing him,” one stable boy muttered. “Turning him. She’ll run with him in the night, you’ll see.”

“Or she’s torturing him slowly,” said a washerwoman. “Breaking his pride. Some say she makes him beg for scraps.”

“She means to keep him,” whispered a camp follower. “A lion for a pet. Maybe a mate.”

But it was Theon Greyjoy who finally gave the rumours teeth.

He glanced at Robb red-faced and anxious.

“Did you tell her not to fuck him?” he asked.

Robb blinked. “What?”

“It’s just that she has peculiar desires...”

Robb frowned. “Theon...”

“She wanted to fuck me, Robb!” Theon hissed. “And before you scoff — that’s why I’ve never touched her. She’s terrifying. Gods only know what she’s doing to Jaime Lannister in there.”

“You avoid her because you don’t what to fuck her?” Robb asked confused

“She wanted to fuck me”

“I see…” said Robb not seeing at all

“Seven hells! This is why you need to go to a brothel more often…” Theon mumbled, “There is a way for a woman to fuck a man the way a man fucks a woman”

Robb stared at Theon

“I’ve never had a woman do this” Theon hurriedly defended, “and I never will but she said the only way she’d let me fuck her is if she gets to fuck me first.”

“Theon,” Robb sighed painfully, “I do not need to know any of this!”

 “But she could be fucking the Kingslayer!”

Robb stood slowly, his jaw tight. “You think she’s—”

“I don’t know,” Theon said, pale. “But you’ve heard the rumours. And if she’s raping him, that’s—” he paused and shuddered.

Robb didn’t say anything. He left the hall without another word.

The bath had left Jaime damp and shivering slightly, though he would never admit it. He sat on the edge of the chair, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, and flexed his fingers, as if testing whether he could still command himself after the long hours in captivity.

Lady Bolton entered with a basket, setting it on the table. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread hit him immediately. She tossed him a pair of trousers to wear and nothing else.

“Eat,” she said lightly, her eyes gleaming. “You’ll need your strength for what comes next.”

Jaime smirked, pulling on the pants before he let the towel drop. “I see. Bath, food… and then what? I drop dead? Perhaps you can claim I choked on a bone?”

“Its not poisoned!” she laughed placing two plates on the table, then stepped back, letting the firelight play along the angles of her face.

“Here, you pick what you wish to eat and I’ll take what’s left.”

Jaime glanced at the meal and deliberately tossed the food around before serving himself. If Lady Bolten truly did poison the food they’d both die now for all the food touched.

She arched an eyebrow, her lips twitching with the ghost of a smile.       

Lady Bolton took a seat opposite him, cutting a piece of meat carefully. She glanced up, sharp eyes catching the flicker of amusement behind Jaime’s confident grin. “Tell me of your time as a squire.” She said, “You served in Crakehall if I remember correctly”

Jaime froze, mid-bite.

“I’m not telling you anything about Crakehall. I don’t know what kind of games you’re running, but I won’t be answering any of your questions. Though I am greatful for the bath and food. Perhaps I can repay you another way…” he trailed of suggestively

“Don’t make offers you cannot keep,” Lady Bolten teased, “I might take you up on it”

Jamie felt her foot slide up his thigh and froze

“GOLD!” he half yelled, “My father will reward you richly if you turn me over to him”

She smiled

“I have gold, not as much as you Lannisters but I have more than enough for what I want and need”

Jamie’s heart was thundering in his chest. Dare he do it? Batter his body for freedom?

Lady Bolton tilted her head, considering. “Shall we play a different game,” she said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “For every question you answer, I remove a piece of clothing. The more you answer, the more I reveal.”

Jaime choked on his wine, coughing once, then waved a hand, smirking through the sudden heat in his face. “Ah, I see. A northern custom. Though, I confess, I am unlike your typical northerner. I have no interest in seeing you unclothed.”

Her smile was small, wicked. “I suspected as much. Then we shall adjust the rules.”

Before Jaime could react, she rose from her seat, moving slowly, deliberately, like a predator enjoying the anticipation. She began removing her outer layers, her movements graceful and unhurried. Her cloak fell to the floor in a heavy whisper of fabric. Her tunic followed, revealing the curve of her shoulders and the toned lines of her arms.

