The return to the mainland had been largely uneventful, save for him nearly vomiting over the side once or twice. I swear, I'll never get used to travelling on a ship, Steffon thought. He much preferred being on solid land. Plus there was always the chance the ship could capsize or run aground, or worse. In the end, he was just grateful to be back on the mainland, even if he couldn't join his host just yet.
Because it had been so late when they finally got moving, the sun was setting by the time they reached the mainland and it was dark when they'd reached Storm's End. They'd have to spend the night there and meet with the army in the morning, much to his chagrin. Steffon would've preferred to head for his army with all haste so he could plot his next move, but Ser Cortnay had been adamant; he needed to stay the night in Storm's End so they wouldn't be risking a sellsword or bandit attack on the road. Steffon knew the logic behind that, even if he didn't like it. It was just too risky, especially with his shoulder still healing.
He tried rotating his arm and was rewarded with a bolt of pain for his trouble. The damn shoulder was still too stiff to move, which made him even more useless in a fight than he'd been before. Being an average fighter had gotten him by before, but with his injured shoulder, he'd be a liability on the battlefield. Cursing his luck, Steffon collapsed onto the bed that had been prepared for him. He just wanted to get moving again, but realising no one would budge, he found himself here. Damn it to all Seven Hells!
"Are you alright, Steffon?" Came Arya's voice. She was standing in the doorway. For how long, he wasn't sure.
"I just want to get moving again." He replied. She walked over from the doorway and sat next to him. He was still getting used to having her around him again. Spending time together on the ship over from Tarth had helped he supposed, but they were only just starting to rebuild the closeness.
"I know you do, Steffon, but this is for the best." She said. Steffon sight. He knew she was right, but he still didn't like it. He tried rotating his arm once more and winced again. "You're going to make it worse if you keep doing that."
"I'm aware Arya." He snapped. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"It's fine." She replied. "At least take your tunic off so I can change the bandages."
Steffon grumbled that he could do it himself but removed his shirt anyway. His previously gaunt frame had been restored a bit by now, and he was almost back at what he was before. Wearing the gambeson, chainmail and plate armour had also helped him with his muscles slightly; turned out that the mail was the heaviest part of the armour set. He noticed Arya staring and blushing slightly as she helped him remove the bandages.
Despite the decidedly unintimate situation, Steffon couldn't help but develop goosebumps where Arya's fingers travelled over his skin. They were a bit rougher now; doubtless from her sword training with Syrio, but they were still a welcome feeling on him. He could feel his mind turning to rather impure thoughts about Arya, and tried to get himself under control as she removed the last of the bandage.
It was healing well, all things considered. Of course it had mutated into some ugly colours by now, but the skin was mostly healing as well as could be expected. Arya gently washed some water over it and then gently applied honey to the wounds. As stupid as it sounded, honey actually prevented a wound from getting infected, and preventing infection of the wound was the priority right now.
"Where's Waldron?" Steffon asked.
"Storming around the castle complaining to anyone who'll listen as well as anyone who won't. For what reason I did don't know."
"He kept me alive. At the battle." He admitted. "Without Waldron, I'd have died on the spot. He only left when I ordered him to."
"I must thank him then. Edric shouted at him for abandoning you." She said as she wrapped a fresh bandage around the wound. Even if it wasn't bleeding anymore, it still kept the wound from reopening and causing more problems. When she'd finished, Steffon turned to put his shirt back on, but froze when he felt something familiar.
Arya's lips.
She was pressing gentle kisses along his other shoulder and up towards his neck. Steffon could feel his control gradually slipping away but just as he was about to grab her and kiss her senseless, she pulled away smirking.
"Get your tunic on, stag boy. I've got a water dancing lesson to get to." She said before heading for the door.
"Yeah, you do that I… I need to polish my sword."
Arya just smirked and left.
Catelyn had been permitted to attend her father's funeral, even with the anger that Robb and the other Northern lords viewed her with. She didn't care, she had to be part of the funeral. That was why they now found themselves on the banks of the Red Fork, watching a longboat, with Lord Hoster Tully inside, floating downriver. It would be Edmure who'd light the boat, as expected.
Catelyn was worried her brother would make a fool of himself. Edmure had always been one who'd cared more about others above all else. It had actually harmed Robb's strategy during the campaign; Edmure had spread out his soldiers in an attempt to defend the civilians that hadn't been displaced by war. A noble goal to be sure, but strategically, very stupid. It would've been far more sound to mass them in one spot and coordinate with Robb. Her brother was the sort of lord who'd fare well in peace, but was unsuited to war.
Edmure made his way down onto the bank. Catelyn could see that there were still tears in his eyes, which would likely make his vision observed. Yes, he was about to make a complete fool of himself because he hadn't yet processed his grief. That was Edmure though; always going headfirst into something without thinking.
