Jon Snow watched as Lord Walder Frey presented the girl who would one day marry Robb. A genuine, happy smile touched his face. "She's very beautiful. I think Robb should be quite pleased with his future wife."
Jason held his wine goblet, swirling the deep red liquid. He glanced at Robb's fiancée and nodded in agreement. "She is a beauty, worthy of a future Warden of the North. I just hope Robb knows how to cherish her and isn't tempted by other flowers along the way."
Jon, ever the earnest one, didn't catch the cynical undertone. "They've made a marriage pact. Robb would never break his promise—it would be dishonorable. I know him. He'll be loyal to her."
Jason laughed and gave Jon a knowing look. "Perhaps. But between the two of you, I have more faith that you would keep such a vow." He raised an eyebrow playfully. "So, what about you, Jon? Seeing your brother betrothed, does it give you any ideas?"
Jon looked completely bewildered. "Ideas, my lord? I don't know what you mean. I just hope Robb will be happy."
Jason rested his chin on his hand and studied the young man beside him. "Well, you're the same age as Robb. It's time you were married. As your liege lord, it seems I have a duty to find you a proper noble lady for a wife."
Jon's handsome, boyish face turned beet red. "No… no, my lord, I couldn't," he stammered. "I'm still young. I'm in no hurry to marry."
Ignoring his shyness, Jason clapped him on his sturdy shoulder. "Nonsense. Leave it to me. Don't worry, I'll find you a beautiful bride. You just wait."
Jon looked even more embarrassed. It was rare to see the young man, who so often tried to imitate Lord Eddard's serious demeanor, look so flustered. Jason couldn't help but chuckle. "Hahaha, don't be shy, Jon. Every man has to face it when he comes of age."
Jon hastily grabbed his goblet and took a large gulp of wine, trying to hide his blush. After a moment, a clever thought seemed to strike him. "My lord," he said, a slight smirk on his lips. "You're several years older than I am. Shouldn't you be the one looking for a lady from a great house? As your man, I can hardly marry before my own lord does."
He looked pleased with himself, certain he had found the perfect excuse to end the conversation.
Jason froze for a moment, genuinely caught off guard. Then he grew thoughtful. There are many beautiful women in Westeros, he mused. This is a different world entirely. Marrying a wife and having children here wouldn't be a betrayal of Lin Xiaohan, would it?
The idea was surprisingly exciting.
After the banquet, the army crossed the Twins. Robb Stark led his cavalry force south toward Riverrun, hoping to catch the Kingslayer by surprise. Jason's one thousand horsemen rode with him.
Meanwhile, at the cursed fortress of Harrenhal, Lord Tywin Lannister had made camp with the other half of the western host. The castle was a monstrous ruin, built by Harren the Black, who had spent forty years and the lives of thousands of captives to raise its five colossal towers. When it was finished, King Harren had boasted that his new fortress was impregnable. He had not accounted for Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons. Dragonfire cared little for high walls, and Harren and his sons were burned alive in their great tower. The intense heat had melted and twisted the stone, leaving the castle a charred, misshapen nightmare.
Lord Tywin chose one of the few intact towers for his quarters. From behind its solid walls, he commanded his army.
After a long and difficult journey, Tyrion Lannister's carriage finally rattled into his father's camp. The guards at the gate recognized the second son of House Lannister and, after a brief hesitation, moved aside the barricades.
Tyrion instructed his squire to take the carriage to the rear as he marched his short legs as fast as they could carry him toward the commander's tent.
"My lord, you cannot enter," a guard in golden armor said, stepping in front of him.
Tyrion, slightly out of breath, had to stop. He craned his neck to look up at the man, his mismatched black and green eyes narrowed. "If you have working eyes, you should know who I am. There aren't many men in Westeros who look like me, especially not in my own family's camp."
The guard, of course, recognized the Imp. "My apologies, Lord Tyrion, but we cannot let you in without Lord Tywin's express order."
Tyrion knew arguing was pointless. His father's guards were loyal only to his father. He shifted his sore ankles. "Then go and inform my dear father that his son has urgent news and requires a moment of his time. Tell him to hurry. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind waiting, but my patience is wearing thin."
The two guards exchanged a look. One of them, hand on the hilt of his sword, turned and disappeared into the large tent—a magnificent pavilion of crimson canvas, adorned with the golden lion of House Lannister.
A moment later, the guard returned and informed him he could enter.
Tyrion wasn't interested in trading barbs with a pair of dutiful soldiers. He simply pushed past them and into the tent.
Lord Tywin sat behind a large campaign desk, engrossed in a tall stack of documents. Tyrion noted with some surprise that his father was working with crisp, white paper, not the thick, smelly parchment common in Westeros. It was the paper that the Earl of Starfire City had introduced to the market, a cheap and convenient alternative that had already found its way into the hands of his family's greatest enemy.
Tywin did not look up when his son entered. He was absorbed in the immense task of managing an army of over twenty thousand men—logistics, supplies, troop deployments, and a thousand other trivialities all demanded his attention.
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