Jaime watched, trying to maintain his usual smirk, but the sight unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

“Well,” he said with a crooked grin, “I see the winters have been… generous to your… courage, I suppose. Though I can see the signs of—experience. Yes, experience.”

She paused mid-step, one boot half off, and tilted her head at him. “Experience is more useful than arrogance. You might learn that one day.”

Jaime swallowed, trying to laugh it off. “I’m merely observing, my lady. I would not dare speak ill of what you’ve earned.”

Her lips curved in a faint smirk.

She stood there, her nudity unflinching, her eyes catching the firelight. Jaime’s pulse quickened, and he instinctively straightened his posture. He could not let her see how flustered he was.

“Ah, the famous Lady Bolton,” he said, trying to inject humor, “showing off the spoils of thirty winters. I confess… I have I prefer my women to have breasts that don’t sag”

“Do you resist?” she asked softly, stepping closer, the firelight warming her skin. “Or do you merely think you resist?”

Jaime tried to maintain his grin.

“You’re out of clothes to remove and I still won’t tell you anything. Whatever will you do now Lady Bolten?” he asked mockingly

She tilted her head, amused. Slowly, deliberately, she began trailing her hands over her own skin, long, practiced motions that seemed almost ritualistic. The firelight caught the lines of her body, the faint scars of age and strength, the subtle curves that were all hers and hers alone. Jaime watched, torn between mockery and fascination.

“Well, I see,” he said, his voice sharper, sarcastic, “that the hands of experience… those are all you are going to have to satisfy yourself with today for I fear I will be unable to rise to the occasion. Though perhaps they have missed a spot here or there.” He jabbed lightly at the curve of her waist, trying to sound brash but failing to mask the heat creeping up his neck.

She let out a soft laugh, eyes glinting. “Ah, the famous arrogance of Jaime Lannister. You think your words can wound me?”

“They amuse me,” he said smoothly, masking the way his stomach knotted. “Though I cannot say the same for your… performance. A woman of your age, showing herself like this—it is… bold.”

“Bold,” she said softly, “or necessary. Boredom is a cruel thing, Ser Jaime. And when I am bored… I must find ways to entertain myself.”

Jaime blinked, caught off guard. “Entertain yourself… with what?”

“Oh,” she said lightly, “with what I have at hand.” Her movements remained deliberate, teasing, subtle, and entirely in her control. Jaime felt the rising tension like a weight pressing against his chest, but he refused to let it show.

“You’re mad,” he said finally, leaning back in the chair, trying to regain control.

“Perhaps,” she said softly, circling the room like a cat, “or perhaps I will let you speak for your amusement. Stories, confessions, glimpses into your squire days. Each one might… distract me. Perhaps even satisfy me enough to leave you in peace.”

 Jamie did not answer so she lay down on her bed and continued touching herself. The lower she went the harsher her breath became.

Jaime’s eyes widened in disbelief at first, struggling to process the audacity of her actions. Shock gave way to fascination. The subtle curves of her body, the confident sway of her movements, and the way she seemed to own the room—he could not look away.

Shame rose immediately after. He was a knight, she a lady. He should look away, avert his gaze, remind himself of honour. Fuck honour he was not Ned Stark he was loyal to Cersei he would not give in if Lady Bolten wanted to be a whore he’d let her do what she wanted with her body she would get nothing from him.

She began to moan. Familiar moans yet not for he’d only ever heard Cersei moan like that.

Anger followed. Thick, bitter anger twisting in his chest. How dare she demean herself like this, flaunt herself so provocatively. He hated her, hated everything she was doing. He felt like he was betraying Cersei by just being in the room with her naked. 

When she finally paused, breathing raggedly as if satisfied, Jaime felt a flicker of relief. Perhaps the ordeal was over. But then, almost teasingly, she moved again, subtle, deliberate, eyes sharp and unflinching.

“I could go on all day,” she murmured softly, “and all night.”

