Catelyn rose on her toes, gently brushing her son's brow.
"Robb, I believe in you."
Catelyn Tully had seen the bannermen's harsh trials of her young lord, and at the time she had held her tongue, choosing to place her trust in her son. Or perhaps she had not dared to step in—for if she had, the lords would only have treated Robb as a green boy hiding behind his mother's skirts. Robb had to win their respect, even their fear, on his own.
Her hands, hidden beneath the table that day, had clenched tight as she watched the bannermen "test" the young lord in their own way.
Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort had demanded, blunt and cold, that he be given command of the host. Robett Glover of Deepwood Motte had spoken more softly, but his aim was the same—the army's command.
Maege Mormont of Bear Island had scoffed that Robb was young enough to be her grandson and unfit to order her about—though in the same breath she said she happened to have a granddaughter she might wed him to.
Medger Cerwyn of Castle Cerwyn had brought along his plump daughter of thirty years, who sat by her father's side, her attention fixed only upon her plate.
Halys Hornwood of Hornwood brought no daughter, but gifts instead: a horse one day, a haunch of venison the next, a silver-banded horn after that—each offered without demand for return… save for the quiet request that Robb help him seize a strip of land from his grandsire, a hunting ridge in the north, and the rights to dam the White Knife.
Lastly, Greatjon Umber of Last Hearth declared that if he were to march behind the Cerwyn or Sevenths, he would turn his men around and go home at once.
…
Robb, calm and courteous, had answered each in turn and, little by little, won the bannermen to his cause. Catelyn's pride in her son swelled, but so did her longing for her husband.
…
"What do you mean to do now? Here stand twenty thousand men. As their commander, you must soon give them direction."
This host was no standing company of the Free Cities, nor household guards grown fat on their lord's bounty. They were farmers, fishermen, shepherds, innkeepers' sons, tradesmen, tanners—seasoned with a few free riders, hedge knights, and sellswords hungry for plunder. They had answered their lord's call, and each had their own needs.
Robb nodded. "Uncle Edmure is summoning the river lords. I mean to march south swiftly to join him."
Catelyn murmured: "Family, Duty, Honor… your uncle will aid you with all his strength."
"Mother, I leave the household in your care."
Catelyn shook her head gently. "No. I will ride south with you. Better still, I will go on ahead to the Eyrie and speak with Lysa face to face."
Robb hesitated. Her plan was wise, but he worried for his little brothers, who still needed their mother's care.
Catelyn seemed to read his mind. "Robb, you are my son too. You need me as much as they do. And I would help you win this war."
Maester Luwin's soft voice cut in: "Lady Catelyn, Lord Robb—I will tend to Bran and Rickon."
"My thanks, Maester Luwin."
"My thanks, Mother."
Catelyn smiled tenderly. "I ride at first light. The rest I leave to you. Robb, remember—these are Stark bannermen, not your friends. Their duty is to heed your command."
…
…
Near Cobbler's Square, in the West Camp of the City Watch. The commander's tent.
"My lord, I fear King's Landing will soon run short of bread."
"My lord, I share that fear. Reports say hardly a single grain merchant dares enter the city."
"Truly?"
"If bread runs out, even sheep will bare their teeth."
"You mean the smallfolk will riot?"
"Plain enough, though… only my guess."
"I agree. No man waits meekly to starve."
"The place that worries me most is Flea Bottom. I propose we send more men there."
"Those alleys are a maze. Unless we stripped every post for it—which we cannot."
"Then… what about the Street of Steel?"
"Fool. Do not underestimate smiths. The dragons they hoard rival any lord's coffers. Even the Others wouldn't believe they might starve."
Gawen Crabb had kept silent, studying the map as his captains argued. Yet when he heard "gold dragons," his ear twitched ever so slightly.
"Back to Flea Bottom. We all know what festers there."
"Do they not have brown stew?"
"Seven save us. Have you never seen it?"
"…"
"I have, thrice. I'd rather not recall it. Gods forgive me."
"Another reason you'll never wear a chain of office, fool."
"I… I…"
Thump, thump. Gawen rapped the table. The tent fell silent.
"I have heard your concerns. I will report this matter to the Queen Regent and the Small Council."
