In the shadowed towers of The Crag, Robb Stark lay on the bed of a narrow guest chamber belonging to House Westerling. Each ragged breath tugged at the deep, bone-revealing wound beneath his ribs, sending waves of burning pain through his body.
At the Battle of Lannisport, the armies of the North and the Reach had clashed for a day and a night, leaving terrible losses on both sides. The Dothraki were fierce, but they struggled against the South's heavy plate armor. The Reach's pikemen cut down the lightly armored riders with brutal efficiency, leaving more than half of the Dothraki Roaring Warriors dead on the field.
The survivors didn't even say farewell. They simply abandoned the Northern host and disappeared into the Westerlands countryside, turning to pillage and plunder.
After that, Robb lost nearly all of his Dothraki forces.
He himself had been gravely wounded in that battle and was now confined to The Crag, the Westerling stronghold he had taken earlier. The Westerlings had surrendered without resistance once their walls fell.
Lying in bed, Robb could still hear the echo of fleeing hooves, see the hammer-wielding youth beneath the golden rose banners of the Reach, and watch in his mind's eye as his Roaring Warriors fell like cut wheat. The memory stabbed at his skull with sharp pain.
"Drink this, Your Grace."
The words came in a voice soft as a sigh.
Jeyne Westerling sat by his bedside, holding a bowl of steaming broth. She scooped up a small spoonful, blew gently to cool it, and brought it to Robb's parched lips.
Robb forced his heavy eyelids open and looked at Jeyne—the girl who had tended him when he was at his lowest. Gratitude welled up inside him, momentarily drowning out the pain.
He drank the bitter liquid obediently, his gaze never leaving her face. For some reason, after swallowing the medicine, he found Lady Westerling more beautiful than before.
"Jeyne…"
His voice was rough. "I lost. I let that Baratheon escape. The North…"
"You're still alive, Your Grace."
Jeyne cut him off softly. She set the bowl aside and brushed his fevered forehead with her cool fingers. "As long as you live, the Direwolf banner will never fall."
Perhaps it was the fever clouding his mind, or the desperate need for warmth after losing too much. Perhaps it was the purity shining in the girl's eyes that stirred something long dormant within him.
Robb suddenly reached out—not to push the bowl away, but to seize Jeyne's slender wrist, gripping so hard she gasped in pain.
"Jeyne…"
His tone changed—not a king to a subject's daughter, but a man to a woman. His eyes burned with fierce, reckless longing.
Jeyne's face flushed red, but she did not pull away. Beneath her shyness glowed a matching fire. She leaned down and kissed his cracked lips. The kiss was clumsy, but it sparked an uncontrollable blaze.
In the days that followed, the Young Wolf's wounds slowly healed under Jeyne Westerling's careful tending. Yet as his body mended, their bond deepened. The tenderness born beside his sickbed soon turned into passion.
When Robb was finally able to stand with the wall for support, Jeyne shyly told him she was with child.
The news swept the gloom from Robb's heart—but it brought a new problem. His betrothal to one of Walder Frey's daughters.
...
In the great hall of Riverrun, Catelyn Tully sat beside the high seat. Her once-full cheeks were hollow, her eyes reflecting the flickering firelight from the hearth. She had lost Ned. She had lost Bran. Now Robb had returned, newly healed and with Jeyne Westerling carrying his child.
The sight filled her with bitterness.
It had been she who convinced Old Frey to join their cause, she who promised that Robb would wed one of his daughters. Yet her son, while away at war, had let love overrule duty and was now breaking his vow.
The problem was plain: Robb could no longer keep his word. The first solution everyone thought of was for Robb's uncle, Edmure Tully, to marry a Frey girl instead.
Edmure stood in the center of the hall, his handsome face full of protest. He paced back and forth.
"A Frey daughter? Have you seen Old Walder's face? How pretty could his daughters be? Crooked mouths, squinty eyes—Robb, you'd have me marry a Frey? I'd rather jump into the Red Fork!"
Robb sat in the high seat, still pale from illness but steady in his resolve. Beside him stood Jeyne, one hand resting gently on her belly.
Robb's voice was low. "Uncle, without his bridge, our army is a lone wolf trapped in the south, waiting to die. You're not marrying a Frey—you're marrying the North's road home, the lives of countless soldiers, our future hope."
He paused, his tone softening. "For our cause, Uncle Edmure, I need you."
Edmure stopped abruptly, his back to the others, shoulders trembling. He remembered his father's words on his deathbed, the pleading in his sister Catelyn's eyes, the loyal Northmen camped outside Riverrun, and the words of House Tully. The crushing weight of duty consumed him.
Slowly, he turned around. His face was pale with resignation, his voice dry. "Robb, I'll do it. I'll marry the Frey girl."
...
Late that night, in the dungeons beneath Riverrun, Catelyn dismissed the guards and descended the narrow stone steps alone, a lantern in her hand. She stopped before a cell sealed by iron bars.
Jaime Lannister sat slumped against the wall. His once-golden hair was matted with grime, tangled and hanging over his shoulders. Though disheveled and filthy, his emerald eyes still shone sharp as jewels in the dim light.
"Lady Stark."
Jaime's voice was hoarse, tinged with mockery. "A midnight visit. Have you finally decided to take this precious head of mine to appease your husband's spirit?"
Catelyn's face tightened in the shadows. Her words cut like a blade. "Kingslayer. You killed the Mad King, then Robert. The blood of two kings is on your hands. You deserve to die."
Jaime snapped his head up, the cynicism in his eyes giving way to cold fury. He dragged his heavy chains, forcing himself upright.
"The Mad King? That lunatic who ordered wildfire to burn all of King's Landing—and himself with it? He didn't deserve to be called king! And Robert—the drunken fool who spent his days in brothels and hunting grounds? I killed two men who never deserved the Iron Throne. If that's a sin, my lady, then I, Jaime Lannister, will bear it gladly!"
Catelyn retorted, "What the Mad King failed to do, your sister and lover accomplished. She blew King's Landing to ashes with wildfire, shaming the Lannister name forever."
With that, Catelyn turned on her heel and stormed off.
Jaime's face went pale. His fists clenched, but no words came. He had already heard whispers of Cersei's destruction of King's Landing, yet hearing it confirmed struck him like a blow.
Cersei… Knowing her, yes, she could have done it. But why hadn't Tyrion stopped her?
Desperation welled within him—he had to get out, had to know the truth.
Moments after Catelyn left, a figure appeared silently at the dungeon entrance. He gave a signal to one of the guards.
A soldier from the Dreadfort stepped forward, met his gaze, then pulled out a key and unlocked the heavy iron cell door.
When the first pale light of dawn pierced the morning mist, news of Jaime Lannister's disappearance spread through Riverrun like wildfire.
"The Lannister has escaped!"
"The Kingslayer is gone!"
Panic and rage swept through the castle. Every eye turned toward the last person who had seen Jaime the night before—Catelyn Tully.