And she could when she started up the third time he spoke

“ Crakehall, is along the Ocean Road between the Sunset Sea and a forest. I squired for Lord Sumner but the current lord is Roland I believe… Never met the man so can’t tell you much about him.”

Lady Bolten grinned as she put on her small clothes that only covered her snatch.

“Now that wasn’t so hard was it?” she asked as she proceeded to play with her nipples while Jamie tried to scrounge up a story for her.

The guards outside Lady Bolton’s chambers stepped aside without question. Robb didn’t knock.

The door creaked open.

Warm candlelight. Silence. A wash of steam in the air.

Ser Jaime Lannister sat in a chair by the fire, shirtless, his golden hair damp, a half-eaten plate of figs on the table beside him. His wrists were still shackled, but loosely. His skin was clean now, but his eyes were not.

They were haunted.

Across the room, Lady Bolton lounged on a chaise, one leg draped over the side, flipping lazily through an old ledger. She didn’t look up when Robb entered.

 “Am I interrupting something?” Robb asked coldly, eyes moving between them.

Lady Bolton’s eyes flicked up. “Yes.”

Robb took a step forward. “This has gone far enough. I won’t have this castle consumed by rumour.”

“Then stop listening to it,” she replied, turning a page.

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” She closed the ledger and set it aside. “He eats. He answers questions. He hasn’t tried to bite me in days. I call that progress.”

“He’s shirtless.”

Jaime raised a brow. “Should I be flattered you noticed?”

Robb ignored him. “There are things being said. About you.”

“I’m aware.”

“And I’m telling you now—if you’re sleeping with him—”

“She’s not,” Jaime said flatly.

Robb looked at him.

Robb turned slowly to Lady Bolton. “I’m forbidding you from bedding your prisoner.”

She smiled, slow and thin. “How quaint.”

“I mean it.”

She stood.

The room went quiet.

Then she spoke again, calmly. “I do not take what isn’t freely given. Nor do I pretend my methods are palatable. But he’s not screaming. He’s not broken. And he’s talking more than he ever did in chains.”

She stepped closer, looking Robb squarely in the eye. “Do you want results, or do you want your honour intact in the eyes of men who already doubt you?”

Robb flinched. Only slightly. But she saw it.

“Don’t interfere with how I handle my prisoner,” she said quietly. “Or take him back and wring him dry yourself.”

She turned back to Jaime.

Robb left the room without another word.

And silence returned.

Chapter Text

The great hall of Riverrun hummed with tension as the tall, armoured woman strode forward, every step clanking with travel-worn steel. She moved with the certainty of a soldier, though her height and broad frame drew stares.

“My name is Brianne of Tarth," she said, her voice steady, "I am sworn to Lord Renly Baratheon and I come with a message from his brother the King Stannis Baratheon,”

She offered the sealed scroll to Robb.

Robb took the scroll and asked her then, “And my father? Or my lady mother?”

The lady shook her head. “No letters, Your Grace. But Lord Stark is well. He misses you dearly and longs for the day he may see you again.”

Robb’s mouth tightened, a flicker of emotion cutting through his composure. He thanked her gravely before he broke the seal. He read quickly, then aloud: Stannis proposed to march from the south and crush Tywin Lannister at Harrenhal while the North pressed from the opposite side. A trap, clean and brutal.

Approval rippled through the gathered lords: murmurs, thumps on the table, grim nods. Even Lord Karstark, dour and brooding, allowed a grunt of agreement.

Robb’s jaw tightened as he read, then he handed the parchment to his mother. “This is welcome,” he said, his voice calm though his eyes burned with restrained hope. “For once, the game turns in our favour.”

The hall murmured approval. But Brienne, though relieved, swayed on her feet. A long ride, little rest, and the eyes of so many lords weighing her down—the tall maid seemed suddenly smaller.

 “You have our thanks for this, Lady Brienne. A bed and food shall be yours until you ride forth again. You have travelled far—rest while you may.”

The Maid of Tarth looked almost dazed with gratitude. She bowed awkwardly, and as she straightened, her satchel shifted. Another scroll tumbled free, bouncing against the stone floor.

Robb bent to retrieve it. His eyes froze. The seal bore the direwolf of Stark.

