In the gloomy towers of the Crag, Robb Stark lay on a bed in House Westerling's cramped guest chamber. Every labored breath tugged at the blade wound beneath his ribs, deep enough to expose bone, sending searing pain through him.
In the battle of Lannisport, the armies of the North and the Reach had fought fiercely for a day and a night, with both sides suffering heavy losses.
For a start, though the Dothraki were brave riders, they struggled against the fine plate armor of the South.
The Reach's halberdiers had made these lightly armored Horsemen suffer terribly. More than half the Dothraki Screamers had died there.
The remaining Horsemen had left the northern host without so much as a word, slipping into the villages of the Westerlands to take up plundering.
After that, Robb had lost almost his entire Dothraki army.
He himself had been badly wounded in that battle and could only recuperate at the Crag, House Westerling's castle in the Westerlands, which he had captured earlier.
House Westerling had surrendered readily after its castle fell.
Lying in bed, Robb remembered the thunder of hooves as the Dothraki scattered, the young figure swinging a massive hammer beneath the Golden Rose banners of the Reach's army outside Lannisport, and the sight of his Screaming Warriors falling like wheat. Agonizing pain shot through his head.
"Drink some of this, Your Grace."
A voice as soft as a sigh sounded.
Jeyne Westerling sat beside the bed, holding a bowl of steaming medicine.
She carefully scooped up a little with a wooden spoon, blew it cool, and brought it to Robb's cracked lips.
Robb opened his heavy eyelids and looked at Jeyne, the girl who had cared for him when he was at his lowest.
Gratitude welled up in his heart, overwhelming