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Chapter Text

Part I: Wolf Pup

Ned sat beside her for a while. "Lady," he said, tasting the name. He had never paid much attention to the names the children had picked, but looking at her now, he knew that Sansa had chosen well. She was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting. She looked at him with bright golden eyes, and he ruffled her thick grey fur.

Shortly, Jory brought him Ice.

When it was over, he said, "Choose four men and have them take the body north. Bury her at Winterfell."

"All that way?" Jory said, astonished.

"All that way," Ned affirmed. "The Lannister woman shall never have this skin."

The four men had been gone for less than an hour when one of them returned, panting.

"My lord," Quent gasped, a look of astonishment on his face. Had he run the entire way back? Ned frowned. Arya had disappeared, again, and Sansa would not stop weeping.

"I left the road for a moment, to relieve myself, and found a weirwood tree," Quent said, his eyes wide. Ned blinked. A weirwood tree? Here?

"My lord, we fear for you, going south. You will need every man. Could we not bury the direwolf beneath the weirwood?" Quent ventured, his voice tentative.

Ned sighed and thought for a long moment. A weirwood tree was fitting. They could always exhume the direwolf and bring her bones North once the business in King's Landing was finished. At last, Ned gave a stiff nod. Quent smiled weakly in relief, ducking his head respectfully as he turned back the way he came.

When Ned reached Darry he found Sansa still sobbing on her bed, her auburn hair mussed. That surprised Ned almost more than the sobbing, for Catelyn took pride in how careful Sansa was of her appearance, a true lady. Ned patted Sansa's back awkwardly.

"Sansa. Child, listen to me," Ned ordered gently.

Sansa tried to stifle her tears, looking up at him with her mother's deep blue eyes. They were red-rimmed from her crying, and her nose was red and swollen.

"She was good, she didn't do anything," Sansa sobbed, leaning her head against his chest like she had when she was little.

Ned put his arms around his daughter and held her, his heart throbbing with guilt. Was this who his friend Robert had become? A man who ordered the slaughter of a gentle pet rather than deal with his angry wife and lying son?

"I know," Ned said heavily. "That did not matter to the queen."

Sansa hiccupped.

"It was Arya's fault," she said angrily. "She ruined everything, the prince was being so gallant before."

"Sansa," Ned reproached her. "Did Arya make Joffrey attack her friend? Did Arya make the queen blame Lady, who bore no fault?"

Sansa sniffled for a long while before she responded, sulkily.

"No," she admitted. "Joffrey was being mean, and I told the queen that Lady didn't do anything, and she didn't listen!"

"People can seem kind and then become cruel," Ned said with a sigh, stroking Sansa's hair.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye," Sansa sniffled into his tunic.

"I was going to send her bones to Winterfell," Ned said slowly. "But the men found a weirwood tree near the road, about an hour north of here. They will bury her beneath it, and the old gods will watch over her."

Ned sat with Sansa until she wept herself to sleep, her little heart breaking as his heart pulsed with guilt.

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Sansa awoke suddenly, still fully dressed. For a moment she could not remember why she had fallen asleep in such an improper state— she always took care to prepare herself for bed.

Then Sansa remembered. Lady was dead at her beautiful queen's command, and neither her golden prince nor her noble father had done anything to stop it.

And now, a soft scuffling noise was coming from the corner of her room.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," Arya said quietly as she emerged from the shadows, completely filthy. Sansa stared at her. How had she gotten mud in so many places?

"I'm sorry about Lady," Arya said, coming closer. For once there was no bite in her voice. Sansa rubbed her nose, which was still stuffy from her sobbing.

"She didn't do anything," Sansa whispered. Arya nodded, a guilty look on her face.

"I should have scared her away when I scared off Nymeria, I didn't think they'd hurt Lady," Arya said, sitting beside Sansa. "Lady was so, so perfect. Like you," Arya added, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice.

"Being perfect didn't save Lady," Sansa sniffled, trying not to start crying again.

"I told you that queen of yours had a nasty side," Arya said flatly. Sansa would have shouted at her for such a statement this morning, she would have defended Queen Cersei as beautiful and elegant and kind. Before.

"She's everyone's queen," Sansa said instead. "And the fat old king didn't stop her."

Arya reached out hesitantly toward Sansa, as if waiting for Sansa to pull away in disgust from Arya's filth. But instead Sansa reached out, accepting her sister's muddy hand.

"Father said they buried Lady under a weirwood. I didn't even get to say goodbye," Sansa said, choking back tears. Arya gripped her hand tight.

"You know what I'd do, if I was as wild as you?" Sansa continued, her heart pounding as the idea formed.

"I'd run away, and find that weirwood, and dig up Lady so I could pet her just one last time. So she knew I didn't forget her, that I love her so much," Sansa sniffled. Arya stilled.

"Go," Arya said. "Everyone is asleep, except the ones looking for me. I snuck past them to come see you. I'll go make a ruckus, they'll take me to father, and they won't miss you until morning."

Sansa hesitated. Ladies didn't sneak out at night. Ladies didn't traipse through the woods alone.

But a true lady wouldn't have asked for Lady's head, Sansa thought suddenly. A lady was supposed to be kind and just and faithful to her people. If the queen won't be a true lady, then I must be. And a true lady would bid farewell to her beloved, even if her beloved was a direwolf. Even if she had to sneak out at night and walk in mud.

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Despite Arya’s impatience to begin, Sansa prepared herself carefully. Sansa changed into one of her oldest gowns, and switched from her fragile, pretty slippers into sturdy, ugly boots. Sansa followed silently as Arya showed her the way to sneak past the guards. To her surprise, Arya gripped Sansa in a tight hug before they parted ways, patting Sansa’s pockets before she let go.

"I really am sorry," Arya whispered, sniffling a little herself. "Good luck finding Lady. I'll tell them where you went when they notice you missing in the morning."

After a last squeeze, Arya turned back the way they came, her little shoulders set as she prepared to cause what would surely be a tremendous amount of chaos. It was odd, to see Arya planning to cause trouble on Sansa’s behalf. Part of Sansa was appalled, but it was small and quiet compared to the part of her that was grateful.

A small lump in her skirts brushed against her leg, and Sansa checked her pockets. Arya had slipped her a little knife, the kind they used at meals. It was sharp enough for the toughest cuts of meat, but it wouldn’t help much against outlaws or snarks or grumkins.

Sansa found the road quickly in the light of the full moon, and began walking north. At first, she jumped at every creaking twig, every croaking frog. Once, she heard approaching hoofbeats, and she darted off the road into the trees, tripping and falling on a tree root in the dark, scraping her knees and splitting her lip open. Thankfully she remembered to keep silent, and the hoofbeats moved past.

Stumbling back toward the road, she walked through a bramble of thorns, which tore at her gown and pricked her hands until she had dozens of tiny stinging wounds that bled sluggishly. Sansa did not cry. She could be brave, like the ladies and princesses in the songs.

After what she guessed to be an hour or so, Sansa began looking for a weirwood tree. Father had not said which side of the road it was on, and as the evening wore on and the moon slipped down Sansa realized she had no idea how far she had walked. Had she walked as far as the men? An hour of her small strides might be very different than an hour in the strides of tall, strong men. Or had they been riding? Sansa wasn't sure.

The moon had nearly disappeared, leaving the woods dark and dreary, when Sansa felt something calling to her. She crossed the road, following the strange feeling, and caught a glow of white branches in a sliver of moonlight. The weirwood's red leaves shone like blood, and there was a pile of earth beneath the tree, freshly dug.

"Lady," Sansa gasped as she ran, ran to the mound of earth and began digging frantically. The cuts on her hands began bleeding again, but Sansa paid them no heed.

"Lady, Lady, I'm here, I'm so sorry," Sansa sniffled as she dug. As the moon sank out of sight, Sansa kept digging in the darkness until her hands brushed something soft in the earth.

"Lady," Sansa wept, finding tears that she thought had run dry.

She could not see the familiar grey fur, but she could feel it under her bloody fingers as she stroked Lady's soft coat. Suddenly, Sansa's hands brushed against something firm, neither rock nor earth. Sansa's hands explored, finding that weirwood roots already wound around Lady's body. Her blood left dark streaks on the thick white roots, which faintly glowed despite the lack of moonlight.

Sansa looked up at the weirwood tree. She could barely see it in the darkness, and it had no face. A weirwood tree needed a face. And maybe, if she gave it a face, it would help her.

Sansa climbed up out of Lady’s grave, tearing her gown on the roots, which almost seemed to be reaching for her. Awkwardly Sansa began carving at the bark with the knife Arya had given her. Sansa had excelled in drawing lessons, but she had never had carving lessons. It seemed to take forever to carve a simple, yet graceful pair of eyes, and the knife slipped on the bark a few times, slashing more cuts into Sansa’s hands. It was harder to grip the knife with her hands bloody, so for the mouth, Sansa carved a single slash that looked like a grim smile.

"Thank you for taking care of her," Sansa said, placing her hands on the trunk and bowing her head. When she looked up, she saw the eyes were weeping, dark rivulets running down the trunk.

Sansa joined the weirwood, for she began to weep again as she jumped back into Lady’s grave and hugged her direwolf. Tears dripped down her nose onto Lady's body, and Sansa pressed a kiss to Lady's fur, her split lip cracking and beginning to bleed again. Sansa heard a rustling noise above her, and she looked back up. The red leaves rustled and shivered as though caught in a strong breeze.

There were no other noises. No birds, no rustling of squirrels or deer. Nothing but the weirwood leaves. The other trees surrounding the weirwood were silent, their leaves still.

There is no wind, Sansa suddenly realized. Her blood ran cold for a moment in fear, then turned hot with excitement. It worked, Sansa thought dimly as she stared at the tree. The old gods were dangerous, Old Nan said. They were unpredictable and unyielding. But surely it could not hurt to ask.

"Old gods," Sansa said slowly, choosing her words with care. "You are ancient and strong. I have grown up in your lands, and kept faith with you. Please, I know you sent the direwolves to us, do not let me be the only Stark without protection. Someday I will be the queen, and I will have weirwoods planted across the realm to honor you and restore your power."

The leaves sighed, whispering to each other. Sansa listened hard, but she could make out only a few of the words.

Blood.

Tears.

Direwolf.

Queen.

Yes.

YES.

The tree groaned, and Sansa saw the white roots begin to move, shimmering faintly with a pale light. They slowly began twining around Lady, around Sansa's arms and legs. A last thought lingered before Sansa lost consciousness. Is that sap, or blood on the roots?

Chapter Text

“You cannot run away like that, ever, ever again," Ned Stark said sharply as Arya listened, trying not to fidget.

"It is bad enough that we searched for you for four days, to disappear again within hours is—"

"—unbefitting of a Stark," Arya finished his sentence, rolling her eyes. Father frowned in disapproval.

Her fury at Mycah's death was buried deep inside, like coals banked in a fire. Later she would sulk and brood in silence, and be angry with Sansa, but for now, she had to keep her father distracted until Sansa's absence was noticed.

"Which Stark was it who rode down to King's Landing and executed all the traitors?" Arya asked.

Her father blinked. "Cregan Stark. Why?" he said, his tone suspicious.

"He was a King's Hand, wasn't he?" Arya hoped so. Her memories on the subject were rather foggy. Sansa sat quietly for their lessons; s he could probably name every Stark going back a thousand years, but Arya's mind tended to wander.

"Not exactly. He was only King's Hand for a day. The Hour of the Wolf," her father replied. Arya looked up at him, trying to control her face like Sansa did, to make herself look sweet and fascinated by the tale. Lord Eddard sighed.

"It was at the end of the Dance of Dragons. Winter was coming, and Lord Cregan Stark went south with a host of men, childless, homeless, unwed, or younger sons, to spare their families from feeding them. They marched to war, but King Aegon the Second had already been poisoned..."

Father was still talking about Cregan Stark as Arya barely covered her yawns when Jory came running into the room, his eyes wide.

"Sansa is missing," Jory gasped. Lord Eddard stood up immediately, nearly knocking Arya over.

"What?" Father demanded. Arya almost laughed. He looked like a cat who found she'd birthed chicks instead of kittens.

"She wasn't in her room when Septa Mordane went to fetch her for lessons, no one has seen her since yesterday, we've already searched the whole keep," Jory said, breathless with worry.

"Does anyone know besides our people?" Father asked, his voice tight. Was Father afraid?

"No," Jory said. "After Arya disappearing again, we were careful to let no one catch wind of Sansa's absence. The queen believes Sansa is refusing to leave her room due to illness."

"I know where she is," Arya interrupted. It wasn't fair to make her father worry.

Lord Eddard and Jory turned to stare at her.

"You know where Sansa is," Jory repeated, disbelieving.

"And you did not see fit to inform me?" Father asked, his voice dangerous.

Arya shook her head. “You killed Lady.”

Her father sighed heavily.

“Arya, your sister could be lost or hurt. We need to find her before someone else does. What if the queen’s men found Sansa first?”

Arya frowned. The queen’s men had no reason to go back up the road, did they? But Arya didn’t trust them. The Hound was scary, and Ser Ilyn Payne was worse. Grudgingly, Arya broke her silence.

“She went to say goodbye to Lady.”

"Sansa could have asked, we could have taken her to the grave," Father said, pressing his face in his hands.

"You killed Lady, why would Sansa believe you'd take her to say goodbye?" Arya snapped, her patience gone. Her father looked at her sadly.

"Jory, stay here and cover for Sansa's absence. It seems Arya and I need to fetch her sister."

They rode north silently in the early morning light, Arya astride her own horse and Lord Eddard on his. The sky was grey and cloudy, as though it might rain soon. Arya was exhausted, and she pinched herself occasionally to wake herself up. Within a half hour angry red pinch marks marched up each of her arms. Arya glanced from side to side, watching for the sign of white branches and red leaves. At last she was rewarded.

“Father- there!" Arya said, pointing to the right side of the road as she pulled her horse to a stop and slid off.

"Arya, wait—"

But Arya was already sprinting for the pale weirwood tree. Its face was almost feminine, with deep eyes and a solemn smile.

Crumpled beneath it, inside the shallow grave, Sansa lay curled up asleep. Her flaming hair fanned out across the ground, dozens of weirwood leaves tangled in the strands. Her gown was ripped worse than any of Arya’s, the cloth marred by a thousand small rips and tears. Her hands, which she usually kept so neat and clean, were clenched tightly into fists covered in black dirt and dried blood. 

More blood dripped from her split lip trickling slowly onto a bone-white tree root that cupped her chin. There were lots of weirwood roots. They reached from the walls of the grave, surrounding Sansa, their red sap oozing onto the ground and pooling around Sansa’s body.

Arya had stared for too long. In an instant she was moving again, clambering down into the grave. Sansa's pale skin was cold and clammy against Arya's hands as she tried to shake her sister awake. The only sign of life was her breathing, slow and steady. 

"By the gods," Ned swore as he looked down into the grave at Arya and Sansa.

"She won't wake," Arya said frantically, shaking Sansa harder. Their father climbed down and picked up Sansa in his arms, then turned and stepped out of the grave with a grunt of effort.

Before clambering out herself, Arya looked down. She expected to see Lady’s body. Instead, she saw only tufts of red fur. She stared for a moment, her sleep-deprived mind unable to process what she saw.

"Arya!" her father yelled.

It was only when they were almost back to the keep, Sansa hidden under their father's cloak, that Arya finally remembered, her blood running cold, that Lady's fur was grey.     