The hall hushed instantly.

“You said there was no raven from my father,” Robb said, his voice low.

Brienne blanched, her scarlet flush clashing with her sunburned skin. “I did not lie,” she said quickly snatching up the scroll. “I swore it. This—this was not meant for you, my lord.”

“Not meant for me?” Robb’s voice grew colder. “You would keep my father’s words from me?”

Brienne flushed deeper. “I speak true,” she insisted. “Lord Eddard’s regards were given to me for his son. His words of counsel—aye, those I bore. But this message is not for you. It is for Lady Bolton, and her alone. I swore to deliver it to Lady Bolten sealed.”

Gasps rippled through the hall.

Robb’s jaw clenched.

“Hand it over.” he commanded.

Brienne flushed, straightening to her full height.

 “I swore on my honour Lord Robb.” She shook her head with stubborn calm.

Her great hands clenched in fists, but her voice did not waver.

The hall erupted in noise—some cursing her others were some sharp with suspicion, but most were sniggers others tinged with laughter. A few lords exchanged knowing smirks “A secret raven for the Dreadfort widow?” “Lord Stark is exchanging love notes now? Seven hells!”

There was a crash as Catelyn stormed out of the hall.

Robb was torn, his hand tightened on his sword. He wanted to tear the letter open then and there, yet something in Brienne’s steel-blue eyes gave him pause.

This woman—awkward, earnest, all rough edges—was too poor a liar to weave any scheme. Still, secrecy chafed him raw.

Robb rose, voice taut. “Then I would have Lady Bolton brought forth at once.”

Grinding his teeth, Robb turned on his heel

Lady Bolton was in her chamber. For once, both she and Jaime Lannister were clothed, but something was different.

Jaime sat at the table, his golden hair damp, his shirt open at the throat. His eyes, however, looked haunted...

Lady Bolton looked up, lips curving in a smile that was far too pleased to see him. “Lord Robb! Twice in so few days you’ve come storming into my chambers. At this rate, tongues will wag.”

“What happened to the Kingslayer?” he demanded

“He’s in perfect health as you can see”

Robb’s frown deepened. Behind him, Jaime shifted in his seat.

 “Worried about me boy?” the Lannister bit out with a forced snark.

Robb grit his teeth and chose to ignore the disgraced knight.

“There is word from Stannis,” Robb said tightly.

“Lovely,” she said lightly, though her eyes flickered sharp. “And why are you telling me this personally?”

Robb’s jaw worked. “Because a raven has arrived. For you from my father!”

Jamie snorted and was ignored by both

“Well…where is this message?”

 “If you will follow me?”

“And who,” Lady Bolton added softly, “will watch your lion while you dally with ravens and scrolls?”

Robb clenched his jaw. She was right. He could not leave Jaime untended.

“The messenger is a lady Brienne of Tarth. She can guard the kingslayer while we talk.. Anyway she insists on delivering it to you personally”

Oh my god. Oh my actual god. It’s her. Brienne freaking of Tarth. She’s real.

I am not about to fangirl. I am not going to grin like an idiot. Play it cool. You’re a cold, calculating northern widow now. Not someone who binge-watched Game of Thrones with popcorn

Robb strode to the door, when he returned he was followed by Brienne in tow. Jaime looked up as the door opened, his face pale and haunted, though his lips twisted with a mockery of a smile.

Lady Bolton turned, and for a moment her modern heart betrayed her. Oh Gods. It’s Brienne. Actual Brienne of Tarth. The Brienne. In the flesh. Taller than I thought, stronger than I dreamed. Look at her shoulders, she could break a man in half with one hand. And she’s going to stand guard over Jaime—this is fanfiction come alive.

The words left her lips before she could stop them.

“You’re gorgeous.”

Brienne stiffened, color rushing into her cheeks. She took a step back, mistaking the praise for ridicule. “If you mean to mock me, my lady—”

“No mockery,” Lady Bolton said quickly, her eyes sparkling. “I meant it.”

Robb pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered an apology on her behalf. “Pay no mind, Lady Brienne. My lady of the Dreadfort is… unconventional in her manners.”

