The solar at Riverrun was thick with the smell of damp wool and old parchment, the river wind pressing against the shutters like a warning. Robb Stark stood at the table, hands braced against the map of the realm, fingers hovering over the Neck. His crown—new, heavy, and unwanted—sat nearby like an accusation.

Ned Stark was dead.

The words still felt unreal, even spoken aloud. His sisters were scattered—one lost in the south, the other vanished into rumor. Winterfell held, but barely. Every raven brought worse news.

Catelyn watched her son with the eyes of a mother and a strategist, grief sharpened into resolve. Tyrion Lannister sat across from them, bound but upright, his mouth curved in that infuriating half-smile that suggested he knew more than he should.

“It’s not nonsense,” Tyrion said mildly. “It’s inconvenient truth.”

Robb’s gaze snapped to him. “You’ll speak when spoken to.”

Tyrion inclined his head. “Then I’ll wait for the question you’re circling.”

Catelyn folded her hands. “You said you knew something of her.”

“Ah,” Tyrion said. “The girl in the Neck.”

The room stilled.

“Not a girl, really,” Tyrion continued. “A woman grown. Raised by a crannogman—or something close to one. A man who knew how to disappear and how to listen. She learned to gut fish before she ever saw a court, and she knows how to keep her mouth shut when lords talk too freely.”

Robb frowned. “You’re saying she exists.”

“Oh, she exists,” Tyrion said. “And she is very much her father’s daughter.”

Rhaegar Targaryen’s name did not need to be spoken.

Catelyn’s jaw tightened. “A bastard.”

“Yes,” Tyrion agreed easily. “But not a fool. And not loyal to any banner but survival. She’s lived her whole life knowing what she is and what she isn’t. That sort of woman does not romanticize crowns.”

Robb looked back at the map. The Neck. Moat Cailin. A chokehold on the south.

“If she’s real,” he said slowly, “she’s leverage.”

“She’s legitimacy,” Tyrion corrected. “A whisper of dragon blood that doesn’t come wrapped in madness or exile. And more importantly—she’s unclaimed. No husband. No vows. No banners sworn.”

Catelyn met her son’s eyes. The unspoken words passed between them. The North stood alone. The Riverlands bled. Allies were thin, and honor alone would not save them.

“A marriage,” Robb said quietly.

Tyrion smiled. “Desperate times.”

Robb’s voice hardened. “Not desperation. Strategy. If she’s half what you say, she’ll understand why this is necessary.”

“And if she refuses?” Catelyn asked.

“Then she refuses,” Robb said. “But she deserves the truth. And the choice.”

Silence fell again, heavy and solemn.

At last, Robb straightened. “Send a letter,” he said. “Not a demand. An invitation. Tell her who I am. Tell her what’s been lost. Tell her I seek counsel—and alliance.”

Catelyn nodded. “And a discreet envoy. Someone who knows the Neck.”

Tyrion chuckled softly. “Oh, she’ll hear. The Neck listens.”

Robb turned toward the table where parchment lay waiting. Outside, the river moved on, indifferent to crowns and bloodlines alike.

Somewhere in the marshes, a woman who had learned to toil and listen was about to be called into war.

And the realm would shift because of it.