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Sansa would not wake.

I never wanted to come south, Eddard thought bitterly, as rain pounded on the walls of the keep and thunder crashed in the distance.

While Eddard made brief, terse conversation with their hosts and with his own men, Arya spent her time in silence. Arya refused to leave Sansa's bedside until she awoke. It made Ned feel ill, the echo of Catelyn guarding Bran. Had Bran awoken yet, or were two of his children lost to the world?

A dead butcher's boy, a dead direwolf, and a daughter who would not wake, all over a minor injury that the spoiled prince had richly deserved. When the rain broke the next morning, Robert and the Lannisters rode ahead at Eddard’s urging. Ned wasn’t sure he could keep himself from committing some form of treason if-if- no, he would not think it. Sansa had to be fine. It had not been a cold night, and Sansa should not have come to any harm from a few hours walk in the light chill.

Arya spoke to him, after they left. She spoke of weirwood roots and a pool of red sap that he had not noticed in his desperate effort to pull Sansa from the direwolf’s grave. All Ned had seen was the weirwood, its bloody face like none he had ever seen before. Ned had questioned the four men who buried Lady, and all swore that the tree had no face when they buried the direwolf. Arya had not noticed the face, and would say no more as she held her sister's clenched fist.

On the third evening, Ned rode back to the weirwood tree alone, sick with fear. Had killing Lady angered the old gods? Did Sansa fail to wake because her direwolf was dead by his hand?

Eddard knelt before the tree, his knees sinking slightly into the soft earth. He bowed his head, and laid Ice across the ground before him. There Ned stayed, keeping vigil, praying silently the entire night. Please, please do not take her. She is a child, she is not to blame. The old gods made no reply.

Dawn crept over the horizon, sending flames of light over the weirwood tree’s white bark. Ned had never seen a sunrise such as this, with clouds the color of blood. The wind was rising, making the tree branches groan and creak as the gusts whipped them about. Ned could smell lightning in the air. The clouds were turning from red to black, and the weak sunlight was failing. He needed to return to Darry, now, before he was caught in this storm.

As Ned got to his feet, thunder growling ever closer, the leaves finally whispered.

She wakes.

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Bran was falling. Had he been falling forever? Stars whirled overhead. The sun rose, and set, and rose again. It was raining, storming, with thunder and lightning that seemed to crack his bones, and then the rain was gone. There was nothing here with him, nothing but the air whipping at his face and the sunlight burning in his eyes.

Suddenly, far above, Bran heard a scream. Bran looked up, up to the dark storm clouds which appeared from nowhere, flashing with streaks of lightning. A figure was there, in grey skirts with long flaming hair.

"Sansa?" Bran cried out. He blinked, and she was falling beside him. Her hair streamed above her like a banner.

"Bran?" Sansa shrieked, grabbing for him. She could not quite reach; her pale fingers barely brushed his.

"Where are we?" Sansa cried, looking about, her eyes wide with fear.

"Falling," Bran replied. He could almost feel his sister's exasperated sigh.

"You fell weeks ago, you should have stopped by now," she scolded. "Mother is so scared, you have to wake up!"

"Where did you fall?" Bran asked. Sansa wasn't making any sense.

"I didn't."

Bran stared into Sansa's eyes. He saw Nymeria bite the golden prince, he saw Sansa weeping, he saw Father unsheathe Ice as Lady panted beside him. He saw a weirwood tree with no face, he saw Sansa clawing at black dirt with pale bloody hands.

Bran blinked, and Sansa burst into a thousand weirwood leaves, the same red as her hair.

"Bran?" the leaves cried. "Bran?"

The leaves swirled around each other, forming dim shapes against the grey clouds. A girl with long hair wept on her knees. A tree stretched its branches to the sky. A direwolf raised its head, its howl echoing with a woman's scream.

"Bran!" The leaves cried again, and were gone.

In their place was Sansa, and she was falling, falling faster than Bran. There was an island below, an island in the middle of a glittering lake. From above he could see the blood red leaves of a weirwood forest, a small clearing in their midst. Bran closed his eyes, too frightened to see Sansa hit the ground.

Yet there came no scream of agony, no thud of flesh and bone upon rock. Bran looked, and saw a weirwood sapling in the midst of the clearing, its trunk as white and smooth as a maiden's skin, two branches reaching upward. The weirwood sapling's face was strange. Its lips were full and womanly, its eyes closed in sleep.

A crow flew past Bran to perch on one of the sapling's leafless branches. It cawed loudly, then began pecking at the tree's face, its beak digging into the place above its eyes.

"No!" Bran cried.

The crow shook its head, and pecked again. The trunk began to bleed where the crow had marked it, the limbs shaking as buds appeared, then leaves unfurled. The weirwood's eyes snapped open, bluer than the sky, bluer than the sea. They looked at Bran for a moment, and he was drowning. How could he drown while falling through the air?

"Bran," the weirwood leaves whispered. Then the tree vanished, as though it never was, and Bran was falling, and Bran was screaming.

"Fly," the crow cawed in his ear.

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Arya paced back and forth in the muddy Darry courtyard. Sansa was being weird. 

Since Sansa woke up yesterday, she had barely said anything. No whining about her ruined gown, no chattering about missing Joffrey, no gossiping with Jeyne.

Arya eyed a particularly squishy pile of mud as she stepped around it. What would happen if she snuck into Sansa's chambers and smeared mud on her favorite gown? Would she yell and cry and run to Father? Arya bent down to scoop some mud in her hand, then sighed and stood back up, her hand still clean. Messing with Sansa just didn't seem fun right now. Arya kept walking, her mind wandering.

Arya had sat by Sansa for three days, terrified that she had somehow killed her by encouraging her to sneak out. Sansa was motionless in sleep, her body rigid, her fists clenched so tightly that Arya could not open them to hold her hand.

When Sansa finally woke up on the morning of the fourth day, Arya had run to get Father. By the time she found him and returned, Sansa was sitting up, her hands lying open on her lap. The palms of her hands and her fingers were smeared with dried dirt and blood.

Father had immediately summoned the maester. The maester had looked at the cuts on Sansa's hands, dabbed them with a foul smelling ointment, bandaged them, and declared she would be fine.

Septa Mordane had been allowed in next, and she had been appalled by the state of Sansa's hands. Sansa wasn't allowed to do any needlework for at least a week, and was ordered to soak her hands in rosewater once the bandages came off.

This morning, Jeyne had finally been allowed to visit. Though Jeyne had come to see Sansa often while she slept, she didn't stay long, as she kept bursting into tears. Arya had bit her tongue for once, though she wanted to remind Jeyne that Sansa wasn't her sister. Jeyne had brushed Sansa's hair until it shone, and helped her get dressed while Arya waited awkwardly. Since they weren't leaving until tomorrow, Septa Mordane had announced they would have lessons today.

"I suppose I'll have more time to focus on the poor state of your needlework," Septa Mordane had said, eyeing Arya sharply.

"Oh, Septa, I would be sad to see Arya stitch when I can't," Sansa had replied quietly. It was the most she'd spoken since waking up.

Septa Mordane's eyes had softened, and she had decided that they would focus on court manners instead. After an hour of that, Arya had snuck out when some lady came to ask after Sansa's health.

Arya sighed. Everything was always about Sansa. No one remembered poor Mycah, or Lady, or Nymeria. The Hound had murdered Mycah, just for being in the wrong place. Arya hated Joffrey, she hated him and his stupid Hound and his stupid mother the queen and his drunk old father the king.

She should hate Sansa too, for refusing to tell the truth. Perhaps she would hate Sansa, if she hadn't seen her lying like a corpse in Lady's grave. At least Arya knew Nymeria was alive. Someday she'd find Nymeria, someday no one would keep them apart. Sansa would never see Lady again.

A wolf howled in the distance, and Arya stopped short. Was that real, or just her imagination? Arya blinked. She hadn't watched where she was going, and somehow she had found her way to the godswood. The trees were dark and grim, their bark soaked by the rain over the last few days. To her surprise, Arya saw Sansa kneeling on the wet grass, her head bent.

"Sansa?" Arya asked.

Sansa did not reply, so Arya walked closer, her steps careful. A little patch of dirt in front of Sansa was disturbed, as though someone had been digging.

"Sansa?" Arya repeated. Sansa stood up silently, wincing in pain as she brushed off her knees with her bandaged hands. The bandages on her index finger were unwrapped, and the finger was smeared with mud and blood.

"Sansa?" Arya tried one last time. Sansa turned, and her eyes met Arya's. Arya took a step back. Sansa's blue eyes were empty, as if she couldn't truly see .

"I found Nymeria."

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Lady, where is Lady? Surely she should be here. Sansa looked around the room, barely hearing Arya bolt out the door.

Sansa’s hands throbbed with pain, and she looked down at her clenched fists. She opened her hands to see each palm was filled with small white seeds. Weirwood seeds? But if the old gods had heard her, where was Lady?

Sansa was quiet as the maester bandaged her hands. She was quiet as Septa Mordane fed her a rich broth. She needed to be quiet, so she could hear Lady’s claws make soft clicks on the stone floors as soon as she returned.

There was still no sign of Lady when Sansa was permitted to leave her room. Still no sign of Lady after hours of manners lessons. As Septa Mordane explained the proper etiquette for attending a great feast, Sansa realized what she had to do.

There were at least two dozen weirwood seeds hidden in a little bag under her gowns. Sansa only needed one. If she planted it, surely that would prove her loyalty to the old gods, and Lady would return before they left Darry.

“Septa, may I please be excused? I’d like some fresh air before lunch,” Sansa said, her voice as demure and sweet as a lady’s should be. 

Permission granted, Sansa slipped back to her room and tucked a seed in her pocket. A guard pointed her to the godswood, and she found her way there with only two wrong turns.

Old gods, I keep my oath, Sansa thought as she pressed the seed into the soil. The white seed shone red as her finger bled on it.

Lady, where are you? Sansa pleaded, reaching out with her mind as though she would be able to feel Lady drawing near.

Sansa listened hard— she could hear birds in the trees outside the keep, she could hear the flow of water— was that the river that ran a few miles away? She still heard nothing that sounded like Lady.

Sansa breathed deeply. She could smell the damp earth beneath her knees, the meat being cooked in the kitchens, a group of horses and men on the Kingsroad.

Lady! Sansa shouted in her mind with all her might. Dimly Sansa smelled damp fur and weirwood leaves. She smelled pack. But it wasn’t Lady.

Nymeria?

Suddenly the world lost some of its color, but her vision grew sharper. She wasn’t looking at the godswood anymore, she was looking at a patch of earth beneath a pale tree. It smelled like her sister. She whined and pawed at the dirt, then began digging. She flung the soil behind her, panting as she dug, her tongue lolling outside of her mouth. She did smell her sister, her sister had been here— Nymeria snuffled at the earth, seeking scents dimmed by the rain. Her sister and her sister’s girl, they were here. So was the pack father, and the fierce girl that belonged to her. She would find her girl. She howled her joy to the skies.

No! Sansa screamed. They’ll kill you, they’ll kill you like Lady! You can’t be seen! The direwolf snuffled, as though she was laughing at Sansa. She knew how to avoid being seen.

It was raining again. Sansa sighed as she pulled her hood tight against her face. There was no royal wheelhouse with soft feather pillows and lemon cakes and tea, just her horse and the dull stamp of hooves on the muddy road. She rode with Jory Cassel and Jeyne Poole, rather than a queen or a handsome prince. But Jory and Jeyne would never have demanded Lady’s head.

Sansa wrinkled her nose. The smell of horse was very strong, but it was layered with other smells. She could smell the leather of her saddle, the grass that the horse had eaten that morning; she could even smell Jory and Jeyne, who rode beside her.

Sansa dimly heard hoofbeats approaching, and she turned her head to see who was coming. She frowned. She couldn’t see much in the rain, but she should have been able to see whoever it was.

Ever since Sansa awoke at Darry, her sense of smell and hearing seemed stronger. She’d been able to smell her meals before they were even in the room, and she could tell when someone was nearby. Everyone smelled different. Father smelled different from Jory, who smelled different from Harwin. Jeyne and Arya smelled very different, even when they had both just finished washing with the same soap.

“Sansa!” Arya called, her long face worried as she rode up alongside Sansa. How far away had she been when Sansa heard her horse’s hoofbeats?

“Yes, Arya?”

“Is Nymeria still following us?” Arya asked, dropping her voice so only Sansa could hear.

Sansa took a deep breath. There, a few miles off the road, the familiar scent of damp fur.

“She is.”

Arya nodded, and rode ahead.

"What did horseface want?" Jeyne japed. Sansa whirled on her, her face as grim and adult as Septa Mordane.

"You will never, ever call my sister that name again."

Jeyne looked gobsmacked. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it when she saw how Sansa's eyes blazed.

Arya might not be as pretty as Jeyne, or as ladylike, but Jeyne wasn't the one who helped Sansa say goodbye to Lady. Jeyne wasn’t the one who had stolen bandages so Sansa could rewrap her finger without being caught. Jeyne wasn’t the one who snuck to the godswood before they left, and came back, eyes wide, to tell Sansa that there was a weirwood sapling as tall as Arya’s knee.

Jeyne didn’t say another word until they made camp for the night. After brief conversation with Septa Mordane, she asked Arya if she had enjoyed their riding. Baffled, Arya talked about some new tree she had seen. Jeyne’s eyes darted back to Sansa as she listened. Sansa was too sore to talk, and she desperately wanted a bath to wash away all the smells of the road. She curled up to sleep unhappily, missing the comfort of a proper bed, but she was tired and soon drifted off.

A boy with golden curls ducked into a wagon. He was unnoticed by the guards, most in crimson and gold and a few in sable and gold, who were eating their dinners. The boy rummaged through a chest, and pulled out a knife in its sheathe. He slid the knife free and examined it. The hilt was black and smooth. He sheathed the knife and slipped it in his pocket.

Mother was at the window in Bran’s room, looking out at flames. Bran was asleep in his bed, his face gaunt like an old man’s. Suddenly a man was there, beside Bran’s bed, a little man in filthy clothes.

“You weren’t s’posed to be here. No one was s’posed to be here.”

The world looked different, it was less colorful and more sharp. His claws clicked softly on the floor of the stone passage as he ran, ran to his boy. He heard a scream and he ran faster, slipping past the door, lunging for the man struggling with his boy’s mother. The direwolf’s jaws closed over the man’s throat, and he wrenched back, ripping at the flesh. The man was dead, still clutching the dagger in his hand.

Sansa knew that dagger.

Chapter Text

Eddard rubbed his forehead, suppressing a groan of frustration. His headache had been building all day, and his temper grew shorter with each pulse of pain. He stared unseeing at the ribs on his plate, while around him the Small Hall echoed to the sound of men eating their fill. His household guards wore grey wool cloaks trimmed with white, unlike the garish crimson cloaks of the queen’s men who patrolled elsewhere in the Red Keep. 

"Father?" Sansa said, her sweet voice concerned.

Ned looked up to see four faces looking at him. Septa Mordane's lips were pursed, as they often were. Sansa and Jeyne's eyes were wide, and even Arya, who sat between the two older girls, looked curious.

"Is what Jory said true? There's to be a tourney?" Sansa asked, nearly glowing with excitement. The pain in his head pulsed again.

"Yes, there will be a tourney to honor the new Hand, despite the Hand's distaste for the entire business," Ned told his daughters. 