Lady Bolton only smirked. Then, with a breezy wave at Jaime, she added, “Well I have no doubt that you can handle yourself against the kingslayer! Should the he give you too much trouble, feel free to run him through.”

Robb nearly choked.

Brienne blinked, taken aback, confusion etched across her features. Jaime snorted softly in his chains.

Before anyone could recover, Brienne reached into her cloak. “There is something else. Lord Stark bid me carry this.” She held out a sealed scroll, the direwolf stamped in wax. “For Lady Bolton’s eyes only.”

Lady Bolton reached for it, but Robb was quicker, lunging to snatch it from Brienne’s hand. She pulled back with surprising speed, fingers closing around the parchment.

“Robb!” she scolded, twisting out of his reach. “It’s mine!”

“He’s my father!” Robb growled, trying to wrest it from her grasp.

They circled the room like squabbling children, her darting left as he lunged right, both laughing and snarling in equal measure. Jaime watched in disbelief, golden brows arched high, while Brienne stood frozen, as if the scene made less sense than any battlefield she had seen.

her darting aside with surprising grace, him reaching with the single-mindedness of a wolf. Jaime smirked faintly, enjoying the absurdity even through his chains.

Finally Lady Bolton ducked beneath Robb’s arm, tore the seal with her teeth, and unfolded the parchment.

Lady Bolton tried to read in snatches as she dodged, eyes skimming the ink between Robb’s swipes. “Ned Stark’s words were not the words of a man of idle superstition. In years past, when first we spoke at Winterfell, you named to me Ser Barristan Selmy and a trial by combat... I have since turned it over, and find I cannot set it aside.

Her heart beat faster, though her face betrayed nothing. Ned had not forgotten that stray mention, years ago, when she had been newly thrust into this world. I would therefore ask your thoughts on Lord Stannis Baratheon... Some things I have seen of him strike at odds with what a king must be.

Robb finally snatched at her wrist, growling, “Enough games. Show me.”

She twisted free with surprising ease, spinning away with a smile that was half-teasing, half-triumphant. “Oh, Robb, always so serious. But your father entrusted this to me. Not you.”

“That’s my father!” he snapped. “His words concern the realm—”

“And yet,” she cut him off smoothly, “he wrote to me.”

Robb made another grab, fingers brushing her sleeve. She spun away, tucking the parchment close to her chest.

Robb snapped. “What does he say?!”

But Lady Bolton was already at the hearth. The letter trembled only slightly in her hand.

My duty compels me to question, and though I am no man to chase after mummer’s tricks or hedge-witch prophecies, still I recall your words.

I would therefore ask your thoughts on Lord Stannis Baratheon. He is Robert’s brother, yet unlike in temper. Some things I have seen of him, and heard of him, strike at odds with what a king must be.

If there is aught you know—or foresee—that might aid me in judging his cause, I ask you to set it down plainly.

Lady Bolten’s lips twitched as she read the note, “Nothing that concerns you,” she replied lightly, though her grip on the parchment was iron.

Robb lunged again, but too late. With a single motion, she tossed the parchment into the flames. The fire leapt, devouring wax and parchment alike.

“Seven hells!” Robb swore, his face twisted with fury.

The parchment curled and blackened as the flames devoured it.

Behind her, Jaime gave a soft, humourless laugh. “Gods, you Northerners truly are mad.”

Chapter Text

Previously

“I will keep him. No harm will come while I stand here.” Brianne said solemnly

Inside, her thoughts were anything but calm. Brienne of bloody Tarth, guarding Jaime Lannister. Someone pinch me, because this is too good to be true.

“I should really stay…” Lady Bolten offered, “You said yourself I’m not well versed in battle”

“You are part of my honour guard and you will ride out front with the rest of us” Robb snapped

March to my death most like All because he didn’t get to read a bleeding letter

Now

The ride to Harrenhal was long and grey, the Riverlands stretching before them in a wash of mist and mud. Lady Bolton sat her horse beside Robb Stark, her shoulder aching from the weight of chainmail she had no wish to wear. The boy was as stone-faced as ever, his jaw clenched, refusing to grant her so much as a glance. He had not spoken more than a handful of words since they left Riverrun.

