The Riverlands.
The war was grinding on, and the air felt thick enough to choke on.
"My lord, how long are we supposed to keep this siege going?" Ser Jon asked, frowning. He clearly didn't approve of his commander's stubbornness.
Tywin's face stayed blank as he stared at the sealed gates of Riverrun. "As long as Hoster Tully refuses to surrender," he said in a low, hard voice, "we keep hammering them until every last rebel is crushed and no lord in the Riverlands dares rise again."
Ser Jon shook his head silently. Should've known better than to ask.
Ever since the Battle of the Bells, the loyalists and rebels had been locked in a blood feud. In the last month alone they'd fought a dozen skirmishes, big and small.
Hand of the King Tywin Lannister didn't just hate Robert Baratheon—he hated Hoster Tully even more for helping the man escape.
Reliable reports said Robert had been spirited away to the Eyrie to recover.
Up north, Eddard Stark and Ser Denys Arryn were running the rebel army together. They'd dug in on the far side of the Trident, using loyal Riverlands castles as bases to launch hit-and-run raids.
Hoster Tully, old and wounded from the Bells, was stuck inside Riverrun licking his wounds.
Tywin couldn't reach Robert and couldn't outmaneuver Ned, so he'd decided to make Riverrun his personal punching bag, putting constant pressure on House Tully.
It was pure revenge, and it was giving Ned and the others the perfect excuse to bleed the loyalist army dry with guerrilla tactics.
Ser Jon had tried talking sense into him and failed. Seven hells, I hope Ser Barristan is having better luck at Harrenhal. We can't let Ned Stark bleed us white with these raids.
By the gods, Tywin was a brilliant Hand—he ran the realm like clockwork.
But on the battlefield? The man just couldn't keep up with the younger generation anymore.
Ned and Denys fought like madmen. They charged straight into the thick of it without a second thought, and their reckless courage was firing up the rebel troops.
The longer this dragged on, the worse the situation got.
Tywin clearly didn't see it that way. He barked at his men, "Send for Kevan. Bring up every trebuchet we have in the Westerlands. Bombard the walls every twelve hours."
Damn Robert. Damn Hoster Tully.
They'd dared to cross a Lannister. Now they were going to learn what "A Lannister always pays his debts" really meant.
"Yes, my lord."
A tall, broad-shouldered youth answered at once. His messy hair covered half his face and he wore the bored expression of someone who'd already seen too much. He turned to relay the order.
Ser Jon gave the boy a second look.
The kid was built like a damn tower. Half his face was scarred from old burns, and the loose plate armor on his chest bore the three hounds of House Clegane.
So young and already mastered Vitality? A real talent.
Ser Jon made a mental note. The boy clearly wasn't getting anywhere in the Westerlands army, and House Clegane was a nobody house. Maybe later he could pull the kid aside and suggest he go work for Prince Daeron instead.
That's exactly the kind of man the prince needs.
Inside Riverrun.
Lord Hoster Tully lay in bed, chest wrapped in layer after layer of bandages. A dark bloodstain seeped through the cloth over his lower belly. His right arm was slung across his neck, the broken bone splinted with wood.
"Ugh…" Hoster hissed as he shifted. The pain made his teeth clench.
At the Battle of the Bells a Lannister soldier had hacked his right arm, and an arrow had punched straight through his gut. If not for his armor he'd already be meeting the Stranger.
"Damn Lannisters," he growled. "We weren't even rebelling against you. You're the ones who chose to be the Mad King's dogs, and now you're biting House Tully to death."
Every time he thought about Tywin's relentless assault on Riverrun, Hoster's face twisted. He even cursed Tywin's father, the "Laughing Lion" Tytos, while he was at it.
It made no sense!
The four great rebel lords were fighting for their lives—lose and they'd lose their heads.
But Tywin? Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, Hand of the King. Why the hell was he throwing everything he had at them?
Even the Tyrells weren't this fanatical.
The thought dragged Hoster's mood even lower. He muttered, "The Crownlands plus half the Riverlands plus the Lannister army—that's already thirty or forty thousand men. The Tyrells have seventy thousand camped right on the border, ready to march the second they're called."
"And us? The Stormlands are lost. Gulltown just went dark. We've only got half the Riverlands, most of the North, and whatever's left of the Vale after they lost Gulltown."
The more he thought about it, the more hopeless it felt. We're finished.
"Ned Stark, that thick-headed boy—couldn't he have talked to the Northern lords and scraped together a few more thousand men?"
The North was huge and empty, but its people were tough as old boots. In every war they'd ever fought, the North had made the difference.
But Lord Rickard Stark was dead, and his eldest son "the Wild Wolf" Brandon had died with him.
House Stark was down to one surviving son: Eddard. Raised in the Eyrie, still young, with shaky authority among the Northern lords. He'd barely managed to raise thirteen thousand men.