"May we go? Please?" Sansa begged, her sweet face glowing with excitement.

Eddard paused. Sometimes he forgot how young Sansa was. Despite her delicate manners and queenly bearing, she was just eleven. She knew nothing of young men killed in their first joust, of old men slaughtered by opponents who took advantage of their weaknesses with no regard for honor. And all for the sake of glory, of prize money, of the cheers of the crowds. A bloody folly.

"Please, father?" Arya said, interrupting his thoughts.

Eddard turned to look at her sharply. His daughters' behavior since Darry had been strange. They had often ridden near each other in the column, speaking quietly. Though Sansa and Arya still bickered fairly constantly at meals, there was less intensity in their little quarrels.

Moreover, odd things kept happening. He had walked into a meal very late the previous week to find Sansa and Arya leaving together, whispering. Jeyne had still been at the table with Septa Mordane, looking confused and abandoned. Septa Mordane reported that while Arya was still sullen during needlework, ever since her bandages had come off Sansa had taken to helping Arya fix her stitches.

A small part of him wished he had asked Catelyn to stay. She had been young once, she surely understood the peculiarities of young girls far better than he did.

"Lord Hand?" Septa Mordane prompted.

Sansa looked at him, her blue eyes hopeful. She hadn't looked this excited about anything since Lady's death. Arya didn't look excited, but her stare was determined. Eddard sighed. If both girls were united on something, perhaps he best encourage it.

"You may attend," Eddard said gravely. "But I expect you to be on your best behavior."

"Fine. It'll be boring anyway," Arya grumbled. Jeyne rolled her eyes.

"The finest knights and squires from all the realm will be there. Maybe you could learn something by watching them, since you're so eager to make trouble playing with swords."

Sansa and Arya froze, then turned and looked at Jeyne. Eddard could nearly feel the rage pouring from both of his girls. Arya stood up, her fists clenched, but Sansa rose gracefully from her seat and stood between Arya and Jeyne.

"How dare you?" Sansa growled quietly. Eddard blinked. Since when did his ladylike daughter use such a tone of voice?

"Sansa!" Septa Mordane chided.

"You will apologize to my sister for your lack of courtesy."

Jeyne stared in disbelief.

"I... apologize for my discourtesy," Jeyne stammered at last, curtsying. She glanced up at Sansa, looking hurt.

"He was my friend," Arya mumbled, her eyes filling with tears as she fled the hall.

Sansa looked at Jeyne, then the doorway through which Arya had fled, then at her father. She seemed torn. Yet another oddity. Had he ever seen Sansa take Arya's side against Jeyne before?

"I'll go after Arya," Eddard said, sighing.

Unsurprisingly, Arya had fled to her room. Very surprisingly, she had a sword. What was going on in his household?

After a long conversation with Arya, and a quick moment with Jory to instruct him to find a Braavosi instructor, Eddard finally made his way back to his chambers, completely exhausted. He had just started taking off his clothes when someone rapped at his door.

"Gods be good," Eddard groaned, making himself decent before opening the door.

Septa Mordane stood there, as proper as ever in her grey septa's garb.

"My Lord Hand," she said, curtsying. Eddard waved impatiently for her to stand up.

"I've handled Arya. Is something wrong?"

"My lord, when Sansa and Arya came to dinner today, Sansa's finger was bleeding. She denies that Arya had anything to do with it- Sansa claimed she cut her finger on a thorn in the godswood. Last week, Sansa bled on her afternoon needlework, and said she'd pricked her finger on the needle."

Eddard stared, tired and bewildered.

"Please get to the point, Septa Mordane. It has been a long and trying day," Eddard said, trying to ignore the pain in his temples.

"Sansa hasn't pricked herself while sewing since she was practically a babe," Septa Mordane said sternly. "I find it very odd that she keeps injuring her finger, and I suspect Arya is to blame."

"If she was, Sansa would have immediately thrown a fit about it, not made excuses for her," Eddard replied, exasperated. He just wanted to sleep, gods help him. "Unless you have some urgent matter, kindly leave me to my rest."

Ned's mind wandered as he floated between the headache's dull throb and the beginnings of sleep. Had Sansa done anything unusual recently, other than tolerate her sister? She tried to speak with me last week, after dinner in the solar. Something about a strange dream, and Bran. Then Robert summoned me and I had to go. I should ask Sansa about it.

When Ned awoke in the morning, the sun shining through the windows, his headache was gone. He had an odd feeling that he had forgotten to do something.

Chapter Text

Bran dreamed.

The crow was back, its third eye shining bright and terrible. It perched in the branches of an immense weirwood tree, its pale trunk so wide Bran could barely see the stars behind it. The weirwood's face was bigger than Bran, its eyes solemn. It reminded Bran of Father. The crow cawed, demanding Bran's attention.

"Why did the Andals cut down the weirwoods?" The crow asked.

"I don't know," Bran replied, confused. "For firewood?" The crow fluffed his feathers, displeased.

"Why do the weirwoods have faces?" The crow asked.

"I don't know," Bran answered again.

"What gives a weirwood great strength?" The crow asked.

"I don't know!" Bran cried.

Suddenly the crow was in flight, his dark wings shedding feathers as he flew. He landed on Bran's shoulder and pecked at his ear lobe. It hurt.

"You must learn these things, Bran. You must learn and tell your sister. She does not realize what she has done."

Bran shook his head. This crow was very odd. He was in Bran's dream, shouldn't he know Father and Sansa and Arya were gone?

"Arya is in King's Landing."

"Your other sister," the crow said, nipping at Bran's earlobe with his sharp beak.

"Sansa is there too! How could I tell her?" Bran pleaded, his ear burning.

"Distance does not matter in dreams. There you will find her."

The crow kept pulling on Bran's earlobe, and it hurt, it hurt so much, and Bran was screaming...

Bran awoke to Summer nuzzling his face, the direwolf's nose cold against his cheek. Bran pressed a hand to his throbbing ear. Droplets of blood stained his fingers.

Maester Luwin would know about the weirwoods.

Chapter Text

Arya pressed herself against the wall of the passageway. Quiet as a shadow. The striped brown cat flicked an ear as a fly zipped over its head. Arya crept forward, but her shirt caught on a rough patch of the wall, making a noise as the fabric tore. The cat’s golden eyes opened almost instantly.

The cat looked at Arya. Arya looked at the cat. Then the cat gave a low yowl of annoyance and darted down the passage, towards the entrance to the Tower of the Hand. Arya followed, light on her feet, breathing steadily as she pursued her quarry, listening for the cat’s steps as it turned a corner.

But instead of the near-silent pad of cat feet, Arya heard the approaching sound of a girl crying. Arya exhaled, annoyed. So much for catching the cat now, with all that noise.

"Stop sniveling," Arya snapped, cranky at having lost the cat. The sobbing continued, and Jeyne Poole came around the corner, her brown eyes swollen and her face blotchy from crying.

"Oh, so you can-" Jeyne sniffled "-cry about your- your butcher boy," Jeyne took a shuddering breath, her nose running, "but no one else can cry?"

A week ago, Arya would have punched Jeyne in the face for saying such a thing. But the sharpness of her words was dulled by how pitiful she looked. Arya sighed in exasperation and pulled an old kerchief from her pocket. Jeyne gave Arya a dubious look, but accepted it and blew her nose.

"What are you upset about? Did Sansa get all the attention? Did you get a stain on your dress?" Arya said, unable to resist needling Jeyne.

Jeyne glared at Arya, then blew her nose again.

"No. A knight was slain, right in front of us. He was young, and handsome, and a huge knight put a lance through his throat. There was blood everywhere." Jeyne shuddered, and wiped her eyes with her hands. "Septa Mordane sent me back because I couldn't stop crying."

Arya frowned. She supposed plenty of men died at tournaments, but she hadn't really thought about what it would be like to see a man die. Father hadn't let her see what happened to Mycah. Alyn had told her he'd been cut almost in two.

"I shouldn't have snapped at you," Arya mumbled, looking at her bare feet. Even stupid Jeyne didn't deserve to get yelled at after seeing someone die.

"Do you want to see some kittens?" Arya offered. Maybe that would get Jeyne to be quiet, and then Arya could get back to her practice chasing cats.

Jeyne nodded, and followed Arya to the godswood.

One of the first cats Arya had caught was a plump, friendly cat with patchy white and brown and black fur. After catching her, Arya had realized the bulge at her belly was a litter of kittens. She'd taken the purring cat to the godswood and helped build a cozy nest from leaves and grass in the bushes near an old oak tree that served as the heart tree. The kittens had arrived within a few days, six squirming little bundles of fur with their eyes shut. Arya and Sansa visited the kittens whenever they were in the godswood, and their eyes had finally opened this morning.

"Why are there kittens in the godswood?" Jeyne asked, interrupting Arya's train of thought.

"I thought the mama cat would be safe— there's no wild animals, except birds, and none of the nobles bring their dogs here," Arya said, leading Jeyne to the spot where the cat was nesting under a bush.

Jeyne leaned down, trying to see the kittens, and almost fell over. Arya grabbed her elbow to steady her. Seeing Jeyne fall on her face might be funny, but she'd squash the kittens.

"They're so little!" Jeyne cooed, reaching out and stroking one kitten with a gentle finger. The mama cat looked on, unbothered, her eyes half open as three kittens nursed at her belly.

While Jeyne watched the kittens, completely besotted, Arya slipped away, unnoticed. She had an idea she wanted to try while Sansa was busy watching the tourney.

By the time Arya finished her mission, it was almost dark. Jeyne thanked her for showing her the kittens, and returned to the Tower of the Hand at Arya's insistence.

The kittens were asleep, curled up against their mother, their little bellies plump with milk. Arya looked at her clothes. She was dirty already... Arya grinned, and carefully slipped under the bush and curled up around the mama cat. Just a little cuddle before she headed back.

The weather was warm, a light breeze rustling through the leaves. Deep breaths, quiet breaths, Arya told herself, the cat warm against her middle. Arya tried to time her breaths in sync with the mama cat, breathing in, and out, and in again. She felt so relaxed. The mama cat was dreaming about catching fat birds for her kittens. Soon they would need to learn how to hunt. There was so much to teach her babies. How to find water, how to wash themselves, how to avoid the shiny metal two-leggers. They're called soldiers, or knights, Arya told the cat, her eyelids flickering as she fell asleep.

The direwolf padded through the trees, her nose taking in the scents of the forest. Every tree had its own scent, from the fresh pines to the earthy oaks. Squirrels and hares might hide, but she could smell them, so close that her mouth watered. The sun had almost set. Nymeria crept beside a burrow, careful to stay downwind as she waited for its owner to appear. She was rewarded for her patience a few minutes later as the rabbit slipped out of its burrow, right into Nymeria's waiting jaws. Her hunger sated for now, the direwolf sniffed the air. There was flowing water nearby, cool and sweet. She padded down to the river and drank her fill.

Howls echoed in the distance. Her brothers and sisters had found elk and they called her to the hunt. She raised her head and howled a reply, then began trotting towards their call. Nymeria's girl was with her, she knew it. She could feel the fierce girl inside her skin, a quiet presence watching and listening and smelling with her. The fierce girl hurt less than the other one. The bright girl's presence had almost overwhelmed the wolf, making her fur itch and her paws tingle. Even from the forest she could feel the bright girl, the hum of ancient magic within her veins. The wolf wanted to be with her fierce girl and the bright girl again, not here in the forest south of the city. But now she had her pack, and they would come with her when it was time.       

Arya sat up, rubbing her eyes in confusion. Her head hurt. An acorn lay beside her- it must have fallen from the oak tree, whose branches were above her head. The mama cat made a displeased mewl, glaring at Arya with her glowing eyes. She had been resting comfortably, dreaming of stealing a fish from the kitchens. Sorry, Arya thought, scritching the cat's ears. The mama cat leaned into the scritches, but she was not placated. Scritching was all very well, but it would have been nicer to not be awoken by two-legger nonsense.

"Oh, go wash yourself," Arya grumbled. The cat gave her a baleful stare, then turned away from Arya, curling around her kittens.

Arya got to her feet and stretched, fighting back a yawn. It was dark, but for the moonlight. Catching a cat in this darkness would be difficult, but very satisfying if she could manage it. Then Arya remembered that the tourney and the feast must be well over by now. Septa Mordane would be back, prim and proper as ever, waiting to scold Arya for wandering off. Arya was surprised she hadn't been tracked down already- surely Jeyne would have immediately ratted her out. 

Arya sighed as she set off for the Tower of the Hand at a steady trot. She'd take the scolding- she needed to tell Sansa about her strange dream. 

Chapter Text

Sansa undressed herself carefully, laying her clothes aside as she slipped on her shift. Her tummy felt odd, though she wasn't sure if it was from the feast, the wine, or her nerves. The Hound had frightened her, he had threatened to kill her, but he seemed so sad, so lonely.

At least the Hound had a reason for being the way he was. Joffrey scared Sansa more than his dog, and he had no terrible scars or brutal older brothers.

For weeks Sansa had dreamed of Joffrey, but they were not the dreams she'd had at Winterfell. Those dreams were of a lovely future, where Sansa was Joffrey's queen and they had beautiful babies with his golden curls and her blue eyes, or her auburn hair and his green eyes.

These new dreams were of the past. Sansa had seen Joffrey, a little shorter than he was now, hitting Tommen until the chubby little prince cried. She'd seen a younger Joffrey, perhaps seven or so, cut open a poor cat. That dream had been so awful she'd woken crying.

But nothing compared to her first nightmare about Joffrey. Why would Joffrey steal a knife? A prince could surely ask for the finest knives to be made in his honor. And why would someone attack Bran, attack mother, with Joffrey's knife? They had done nothing wrong. Mother was a great lady and Bran was a sweet boy.

Father was so busy, Sansa still hadn't been able to talk to him about her dream. She fretted over whether to bring it up when they dined in father's solar, but he always looked exhausted. Father was Lord Hand now, he had troubles enough without Sansa's silly dreams. Bran had woken up almost a month ago, and Father hadn't said anything about a man attacking Bran and mother. Perhaps it was just a silly nightmare, brought on by a miserable day of travel and her anger over Lady's death

Sansa heard a soft creak in the distance- Arya was opening her door, her steps almost noiseless as she crept down the hallway. Water dancing might be a strange thing for a lady to do— Sansa still couldn't believe Father allowed it— but at least Arya no longer stomped everywhere. Sansa cracked her door open and beckoned Arya inside.

"How was the tourney?" Arya whispered. She was clean for once, her face pink from scrubbing.

"It was better than the songs, but..." Sansa sighed as she curled up on her bed. Arya climbed up beside her, her long face scrunched up in confusion.

"But?"

"I could hear everything - not just the crowds, but the squires scrubbing armor in the tents, the knights gulping wine after a joust, the king and queen saying awful things to each other," Sansa confided.

At first the noise had made her want to cry, but then she'd covered her ears for a little while, letting them adjust. She was getting better at picking apart different voices and layers of sound.

"I didn't think of that," Arya said, absentmindedly rubbing her own ear.

"The smells were worse." Sansa shuddered. Thousands of sweaty people, the stink of horses and their leavings, the rusty smell of blood.   

"Did you see him?" Arya asked.

"Joffrey sat beside me at dinner," Sansa said, her tummy roiling with unease. She should have been delighted to sit beside the prince at a great feast. It was an honor to Sansa and to the Starks.

