Before leaving the Riverlands, Jason sent word to both Duke Edmure Tully and Robb Stark, informing them of his departure. His reason was simple: he needed to return to the North to settle the last of the refugees. He was not a vassal of House Stark, and he felt his duty was done after helping Robb secure a major victory. He trusted Robb would understand.
Riding at the head of the column, Jason watched the long train of wagons snaking behind him. The carts were filled with the elderly, women, and children, while able-bodied men and women walked alongside, their faces set toward their new homes in the North. This final group of refugees numbered in the tens of thousands, and with his escort of nearly a thousand cavalry, Jason's entire caravan was a moving city of over eleven thousand people.
Despite the immense size, the presence of hundreds of wagons meant the column could move at a steady pace, covering dozens of kilometers a day. The journey from Riverrun to the Twins took eight days.
Getting permission from House Frey to cross their bridge with such a large force was no simple matter. Jason had Robb send a raven to persuade them, but he also had to offer Lord Walder Frey many preferential trade conditions. Furthermore, he spent a significant sum of gold buying massive quantities of food from the Freys to feed the refugees on their journey, a deal that made the old lord a handsome profit.
Gold dragons were useless if they couldn't be eaten. Jason was earning millions from his monopoly on modern goods across Westeros and Essos, and the profits were staggering. But hoarding coins was meaningless. True strength came from turning that gold into food, resources, and a loyal population.
As the last of the refugees crossed the bridge, Lord Walder Frey extended an invitation for Jason to attend a banquet at the Twins. The thought of the "Red Wedding" from the stories made Jason's stomach churn. He couldn't shake the fear that the bitter old man might have a similar tragedy planned for him.
His fears, however, were unfounded. For now.
With a marriage alliance secured with House Stark, the Freys were enjoying a newfound sense of importance. They were too pleased with themselves to care much about a foreign-born lord like Jason. The only thing about him that truly interested them was his seemingly endless supply of exotic goods. They hoped that by fostering a good relationship, they could secure better prices and sell his products in the Riverlands for a larger profit. After all, they were now family to the King in the North.
At the feast, Lord Walder's attitude was almost pleasant. Jason raised his glass to the withered old lord, forcing a smile while his mind raced. He wondered again if Robb had taken his warning to heart. If he ignored it, the tragic wedding from the stories might still come to pass. Looking at the smug, beaming faces of the Freys around him, Jason felt a deep sense of unease.
He did not stay long. After allowing his people a day of rest outside the castle walls, Jason led his caravan north once more.
Meanwhile, Robb's campaign was unfolding just as Jason remembered. Led by his direwolf, Grey Wind, his army took a hidden mountain path to bypass the Golden Tooth, emerging deep in the Westerlands. Their surprise attack threw the region into chaos as they laid siege to one castle after another.
During the storming of the Crag, Robb was wounded. He was taken into the castle, where he was cared for by a beautiful young noblewoman named Jeyne Westerling. As he recovered, the two spent their days and nights together, and a romance quickly blossomed.
At the same time, another plan was falling apart. Theon Greyjoy, having proposed to Robb that he would sail back to the Iron Islands and persuade his father to attack the Westerlands by sea, found himself facing nothing but scorn at home.
His older sister, Asha, was everything he was not. A lean, long-legged ship captain with short black hair and an axe always at her side, she commanded the respect of the Ironborn. They saw Theon, who had spent ten years as a ward—a hostage—in Winterfell, as a soft mainlander, not a true son of the sea. They looked down on the boy raised in a lord's castle.
Theon was furious. He stood before his father, who sat upon the Salt Throne, and shouted, "I am your son! My brothers are dead. I am your only heir! You can't mean to pass the Salt Throne to Asha, to a woman!"
King Balon Greyjoy, his bald head framed by long, grey hair, regarded his son with cold eyes. His skin was dark and weathered, a common trait among the Ironborn. He leaned back on his throne, looking down at Theon with contempt. "If you hadn't said it, I might have forgotten you have the blood of the kraken in you at all. All I smell on you is the stench of those Stark wolf pups. A Greyjoy smells of salt. It's clear you're one of them now."
"No!" Theon cried, his voice filled with resentment. "I'm not! The blood of the sea monster has always been in me! I never forgot!" He took a step closer, his anger boiling over. "If you hadn't started your rebellion, if Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark hadn't crushed you, I never would have been sent away! You're the one who handed me to Eddard Stark as a hostage. I've been suffocating for ten years because of you! This is all your fault! You have no right to blame me for it!"
Asha, who had been casually toying with a small throwing axe, fell silent at her brother's bitter words. He was right. If their father hadn't failed, Theon would have never been taken to Winterfell.
Theon's words had struck a nerve. King Balon's face twisted into an ugly scowl. "Robert Baratheon is dead," he said, his voice a cold rasp. "Eddard Stark is dead. Their kingdom is tearing itself apart. But I am still here, and the Iron Islands have a chance to be a kingdom again. So, in the end, I won."
"There's no pride in outliving the dead!" Theon shot back.
Since the moment he had set foot back on Pyke, Theon had felt like an outsider. No one here treated him as the prince he was supposed to be.
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