Harrenhall
Tywin POV
That wolf pup has made his greatest mistake.
My son. My heir. Crippled, mutilated, shamed before the realm. Jaime, the golden lion, undone by a northern boy who dares to play at kingship.
The insult is beyond words. Robb Stark did not simply strike at my House but he struck at me, at everything I have built, at the legacy I will leave when I am dust. Jaime was my pride, my blood made steel. Now the wolf has made him an object of mockery.
I will not rest until the boy screams his last with Winterfell burning around him.
But vengeance without strategy is for fools like Robert Baratheon. I am no fool. If I crush the wolf too quickly, I make him a martyr. If I move too slowly, he gains strength. So I will bleed him, piece by piece, until he drowns in the ruin of his allies.
"Send Ser Gregor," I command, my voice cold enough to still the room. "Every village along the Trident, every hamlet from the Red Fork to Saltpans and burn them all. Slaughter their men. Drive the peasants into the forests and the rivers. Salt the fields. Leave nothing but carrion and ash."
Let the Riverlords curse me. Let the bards sing their grief. The wolf will find no grain, no shelter, no men to answer his call. His allies will starve before they march.
I close my eyes for but a heartbeat, and I see Jaime as he was: golden, smiling, a perfect sword in his hand. Then I see what the wolf has made of him.
No. Not wolf. Stark. And I will grind the name from the pages of history until none dare speak it again.
Dragonstone
Stannis POV
A cock in a box. That was the news the raven carried, whispered by tongues eager to spread scandal. The Kingslayer, the Kingsguard, Tywin's heir unmanned by Robb Stark, and the proof sent like a trophy to King's Landing.
I read the words twice, then a third time, though each telling left the same bitter taste in my mouth. I do not doubt it. The boy is Ned Stark's son but he was wolf-blooded, northern, hard and unyielding. But this act… no.
"A king should not rule with cruelty," I muttered aloud, though there was no one to hear. "Only with justice."
Ned Stark would never have stooped to mutilation. For all his rigid honor, he would have despised such savagery. And yet here is his son, crowned by his lords and cheered for the deed. Westeros does not want justice, I see that more clearly with every raven that flies. It wants blood. It wants spectacle. A boy cuts off a man's pride and the realm laughs and whispers in awe.
I feel the fury build in me like a forge fire, hot and choking. Tywin Lannister deserves to reap the whirlwind, aye but not like this. Not through lawless vengeance. The boy wolf thinks himself king, but kings do not stoop to butchery.
Only I can sit the Iron Throne. Robert's throne. My throne. By rights, by law, by blood. Only I will give this realm the order it needs.
But first Renly. My brother. My fool of a brother, prancing about in golden armor with a hundred thousand fawning knights at his back. He steals what is mine, while the realm descends further into madness with every day wasted.
I push the letter aside, my jaw clenched. I will not waste another moment on wolf or lion, not until the pretender who calls himself Baratheon is dealt with.
"Ready the men," I command. "We ride for Storm's End."
The realm may feast on blood and spectacle, but soon it will have justice. My justice.
Reach, Bitterbridge
Renly POV
They whisper of it even before the raven reaches my tent. A box. A letter. A scream in the Red Keep.
When the words are finally read aloud, even I cannot keep the smile from my lips. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, the boy they crown in the snows, has sent a message carved in flesh. He has shamed House Lannister before all of Westeros. The Kingslayer, Tywin's golden heir is unmanned and cast in pieces to Cersei's feet.
What audacity. What savagery. What theater.
And yet… what a kingly move.
Around me the lords of the Reach stir like hornets from a broken nest. Mace Tyrell bellows, red-faced and indignant, "Savage northern barbarity! To maim a great knight in such fashion it disgraces the laws of war!" He blusters, but there is fear beneath it, though he is too dull to know it.
Loras rises in white fury, hand gripping the pommel of his sword. "I'll carve the boy wolf apart myself!" His eyes blaze, not for Jaime, but for honor's sake, for the slight to knightly image. Garlan, calmer, lays a steadying hand on his brother's arm. "Robb Stark sends a message, brother. He would have all the realm know he is not playing at war. Best we heed it."
Randall Tarly says nothing for a time, but his gaze pierces the map before us as if he can see the path the wolves will cut. "It is not madness," he says at last. "It is calculation. Terror is a weapon, and the boy means to use it." His voice is low, sharp, ironbound. Some men boast, others posture, but Tarly sees. He always sees.
And then there is Margaery. Sweet, perfect Margaery, who lets her eyes widen just so, her lips part as though scandalized, frightened even. She places her hand lightly on mine. "Brother," she whispers, "what sort of man does such a thing? If he could do this to Ser Jaime, what would he do to the rest of us?"
Her voice trembles, but I know her well enough. Behind the pretty mask, the fox grins. She knows this war is shifting, that songs may be written of wolves before stags, and she plays the maiden's part for every watching knight. Even fear, for her, is a weapon.
And me? What do I think, truly?