"And? Did he say anything about Lady? Or me?" Arya demanded. Sansa shook her head.

"He was perfectly charming, the soul of courtesy. But..."

Sansa paused, confused over how to describe how it had felt conversing with the prince as though nothing had changed, as though he didn't haunt her nightmares, as though he hadn't smiled when the queen demanded Lady's pelt. Arya elbowed her.

"But what?"

"It felt false," Sansa whispered. "I... I heard him talking to someone during the tourney, about Ser Gregor." Arya made a face, confused.

"He's one of Lord Tywin Lannister's knights, the Hound's older brother- he was huge, Arya, bigger than Hodor. He chopped off his own horse's head." Arya's eyes grew wider than dinner plates.

"Joffrey said Ser Gregor was a brute, but a loyal brute. He said Ser Gregor got rid of some of the Targaryens for his grandfather— he sounded gleeful about it."

"King Robert killed Rhaegar, the Kingslayer killed Aerys, and Viserys escaped. So who did Gregor kill?" Arya said, puzzled.

They sat for a moment, thinking in silence, then Sansa remembered her books. Septa Mordane had carefully packed Sansa's favorite books of songs and poetry, but she had also packed a book of lineage so Sansa could be sure to recognize the great families at court. Sansa fetched the book from its place, then spread it open on the bed, flipping through looking for the end of the Targaryen section.

"Here—" Arya said, pointing at the book and stopping Sansa from flipping to the next page.

King Aerys Targaryen, born 245, died 283 in the Red Keep

Queen Rhaella Targaryen, born 246, died 284 at Dragonstone after giving birth

Issue of King Aerys Targaryen and Queen Rhaella Targaryen

Rhaegar, born 259, died 283 in the Battle of the Trident

Shaena, 267, stillborn

Daeron, born 269, died 269 at six months old

Stillborn baby, 270

Aegon, born 272, died 273 at three months old

Jaehaerys, born 274, died 274 at four months old

Viserys, born 276, fled into exile 284

Daenerys, born 284, fled into exile 284

"She had eight babies and only three lived?" Sansa whispered.

"And she was only thirteen when she had Rhaegar," Arya replied, making a face.

"Septa Mordane says ladies shouldn't have children until at least seventeen or eighteen— the maesters say younger ladies die or become barren," Sansa said, appalled.

"Well, he was called Mad King Aerys, maybe he didn't care," Arya said. They both kept reading.

Princess Elia Nymeros Martell of Dorne, wife of Prince Rhaegar. Born 257, died 283.

Issue of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia Nymeros Martell of Dorne

Rhaenys, born 280, died 283

Aegon, born 282, died 283

"The only living Targaryens were Rhaenys and Aegon," Arya whispered. Sansa looked up from the book and stared at Arya.

"He killed a three year old and a baby?" Sansa said, horrified. The Mountain looked monstrous, but how could anyone kill a helpless little baby? Tears dropped down Sansa's nose, and a look of panic filled Arya's face. 

"The sapling is getter bigger— it put out a leaf," Arya said quickly.  "The kittens are getting fat, too. And I dreamed about Nymeria! She was in the Kingswood..."

Sansa barely heard her. A baby was crying, somewhere in the keep.

Chapter Text

Eddard awoke to the sound of screaming. What on earth is going on? He quickly threw on a robe. Someone was pounding on Eddard's door, and he yanked it open  to find Jory.

"It's Sansa, Lord Hand— Septa Mordane can't wake her," Jory said, moving out of his way as Eddard made for Sansa's room. Jory trotted to keep up with Eddard's long, brisk strides. The screams were echoing off the walls, creating ghost screams that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Sansa's chambers were as tidy as usual, her clothes put away, her books neatly stacked but for one on the table. It was a stark contrast to the chaos within. Septa Mordane stood beside Sansa's bed, wringing her hands. Arya and Jeyne Poole were on either side of Sansa, their hands over their ears as they tried to wake her.

His oldest daughter's eyes were shut tight, her screams and sobs the only sign that she did not sleep. Eddard raised his hand, then hesitated as he looked at little Sansa.

"I already tried slapping her— it didn't work!" Arya yelled over the screaming.

Suddenly, the screams stopped. Sansa's eyes snapped open. For a moment Eddard could have sworn she stared right through him, until Sansa blinked and met his gaze with her mother's eyes. 

"The baby," Sansa whimpered. She shuddered violently, seemingly unaware of Arya and Jeyne hugging her. 

"Sansa," Ned said gently, sitting on the bed beside his daughters. "It was just a nightmare, you're safe."

He nodded at Septa Mordane, who curtsied and took her leave, Jory behind her. Sansa shook her head, her chest rising and falling as she took fast, shallow breaths, wet tears pouring down her cheeks. 

"He killed the baby, he smashed his head against a wall, he hurt her!" Sansa sobbed, reaching for Ned and clinging to his chest. Arya and Jeyne stayed where they were, their eyes enormous. Ned stroked Sansa's hair carefully, trying to think of what to say.

"It was just a nightmare," he said finally. To his surprise, Sansa shook her head.

"It was real! The baby was crying and he picked him up by one leg and smashed and smashed and there was so much blood, and the princess was screaming and then he threw her on the floor, he was on her, he opened his breeches and pulled up her skirts, he was hurting her!"

Ned's entire body seemed to freeze. Dimly he realized Sansa was weeping hysterically into his robe. Jeyne burst into tears. Arya just stared, first at Sansa, then Ned.

"Princess Elia," Arya whispered, her little face crinkled with sadness.

"How did you know of this?" Ned asked, horrified.

"Sansa overheard Joffrey saying Ser Gregor got rid of some Targaryens,” Arya said. Her face was as stern and stony as Lyanna's statue in the crypt.

"What else?" Ned demanded. Vague rumors could not have caused such dreams.

Arya shrugged.

"That's all."

Ned shivered despite the warmth of the room. Sansa had dreamed the worst rumors Ned had heard, and she had dreamed clearly, as though she watched it happen in truth.

He still could not forget the sight of Princess Elia. Her black hair had been placed over her face, but it could not hide that her skull was caved in. Elia's skirts were torn and bloody, and something looked wrong with her legs. Her children were beside her, wrapped in the same crimson Lannister cloaks. The baby prince had been unrecognizable, his head a gaping ruin, the toddler princess covered in dozens of stab wounds. Tywin Lannister had not smiled, but there had been a cruel satisfaction in his cold gaze. And Robert had turned away, and wed the daughter of the man who gave the command. The Robert I grew up with died that day, I was just too blind to see it.

"Ser Gregor is a monster," Sansa sobbed.

"Why didn't someone stop the Mountain?" Arya asked.

"The Kingsguard weren't with Princess Elia and her children," Ned said heavily. "Any other guards were slain."

"But where were the Kingsguard?" Sansa asked, her voice muffled by his robe.

"Weren't you there?" Arya asked.

I was, and I did nothing. Robert ignored my protests, and I did not stay to fight for justice. I rode south to find Lyanna dying, and went north with a babe and my sister's bones. I never came back, I never should have come back.

"I was," Ned finally replied. "I named it murder, but the King named it war. He—“ the words choked him. “Robert said they were dragonspawn, not babes. He was glad he didn't have to worry about Targaryen heirs challenging him someday.”

"Princess Elia wasn't a Targaryen," Arya muttered.

“No,” he said sadly. “Robert did not even try to justify what befell Princess Elia, but he did nothing to condemn it either. Never before or since have I felt such rage. I left that very day, for fear of where that rage might lead. We did not speak again until after Lyanna’s death.”

Sansa sobbed louder.

"He hurt her," Sansa sobbed, clutching him tightly. "Why would he do that to her?"

His daughters were too young to know of rape. Far too young. Gods, I need Cat. Ned looked for the door, as if Septa Mordane would come in and save him. When no such salvation appeared, he sighed deeply. 

"All three of you have helped Rickon change clothes or bathe, yes?" Ned asked, praying his guess was correct. All three girls nodded. Jeyne's tears were subsiding, though Sansa was still weeping into his robe. 

"Do you remember seeing that his, ah, groin was different than yours?" Three heads nodded again. 

"The part between a man's legs is his staff. Women have a maiden's place. When a lord and lady are wed, they lay together and the lord— the lord puts his staff inside the lady's maiden's place, and that is how children are made." 

All three girls nodded again, Arya's face scrunched with disgust. “We know that,” she grumbled. “Septa Mordane told us.”

"When a man forces a woman to-to touch his staff, or he puts it inside her against her will, that is called rape," Ned said, praying there would be no questions. His prayers were not answered.

"I thought rape was when a man walks in on a naked woman,” Arya ventured, confused.

"Why would someone do that?" Sansa asked, so quietly he could barely hear her. Her nose was stuffed up, and he suspected his robe would need washing later. Ned paused and thought for a long moment, trying to decide how to explain. 

"There are many reasons. A man may want a maid who does not want him, and he takes her anyway."

"Like Aegon the Unworthy and poor Queen Naerys," Sansa murmured. Ned nodded. 

"Or a man may want revenge on his enemy, so he rapes a woman his enemy loves." 

"That's not fair," Arya said. 

"Or a man may simply be cruel, vicious- someone who knows that rape is a terrible thing, and enjoys hurting women." 

"Like the Mountain," Sansa said. Ned sighed. 

"Yes, like the Mountain. Now, Arya, Jeyne, go back to your chambers. I'll stay with Sansa until she falls back asleep."

Arya opened her mouth to argue, but quailed under Eddard's stern glance. When the girls were gone, Eddard gestured for Sansa to get back under the covers, and he sat with her for a moment. 

"My dream was real," Sansa insisted, her eyes fluttering as she drifted off. 

"Perhaps," Ned replied uneasily. Sansa had no way of knowing what happened. How did she dream it? 

"Dreamed... Bran..." Sansa yawned, and then she was asleep. Ned kissed her forehead, and slipped out of the room. 

It was nearly dawn— there would be no more rest for him before the damned tourney. Ned dressed himself and quietly made his way down to the godswood with Jory as his only guard. The sun was just barely over the horizon, a salty breeze coming from the sea. 

"My lord?" Jory suddenly said, interrupting his reverie. 

Jory's eyes were wide as he pointed towards an isolated corner of the godswood. Ned's eyes were less sharp than Jory's, so he walked toward the place Jory was pointing at. Eddard only took a few paces before he saw what Jory had seen and dropped to his knees. 

It was a weirwood sapling, crowned with bloody leaves. 

Chapter Text

Arya would not speak. Arya could not speak.

Sansa sat beside her, her hands clasped as she whispered prayers to the old gods, then to the Seven. Lord Eddard Stark lay on his bed, his face pale and drawn. An awkward lump was visible under the blankets where the stiff cast covered his broken leg. Alyn and Desmond stood by the chamber door, and two more Stark men guarded the passageway as they had for five days. Her father was the Hand of the King; how could this have happened? How dare Jaime Lannister attack her father, and kill Stark men in the street? 

Yesterday, Sansa had quietly asked Vayon Poole why Lord Eddard would not wake. Vayon said it was natural for him to sleep so long, that it was a side effect of milk of the poppy. Arya didn't believe him. Something was wrong. 

"May I pray in the godswood?" Sansa murmured, interrupting Arya's thoughts.

With Jory Cassel dead, Alyn had taken over as Captain of the Guard until Father woke. Since the attack, Alyn and the others watched them like hawks. Sansa and Arya went nowhere without at least two guards. Arya had tried to sneak to the kitchens early in the morning, only to be taken by the ear by Desmond and gently dragged back to Sansa's room.

"You may," Alyn said finally. "Desmond and Varly will escort you."

Sansa rose, dainty as ever, and smoothed her skirts. She glanced at Arya, but Arya shook her head. Sansa could tend the weirwood without her, as she had since Father's injury.

When they brought Father back to the Tower of the Hand, some days past, Sansa and Arya had been nearby. They'd seen the bone jutting out, blood dripping sluggishly from the wound. Grand Maester Pycelle had come to tend to Father, and the girls were let in as soon as he was finished. It was Sansa who'd noticed the bloody cloths left behind, and Arya who had wrapped them in an old rucksack and hidden them under Sansa's bed. Arya wasn't sure how or when Sansa had smuggled them to the godswood, but they weren't under the bed anymore.

Arya wanted to see the weirwood sapling, truly- Sansa had whispered that it was now as tall as Arya, crowned with leaves. But Arya could not go. One of them must stay with Father. Arya had hidden Needle under the mattress on the second day, when Alyn was distracted talking to Vayon Poole. If the Lannisters came for Father, she'd be ready. She wanted to hurt them, to cut them down like they'd cut down Jory and Wyl and Heward.

Arya hated the Lannisters. She hated Joffrey for attacking Mycah. She hated the queen for demanding Nymeria's death and having Lady killed instead. She hated the Kingslayer for attacking Father and having Stark men killed. She hated the Imp for sending men to kill Bran- what had Bran done to him?

And she hated Tywin Lannister most of all, because the morning after Sansa's dream, Varly had told her the Mountain was a Lannister bannerman. Lord Tywin had ordered the murder of Targaryen babies and the rape of Princess Elia. Arya shuddered, her rage briefly overcome by horror.

Arya stared at Lord Eddard, thinking of how she could get revenge, until the candles burned down and Sansa returned, her finger wrapped in a bandage.

Dinner was brought to Father’s solar and Arya chewed her food without tasting it. Septa Mordane blathered on about the Seven Pointed Star, Sansa nodding politely as she picked at her food.

“May we retire to bed, Septa Mordane?” Sansa finally asked. The Septa nodded, and they returned to Sansa’s chambers.

Jeyne Poole was already there, a book open on her lap. Arya wrinkled her nose, but kept her silence. Ever since the nightmare they had slept with Sansa as her bedmates, one on either side of her. Thankfully Sansa had not woken screaming again, though sometimes she would stare into the distance, her eyes haunted.

“I wish we had a guard in our chamber,” Sansa said quietly as Jeyne helped her undress. Arya shrugged.

“Is there enough room to practice water dancing in here?”

Arya stared at her sister, completely taken aback. She’d thought it risky to tell prim, proper Sansa about the water dancing, sure she would run to Septa Mordane and beg her to put a stop to it. Now Sansa was encouraging her? Sansa must have seen the perplexed look on her face, as she hesitantly continued.

“Good Queen Alysanne had a sworn shield who was a woman. Jonquil Darke. She protected her queen in places men couldn’t go. I’d... feel safer if you practiced.”

Arya stared at Sansa for a long moment, waiting to see if this was a cruel jape. Sansa’s eyes were sad and solemn, as solemn as Father’s as she met Arya’s gaze. Arya turned to look at Jeyne, expecting to see mockery in the older girl’s face. Instead, Jeyne glanced at Sansa, then reached under a pillow and brought forth Arya’s wooden practice sword.

Sansa took the sword from Jeyne, and offered it to Arya, holding it out with two hands like a lady in a song. Arya rolled her eyes. Of course Sansa had to make it dramatic. But there was something special about seeing Sansa hold out the sword, her head held high like a queen, her red hair flowing down her back against her white shift.

Arya took the sword.

Chapter Text

Bran stared at his useless legs. The long scab where the wildling cut him shone dark brown under the hot water of the bath.

Bran wanted to be a proud Stark, a proud wolf. But Summer was the one who had fought when the wildlings attacked. Summer was the one who was brave and strong.

