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In Runestone's garden, the black mist burned away.
Ayla collapsed where she stood.
"Maester Henwig!" Andar shouted.
The maester arrived in haste, his robes thrown on crookedly and his chain rattling against his chest. He checked Ayla's breathing, her pulse, and her eyes, then let out a careful breath.
"Exhaustion, Your Grace. Magical exhaustion, if her own words are to be believed. She needs rest more than medicine."
For three days, Andar barely left her side.
When Ayla finally opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was his unshaven face above her.
"You look as if you lost a war," she said weakly.
"I nearly lost you."
"Then I am glad you did not."
She told him more once she had recovered enough to speak.
"My full name is Aisamurian Kachiyajagara," she said.
Andar stared at her in disbelief, and she laughed softly at his expression.
"That is why I let you call me Ayla."
She told him of shadowbinders from Asshai, of shadow magic, and of how dangerous such arts could become in the wrong hands.
Andar's expression darkened.
"I saw Stannis's face in that thing."
"Then Stannis sent it."
"The rumors said Renly Baratheon was killed by a shadow outside Storm's End."
"Then the rumors were true."
Ayla rested a hand over his. "The spell was broken, and the caster suffered backlash. For a short time, she should not threaten you. If you mean to strike, strike before she recovers."
"You are not well enough."
"By tomorrow, some of my magic will have returned. Your rune armor cannot stop another strike yet. I will not let you go alone."
Andar wanted to refuse. Instead, he clasped her hand.
"When my father is free, I will marry you."
"You already said that."
"I mean to say it until you believe me."
She smiled.
If anything, the two of them should have thanked Robb Stark.
If Robb's war had not thrown the Vale into chaos, Andar would never have declared himself king, never attacked Old Anchor, and never rescued Ayla from the wrecked ship that should have taken her life.
War had changed the path of fate.
The next morning, Andar Royce stood on the wall of Runestone and addressed his men.
By noon, thirteen thousand soldiers marched toward Gulltown.
Stannis had once tasted success through shadow and thought to use the same blade again.
This time, the blade had cut his own hand.
At Riverrun, Robb sat in the sun with a gray wolf pup sleeping beside him.
The old keep had been made unsafe by Tywin's wildfire. Entire sections leaned at bad angles, and the remaining walls were cracked through. Robb intended to have it dismantled and rebuilt, but without controlled charges or wildfire, the work would have to be done slowly by hand.
Gendry came first.
"Your Grace, Patrek Mallister and Thormad have arrived."
"Bring them in a moment." Robb looked at him. "Before that, I have a question for you."
Gendry straightened.
"You served as my squire, trained with cavalry, infantry, and archers, and watched enough battles to understand what each branch can do. Which path do you want?"
Gendry did not hesitate for long.
"Cavalry, Your Grace. I want to break through whatever stands in front of me."
Robb smiled. "Then you will serve under Smalljon as a centurion. Learn from him. Do not copy everything."
Gendry grinned. "Yes, Your Grace."
Patrek and Thormad entered soon after.
Patrek knelt. "Your Grace, I ask no reward. Only give me Marq Piper."
Marq had been captured by Riverlands recruits after Robb killed his horse. Crey was still sorting the prisoners into those who could be absorbed, those suited for labor, and those who would die for betrayal.
Marq would die either way.
Robb remembered his father's teaching: the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. But Patrek had earned this.
"He is yours," Robb said.
Patrek bowed his head.
Thormad stepped forward more awkwardly.
"Your Grace, Mael... he was from the winter town. He had a blind grandmother, a younger brother, and two little sisters. At Stone Hedge, he killed enough enemies to earn citizenship before he died. The records burned with the castle."
Robb's expression softened.
"All who died at Stone Hedge after earning merit will have their names carved into the Warriors' Crypt. Their families will receive triple pensions. Survivors of that battle will receive doubled rewards and doubled merit."
Thormad's eyes reddened.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
After they left, Brynden Tully came in. Captivity had left his face thinner, but his back remained straight.
"Your uncle still refuses to come out?" Robb asked.
Brynden sighed. "Edmure is caring for Lord Hoster. Marq's betrayal shook him badly. Perhaps that is not the worst thing. A man can grow from shame if it does not break him."
"Then let him stay."
Brynden looked at the maps on the table. "What now? Do we retake the Riverlands first, then strike the Crownlands? Or do we hold the Westerlands?"
"We cannot retake all of the Riverlands yet," Robb said. "Tywin will not abandon Harrenhal or the Gods Eye line. He needs that buffer between us and King's Landing."
"Then occupy the Westerlands?"
"Yes. Cut the Lannisters' foundation out from under them."
Brynden frowned. "With the numbers we have now, we could try to smash Tywin and go straight for King's Landing."
"Numbers are not strength," Robb said. "Many of our men are prisoners who only recently changed sides, green garrison troops, or new recruits. The army I can truly use in the field is under twenty thousand. Tywin threw away Stormlanders and mixed forces at Riverrun, but his real Lannister cavalry lost only about two thousand."
He tapped the map.
"And the Vale cavalry was already involved in Edmure's trap. The Reach may join the war, and the Tyrells can raise nearly a hundred thousand men. My own power is not endless either."
Brynden looked up.
Robb's voice grew quieter. "Since the red comet, magic has been returning. In the Riverlands, some smallfolk have begun calling it the Red Messenger. At Moat Cailin, I nearly died to a death curse. If we rush blindly, we give the enemy chances."
Brynden's face sobered.
"I will march west in two days," Robb said. "Uncle, I need you to oversee Riverrun's rebuilding."
"I can do that."
Brynden's gaze drifted to the gray wolf pup in the corner.
"A new one?"
Robb laughed. "Later, I will give you a pup. Not this one."
"Why not?"
"Because this is Bloodwind."
Brynden stared at him.
Robb turned his head. "Bloodwind. Release Control."
The gray pup sprang to its feet.
Its body expanded in a rush of bone, muscle, and white fur. In only a few breaths, the harmless little wolf had become a towering ice direwolf more than ten feet tall, its golden eyes fixed on Brynden.
The Blackfish took half a step back despite himself.
Control was Bloodwind's first blood pact skill after his Physique passed fifty points.
It looked a little like a wood dancer's true skinchanging from the outside, but it was fundamentally different. Bloodwind could control and compress his own body with absolute precision, then return to his true form when needed. He could not become another creature, and he could not grow larger than his real body.
Restoring his size also took time.
The skill was strange, useful in some ways, and far less explosive than Link.
After the battles around Riverrun, Bloodwind's current state had changed again.
Name: Bloodwind
Contractor: Robb Stark
Physique: 62
Magic: 58
Species: Ice Direwolf (1)
Pack: Soldier wolves Nymeria (blood kin 6), Lady (blood kin 7), servant wolf Vine
Skills: Link (Magic), Control (Physique)
Blood Pact Points: 31
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