I think Robb Stark has just declared himself a true player in this game. Every lord in this camp will remember that it was not I, nor Stannis, nor Joffrey, but a boy of the North who dared humiliate Tywin Lannister in such a way. He has raised the stakes beyond crowns and castles now it is blood and fear, and the weight of legend.
And so, I must act. If the wolf boy carves his name in blood, I must carve mine in glory. I will not be outshone.
Tomorrow we ride for Kings Landing. But take our time let my brother and the wolf and Lion take each other out. My banners will thunder from Bitterbridge to the gates, and the realm will see who commands the greater host, the greater claim, the greater dream of kingship.
Robb Stark may send cocks in boxes. I will win crowns in daylight.
North, Winterfell
Bran POV
The first letters arrived on a cold morning, black ink pressed on pale parchment, carried by weary riders from Riverrun. My hands trembled as I opened them. My heart nearly stopped at what I read.
Jon… my brother, my blood… a Stark. And Theon….a Stark too. The words burned bright in my mind, and a smile broke across my face before I could stop it. They had always been my brothers, in jest, in sparring, in laughter under Winterfell's walls. And now the North had seen it too. My chest swelled with pride, even though I was stuck in Winterfell's quiet halls, still unable to walk, still limited to the world I could touch only with my mind and eyes.
A second letter followed. My father… Ned Stark… dead. My stomach dropped. My fingers shook so violently I nearly dropped the letter. I pressed it to my chest, the paper crumpling under my grip. I could see him still, standing tall, his cloak brushing snow, his hand on my head, smiling down at me. And now he was gone, and all I could do was ache for him, ache for my sisters and brother, and ache for the North.
Then another parchment. The Ironborn. They had crossed the sea, raiding the North. I couldn't rise to stop them, couldn't lift a sword or rally men. My legs betrayed me, and my mind screamed to run, to fight, to defend, yet I could do nothing. My heart felt hollow, but then… a small scrap of hope. A letter from Theon himself:
"Bran, I am coming. I will protect you, Winterfell, and the North. Hold fast, brother, I swear it."
Theon Stark
Even the stiff walls of my room seemed to warm with that promise. I pressed the parchment to my face and let my mind wander to the yard where Theon had sparred with us, where Jon had laughed, where I had felt alive and unbroken. Maybe I wasn't completely helpless.
Another letter arrived later, from Robb. He had been crowned King, yes, but in it he called me Prince of Winterfell, heir of my father's house. My cheeks heated. I could almost feel my father's pride shining through the words. A prince… I had never imagined the weight of a title could feel so heavy, so comforting at the same time.
Ser Rodrick approached, as steady as ever, a hand on my shoulder. His voice was soft but strong, like the walls of Winterfell themselves.
"Prince Bran," he said, "you may not ride to battle or swing a sword, but that does not make you powerless. You are the heart of this house, the blood of Winterfell running through your veins. Your brothers, your father's men they fight knowing you are safe here, knowing you are the light of the North that must be protected. Fear is natural, but it will not rule you. Stand tall, young lord. Stand tall for your father, for your siblings, for the North."
For the first time in days, I felt some of the fear slip away, replaced by a fierce pride. I am Bran Stark. I may not wield a blade, but I carry my family in my heart. I may not ride into battle, but I hold the North's spirit, and that, I realized, is a power no enemy could steal.
I folded the letters carefully, placed them in my chest, and looked out toward the horizon where the North met the sky. Jon, Theon, Robb… they were fighting, yes, but I would be here, in my own way, standing as the heart of Winterfell.
Catelyn POV
The letter lay heavy in my hands, the paper trembling as though it shared my anger and fear. Maester Luwin had kept it from Bran, fearing the boy's heart would break if he read it too soon. "Perhaps Bran should not know what his eldest brother did," he had said quietly. And now I understood why.
Robb… my eldest son, my wolf-boy, had taken Jaime captive. The letter did not spare the details but what he had done, how unflinching he had been, how precise and ruthless. My stomach turned, my hands shook. My boy, my northern wolf, had crossed a line I could hardly bear to imagine. And yet… I could not look away.
I sank into a chair, the fire before me flickering across the walls, but offering no warmth. The north was at war. My husband was dead, my children scattered, my eldest son already walking a path I barely recognized. And here I was, forced to reckon with both his brilliance and his brutality, all in a single letter.
Maester Luwin cleared his throat quietly behind me. "Lady Catelyn," he said softly, "Bran does not know. Perhaps it is better he continues to sleep."
I nodded, the paper still clutched in my hands. My mind raced with everything Robb had done and would do. My heart ached for the boy who had once sat in my lap, the boy who had laughed with Bran and Jon in Winterfell's yards. That boy was gone, replaced by a wolf ready to hunt, ready to strike.
I folded the letter carefully, tucking it away in my cloak. My chest tightened. My children, my home, my family's honor is all at risk. I whispered through clenched teeth, a vow to the absent Ned and the living.
I will protect them. I will survive for Ned. I will not fail my children. Not now. Not ever.