Bran sighed. He wasn't a wolf, he was just a little baby. Bran couldn't stand, or climb, or ride. He couldn't even find Sansa in his dreams.

The day after the crow came, Bran had asked Maester Luwin about the weirwoods. It had not gone well.  

"There is no such thing as magic, Bran," the maester had said, his grey eyes full of pity. "The Andals cut down the weirwoods out of superstitious fear, nothing more. They thought the Children of the Forest could spy on them through the faces of the trees, so they cut them down."

"What made the weirwoods strong?" Bran had asked, frustrated. 

"The same thing as other trees. Light, water, good soil." 

"What else?" 

The little grey man shook his head, exasperated. 

"The Andals claimed the First Men made human sacrifices to the trees. Foolish tales to scare the little children, nothing more. You are too old for such tales, Bran."

It wasn't much, but Bran knew he had to tell Sansa.

For weeks Bran had been trying to find his sister when he slept. Dreams came almost every time he closed his eyes. He'd dreamed of the crypts, of a terrifying white ghost. But Sansa wasn't there. She had already fled screaming before Arya punched the ghost to reveal it was just Jon covered in flour. He'd dreamed of finding the wolf pups, of cuddling Summer's warm, wiggly body against his chest. Sansa hadn't been there that day either. He'd dreamed of climbing the walls of Winterfell, of the broken tower... Sansa definitely hadn't been there. He'd fled that dream screaming. 

"Are you done bathing?" Robb asked kindly.

Bran sighed again as he looked up at Robb. They had the same dark red hair, the same blue eyes. Robb's forehead creased with concern. He was just Robb, not Robb the Lord. Bran nodded, and Robb handed him a towel.

The bathhouse was deserted. Rickon was already in bed, asleep. Theon had finished his bath and gone away whistling, a smirk on his face. Bran dried his arms and patted down his pale chest, then Robb lifted him so he could dry his shrunken legs. It was so odd, not feeling the towel.

“What’s on your mind?” Robb asked as he helped Bran dress. “You looked like Sansa trying to do sums.”

Bran laughed weakly. Sansa could write better than any of them, but she struggled with numbers. 

“I miss Sansa,” Bran said. I won't bring up the dream. Bran didn't want Robb to think he was a little baby. He couldn't bear if Robb laughed at him.  

"If you like, I'll carry you to her room," Robb offered. Bran nodded.

Bran yawned. He was so tired, but he couldn't quite fall asleep. Robb had tucked Bran into Sansa's bed, his eyes soft with brotherly concern, promising to wake Bran in the morning. Summer lay curled up on the floor, faithful as ever.

The bed was bigger than Bran's. An enormous pile of embroidered pillows covered the top. The smallest pillows were simple, covered in clumsy flowers and vines. As the pillows grew bigger, the designs grew more intricate.

Bran lay his head on the largest one. Sansa had finished it just before she left. Snowflakes fell upon the Winterfell godswood in a thousand tiny stitches. There were hawthorns, their trunks in shades of brown that hinted at the rough bark, their leaves rich green and seven pointed. There were ironwoods, with their black trunks. There were pines, covered in deep green needles. Tiny, perfect weirwood leaves crowned the heart tree in crimson thread, its face solemn. In front of the heart tree, six direwolf puppies frolicked in the snow.

Summer whined. The wolf sat on the floor beside Bran, his tail thumping on the floor, his eyes pleading. No one would know...

"Up, boy," Bran whispered.

Summer jumped on the bed and curled up beside Bran, his long snout just below the direwolf pillow. Summer missed his brothers and sisters too. He missed playing with them, nipping and jumping and leaping. Now his white brother was far away, surrounded by ice and snow. His black brother was near, but he was wild and angry. His last brother was too busy to play. As for his sisters... one was far, far away, howling to the moon with their small cousins.

The other sister...

Lady ran with the other pups in the godswood of Winterfell. The pups gamboled and pounced and nipped at each other. Tufts of fur floated in the air, their puppy coats shedding as their adult fur grew in. Sansa watched, a brilliant smile on her face, her hair flaming in the sunlight.

"Sansa!" Bran yelled with joy, sprinting toward her. She turned, her eyes wide as he slammed into her. They fell to the ground laughing, the events of the last few months forgotten.

The direwolf puppies yipped their delight, the entire pack swarming over Bran and Sansa. Shaggydog licked Bran's hand; Ghost nuzzled Bran's leg. Grey Wind and Nymeria tugged at Sansa's skirts. Lady seemed to have disappeared.

Bran heard a low whine and turned to see Summer, holding a blood red weirwood leaf in his mouth. Suddenly Bran's mouth was drier than the dust of the crypts.

"The trees, Sansa. The crow said I have to tell you about the trees."

Chapter Text

Sansa wrapped a bit of fish in a napkin, taking care that no one saw her as she tucked it away in her pocket beside the blood sausage. Now that Father was awake, it was easier to slip to the godswood, and the mama cat deserved a treat.

The kittens mewled greetings at Sansa when she arrived. Their eyes had finally opened, and their personalities were beginning to become more distinct. The ginger kitten climbed on Sansa's lap almost immediately, a quiet purr rumbling in its chest. The white kitten with ginger patches was the most lively, pouncing on its hapless siblings. When a fly landed nearby, the kitten chirped, its green eyes locked on the small black insect as its rear end wiggled.

There were two brown-black tabby kittens. One of them seemed to have wandered off. The other kept close to the mama cat, her eyes suspicious. A grey striped kitten huddled beside her, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. The last kitten was a soft blonde with enormous green eyes. It nuzzled Sansa's hand, rubbing its nose against her palm.

Sansa felt a tugging at her skirts. The missing tabby kitten's tail flicked with excitement, its head fully inside her pocket. She gently pulled the kitten out. It had a corner of the fish clenched in its tiny teeth- it had eaten half of the fish already. Clever little thing. Thank goodness she had already offered the sausage to the weirwood sapling, burying it in a little hole she'd dug with a dead branch. She'd done so every day since her dream of Bran, and the sapling was taller than Sansa now.

"Sansa!" Her septa called from the entrance to the godswood. She could not stay with the kittens all day; it was time to prepare for court.

Sansa frowned as she looked down from the gallery. Septa Mordane had made her promise to be on her best behavior if she was to watch Lord Eddard Stark hold court. Though he had awoken several days past, and Grand Maester Pycelle promised he was on the mend, Sansa did not like it when her father was out of her sight.

Besides, she needed to practice listening to one person speak amongst many. The tourney had been disorienting, even painful. So she had begun focusing on a single noise, a single voice or area, blocking out and ignoring the rest. It was difficult, but it helped, and she needed more practice.

"It will be dull, child," Septa Mordane had warned. "Your lord father shall hear petitions and settle disputes between rival lords. It will last hours, and you will need to listen silently."

Sansa was not deterred. She could handle being bored. But this wasn't boring at all. A group of villagers knelt before the Iron Throne. Their clothes were ripped and bloody; some were shaking. Was it exhaustion from their journey, or was it fear? Father would give them justice, whatever they had suffered. Sansa's ears prickled— she could hear one of the villagers, a girl Sansa's age, sniffling to hold back tears. Sansa was glad she'd daubed scent beneath her nose, or doubtless she'd have smelt the filth and sweat that covered the poor smallfolk.

Three knights stood behind the villagers. Their armor shone, at least where it wasn't splattered with mud, and their surcoats were bright and bold, blazoned with their sigils.

"What houses are they?" Septa Mordane prompted, her voice the softest whisper.

Sansa examined the banners held by men at arms behind the knights. There was a pink maiden dancing on a blue field, a black plowman on a brown field, and a quartered banner, with two white quarters and two black. Each of the white quarters boasted a black dragon, while yellow eyes stared from the black quarters.

"House Piper, House Darry, and House Vance of Wayfarer's Rest. All of them are bannermen of House Tully of Riverrun." These were her mother's people, so they must be Sansa's people too.

The Darry knight began to speak. Several villages in the Riverlands had been attacked, their people killed. Sansa's brow wrinkled. Bandit attacks were terrible, but shouldn't the knights have gone to Lord Tully at Riverrun? Lord Varys seemed to agree with Sansa.

“Brigands, Lord Varys?” The Darry knight replied, his voice angry. “Oh, they were  brigands, beyond a doubt. Lannister brigands.”

Lannisters, Sansa thought, goosebumps prickling up her arms. Was injuring her Father and killing Stark men not enough? The North was too far away to attack easily— was that why they'd attacked the lands of Lady Catelyn's family?

Father bid the villagers of Sherrer rise, and all of them staggered to their feet, except for the girl. Her simple blue dress was covered in bloodstains. Her light brown hair was a mass of tangles down her back, and clumps of mud had dried on the back of her dress and at the ends of her hair.

As the villagers told their story, Sansa's heart sank lower and lower. Homes had been burned down, families destroyed.

“They killed my mother too, Your Grace. And they... they...” The girl with the bloody skirts began sobbing.

Bloody skirts... they raped her. Sansa's blood ran cold. She wished she didn't know what rape was, she wished she was ignorant like she'd been before that awful nightmare.

The knights and the village men went on with their tale. Father's eyes snapped with fury, yet the rest of the small council were calm. Grand Maester Pycelle idly stroked his chain as he listened. Lord Baelish wore a lazy smirk. Lord Varys' expression was neutral, perhaps mildly concerned, as though the villagers reported some minor troubles.

Sansa could not believe their indifference. Were they blind and deaf? Did they care nothing for the horrors these people had seen? Smallfolk worked the land, and in exchange, their lords protected them, they defended them from violence. Father would make it right, Father must make it right. The Hand of the King could bring justice.

Sansa's stomach dropped as the knight argued with Grand Maester Pycelle about the huge man who had led the attacks. The Mountain that Rides. Had the Mountain raped the poor girl like he'd raped Princess Elia? Or had it been one of his men?

When Ser Loras Tyrell stepped forward to offer his sword, Sansa's heart leapt. Brave Ser Loras would make it right, he would slay the monster. Lord Eddard glanced aside, calling forth Lord Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Ser Gladden Wylde, and Lord Lothar Mallery. Were they to ride beside Loras?

Father's face was stern and unyielding as he passed judgment. Gregor Clegane was attainted, stripped of his titles, and sentenced to death. Sansa should feel sad that a knight had fallen so low, but Gregor Clegane was no true knight. He deserved to die long ago, and now there would be justice for Princess Elia and her babes, and the smallfolk of the Riverlands. Perhaps even for the Hound. 

When Father refused Ser Loras, Sansa wondered for a moment if her ears had stopped working. By the time Septa Mordane led her from the gallery, Sansa was bristling with outrage.

"Father should have sent Ser Loras, why wouldn't he let him fight the Mountain?" Sansa said, trying to keep her voice sweet.

"It is not your place to question your lord father's decisions," Septa Mordane scolded. A small laugh interrupted their conversation. It was Lord Baelish. Sansa resisted the sudden urge to hide behind her septa. This man is not safe.

“Oh, I don’t know, septa. Some of her lord father’s decisions could do with a bit of questioning. The young lady is as wise as she is lovely.” Lord Baelish bowed deeply, and Sansa knew he was mocking her.

“The girl was just talking, my lord,” the septa replied. “Foolish chatter. She meant nothing by the comment.”

“Nothing? Tell me, child, why would you have sent Ser Loras?” His face was friendly, but his grey-green eyes reminded Sansa of an old cat at Winterfell.

The cat had lived in the stables, where it caught mice. Sometimes children would try to pet it, and it would lay quietly, nuzzling their hands, perfectly sweet. Until the child was close. Then it would attack, with silent, sudden fury, slashing with its sharp claws until the child was screaming, covered in bloody stripes. Lord Baelish had the same look in his eyes as Sansa explained about heroes and monsters.

“Well, those are not the reasons I’d have given, but...” he reached out, touching her cheek as Sansa tried not to shudder.

“Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow.”

Lord Baelish left, and all the sounds Sansa had been ignoring during court pressed back in on her.

"—leaving for the Riverlands at dawn-"

"The Lord Hand looked so frail—"

"Why not send the Tyrell boy?"

"The queen is going to be furious—"

Sansa frowned. Somewhere, among all that noise, she could just barely make out the sound of sobbing. The girl. Sansa turned toward the sound of the sobs, moving through the crowd as quickly as she could.

"Young lady, what are you—" Sansa ignored the septa's scolding, intent on the weeping girl.

The villagers were all gathered near the entrance to the hall, waiting aimlessly for their knights to return. The girl was crumpled on the floor beside them, her face buried in her hands, her back against the wall. The villagers stared at Sansa, their eyes bloodshot.

There was no ignoring the smell now. The metallic tang of blood, the foul earthy scent of human waste. Had they soiled themselves in terror during the attack? Suddenly, Sansa felt self-conscious of her perfect dress. Her gown was finely made, her body perfumed lightly. What did she look like to these broken people?

"I am Lady Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn of House Tully," Sansa said. The men bowed deep and the old grandmother attempted a wobbling curtsy.

"Come on," Sansa heard one of the men whisper to the girl sobbing on the floor. "You've got to curtsy, girl, it's the Hand's daughter."

"After what she has been through, there's no need for that," Sansa said, a lump of lead in her tummy. Think. What would mother do? Family, duty, honor. House Tully owed a duty to these people. What would Good Queen Alysanne do?

Life is not a song, sweetling, Lord Baelish's voice echoed in her head. Sansa's blood hummed with fury. Then I will make it a song.

Chapter Text

As Ned Stark limped back to the Tower of the Hand, he wanted nothing more than to eat a quiet supper in his bedchambers and go to sleep. Unfortunately, the gods did not seem to care for his wishes this night. Septa Mordane awaited him at the entrance to the tower, her lips clenched tightly. Vayon Poole stood beside her. 

“My Lord Hand, a moment of your time,” the septa said.

Eddard wobbled, his leg exhausted by today’s demands. Alyn slipped an arm under his shoulder, bracing him.

“Yes, septa?” Eddard asked, trying to keep his voice level. Surely the septa could handle whatever Sansa or Arya had done this time.

“My lord, Sansa has...” the septa paused, as though choosing her words carefully.

“What has my daughter done?” Ned asked, impatient and in pain. Vayon Poole answered him.

“My lord, Lady Sansa bid the smallfolk of Sherrer come to the Small Hall for dinner. Ser Raymun Darry, Ser Marq Piper, and Ser Karyl Vance are at the high table even now, awaiting Lady Sansa’s return. She ordered the servants to find spare clothes for the smallfolk, though I told them to await your command before doing so.”

Eddard stared at the steward and the septa. At least Sansa hadn’t gone missing, as Arya had done the day before Jaime Lannister’s attack. She’d returned with wild tales of conspiracies that seemed somewhat less wild now. Meanwhile, Sansa had invited people to dinner.

“How did this happen?” He asked slowly. This time, Septa Mordane answered.

“The child got away from me in the crowd after we left the gallery. By the time I found her, she had already spoken to Ser Marq.”

Eddard almost wanted to laugh. A septa might be in charge of noble young ladies, but they still outranked her. By inviting the knights before the septa could intervene, Sansa had taken advantage of her station.

“Have the servants find the spare clothes,” Eddard told Vayon. Turning to the septa, Eddard frowned. Vayon said the knights awaited Sansa.

“Where is my daughter?”

When Eddard finally limped all the way to Sansa’s chambers, Alyn and Harwin half carrying him, it was to find the doors barred. Desmond, who stood guard, looked very sheepish.