Lady Bolton sat her horse beside Robb Stark, shoulders hunched against the weight of her borrowed mail. Her lips were pressed tight, though her thoughts boiled with resentment.

This is folly. I should be back at Riverrun, watching Brienne and Jaime spar with words and glares, enjoying the only decent entertainment in this damned world. But no, Robb Stark must drag me here because I dared to say so aloud. Petty wolf. Petty, stubborn wolf.

She eyed Grey Wind, padding silently at her horse’s flank. The direwolf’s pale eyes flicked toward her, unblinking.

On the morning of battle, her mood soured further. The host had formed lines outside Harrenhal’s scorched towers, the Northmen shouting Robb’s name, banners snapping in the wind. From the south came the distant drums of Stannis Baratheon and the spears of the Reach, their armies tightening the noose about Tywin Lannister’s force.

She caught Robb by the stirrup, Grey Wind pacing between them.
“Keep him with you,” she urged.
“No,” Robb said, voice hard. “He’ll stay with you.”
“Robb, this is folly. He belongs at your side, not mine.”
“I said—he stays.”

Their words rose, sharp and heated. The bannermen exchanged wary glances, some smirking, others uncomfortable. To their ears it sounded too much like a quarrel between bedded lovers, her sharp tongue clashing with his stubborn pride. Realizing it, Lady Bolton bit down on her retort and fell silent, cheeks hot with frustrated fury.

When the horns sounded, the sky seemed to split. Steel clashed, arrows rained. Harrenhal’s fields turned to a charnel ground, mud sucking at the boots of dying men. Lady Bolton rode with the second line, Grey Wind darting before her, tearing down red-cloaked men in sprays of gore. The wolf’s snarls echoed over the din, his muzzle black with blood.

She saw Robb, far ahead, cutting a swathe through the enemy, sword arm rising and falling in merciless rhythm. His bannermen surged with him, the northern war cry rolling like thunder. Tywin’s men were faltering, crushed between Robb’s charge and the southern hammer of Stannis and the Reach.

From the north, Robb Stark’s host advanced, banners flying high — the grey direwolf of Stark, the mermen of Manderly, the flayed man of Bolton (though she loathed to see it), the white sunburst of Karstark. Their cries rose, a wall of sound rolling across the field: “The North remembers!”

From the south, the drums of Stannis Baratheon thundered, his ranks of disciplined men-at-arms pressing forward with the knights of the Reach, their golden roses glittering upon their shields.

Caught between hammer and anvil, Tywin Lannister had arrayed his men in a desperate shield wall, the crimson lion rippling above their heads. The Riverlands’ mud would be red by day’s end.

Lady Bolton rode with the second line, shield strapped to her arm. She wanted no part of this — and yet, when the ground began to shake with the charge of warhorses, when the arrows darkened the sky, something inside her clenched with both dread and awe.

The first clash was thunderous. Northern cavalry smashed into the Lannister vanguard, steel shattering wood, spears splintering, men screaming. Robb’s voice rang above the chaos, calling commands, Grey Wind leaping at his side to drag screaming men from their saddles.

Arrows hissed like angry wasps. One slammed into the man beside her, punching clean through his throat. He toppled backward without a sound, blood spraying across her cheek. Her stomach lurched, but her horse kept moving, carried along by the tide of battle.

Mud churned beneath trampling hooves, slick with blood. Pikes thrust upward, catching horses mid-leap, impaling knights through breastplate and belly. Men fell shrieking, crushed beneath their own destriers.

And still the tide pushed forward.

Lady Bolton lifted her shield just in time to catch the blow of a Lannister axe, the shock rattling her bones. She screamed, more fury than fear, and slashed clumsily with her sword. The edge bit through mail, and the man fell. She had never killed a man before. She thought she might vomit — but there was no time. Another came. And another.

Everywhere she looked was death. Karstark men screaming vengeance for their slain lord, Manderly knights with their great maces crushing skulls like eggs. The air stank of iron, shit, and fear.

The Lannister line buckled. She could see it — Robb’s men surging like a tide, the disciplined ranks of Stannis pressing from the opposite side. Victory. They were winning.

