The cold, ceaseless drizzle that turned the earth around Riverrun into a sucking bog. I spent the night walking the camp's fringes while Nymeria shadowed my steps.
The Northern men stared at their boots as we passed the watchfires. They held their breath, stiff and silent in the gloom, trying not to draw the gaze of the beast that had walked out of their nightmares. The Tully men were worse. They gripped their spears until their knuckles turned white, edging back into the deepest shadows to avoid my gaze. They murmured about the beast.
By dawn, we retreated to a grove. I settled onto a patch of dry moss. The fire beneath my skin baked the dampness from my fur, curling the morning chill into faint wisps of steam. Nymeria curled tight against my flank, seeking the warmth, and closed her eyes.
...
My ears pricked. Two sets of boots squelched through the mud, approaching from the castle drawbridge.
Ned Stark pushed through the dripping branches with Robb at his shoulder. Ned looked hollowed out. He carried a crumpled roll of parchment crushed in his fist. He stopped a few paces away. I didn't stir, resting my heavy chin on my paws.
"The Riverlords want to march at once," Ned said. "Our own lords agree with them. Edmure wants Jaime Lannister executed for what was done to his lands."
Ned stepped closer, studying the healing scar beneath my eye.
"I refused them."
Robb frowned. "Father, if we remain here while Tywin sits behind those walls, the men will lose heart."
"Perhaps," Ned admitted. "But Harrenhal is not a castle that would fall without cost. A siege there could drag on for years, and I will not leave your sister in that woman's hands that long."
Ned glanced down at the parchment clenched in his fist before looking back at Robb.
"A raven will fly south before midday," he said. "Kingslayer for Sansa. Whatever terms the Cersai demands, we will hear them. Until your sister is safely returned to us, nothing else matters."
Robb swallowed, the argument dying in his throat. He nodded once.
Ned turned back toward the grey walls of the Tully keep. Robb lingered for a second, eyeing me warily, before following his father back into the mist.
....
By mid-morning, the drizzle finally stopped, leaving behind a thick, grey fog that clung to the riverbanks.
I stood up, shaking the dampness from my heavy coat, and looked at Nymeria. She was already watching me, her stomach giving a low, hungry growl.
We needed to eat, and I had zero intention of relying on the Stark supply lines. The men were already rationing grain and salted beef; feeding a six-foot hound and a growing direwolf would only breed resentment among the mens.
We pushed deeper into the Whispering Wood, moving miles away from the Riverrun perimeter. The wet leaves muffled our approach. I let Nymeria take the lead on the scent tracking. Her instincts were sharp, unburdened by human thought. Within an hour, she caught the musk of a large wild boar rooting near a rocky incline.
We flanked it in total silence. When the boar finally noticed the danger, it was far too late. Nymeria darted in from the left, snapping at its hind legs to turn its massive, tusked head toward her. I hit it from the right blind spot. My jaws clamped down on the thick muscle of its neck, the sheer weight of my body driving the beast straight into the mud. The beast kept struggling till light faded from it's eyes and let go of hold. Nymeria didn't wait for me as she started feeding on flesh, a moment later so did I.
We returned to our ridge overlooking Riverrun just before midday. The castle was a hive of frustrated activity. The mud in the camp outside the walls was knee-deep in places. Men were trying to dig trenches to divert the pooling water, cursing the weather and the war in equal measure.
My hearing picked up the raised voices coming from the main courtyard.
"They are burning my smallfolk, Lord Stark!" Edmure Tully's voice echoed, tight with anger. "Every day we linger behind these walls, Tywin's men range deeper into the Riverlands. We have the strength to meet him in the field."
"Harrenhal's walls are a hundred feet high, uncle." Robb answered, his tone trying to mediate but failing to hide his own frustration.
"Then let them starve behind those walls!" The Greatjon bellowed. "I didn't march my boys all the way south to sit in the mud and wait for a woman to send a letter!"
Ned's voice cut through the noise. It wasn't loud, but the weight in it silenced the courtyard.
"You marched because my heir called the banners, Umber," Ned said. "Tywin Lannister wants us to march on Harrenhal. And I will not fight the war he wants."
A silence followed.
"And the Kingslayer?" Edmure pressed, quieter now. "He sits warm while my people burn. Give him to me, Lord Stark. Let me have his head."
"Kingslayer is worth more alive than dead," Ned replied. "So long as he lives, my daughter lives with him. Any man who lays a hand on him answers to me. Is that understood?"
There were muttered agreements. The lords were unhappy, but the Wolf's Blood had shown itself at the siege camps. None of them were willing to cross Ned Stark while he carried that fury in his eyes.
I watched the courtyard gates open. A heavy escort of Karstark spearmen marched out, forming a tight ring. In the center walked Jaime Lannister.
Ned was completely pragmatic about keeping the hostage alive. The wooden cage at the edge of the camp was fine for a night, but the damp cold of the Riverlands would not allow Jaime's maimed arm to heal, leading to a fatal infection. They were moving him from the field camp into a high, secure tower inside Riverrun, ensuring the Lannister gold didn't rot before the trade could happen.
Jaime looked terrible. His golden hair was matted with mud and dried blood. His right arm was heavily bandaged in fresh linen, bound tightly to his chest.
Halfway across the drawbridge, he stopped. The guards shoved him with their spear shafts, shouting insults, but Jaime barely registered them. He turned his head slowly, his sunken eyes searching the fog-shrouded tree line. He couldn't see me through the thick mist, but the weight of the nightmares he should have endured lingered in his bones. The strange, horrifying vision of the Mad King's death had shattered him. He stared at the ridge for a long, trembling moment, before dropping his chin and letting the spearmen herd him into the dark maw of the castle.
An hour later, a sharp caw echoed over the battlements.
A black raven launched from the Maester's tower. It circled the keep once, caught the wind, and banked south toward King's Landing.
I rested my head on my paws. The terms were set. Now, it was entirely in Cersei Lannister's hands.