“Sansa ordered me to guard the doors until she was finished,” he explained. Eddard could just barely hear splashing within.

“Finished with what?”

Before Desmond could answer, the door opened a crack. Sansa stood there, in her shift. How had she heard him? The doors were thick, and his voice was low.

“Father, you may come in,” she said, stepping aside. Her eyes glanced at Alyn and Harwin for a moment.

“I will speak with my daughter alone,” Ned told them, his leg screaming as he limped into the room without their support.

But he and Sansa were not alone. Beside a tub full of steaming filthy water stood a young girl, wrapped in an enormous towel. She looked vaguely familiar, her brown eyes huge with fear.

“Merissa, this is my father, Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King,” Sansa said gently.

Beside the tub lay a pile of bloody clothes— the girl from Sherrer, Ned realized. Though the girl looked to be a few years older than Sansa, she was several inches shorter, with a slight figure. She was trembling like a leaf as Ned slid into the closest chair.

“We shall speak after you take care of our guest,” Eddard said, turning away to give the girl some privacy.

Sansa moved with a briskness he’d never seen before. Within minutes, she had found an old gown in the bottom of her chest, helped the girl dress while murmuring to her in a gentle voice, and sent the girl down to dinner. When Sansa presented herself in front of his chair, it was with her head held high, her eyes determined. She reminded him of Arya.

“Your septa is not pleased,” he began. “Escaping her supervision is not like you.”

“I had to do something,” Sansa blurted out, her ladylike poise forgotten.

“It has been a long day, Sansa. I did not intend to host knights and smallfolk for dinner- I had hoped to rest my leg and eat in my chambers,” Ned sighed.

“I can host them,” Sansa said, twisting her hands in front of her like the girl of eleven she was.

“Why did you invite them in the first place?”

“They’re mother's people,” Sansa said, confused. “And a true lady comforts and protects her people. Family, duty, honor.”

Ned rubbed his forehead. She wasn’t wrong. If Sansa wished to practice being a great lady, well, her grandfather’s bannermen would likely overlook any minor mistakes. It wasn’t the strangest thing she’d done today.

“Why were you bathing that girl?” Eddard asked. Sansa bit her lip.

“I heard her weeping. She— she was raped like Princess Elia. I thought she’d like to feel clean. She was frightened of the servants so I bathed her myself.”

Was this the same Sansa who left Winterfell? He’d heard her gushing about being queen someday, about having dozens of servants to do everything for her— but that was before Darry, he realized. Who was his daughter now?

“Was it wrong of me?” Sansa asked hesitantly. “I thought it was what a lady should do— what mother or Good Queen Alysanne would do.”

There was his Sansa. It was a kind thought, and did no harm to anyone.

“Very well. You may preside over dinner. When the meal is done, ask the knights to attend me in my solar.”

Sansa’s face broke into a smile, and she hugged him fiercely, though she was mindful of his leg.

“Thank you, thank you!” Ned embraced her, his heart just a little lighter. Then Sansa pulled back, looking down at her feet and biting her lip.

“Father, Merissa has no family left, no home— could I keep her as my maid? Most young ladies at court have several maids.”

Eddard sighed.

“She is not a lost dog, Sansa. She is a girl. The Riverlands are her home, not King’s Landing.”

And I’m planning to send you and Arya North. He would have to tell them tomorrow, he’d put it off for too long already.

“Couldn’t we give her some money? Something to help her? I— I could have less new dresses,” Sansa pleaded, her blue eyes filling with tears.

Ned almost laughed. The cost of one gown would feel a village for months. He really should have the septa explain how much money court dresses cost and how much money smallfolk lived on.

“There’s no need for that. I’ll have Vayon give a small sum to each of the smallfolk,” Ned replied. Sansa hugged him again, and he limped out of her chambers so she could dress for dinner.

When the three knights found him in his solar several hours later, Ned was in a much better mood. His dinner was hot and filling, the pain in his leg had dulled, and Harwin had taken his mind off of court with a story about how he’d seen Arya and Sansa playing with a litter of kittens in the godswood.

“Good sers, I regret I could not join you—” he gestured to his cast “—but I hope dinner was to your liking after your journey,” Eddard said as they took seats across from him.

“Aye, it was,” Ser Karyl Vance answered. “The smallfolk were honored by Lady Sansa’s kindness. You’d think she’d sewn each set of clothes with her own hands.”

“She’s the very image of Lady Catelyn,” Ser Raymun Darry said.

“As beautiful, poised and gracious a lady as many twice her age,” Ser Marq Piper said gallantly.

Eddard did not like the sound of that. Ser Marq was in his early twenties, and while he was the heir to Pinkmaiden, he was no fit suitor for Sansa. Sansa was fit to be a queen, though not to someone as cruel as the current prince. He wondered how Sansa would take the news that he intended to break her betrothal to Joffrey.

“When do you intend to return to the Riverlands?” Ned asked. The knights glanced at each other, and Ser Karyl answered.

“We had planned to leave this evening, before Lady Sansa’s gracious invitation.”

Your smallfolk were half-dead just from walking to King’s Landing, Ned thought angrily. They intended to ride back the same day, with no rest for the battered survivors of Sherrer?

“Why not rest?” Ned said instead. “I shall have chambers prepared for you. It is the least that I may do for bannermen of my goodfather.”

The knights glanced at each other again, this time with amusement.

“Lady Sansa made the same offer, Lord Hand. We thought perhaps she made the offer without your knowing, but if it is your will, we gladly accept,” Ser Raymun replied.

After the knights left, Ned stared at the dying fire. He’d dismissed Vayon, Alyn, and Harwin for a little while, wanting peace before they helped him to bed.

Sansa was growing up so quickly. Joffrey was not worthy of her, but who would be? She shone too brightly for the cold castles of the North, and besides, he didn’t want to show too much favor to one of his bannermen. Renly Baratheon was the Lord of Storm’s End, handsome and gallant, but neither as serious nor as steady as Ned would like. Doran Martell’s heir was an oldest daughter. Robert Arryn was a sickly child, and Sansa’s cousin. The Iron Islands were completely out of the question.

A man who has the Lannisters for his enemies would do well to make the Tyrells his friends, Lord Varys’ voice echoed in Ned’s mind. Willas Tyrell might serve. The heir to Highgarden was crippled, but so was Bran, and Ned loved him no less. By all accounts Willas was handsome, clever, and a great lover of dogs and horses. Sansa would be surrounded by beauty, and she would be a great lady when Willas inherited. Although Willas was in his early twenties...  well. There was plenty of time to find Sansa a new betrothed. Soon she and Arya would be safe in the North.

Chapter Text

Arya winced as she made her way back to Sansa's chambers. Her water dancing lesson had run long, and she'd picked up some painful new bruises while trying to walk on her hands. At least she'd been able to rummage up some food from the kitchens and her belly was pleasantly full.

Varly stood guard at Sansa's door.

"Arya Underfoot, how is it that for the first time in your life, you are not underfoot? You should have been back hours ago," he scolded quietly.

"I had my dancing lesson," Arya shrugged. Varly wouldn't get her in trouble. Father and Septa Mordane were surely asleep, and Varly was too absentminded to remember to tell them in the morning.

"The Red Keep is not Winterfell," Varly muttered. Arya ignored him and slipped into Sansa's chambers.

The room was dim, the only light coming from the dying fire. Sansa sat before it, nervously braiding and unbraiding her flaming hair. A floorboard creaked, and Sansa looked up, startled.

"Oh, thank the gods, you're safe," Sansa whispered. To Arya's shock, Sansa practically ran at her, her arms wrapping around Arya in a tight hug.

"You're being weird," Arya said flatly, uncomfortable at the sudden display of affection. Sansa sniffled.

"Well, pardon me for worrying about you when the Lannisters are— are—" Sansa began openly weeping.

Arya clumsily patted Sansa's back, completely bewildered. After a few minutes Sansa's sobs grew quieter. Since she didn't have any better ideas, Arya gently pulled Sansa toward the bed.

To Arya's surprise, there were already two lumps curled up under the covers. Arya recognized Jeyne Poole’s dark hair, but not the lighter brown head beside her. Confused, Arya opened her mouth to ask Sansa what was going on— then closed it. Sansa  never could tell a story quickly, and Arya wanted to sleep. Once Sansa was curled around the unknown girl, Arya changed into her nightshift and climbed in beside Sansa. Sleep found Arya almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, and she dreamed of wolves.

When Arya awoke, it was to Sansa climbing over her. A sliver of light shone through the window— it was just before dawn. Blearily Arya sat up, rubbing her eyes. Sansa stood by the window, her face rapt.

"What's happening?" Arya yawned.

"The knights are leaving to hunt down Gregor Clegane," Sansa murmured.

Arya pinched herself— no, she was awake. With another yawn Arya dragged her exhausted body out of bed.

"What— for Princess Elia? For her babes?" That didn't make any sense, it had been years and years ago.

"No," Sansa replied, a bitter note creeping into her voice. "Clegane and Lannister men attacked the Riverlands. They burned down a holdfast and murdered a lot of people, women and children too. Father stripped Clegane of his titles and chose men to go after him."

As Arya looked down into the yard she realized why Sansa had risen so early. Banners streamed in the light breeze. Sunlight shone off the knights' armor. Alyn was there, a Stark banner fluttering proudly in his hand. Over a dozen Stark men stood around him. It was like the songs Sansa loved so much.

A low whimper broke their silent watch. The unknown girl was shaking in her sleep. In moments Sansa was beside her, stroking her hair, her voice soft as she sang a lullaby. When the girl stopped moving, Arya tapped Sansa on the shoulder, a question in her eyes.

"She's one of the survivors," Sansa whispered. "Merissa. They—they... I couldn't let her sleep with the others."

Sansa's blue eyes were haunted, as they had been after her nightmare. Arya's stomach dropped as she realized why a smallfolk girl was sleeping in Sansa's bed.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. The Small Hall felt empty with so many of the Stark men gone. Every inch of Arya ached as she sleepily peeled the skin from a blood orange. Sansa and Jeyne were muttering about something. Merissa sat beside Jeyne, picking at her food, her eyes staring at the table. Sansa glanced at her, then turned to Septa Mordane, who was eating porridge.

"Septa, will Lord Beric spike Ser Gregor’s head on his own gate or bring it back here for the king?"

The septa choked on her porridge, outraged.

"A lady does not discuss such things over her porridge. Where are your courtesies, Sansa? I swear, of late you’ve been worse than your sister."

Arya scowled.

"I hope Lord Beric cuts off his head and lets crows peck at it,” Arya growled, determined to be as discourteous as possible. "Someone should cut off Jaime Lannister's head for killing Jory and Wyl and Heward. They could give his head to the queen."

The septa gasped, horrorstruck.

"Young lady, that is enough! It is bad enough that your sister escaped my charge to consort with filthy smallfolk, bathing them herself, ordering that one of them break her fast with us, of all the improper—"

Out of nowhere, an orange hit the septa, striking the middle of her forehead. Sansa stood beside the bowl of oranges, her arm still extended, a stunned look on her face. Before the septa even realized what was happening, Arya flung her orange across the table. It hit the septa in the chest with a wet squish and fell in her lap.

Septa Mordane lurched to her feet, one hand grabbing for a napkin. “Your lord father will hear of this! Go to your chambers, at once. At once!"

Amidst the septa's shouting, Arya could have sworn she heard Merissa laugh.

Sansa cried for a few minutes, then began pacing the room, muttering to herself about the duties of ladies. Still exhausted, Arya took a short nap. When she awoke, Sansa was still pacing. Merissa and Jeyne were off somewhere else, as the septa had refused to let them join Sansa and Arya in Sansa's chambers. Luckily Arya's wooden practice sword was in the room, so Arya practiced, ignoring Sansa. An hour or so later Sansa abruptly came back to herself and forced Arya to take a bath and put on a dress.

It was midday when Septa Mordane finally came for them. She marched them into Lord Eddard's solar, her lips pursed so tight that they disappeared. Father was at a table, bent over a book, but he shut it when he saw them.

“My thanks, Septa Mordane. I would talk to my daughters alone, if you would be so kind.” The septa bowed and left.

"Kindly tell me what happened at breakfast this morning. Your septa's account was a bit confused, perhaps because she could not stop spluttering with fury." Lord Eddard's eyes were stern, but the edge of his mouth quirked up as though he resisted the urge to smile.

Sansa recounted the events of breakfast, her voice quiet and steady. When she was finished, she raised her blue eyes to their father.

"A lady is supposed to help her smallfolk. Duty comes before courtesy, doesn't it?" Sansa pleaded. Lord Eddard covered his mouth, but Arya could still glimpse his smile.

"It does, child. I shall have words with your septa. The oranges, however, were uncalled for, and you will both apologize."

Sansa bowed her head, and Arya nodded. Lord Eddard continued. "I need to speak with you on another matter. I’m sending you both back to Winterfell.”

“You can’t,” Arya said. There was no Syrio Forel at Winterfell, no one who would teach her to be as swift as a deer, as quiet as a shadow, as quick as a snake, as calm as still water.

“Please, Father,” Sansa managed at last. “Please don’t.”

"Every day you seem to grow closer," he said, a tired smile on his face. "Perhaps coming south was not a complete disaster. But your safety is what matters most."

"Winterfell isn't safe either!" Sansa cried. "A man is going to stab mother, I saw him!"

Lord Eddard's face turned as pale as milk.

"What did you say?"

"He was in Bran's room, he was filthy, mother fought with him and he cut her hands with Joffrey's knife!"

Lord Eddard tried to jump to his feet, his injury forgotten. The plaster cast banged against the table, and Lord Eddard fell back in his chair with a sharp cry of pain. Fat Tom burst through the door, but father waved him away, his face grim.   

"Sansa, tell me exactly what you saw."

Chapter Text

Eddard pressed a hand to his forehead. Ned believed in the old gods as surely as he believed in the change of seasons and the turning of the moon. They were a part of life, one that he took for granted. He had never heard tell of dreams such as this. His mind reeled at the implications of what Sansa had seen. Cat has taken the wrong Lannister, yet what can I do?

Sansa and Arya watched him, their faces pale and their eyes wide, one pair blue as the sea, one pair grey as clouds. For a moment, he felt as though Cat and the ghost of Lyanna were before him. Yet the details were wrong. Sansa's hair was a lighter shade than Cat’s, yet the red was deeper, unmixed with brown. Arya's hair was cut short, as Lyanna's had never been, and her jaw had Cat's stubborn chin. These were his daughters, not his wife, not his sister. So young to bear such burdens. Too young to truly understand the consequences of each action.

That reminded him of another matter.

"The smallfolk of Sherrer and the Riverlands knights left this morning with Lord Beric and his men." Eddard turned to Sansa, giving her a stern glance. "Your septa informs me that Merissa slept in your chambers and did not depart with them."

His daughters' responses were as he expected. Sansa cast her eyes down, while Arya stared, unafraid.

"She was crying in her sleep so Sansa brought her to our chambers," Arya said. Sansa raised her eyes, encouraged by the support.

"I could hear her crying, father," Sansa said softly. "She was so afraid. Our chambers had a guard, a door with a heavy bar."

Ned sighed.

"And what now? Is she to travel alone, with no protection on the road?"

"She didn't want to go home," Arya muttered.