And then it happened.

A glint of steel — too late to duck. The crossbow bolt struck her shoulder with the force of a hammer, driving her half from her saddle. Pain like fire seared through her chest. She gasped, nearly dropping her sword. Grey Wind snarled, springing to tear down the archer who had fired.

Her vision blurred, but she shoved at the wolf. “Go!” she hissed. “Go to him. He needs you more than I do.!”

With a shake of his bloodied muzzle, Grey Wind waited till she retreated safely between the northern lines and then bounded toward Robb, vanishing into the melee.

Staggering back with what strength she had, she thought herself clear—until a fresh tide of steel swept in from the rear. The banners were pale grey and blue, the twin towers unmistakable. The Freys.

The last thing she saw before blackness swallowed her was Robett Glover’s men crashing into the traitors

The field at Harrenhal stank of smoke, steel, and blood. Corpses littered the torn earth, banners sagged in the mud, and carrion crows already began to circle. The clash of arms still rang in places, but the battle was broken; the lion was in flight, harried north and south alike.

Robb Stark reined in his charger, his chest heaving, his sword slick red. Around him, Greywind tore into the throat of a straggler, and his men raised the direwolf’s cry in triumph.

And there, through the thinning haze of battle, Robb saw him.

Ned Stark fought with a grim fury Robb had only ever imagined. His longsword flashed, cutting down a knight who dared bar his path, and his grey cloak was torn and darkened with blood—some his, most not. For a heartbeat, Robb faltered. He was looking at a vision from boyhood stories: his father on the field, a man of ice and iron, every inch the Warden of the North.

When their eyes met across the chaos, both men pressed forward. Father and son carved through what remained of the foe until they met in the middle of the ruin.

“Father!” Robb’s voice cracked as he leapt from the saddle.

Ned staggered, but he caught his son’s shoulders, pride burning in his weary eyes. “You have grown into the man I prayed you would be,” he said hoarsely. “You led them well. The North rides because of you.”

Robb tried to protest, shaking his head, but the men around them would hear none of it.

“Aye, the Young Wolf!” shouted one, raising his sword.
“Like father, like son,” another called.
“Stark blood, Stark steel!”

But others murmured too, voices thick with awe. “Ned Stark still has the fight in him.” “Gods be good, he’s back from the grave.”

Robb flushed, torn between pride and the ache of still being seen as only his father’s heir. Yet he stood taller, hearing his men’s voices, knowing the respect was shared.

Then a cry rose from the edge of the field: “Lady Catelyn!”

Robb turned sharply as his mother rode hard into the carnage, her skirts torn by the saddle, her face set with desperate determination.

“Mother! Are you mad?!” Robb roared, fury and fear mingled. “This is no place for you!”

But she paid her son no mind. Her eyes locked instead on Ned.

Ned wasted no words. He strode to her horse, caught her by the waist, and pulled her down into his arms. And then, before all the Northmen, before the Reachmen, before the dead and the dying, Eddard Stark kissed his lady wife with a passion that stole the field’s breath.

The men cheered and jeered in equal measure, hollering like boys at a feast. “Stark! Stark!” “Gods, get a tent, Lord Stark!”

Robb turned red to the roots of his hair. “Seven hells…” he muttered, averting his eyes as the bannermen hooted. Yet a smile tugged at his lips all the same. His parents—his mother’s laughter muffled against Ned’s lips, his father clinging to her as though he would never let her go—were reunited at last.

When Ned finally broke the kiss, he whispered, “Robb was right. You should not have risked yourself so, Catelyn.”

She silenced him with another kiss, heedless of the men’s bawdy cries.

It might have been the perfect ending to a bloody day.

But thunder of hooves broke the moment. Lord Glover rode hard across the field, his men grim-faced and spattered with gore. The cheers died at once.

“My lord,” Glover said, breath ragged, voice dark with fury. “The Freys turned cloak. They struck at our rear. We crushed the last of them, but…” His gaze shifted to Robb, reluctant. “Lady Bolton was taken. The Freys delivered her to the Lannisters. She is Tywin’s prisoner now.”