He paused, then continued: "It is our duty to guard the city's peace, so every threat must be considered. But… what of our own bellies? We are thousands. Can hungry goldcloaks keep King's Landing safe?"
The tent fell still again.
"Leyton," Gawen asked, "how long will our rations hold?"
Leyton bowed. "My lord, the supply comes every seven days. Three days remain until the next. Our stores will last only three days more."
The officers understood at once. Shortage meant soaring prices. Would the grain still come?
Gawen's gaze was steady. "If our bellies go empty, will we quell riots—or join them? We must prepare. Every man here will see to it."
…
After the council dispersed, Leyton spoke low. "My lord, I think none of them—none of our goldcloaks—will spare a thought for Flea Bottom now."
Gawen leaned back, rubbing his brow. "Bread and bloodlines… let the fire kindle slowly."
…
…
Bitterbridge, the Rose Road's crossing of the Mander, seat of House Caswell.
In the Reach.
Lady Olenna Redwyne clicked her tongue. "Robert has two sons. Renly has an elder brother. How can he lay claim to that ugly chair?"
Lord Mace Tyrell rubbed his hands together, smiling broadly. "Mother, Robert's sons are but children. As for Stannis—you know well his hatred of me. In the old days—"
"If you mean to boast of your battles again," Olenna snapped, "go. I've heard enough to last ten lives."
Mace chuckled. "No more, no more."
Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Olenna lowered herself into a chair.
"So Renly thinks a smile, fine clothes, and pretty words make him a king? The Baratheons ever had mad notions, all thanks to that Targaryen blood."
She slapped the armrest in vexation. "If we crown Renly, what gain have we? Endless curtseys and dancing to his tune. What else?"
Mace's face brightened. "Mother, Renly has promised to make Margaery his queen."
He stroked his beard, smirking. "He has promised—thus I give him my support."
Olenna longed for a stick to knock sense into her oaf of a son.
Before she could explode, Mace hastened to add: "Is it not cause for joy? The golden rose will be queen at last, and the queen will be your dearest granddaughter."
Olenna drew a long breath, anger at herself for even arguing with such a dolt.
"My Lord of Highgarden, I am not senile. Are you certain Renly can give Margaery an heir?"
Mace's smile did not fade. "Their children will inherit the Iron Throne."
"You blind pig!" Olenna barked. "I mean—can Renly get her with child?"
Mace froze. "He… surely he wouldn't? What good is there in—" He stopped short.
Olenna's tone dripped scorn. "So you do know how stubborn the Baratheons can be. And how does it feel to have a ring through your nose, my lord?"
Panic flickered in Mace's eyes. "Then what do we do? I have already summoned the banners."
"Then summon them home again," Olenna said coldly.
"They will laugh at the golden rose."
"They will laugh at their witless liege lord," she shot back.
Mace faltered, then pasted on a smile. "Mother—Lady Olenna—guide me."
She slapped his hand away. "Sit."
He obeyed meekly. Husband or son, both had ever tried her patience. But it was Renly's scheming that truly stoked her wrath.
"How many men have you called?"
"Twenty thousand on the western marches, and eighty thousand more gathering here. One hundred thousand in all."
Olenna sneered. "So diligent. If I were Renly, I'd weep with gratitude."
Mace grinned.
At last Olenna calmed herself. "Write to him. Say I await him at Bitterbridge to bend the knee. If he values me, let him come at once."
Mace wavered. "Mother, he is mustering at Storm's End. He may not—"
Her look cut him short. He knew it well enough: the look she gave to fools.
He was long accustomed. He only sat, smiling.
"Do as I say. The golden rose must not be led by the nose."
"Today I'll send the raven."
She nodded. "See to it."
Still he lingered, hesitant.
"My Lord of Highgarden, what now?"
"Mother, what then? If Renly comes—or if he does not?"
"Better you prepare, else you'll blunder again."
Her eyes, sharp as steel, fixed on him. "If he comes, I shall test him. Should he prove himself, the golden rose will give him all: the Reach and Stormlands marching together on King's Landing to seat him on that chair."
Mace nodded eagerly—that had been his plan all along.
Olenna added, "And if he shows us nothing?"
Her voice was ice. "Then march the hundred thousand to Casterly Rock. Let Lord Tywin answer to me for my grandsons. Do the Lannisters not boast that they always pay their debts?"
.
.
.
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