Eddard rubbed his temple, and called for Septa Mordane. The septa brought the girl swiftly. Merissa looked far better than yesterday, though she seemed nervous. Her light brown hair was in a simple braid, and she was dressed in one of Sansa's old gowns. She curtsied awkwardly, and tried to sink to her knees before Arya grabbed her arm.

"It's just father," Arya said, clearly perplexed.

"Merissa," Eddard said kindly. "I regret that you were not able to depart with the rest of Sherrer. It may take a few weeks to make arrangements for you to return home. But my daughter claims you don't wish to go home. Is that true?"

Merissa hesitated, then nodded.

"What skills do you have, child?" Ned asked. If she did not wish to return to Sherrer, work would need to be found for her.

"My mother and I have- we had a few cows," Merissa said, so quiet he could barely hear her. "I fed them and milked them."

The only cows in the city were those needed for fresh milk for the kitchens of the richest nobles and merchants. Ned stroked his chin, thinking.

"Couldn't Merissa serve as my maid, just for a few weeks?" Sansa asked. "I could teach her to sew and do my hair, and then she could come North—"

"Yes, perhaps we could send her north someday," Ned said hurriedly. A milkmaid did not need to know of their plans- indeed, it was better for her own safety that she didn't.

"Are there cows there?" Merissa asked, a tiny bit of hope in her voice.

"Oh, yes, but they're different than the cows here. Much fuzzier, since it gets so cold," Arya interjected.

Eddard gave Septa Mordane the necessary directions. Merissa was to be given appropriate clothes and a pallet in Sansa's chambers. The septa would instruct her in the basic duties and courtesies of a maid.

Once the septa and the milkmaid were gone, Ned looked at his daughters. There was still the matter of Tyrion Lannister. Grand Maester Pycelle would doubtless be delighted to send a raven telling Cat to release Tyrion. But before Ned sent a raven, he must be sure of the letter's contents.

"Have you had any other strange dreams?" Ned asked. Sansa bit her lip, her eyes downcast.

"I... I had dreams of Joffrey as a child, hurting Myrcella, hurting a cat, hurting Tommen," Sansa said slowly, her voice trembling.

Ned's heart clenched. Robert must have known of this. He had known of this, and sought to place Ned's daughter under the protection of such a cruel boy? Ned's mind was made up. Robert could rant and rave at Ned, but he would not have his daughter.

"All the more reason to send you to Winterfell. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake."

Given that she had seen the prince send a catspaw after her brother and hurt his own siblings, Eddard expected Sansa to be relieved. Instead, her eyes went wide with fear.

"You can't! I promised the old gods, I told them if they brought Lady back I'd plant weirwoods when I was queen, I can't break my oath!" Sansa cried.

Eddard sighed heavily. Children got the strangest ideas into their heads.

"Lady is dead, Sansa," he said gently. "The old gods do not bargain like merchants at a fair. They will not punish you for failing to wed Joffrey."

Sansa twisted her hands in her lap, her brow furrowed as she thought.

"Maybe I could- maybe I could gentle him, maybe I could help him be a good king."

Arya snorted.

"You'd have an easier time making the old king stop drinking."

"Arya, quiet." Ned commanded, his heart sinking as the truth of her words sank in. "Winterfell is safest for both of you. I will hear no arguments on this matter."

Sansa and Arya both began speaking at the same time, one frantic, one calm.

"But I promised—" Sansa cried.

"—my water dancing lessons?" Arya said, her little face wistful.

“I am looking for a fast trading galley to take you home. These days, the sea is safer than the kingsroad. You will sail as soon as I can find a proper ship, with Septa Mordane and a complement of guards... and yes, with Syrio Forel, if he agrees to enter my service. But say nothing of this. It’s better if no one knows of our plans, and we cannot trust anyone outside our household.”

Arya frowned, her little face confused.

"I thought the king was your friend," she said. Ned sighed.

"When we were boys, yes. But now... three of my men, slaughtered in the street, and Robert goes hunting. I hope that Robert will set things right when he returns, but I will not have you two in danger."

"You're not coming with us?" Sansa asked, her voice shaking.

"I am still Hand of the King. My duty is here," Ned told her sadly. Sansa burst into tears.

Damn Robert for making me Hand again. Eddard doubted Robert would actually make Jaime Lannister Hand as he had threatened, but he could not leave the city while the king was hunting. He was a Stark of Winterfell, not a craven who would flee rather than face his duty. But it hurt to watch his daughter weep, her sobs so forceful he could not make out the words she attempted to say. Arya awkwardly patted her sister on the back, and Sansa's sobbing finally subsided enough that she could speak.

"If I'm not safe with Joffrey, you're not safe with the king. He's Joffrey's father," Sansa sniffled. Ned frowned.

"I may not like all he does, but Robert is nothing like Joffrey," Ned said sternly.

Sansa blew her nose into a handkerchief, a weak smile on her face.

"No, he isn't," Sansa said, her eyes thoughtful. "Joffrey looks more like his uncle than the king."

The world dropped away. There was a pounding in Ned's ears.

Joffrey looks more like his uncle than the King. The prince's face swam into view, his golden curls shining like the sun. The image shifted, and Ned saw Jaime Lannister sitting on the Iron Throne, a boy of seventeen with the same face.

The seed is strong! All those bastards, from the child in the Vale to the blacksmith's boy to tiny Barra cradled in her mother's arms. Every single one with hair black as coal. The truth twisted inside Ned like a knife in the dark. This was the sword that killed Jon Arryn, and it will kill us all if I make but one mistake.

Chapter Text

Quiet as a shadow. It was growing harder and harder for Arya to slip away from the guards. The closer it got to their departure, the closer they watched. Her water dancing lessons with Syrio were now the only time that she had to herself. Since they did not finish at the same time every day, she'd taken to visiting the godswood after her lessons.

It was even more difficult for Sansa to slip away. Septa Mordane kept a close eye on her as she helped the septa teach Merissa. The milkmaid knew how to mend her own clothes and how to make a simple dress, but she knew nothing of the embroidery done by ladies and their maids, or how to curtsy for a knight versus a lord.

"I miss the sapling," Sansa had confided last night, after Jeyne Poole and Merissa fell asleep. "I promised I'd take care of it, and now..."

Feeling guilty about her own freedom, Arya had promised to tend the weirwood tree. She'd stopped by the kitchens after her lessons, getting her hands on a few leftover fish. She'd even managed to get a raw steak, telling the cooks it was for a bruise on her cheek. The afternoon sun was warm as Arya used her hands to bury the steak in the soft earth by the sapling.

Now for her other task. With soft feet Arya crept under the old oak that served as the heart tree, pushing aside the bushes so she could crawl beneath them.

The mama cat chirped, excited by the smell of fish. She ate delicately, stripping skin and flesh in bites so ladylike they would have impressed Sansa. Then, she nosed at her kittens. The ginger and white, who was always hungry, was the first to dive in. The two tabbies were close behind, while the grey, blonde, and ginger kittens seemed less interested.

"I'm going to miss you," Arya whispered to the mama cat as she scratched under her chin.

The mama cat licked her thumb. It had been pleasant having the extra food and attention, though the mama cat didn't quite understand why Arya was leaving. It's dangerous, Arya told her, there's lions all around.

The mama cat wrinkled her nose and sneezed, offended. If there were big predators around, she would have smelled them. And if a girl was daring enough to catch the Beast, two-leggers shouldn't scare her. The Beast? Arya asked, scratching the mama cat's ear.

An image floated in Arya's mind. She was much smaller, and her vision had less color. An old black tomcat with a torn ear hissed at her. The mama cat couldn't imagine anything scarier than the tomcat. He'd been lord of the castle since before the mama cat was born. Her own mother had warned her not to take his food or get in his way.

Two-leggers are meaner , Arya told the cat as she curled up beside her. Her lessons had worn her out, and it was a nice soft place for a nap.   

The she-wolf's tail wagged as she leaped onto the smaller wolf. Their bellies were full of meat, their thirst sated by the stream nearby. Now the pack tested their strength against each other, pouncing and wrestling like pups.

Arya stirred. The mama cat was licking her nose. Covering a yawn, Arya was about to stand up when she heard voices. She froze, careful not to rustle the foliage that concealed her.

“—why you called me here, Lord Stark? To pose me riddles? Or is it your intent to seize me, as your wife seized my brother?” The woman’s voice was familiar, but Arya could not quite place it. 

“I sent a raven over a week ago commanding my wife to release him,” Eddard said softly. “Did Grand Maester Pycelle not inform you?”

There was a long pause. Arya rubbed her eyes, pushing away the remnants of drowsiness.

“Has he done this before?” Her Father sounded sad.

“Once or twice.” At last Arya recognized the queen's cold, elegant voice. “Never on the face before. Jaime would have killed him, even if it meant his own life.”

Arya carefully adjusted her position, peering through the leaves. Her father sat on the grass, his leg with the plaster cast extended awkwardly. Beside him sat the queen in a long brown cloak, the simplest thing Arya had ever seen her wear. Her cheek was swollen.

“My brother is worth a hundred of your friend,” the queen was saying.

“Your brother?” Father said evenly. “Or your lover?”

“Both.” Arya pressed her hands to her mouth, covering the gasp that had almost escaped her.

“Since we were children together. And why not? The Targaryens wed brother to sister for three hundred years, to keep the bloodlines pure. And Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies. We shared a womb together. He came into this world holding my foot, our old maester said. When he is in me, I feel... whole.”

The queen smiled, and Arya felt sick.

“My son Bran...” Arya had never heard her Father sound so lost, yet so certain.

"He saw us," the queen said flatly.

It took Arya a moment to understand, then rage flowed through her veins. If only Needle weren't back in Sansa's chambers! Arya would have burst through the foliage and stuck the queen with the pointy end. The voices dulled, becoming a soft hum as Arya thought of revenge.

Then, a slap rang out. Father's cheek was red and the queen was shouting at Father, shouting at him about Jon.

Father answered softly. Exile? Father was going to let the queen and her brother live? Arya supposed that it wasn't dainty Myrcella or chubby Tommen's fault who their parents were, but the queen and the Kingslayer had tried to kill Bran, and Joffrey had tried to finish him off.

At last the queen pulled up her hood and slipped away into the dusk. Her father sat like a statue, his eyes uplifted at the stars that shimmered coldly in the deep blue sky.

The minute she saw the layer of mud and grime on Arya's clothes, Sansa's lips tightened. Then, she smiled, a placid, proper smile that chilled Arya to her bones.

"A lady's maid often helps her lady bathe," Sansa said sweetly, gesturing for Merissa. Jeyne Poole sat beside her, needlework on her lap.

Arya backed up, holding her wooden sword out in front of her. Her news was more important than a bath. Jeyne chuckled, and Arya stuck her tongue out.

"You'll have to excuse her," Jeyne said. "She prefers swords to sewing. Or bathing, apparently."

Arya rolled her eyes. She didn't mind taking a bath, but it took time she didn't have right now.

"I need to speak to my sister. Alone," Arya said firmly. Sansa tilted her head, then smiled.

"Jeyne, why don't you take Merissa to your chambers and teach her a new braid?"

When the door shut behind them, Arya began speaking quickly, explaining everything that had happened after her water dancing lessons.

As she began to recount the conversation between their Father and the queen, Sansa rose to her feet, pacing, her face pale. She was breathing loudly. Arya half-expected Sansa to shriek in outrage when she heard that the Kingslayer was Joffrey's father, that they had thrown Bran off the tower, but Sansa just breathed faster and louder.

"—and then the queen said when you play the game of thrones, you win or die, and then she left," Arya concluded.

Her sister wobbled on her feet, clutching a chair for support. It wasn't enough, and she sank to the floor. Sweat shone on her face, and her hands trembled.

"Sansa?"

Sansa pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them as she panted, her eyes wide with fear.

Oh, if only Maester Luwin was here, not that awful Pycelle. Shallow breaths are the sign of a beaten foe, Syrio's voice echoed. They'd been practicing for hours, and she was tired and sweaty, her breaths coming quickly as she gasped for air. A water dancer breathes slowly, deeply, his mind and body calm.

Arya grabbed Sansa's arms, her grubby hands smearing the ivory silk. Usually Sansa would have shrieked and batted her hands away before she could ruin such a fine gown. That she didn't was a very bad sign.

"Breathe with me, Sansa," Arya ordered.

She inhaled, counted to four, then exhaled, counting to four again. Arya had to repeat the count several times before Sansa began to breathe with her, her breaths ragged.

"The queen will have us killed, the queen will have us killed like Lady and the butcher boy," Sansa gasped, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Or she'll send the Kingslayer to kill Father like he killed Jory!"

"She wouldn't dare," Arya said, digging in her pockets for a handkerchief that was only somewhat dirty. She handed it to Sansa, who blew her nose.

"We'll be on a ship in a few days. The king hates the queen- I bet she's already packing to leave. Besides, they can't touch Father," Arya said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.

"But what if they come for us before then?" Sansa whispered. "What if they come for me like they came for Princess Elia?"

Silence fell. Arya was glad she had not shared Sansa's dream— her imagination was frightening enough. The longer the silence lasted, the more Arya felt the need to move, to do something. She fetched her wooden practice sword and ran through a drill, her arms screaming with exhaustion. At last, as she put the wooden sword away, an idea came to her.

"Princess Elia was all alone," Arya said, coming to stand before Sansa. "You have me."

She drew Needle from its sheath. The firelight flickered over the cold steel as Arya took her stance, holding her blade as a bravo would. Sansa stared, her lips parted.

"I'll be your sworn shield," Arya said, summoning up all her courage. "I'll swear an oath and everything. Beneath the weirwood tree."

Sansa sat up.

They made no noise as they walked to the godswood, their path lit by moonlight. Arya had expected Sansa to trip or catch her skirts, but she seemed to see better in the dark than Arya did. Once, Sansa stopped Arya, pulling her against a wall. A few minutes later, a guard walked past, his armor clinking quietly.

The weirwood sapling was taller than Sansa, its bone white branches slender but strong. The red leaves grew in thickly, covering the ends of the branches, and here and there little white flowers bloomed.

Sansa stood beneath the tree, her ivory gown shining in the moonlight under her cloak.

"I, uhm, I don't know the words," Arya confessed. Sansa sighed and shook her head.

"I can teach you, the oath is short."

Sansa repeated the words several times, making Arya say them until she could remember the entire oath.

"Now what?" Arya asked.

"A knight begins by kneeling and laying his sword at his lady's feet," Sansa said. Well, she wasn't a knight, but Arya knelt anyway, laying Needle before Sansa.

"I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods.” A sense of purpose flowed over Arya like a cloak.

“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods."

Sansa picked up Needle and handed it back to Arya, her eyes solemn but her lips quirked up in a smile. Gone was the girl so scared she could not breathe. For the first time, Sansa reminded Arya of their Father.

"Arise.”

Arya stood, her knees creaking. "The ground is cold," she said, brushing bits of grass off her legs. She glanced at Sansa- she was stroking the weirwood's bark reverently.

"You'll need a face soon," Sansa whispered, caressing the trunk.

"Sansa!" Arya hissed. "We need to hurry back before we're caught!"

With a sigh Sansa released the tree and stepped back. She looked up, as though drinking in the sight of it. Suddenly, Sansa frowned, her eyes fixed on the leaves.

Arya followed her gaze. She couldn't see anything, so she moved closer, standing beside Sansa. There was a deeper shade of red against one of the branches. With careful fingers Arya reached out. Her hand closed around something round and smooth, and she pulled gently. With a quiet rustle she plucked it from the tree, then held her hand open to examine it.

