Chapter 106 103

That same evening, a lone raven bearing a small note flew out from one of the Red Keep's many windows. The bird, pale-eyed and dark as the night it vanished into, drove itself without mercy toward the northwest, carrying its urgent message.

...

The Riverlands. The Northern Camp.

Robb Stark.

Standing at the entrance to his tent, Robb was furious. When his father had not been there, it was he who had rallied the northmen, negotiated with the Freys, committed the First Men to battle, and broken Lannister armies across the Riverlands. Every plan he had devised had succeeded. Not a single defeat had come under his command. In the span of a few months, Robb had ceased to be a boy and become a real man, one upon whose decisions the fates of thousands rested. The lords of the North and the Trident had come to respect him, calling him the Young Wolf. It had flattered him, without question, for these were his achievements.

When his father arrived, Robb had surrendered command without question. Eddard was his lord, a man who had fought two wars. He could admit to himself that he had been relieved to hand off the weight of those thousands of lives. He loved and respected his father, but in war, the name Quiet Wolf had revealed a side of Ned Stark that the young man found deeply frustrating. His father had a persistent reluctance to accept what he called "unwarranted risk," yet his authority and military record meant that Robb had to hold his tongue.

He had been sent away from dangerous situations under one convenient pretext or another, and a serious conversation between them had followed. Robb was no fool. No fool could have achieved what he had at fifteen, and he understood that his father wanted to protect him. But he also knew there were no safe places in war. In the end, they had spoken calmly and reached a compromise.

The lions had withdrawn from the Riverlands in haste, and the northmen had pushed forward into a counteroffensive. Everyone knew the old saying about Tywin Lannister shitting gold, and the prospect of marching into the Westerlands had put fire in men's eyes. Everything had been going well. Then Stannis arrived. The king, whatever he chose to call it, had lost to the Falcon's Eye, and now his aunt was in exile and his cousin held as a hostage in the Eyrie.

Stannis had made himself unpopular quickly, both among the northmen and the soldiers of the Trident. Since his arrival, victories had grown fewer and losses more common. The king showed himself to be an ungrateful man who demanded ever more from those around him while ignoring their counsel. The northern lords had already been uneasy, having never fully understood the reason for the war in the first place. Only the family ties between Stark and Tully, Robb's decisive early victories, and the prospect of Lannister gold ripe for the taking had kept morale at a tolerable level.

Robb understood that this was not Stannis's fault, not entirely. Before, they had been beating the lions on Riverlands soil, fighting on familiar ground. Now, trying to force their way into the Westerlands, that advantage was gone. The lords who had come with the king, whether for religious, material, or other reasons, did not regard the northmen as their equals and took no pains to conceal it. But what had galled Robb most was the moment Stannis had pushed him to the margins, and his father had begun accommodating the king's every preference.

Then a raven had arrived from Elena, and a thought had come to him. The army was currently divided in two: Baratheon with half the men pressing westward through the Golden Tooth, and his father guarding the rear and keeping the attacking force supplied. Without wasting another moment, Robb went to his father's tent.

"Father, read this," he said, aware that the commander was occupied, but knowing that opportunities like this came rarely.

"What do you want?" Ned Stark's voice was measured.

"Let me take a few thousand men and track down the Kingslayer."

"No." His father's answer came like a door closing. "Or rather, not yet. The information needs to be scouted and confirmed first."

"By then it will be too late!" Robb had grown weary of his father's caution, which had long since crossed into something resembling cowardice. "Father, we have a chance to capture Jaime Lannister and trade him for Bran, Sansa, and Elena."

"You cannot simply walk out and capture the Kingslayer. He will have veteran westermen around him, men who never let their guard down."

"You have a chance to bring your family home, and you are willing to let it slip by out of caution! Your children are kept in the Red Keep, surrounded by lions! I don't need to tell you what happens when a city falls!" He caught himself, realizing he had said too much, and steadied his voice. "Our informant has never led us wrong. Father, just let me go and bring my sisters and brother home."

They had agreed between themselves that Elena's name would never be spoken aloud, so as not to put her in danger.

His father said nothing for a long moment. Ned Stark tried to hold himself still, to keep his face composed, but the longing to see his children again was quietly winning out over his natural restraint. The ambush grew more tempting still by the fact that every previous report from Elena had proven exact.

"Promise me, Ned." The words that rose in his mind were the last weight to tip the scale for Eddard Stark.

"Very well." Robb was already bracing to feel relief when the next words made him frown instead. "I will lead the party myself." He burned with the slight of his father's distrust.

"BUT..."

"No buts. You will take command while I am in the field." On this, the Quiet Wolf would not bend, but seeing the frustration on his heir's face, he softened slightly. "Robb, I know this feels unjust to you. But I will not put you in danger needlessly. Now go."

Robb was furious, but he did not dare defy his father. As he turned to leave, he heard something he had never expected from the man who was always so composed: a long, tired sigh.

...

King's Landing.

Night.

Seated late at night at his writing table, Tywin set down the finished letter. The Old Lion had a clear-eyed understanding of his own position and knew he could not win this war alone. Allies would have to be found.

The most obvious option was sellswords. Unfortunately, the strongest companies were already committed in the Disputed Lands. From the moment Myr had carved out a substantial piece of territory, its old enemies, Tyrosh and Lys, had begun preparing for their answer. Barely two weeks after the Falcon's Eye resigned as Hand, skirmishes had begun breaking out along the cities' borders, threatening to grow into a new round of open conflict. And yet no one had launched a full-scale war for the Disputed Lands, the cities merely building their strength in a controlled frenzy, buying up every sellsword company within reach.

The second option was the Vale. The Falcon's Eye had come out of the conflict a winner, without suffering serious losses, and would make an excellent ally. Yes, Cersei had given him a grave insult, but in the Old Lion's experience, enough concessions could always soothe a wounded heart. The letter, among other things, reminded him of Myrcella, who had been promised as his bride. Tywin had taken care to learn about the close bond between them and had not hesitated to press on it.

But the greater part of Tywin's mind was occupied with something else entirely.

Who is the traitor? Varys... unlikely. The Spider would not expose himself so recklessly. Baelish also seems wrong. I would sooner believe he is passing information to Arryn than to Stannis. The maester and the sellsword were thrown in the dungeons immediately on suspicion, and yet the information still reached Stannis. The hidden passages? Only Varys swears he has disclosed every one he knows, though one ought not to assume Varys is all-knowing. More likely the spy has found some forgotten crawlway that lets him listen in on sessions. We shall test that theory. Jaime is too great a temptation to ignore, especially if the northerners come to believe the son is waiting in an ambush with a small detachment.

Using his son as bait was a risk, and Tywin knew it. But he understood equally well that no war was ever won without risk. If the enemy took the hook, Jaime, commanding a full army, would be more than capable of destroying whoever came to capture him. And if they did not believe it, the forces freed up would simply march as reinforcement to Stafford.