OLENNA TYRELL
She sipped her wine, fingers drumming a measured rhythm against the carved armrest. The intelligence about the Yi Tish princess remained frustratingly incomplete—too many gaps, too many convenient omissions. A foreign girl suddenly appearing in the North, followed immediately by the Stark heir's disappearance to Yi Ti for nearly two years.
She scoffed softly. There was far more to that tale than what reached southern ears, especially given the reports of Catelyn Tully's studied coolness toward her supposed good-daughter. Hoster had raised his daughters to reach for the highest branches, and securing a Yi Tish princess as kin should have sent the Riverlands matron into raptures of delight.
But she wasn't delighted. She was formal. Correct. Distant.
Which spoke volumes about how that particular marriage had truly come to pass.
Mace still harbored dreams of Margaery wearing a crown, and by all rights her granddaughter deserved nothing less than queenship. There was only one remaining path to that goal—through Joffrey Baratheon's golden head. House Tyrell might earn the Starks as enemies by allying with the Lannisters, but come winter the wolves would retreat to their frozen wasteland as they always did.
Better the lions than that religious zealot who burned men alive as offerings to his fire god.
Their house would lose everything if Stannis Baratheon claimed victory, and she could not—would not—allow that to happen. The Starks' attempt to ally with Renly had been statement enough that they hadn't chosen the elder Baratheon brother. They had needed Tyrell numbers against the Lannisters then.
Now, alas, here they were on opposite sides.
Robb Stark was winning his battles—young but undeniably capable—though he seemed motivated only by his father's death and his sisters' captivity. Not conquest. Not crowns. The northerners had never shown much interest in southern politics, and if young Stark ever did reach for the Iron Throne, Westeros would never accept a foreign queen. Larra Rogare's brief, disastrous reign had proven that lesson bloodily enough.
Margaery entered quietly, her silk slippers whispering against the stone floor. She pressed a dutiful kiss to Olenna's cheek before settling gracefully on the settee opposite.
"Has your father finalized the marriage contract?" Olenna asked without preamble.
"Willas is reviewing the final terms," Margaery replied, her voice carefully neutral. "He'll bring it to you once everything is settled."
Olenna noted her granddaughter's unusual silence, the way she smoothed her skirts with unnecessarily precise movements. "Speak, child. What troubles you?"
"Loras, Grandmother." Margaery's blue eyes held genuine concern. "If the Starks discover our alliance with the Lannisters, what will they do to him?"
"What can they do? Execute him?" Olenna waved a dismissive hand. "They won't. He's worth far more alive than dead."
"Robb Stark might show mercy, but the Princess..." Margaery's voice dropped lower. "The Lannisters still can't secure Jaime Lannister's release. What does that tell you about her methods?"
"It tells me the old lion's pride matters more than his heir's freedom," Olenna replied tartly. "Tywin would rather let Jaime rot than legitimize his dwarf son by naming him heir to Casterly Rock."
"Surely you don't view Loras so callously." Margaery's composure cracked slightly. "The Princess could still use him against us, Grandmother."
Olenna set down her wine with deliberate care. "If she wanted him dead, he'd be moldering bones by now. She's keeping him breathing for a reason—which means we still have a valuable piece on the board." She paused, studying her granddaughter's anxious features. "The Starks show no interest in the Iron Throne, and even if they harbored such ambitions, Robb Stark already has a wife. This alliance is our path forward."
But even as she spoke the words, doubt nagged at her like a persistent ache. The Starks had sought Renly's friendship but never bent the knee. They had never declared for Stannis either, despite his superior claim.
"Grandmother," Margaery said softly, "there's something that's been troubling me. Initially, I assumed the Starks approached Renly because he commanded more swords. He wanted them to declare for him—publicly, formally. But the Northerners... they're traditionalists. Rigid about proper succession. They wouldn't ignore Stannis's rights. Not with Ned Stark's reputation for honor."
"Quite true," Olenna murmured. "Stubborn as winter, those wolf lords. Especially where duty is concerned."
"Lady Catelyn never explained why they refused Renly's terms. Only spoke of shared enemies and common cause." Margaery's voice grew more thoughtful. "And now... the Princess knows we're negotiating with the Lannisters. Yet they still haven't declared for Stannis. Not even now, against Joffrey's bastard crown."
Olenna's fingers stilled against the armrest.
They hadn't declared for anyone.
Because they never intended to.
"They'll declare for themselves," Olenna said "But only after they've won enough battles to make opposition irrelevant."
"And until then?"
"Until then, they let the realm believe they fight only for justice and family." Olenna's mind raced through the implications. "If they declared too early, they'd be rebels. Traitors. This way—they're righteous avengers seeking redress for murdered kin."
A pause. Then Olenna spoke again.
"YiTi... they might support an independent North and Riverlands. Especially if their blood sits that throne."
Margaery stayed quiet, but her eyes said she understood.
Olenna drained her cup.
"We'll walk with the lions—for now. But if the snows keep falling, we'll need thicker furs than gold can buy."
KEVAN LANNISTER
The flags were still white.
Not clean—ash and dust clung to the fabric like funeral shrouds. But they bore no blood.
Fifty bodies, perhaps more, lay arranged in precise rows across the burned ground. All headless. All stripped of armor and weapons, arms folded across bare chests, boots aligned with military precision.