Hoster's head throbbed. He sighed. "We can't let this war end. If Stark and the Arryns bend the knee and hide up north, the Iron Throne might never reach them. But House Tully? We're right here in the middle of it all."
To keep the alliance together he'd married his daughters Catelyn and Lysa in a rush right before the Bells—to Ned Stark and Jon Arryn's heir, respectively. The two girls had barely said their vows before their husbands rode off to war.
What he hadn't expected was both girls getting pregnant at the exact same time.
They were both safe inside Riverrun now, carrying their babies.
Knock-knock-knock.
A very specific rhythm sounded on the door.
Hoster's eyes lit up. He stared hard at the closed door and lowered his voice. "Who is it?"
"It's me, Hoster."
The familiar hoarse voice came through the wood.
Hoster's heart leaped. He almost tried to climb out of bed himself. "Come in—quickly!"
It was his brother, Brynden "the Blackfish" Tully.
Just like his daughters had their private code, the two brothers had shared secret signals since they were boys.
Creak.
Brynden slipped inside wearing black scale mail. He shut the door fast behind him so no one outside would see.
"Tywin's army is everywhere outside. How in the seven hells did you get back in?"
Hoster asked, amazed.
The Blackfish gave a cocky little smile. "This is my home. I grew up here. A fish knows how to slip back into its own nest without being seen."
"Aren't you supposed to be serving Prince Daeron Targaryen now?"
Hoster thought his brother had come back out of family loyalty to help lift the siege.
"I am. But the prince let me come home."
Brynden's expression was complicated. He looked his brother over and got straight to the point. "Hoster, the rebellion can't win. We both know that, don't we?"
Hoster froze. His face grew just as complicated.
Brynden kept going. "You haven't seen Prince Daeron riding his dragon into battle, but you've heard the stories. If House Tully keeps fighting him, we'll end up like the Hoares—Riverrun will become the second Harrenhal."
"You came back to convince me to surrender?"
Hoster's eyes were full of disappointment.
Brynden smiled, but it was sharp as broken glass. "I came back to save one last drop of Tully blood—so our name can still live on in the Riverlands instead of being wiped out."
He didn't need to say more. Hoster knew exactly what had happened to House Hoare and the other defiant lords during the Conquest.
Closer to home, House Baratheon had already lost Storm's End and become outlaws—hunted everywhere they went.
"Is there really no other way?" Hoster asked, still clinging to hope as he searched his brother's eyes.
But the Blackfish stared back with those dead-fish eyes. Not a single scrap of false hope.
Hoster's heart turned to ash.
A long moment later his face went gray, as if he'd aged ten years in a heartbeat. He said quietly, "Cat and Lysa are already married. Both of them are pregnant. House Tully can't just walk away."
"If you can bear to lose your grandsons, give each girl a cup of moon tea. I'll find them new husbands—good young men this time."
Brynden loved his family, but he also knew when to be ruthless.
When you had to cut, you cut clean.
Hoster thought it over seriously, then shook his head. "You know Cat's nature—she'd never agree. And Lysa… she's already had one moon tea."
Another one might kill her.
Brynden's vision went black for a second. He was furious at his brother for making such a mess that even cleaning it up was impossible.
"Brynden, you're their uncle. I'm an old man—I don't matter anymore. You can't abandon them."
Hoster could already see his own fate. All he wanted now was for his children to live.
Brynden took a deep breath. "Give Catelyn to Eddard Stark. Tell him to send her to Winterfell. I'll take Lysa and get her to the Eyrie."
He'd seen dragons. He knew their ways.
Sending the two girls north and east was the only choice left.
Winter was coming. Winterfell was freezing—dragons hated that kind of cold.
As for the Eyrie…
He could only hope Jon Arryn had the sense to surrender before he dragged his own heir and Lysa down with him.
"You really have a way to get them out?" Hoster's eyes brightened.
Brynden's face stayed cold. "Send a raven to Ned Stark and tell him to prepare an escort. I'll lead Riverrun's garrison and create the opening."
Dragonstone.
Daeron held Shaena's hand as they were invited inside the Stone Drum.
"Prince, this way please."
Ser Arthur Dayne personally led them to a chamber door.
The moment it opened, they saw Lyanna lying in the bed.
Rhaegar sat beside her, head bowed.
Shaena immediately noticed the fever burning on Lyanna's face. She glanced sideways at Daeron.
Daeron's eyes flickered, but he stayed silent.
"As you can see," Rhaegar said, throat tight, "Lyanna has childbed fever."
Daeron stepped closer and studied her flushed cheeks. "She's in bad shape."
His senses were sharp. He could feel a stubborn spark of life inside her still fighting the infection. That was the only reason she'd lasted this long.
"She's a warrior who could shame most men," Rhaegar said, voice raw with feeling as he gripped her hand. "I've never met a girl like her."
He looked up, eyes desperate. "Daeron, I know you have… certain abilities. As your brother, I beg you—please save Lyanna."
"I'm begging you."