He lit an arrow and let it loose. It went wide. Edmure shot a second arrow and this time it fell short. It wasn't for lack of trying, Catleyn knew, but he was still making a fool of himself. A third arrow again went wide, prompting her uncle Brynden to snatch the bow before sending a single arrow arcing at the boat. He shoved the bow back into Edmure's hands just as the arrow smacked into the boat, igniting it. Finally, her father could rest.
She was not asked to sit in on the meeting between Robb, Edmure and Brynden, which was to be expected. Robb had shown enough deference to her old family that she was not put in a cell, despite that being the easier option by far. Instead, she was imprisoned in her old childhood room, with Uncle Brynden visiting her after the meeting's conclusion
"A person could almost be forgiven for thinking we're not at war." She mused, staring out the window. It seemed strangely peaceful from that room; the signs of the siege that had started the war had been mostly cleared away, even if there were still some scars.
"It comforts me to think that even in a war's darkest days, absolutely nothing is happening in most of the world." Brynden said. Catelyn smiled.
"I have missed you, uncle. Father missed you too, from the day you left. Maybe he never said it in so many words-"
"Maybe?" Brynden deadpanned. "Hoster was as stubborn as an ox. I was surprised when he died; didn't think death had the patience."
"Did you make peace before he passed?" She asked quietly.
"It's been thirty years, Cat. I don't even think he remembered why we were fighting in the first place. He kept asking me to stop calling myself Blackfish though." They both chuckled about that. "Said it was a bad joke no one laughed at to begin with."
"I'd always see him off when he'd leave for the capital or to fight in a campaign. Every day, I'd be up in this window when the sun came up, waiting for him. How many times did Bran and Rickon stare across the moors of winterfell waiting for me to return?" She said, her voice breaking as Brynden put a hand on her shoulder.
"You mustn't despair. Robb thinks they're still alive, and if he can believe that, you can as well." He said. Catelyn sighed. Maybe her uncle did have a point.
"He is an optimist," She admitted, "Like King Steffon."
"You've met the king, haven't you? What's he like?"
"He is young, full of ideals and loved by his men." She said. "If we win this war . . . I suspect he will make a fine king."
"An idealist." Brynden harrumphed. "This world's no place for idealists."
Being made Master of Coin was not an appointment he had expected. Or wanted, if I'm honest. A lifetime of profligacy did not make an efficient organiser of money, but there would be no denying his father. He suspected that was why he found himself discussing things with him now in his father's office.
"Steffon's support from the peasants is troubling." Tywin had admitted when Tyrion first walked in. He had worked hard to conceal his shock at his father admitting to that. So the lion does concern himself with the opinions of the sheep.
"It is one of the more troublesome aspects of his campaign." Tyrion said. The poor had been getting louder and louder, even with the food from the Tyrells coming through, and even the supplies that did make it weren't enough to suppress the growing starvation in the poor of King's Landing. That was only compounded by the fact that food was growing more and more expensive for them.
"Yes." Tywin agreed. "If there are millions calling for our heads by the moon's turn, Steffon will have won."
"You must have a plan if you called me here." Tyrion said, knowing that his father would have thought it through.
"Yes I do. The crown will purchase grain from what farmers remain loyal to us and then sell it to the urban poor at low cost." He said.
There it was. An idea so simple, yet one that could tackle an enormous problem. By providing grain to the poor at a lower cost, the starvation problem would be greatly lessened, which would give them less incentive to rebel. The fact that it came from the crown also undercut the argument that the crown didn't care about them.
"A brilliant plan, father." Tyrion admitted. "There is just one problem: It will be hideously expensive."
"Oh, naturally." Tywin said, as if he expected Tyrion to be able to figure out the answer to it.
"We are already in debt to the Iron Bank and the Faith. Applying this while we're at war will-"
"The smallfolk represent another front in this war. You failed to root out the Antler Men and because of that, we now pay the price. Gold Cloaks and men-at-arms turning up with daggers in their bodies, the few trading ships we get set alight in the harbour, rabble-rousers rallying them to take up arms against us." His father fixed him with an even sterner look than usual. "As I said, it is another front in this war, and one we are losing."
"And as I said, it would be too expensive." Tyrion pushed back. At the very least, he hoped his father would eventually see reason on the subject. It's not like he was wrong; such an undertaking would be hugely expensive at the best of times. With the war and the various debts the crown owed, there was little that they could actually do.
"Our current debt is a problem, but increasing it makes it the Iron Bank's problem."
"How?"
"Because then they'll have a vested interest in seeing us succeed so they can get their money back."
Tyrion sighed. Was his father right? He had to be, this was Tywin Lannister. And it wasn't like he didn't have a point: The Iron Bank would have to back them fully to ensure at least some of their money could be paid back.
"Fine, fine. How should this be done?"
"I leave that to you." Tywin said. After a few seconds, Tyrion took it as is cue to leave, standing up and walking out. He sighed to himself. If this worked it might swing things decisively in their favour. If it didn't they would lose the war.