Each severed neck bore a single white flag, thrust into the wound like a grisly marker.
Kevan's destrier snorted and shied, refusing to advance further. The stench was overwhelming, but it wasn't the smell of death that made the warhorse balk.
It was the beam.
Lashed together from salvaged cart wood, it rose above the corpses like a grotesque monument. A gallows without ropes. Instead, heads hung from hemp cords, swaying gently in the wind.
Seven in total. Their faces turned outward toward the road, mouths agape, tongues black and swollen. They were suspended like some obscene trophy, hung a severed hand and foot of impossible size.
Gregor Clegane. There could be no mistaking those massive appendages.
By the time Kevan reached Harrenhal's massive gates, the war council had already convened in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Tywin sat at the head of the great table, hands steepled before him, pale green eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts. He did not rise when Kevan entered. He never did—not for family, not for anyone.
"Report," his brother commanded in that soft voice that had sent stronger men than Kevan to early graves.
"It was a massacre," Kevan stated without preamble. He described what he had found in clinical detail—the arrangement of corpses, the display of severed heads, the white flags thrust into each neck like accusations. The other lords around the table shifted uncomfortably at his words. Lord Lefford actually paled. Ser Addam Marbrand's jaw worked silently.
Kevan felt no such squeamishness. He had seen what Clegane's men left behind—burned villages, mutilated corpses, children hung from trees.
This was different. Cleaner. More deliberate. The white flags weren't decoration. There was calculation in this. Purpose. Not fury, but message.
He wondered, briefly, if his brother had misjudged the Princess.
Instead of scattering, she had baited. Instead of retreating, she had struck.
And now, they had lost him. Not just lost. Taken. Displayed. The plan had backfired spectacularly. Clegane was gone, probably brought to their camps as their prize. This was not Westerosi warfare. It was foreign. Precise. The YiTish did not strike like Northern bannermen. He didn't know what had gone wrong—but something had. Enough to warrant execution without trial.
One of the lords called it barbarism. Said Westeros would not stomach it. Kevan said nothing, letting the lords divide themselves with their moral outrage. Clegane had been useful—terror made flesh, a weapon that broke enemy morale before battles even began. His loss weakened their entire front significantly. Tywin spoke of shifting pieces on the board, but Kevan saw only scattered remnants of what had once been a coherent strategy.
More troubling was the foreign precision of the attack. The YiTish would not act so unless provoked. If their princess was gone… then who commanded them now? Even if the YiTish went rogue—turned their blades from the North—they would not spare them. They did not care for alliances. They had no stake in Westerosi order, no interest in honour or parley. And if they believed this war had cost them their princess, then Westeros—all of it—would bleed.
ARYA STARK
Being Tywin Lannister's cupbearer meant she heard everything.
She was pouring wine when the news came: the Mountain was gone—cut apart.
Arya didn't smile. He deserved it, all right. But the way the lords whispered, the way Tywin's mouth tightened—something felt wrong.
It wasn't just a death. It was a warning.
Only pieces were found, they said. Not his head. Not his sword. Just limbs, and flags.
And no one spoke of the Princess. That's what made her stomach twist.
The YiTish didn't act without reason. If they did that, then something had happened.
Something bad.
She wanted to run. She wanted to go home. Riverrun was close, but not close enough. She didn't know the way. She had no horse. No food. And the roads were full of lions.
Yoren was dead. Lommy too.
What if she stabbed Tywin?
She could do it. Right while he read his letters. Just one quick stab.
But they'd kill her.
And Robb wouldn't even know. The war wouldn't end.
Still. She wanted to do it anyway.
The next day, while she refilled Tywin's cup, she nearly dropped the pitcher.
"The Ironborn have struck the North," one of the lords said.
The room shifted. Like someone let out a breath.
"A second front," another added. "He'll have to turn back. Has to."
Arya's hands shook.
No.
She went to sleep that night, dreaming she ran with wolves.
Fast. Wild. Free.
Freedom.
She felt the wind in her fur. Her legs moved like they knew the world. She wasn't a girl anymore — she was part of the pack. Stronger than fear.
But then everything slowed. The trees faded.
Darkness came. Thick and strange. Like the dream had fallen asleep.
She didn't wake up.
She was still inside the wolf — she knew that much — but the wolf wasn't moving anymore. Just breathing. Still. Asleep.
And in that stillness, something shimmered.
A woman. Pale robes glowing like moonlight on snow. Her hair floated as if underwater. She didn't walk — she drifted.
Ruyan.
Arya knew her face, even though she'd only glimpsed it once. She looked like a spirit from Old Nan's stories. Soft. Untouchable.
Was she dead?
NO.
Arya tried to move, to shout, but she had no voice. Only teeth. Only breath.
She howled, but it didn't carry.
Ruyan didn't turn. She just moved deeper into the dark.
And Arya stayed behind, stuck in the dream. Trapped in something sleeping.
She woke with a start, breath caught in her throat.
Her cheeks were wet. She was crying.
She hadn't cried since Yoren. Not like this. Not from a dream.
But Ruyan had looked like a ghost. Glowing white. Drifting through darkness.
She'd called for her. Screamed for her.
And she hadn't turned back.
Arya wiped her face with the hem of her sleeve, angry at herself.
But the ache stayed in her chest.
What if the princess was gone?