"What is it?" Sansa said softly.

It looked like a pear, but it was a deep crimson red. Arya rubbed the fruit against her tunic, turning it in her hand to see how it shone in the moonlight. She had never heard of a weirwood bearing fruit.

The fruit looked plump and juicy, and for a moment Arya wanted nothing more than to bite into it. The leaves rustled, almost as if the weirwood was trying to speak.

"Arya?" Sansa whispered, her hand reaching out.

Somehow, Arya found the strength to yield the fruit to Sansa.

Sansa sank her teeth into the skin of the fruit, bone white against blood red. Juice smeared Sansa's lips as she took a dainty nibble. She grimaced, pausing for a long moment before forcing herself to swallow. Yet she took a second bite. This time Sansa swallowed without hesitation, her pupils blown wide.

Arya stepped back as Sansa devoured the fruit, ravenous, her teeth ripping at the flesh, her pink tongue lapping at the dripping red juice. At last she licked her lips clean, a cluster of white seeds all that remained.

That night, Arya dreamt of blood. 

Chapter Text

When Sansa awoke her chambers were dark as pitch. Slowly Sansa's eyes adjusted. Jeyne Poole and Merissa lay next to each other, Jeyne curled on her side, Merissa on her belly. Arya was making little woofing noises in her sleep, her body warm against Sansa's back. It was the middle of the night, but Sansa could not fall back asleep.

Her dreams had been strange, as they had been since eating the bloody fruit. She'd seen a wolf with a limp, a mockingbird fluttering around the wolf's head. Then a pack of lions came, their teeth bared, their claws sharp. The mockingbird flew about the wolf, urging the wolf on, then suddenly flew to land on a lioness's back.

Sansa fluffed her pillow, frustrated. Father had told her to share any strange dreams, but should she wake him? He needed his sleep so badly, he always looked exhausted. Then Sansa remembered. She was to leave on the morrow, to take the ship north with Arya and Jeyne and Merissa and their septa. She'd best tell him now, otherwise she might forget in the morning.

Carefully Sansa slipped from the bed, pulling a robe over her shift. The passage was dim, lit only by torchlight as Sansa made her way to the Hand's chambers. She was nearing his solar when she heard voices, muffled by a door but still clear.

“— have no fear, my good lord. For the sake of the love I bear for Catelyn, I will go to Janos Slynt this very hour and make certain that the City Watch is yours. Six thousand gold pieces should do it."

Lord Baelish's mocking voice sent a cold shudder through Sansa. Why would the Hand need to buy the City Watch? The door creaked, and Sansa fled, her purpose forgotten. By the time she reached her bed and hid under the covers she was covered in droplets of sweat, yet she still felt cold. Lord Baelish had known her mother, he had loved Lady Catelyn Tully... everything would be well.

Then she remembered the mockingbird and the limping wolf. What was the sigil of House Baelish? Sansa wracked her memory, and sighed with relief when at last she remembered. Their sigil was the grey face of the Titan of Braavos, with flaming eyes on a green field. Yet still it troubled her. She had seen a mockingbird recently, she knew she had. But where? Sansa was still trying to remember when sleep found her.

Sansa awoke to the sound of metal crashing in her ears. It was just past dawn. While Jeyne and Merissa still slumbered, Arya was already at the window, dressed in her ratty leathers and roughspun.

"They just started," Arya said.

Below in the yard were at least a dozen men in mail and crimson cloaks. Lannister guards, Sansa thought, her heart pounding like a rabbit's. The Hound was there, riding an enormous horse, a lance in his hand. He charged at a straw dummy, and Sansa looked away, rubbing her ears as the dummy exploded. Usually Sansa ignored the sounds of metal, given how often she heard armor as knights walked through the keep, or the sound of guards' swords brushing against chainmail.

She couldn't eat anything at breakfast, though Arya ate enough for both of them. To Arya's delight, Father agreed to a last water dancing lesson, so long as she was bathed and changed by midday.

"May I visit the godswood?" Sansa asked quietly. She'd been unable to sneak away since the night Arya had sworn to her, the night she'd eaten the bloody fruit.

Father paused.

"Her things are all packed, my lord," the septa conceded. Sansa smiled at her gratefully. "I can fetch her before midday."

"I'd prefer she not go alone," her lord father said. The septa rarely stepped foot inside the godswood of Winterfell, and she had no interest in the godswood of the Red Keep.

"She should have a guard, but I cannot spare a single man," Father said, a frown on his face. For a moment Sansa hesitated.

"It is a holy place— surely I don't need a guard?" Sansa asked. Eddard leaned back in his chair, worry draped over him like a cloak. At last he nodded heavily, and Sansa slipped a knife from the table into her pocket.

This time Sansa could see what she was doing, and she examined the pale bark for a long time before she began to carve. First she gave it a mouth, a mouth that reminded her of Arya's stubborn grin. Then, she carved a nose, the nose that she saw every day on her father's face.

At last she came to the eyes, and there she hesitated. Should she give it mother's eyes, with the delicate arch of her eyebrows? Mother did not keep the old gods. Father's eyes didn't seem right either, and Sansa couldn't quite remember Robb's eyes, not enough to carve them. I know my own eyes well enough, she decided finally. She set to work, careful to keep her sleeves away from the sap that dripped from the nose and mouth.

Sansa stepped back and gazed at her work. The tree smiled back, red sap dripping from her eyes like tears. Bran had said that men sacrificed to the trees, but Sansa couldn't kill a person, not even the awful prince. Dimly Sansa heard the sound of the kittens mewling, and she pushed the thought away immediately. No, her own blood had fed the seed, and her own blood would have to do now.

With trembling hands Sansa rolled up one of her sleeves. Pricking her fingers didn't produce much blood— not enough for a sapling. Sansa nicked herself halfway up her forearm, then pressed the wound against the weirwood's trunk, squeezing her arm to help the blood flow.

When the blood eased to a trickle, Sansa staunched the wound with a handkerchief, then tied the handkerchief around her arm. Her sleeves were huge, and easily covered the bandage. Now for one last farewell.

"Here, kitty kitty," Sansa whispered as she crept toward the bushes.

Four of the kittens ran out to greet her. The blonde one trotted out, mewing gently. The white and ginger one was so eager that it bowled over the ginger one, making Sansa laugh. One of the tabbies sniffed at her skirts, then crept back under the bushes, clearly disappointed by the lack of fish. The other tabby and the grey hid with the mama cat in the foliage.

With gentle hands Sansa picked up the ginger kitten. It was the friendliest, the most eager for affection. It purred loudly against her cheek as she stroked its soft fur. Just there, the ginger kitten ordered as she scratched under its chin. Sansa almost dropped it in surprise. When Arya swore the mama cat had talked to her, Sansa had thought she was japing, or mistaking a dream for reality. I wish I could take you with me, Sansa thought wistfully. A kitten wasn't Lady, but it was still sweet.

For a moment Sansa enjoyed the kitten's nuzzles, the wind rustling in Sansa's hair. She sighed, and opened herself to the sounds of the Keep. She was fairly sure she could hear Arya's lessons, if she focused— the Small Hall was near enough, and usually had a door or two open.

“My father wouldn’t send you,” Arya snarled. Men were laughing, strange men. Why were there strange men at Arya's water dancing lesson?

“Put down the stick, girl,” a man ordered her gruffly. “I am a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, the White Swords.” But which one? Sansa couldn't place the voice.

“So was the Kingslayer when he killed the old king,” Arya said. “I don’t have to go with you if I don’t want."

“Take her,” the knight said. What? Why would a knight take Arya?

Clang!

This time Sansa did drop the kitten as she clapped her hands over her ears. A man was screaming— Quent, Quent was screaming. Quent who had smiled at her when she left the Tower of the Hand this morning.

Suddenly Sansa was drowning in noise. She heard the thud of axes against a door— the door to the Tower of the Hand. Septa Mordane was shouting Sansa’s name, then suddenly she was silenced. Swords clashed back and forth. Arya screamed for her dancing master to run. She heard Desmond over by the stables, swearing terrible curses at his foes. Hullen screamed, and there was a dull thump— he'd fallen. He begged for mercy, he was only a horsemaster, he had no sword— there was a squishing sound as someone stabbed him, over and over again. Stark men were all around, their voices filled with fear, and everywhere they were surrounded by strange voices, jeering voices, and the clang of weapons.

Arya, where was Arya? Where was Father? Sansa was torn between her desire to flee the godswood, to see what was happening, to find Father, and her desire to hide where no one would ever find her.

Fear won out, and Sansa dove under the bush, the kittens yowling as they sprang out of her way. Sansa wept as she listened to the moans of dying men coming from the Tower of the Hand. Were Arya and Father dead now too?

"You liar!" Arya, Arya was in the stables, Arya was alive! Sansa tried to calm herself, to breathe deep as Arya had shown her, blocking out everything but the sound of Arya's steps as she moved about the stables. Then she heard a second set of steps, and her stomach dropped.

“There she is,” a voice hissed.

Sansa could barely breathe as Arya begged the boy for help, as he said that Father was dead, as he told Arya to come with him. Sansa almost fainted when she heard the quiet squish of a blade entering a body, the thump and clang of something—a weapon?— falling to the ground.

“Oh, gods,” the boy moaned. “Take it out.”

Relief mixed with horror as Sansa realized that Arya must have stabbed him. Then the horses were screaming, and Sansa couldn't hear Arya anymore. She had to be safe, she had to be, Arya was the brave one. But what if she wasn't? The noises rolled back in, as brutal as the tide, and Sansa could not stop weeping.

Someone was coming. Long, dragging steps entered the godswood. Sansa froze, peering through the foliage. She saw a grey cloak trimmed in white— Quent, it was Quent, his hand clutching his belly. There was a gash on his face. A dark patch stained the front of his tunic. Something greyish-purple was against his hand— his guts, Sansa realized, biting her lip so hard it bled.

"Sansa?" he whispered, looking around. She did not make a sound. A dead man could not save her. With faltering steps Quent made his way to the weirwood tree.

"I tried," he told the old gods. Whatever strength had brought him so far, it failed him now. Quent fell to his knees, his blood smearing the weirwood's roots, his guts spilling on the ground.

A rough tongue lapped at Sansa's hand- the ginger kitten. Dimly Sansa realized the kittens were all curled up against her belly, the mama cat standing guard at the edge of the foliage. When Ser Arys Oakheart found her, just before dusk, it was with all of them curled in her arms. He led her out of the godswood, past the weeping weirwood tree.

Quent's body was gone.

They locked her in a room in Maegor's Holdfast. Ser Arys had coaxed her out from her hiding place with gentle words, and he had not objected when the entire family of cats trailed behind her skirts. All but the ginger kitten, who Sansa clasped in her arms. A guard in a crimson cloak had tried to take them away, before they locked her in, but Ser Arys stopped him with a shake of his head.

Servants brought her dinner, a simple meal of venison and fresh bread. She was still weak from the blood she’d given the weirwood, so she forced herself to eat. Her strength slowly returned, though she could not taste a single bite. None of the servants would tell her what was happening, and she could not stop weeping.

It was late when they shoved Jeyne and Merissa through the door, Jeyne hysterical and covered in bruises, Merissa silent and staring. Sansa took a deep breath, doing her best to brush her own concerns aside. A lady must provide comfort in times of fear, and Jeyne and Merissa were in her charge.

Providing comfort proved difficult. Jeyne couldn't stop sobbing about her father. Had they killed the gentle steward too, like they'd killed Hullen, who treated his horses like his own children, who had taught her to ride without shaming her for being afraid? Sansa could not find the right words, so with gentle hands she guided Jeyne to a chair and set the blonde kitten on her lap. Then she brushed Jeyne's long dark hair, braiding it in a northern style that Jeyne had long admired.

Merissa was on the bed hiding under the blankets, the mama cat and several of the kittens curled up beside her. She was shaking, but no sound passed her lips. When Sansa was done with Jeyne's hair, she curled around the lump that was Merissa, stroking her back and singing softly as mother did when they were sick. Jeyne curled around Sansa's other side, clasping her tight, and the three of them drifted to sleep.

The second day was worse. Jeyne still cried for her father, and Merissa barely spoke. Even with the window open Sansa could not breathe. The noises below were completely normal, the hustle and bustle of cooks and grooms and guards. It was as if yesterday was a terrible nightmare, but for the dark patches of dried blood all around the yard.

Servants brought them food, and water for Sansa to bathe. They even brought some of Sansa’s and Jeyne’s things from the Tower of the Hand. But they would not say a word, not about Father, not about Arya. They almost seemed frightened of Sansa. That made no sense to her— they were Lannister servants, and Lannister guards had killed every Stark man they could find. What was there for them to fear? Sansa almost wanted to scream, to force them to face what had happened.

On the third day, they came for her.

Chapter Text

As Ser Boros Blount led Sansa out of Maegor's Holdfast, she did her best to calm her racing heart. The bells at sunset the night before boded ill— the king was dead, Sansa knew it, and she was surrounded by Lannisters and their men.

When Ser Boros came for her, with his bald head and his flat stare, Sansa had wanted to hide like Merissa, to weep like Jeyne. Sansa only managed to leave her room with her head held high by clinging to her courtesies. A lady’s armor is courtesy , Septa Mordane once said, and Sansa needed armor to face the brutes who had killed Hullen and Quent and...and... no, she would not think of it, they would not dare.

So she had forced herself to smile, and compliment the ugly knight on his splendid garb, and bid good morrow to the Lannister guards who surrounded her door. Had one of them killed Quent, striking the blow that spilled his guts like ribbons? Had one of them stabbed Hullen, who only ever wanted to care for his horses?

Ser Boros led her to the council chambers and knocked loudly. What were they going to do to her? Sansa strained to hear the soft voices within.

"—a stupid girl, and wet with love for Joffrey. Let me manage her," the queen said coolly. How had Sansa ever trusted her, loved her, believed her to be kind? The voices died, and Ser Mandon Moore admitted them.

The chambers were lavishly decorated, a wonder to behold, but Sansa took no joy in the sight. Queen Cersei sat at the end of a long table, in a black gown with rubies like drops of blood. Lord Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Lord Varys sat around her. Baelish frightened her with his cold eyes, Pycelle sickened her with his defense of the Mountain, and Lord Varys... Sansa didn't know what to make of Lord Varys. She wished she were back in Winterfell's plain halls, among folk she knew and loved.

Cersei smiled to see her, and Sansa's tummy roiled with unease. “Sansa, my sweet child,” she said, “I know you’ve been asking for me. I’m sorry that I could not send for you sooner. Matters have been very unsettled, and I have not had a moment. I trust my people have been taking good care of you?”

Sansa's lips had gone dry. She must be courteous, she must say nothing to hurt Father or Arya.

“Everyone has been very sweet and pleasant, Your Grace, thank you ever so much for asking,” Sansa said politely. “Only, well, no one will talk to us or tell us what’s happened, or where my sister is...”

“Us?” Cersei seemed puzzled, and Sansa bit her tongue until she tasted coppery blood. Already she had failed her people.

“We put the steward’s girl in with her, and a maid” Ser Boros said, before Sansa could think of what to say. “We did not know what else to do with them.”

The queen frowned. “Next time, you will ask,” she said, her voice sharp. “The gods only know what sort of tales they've been filling Sansa’s head with.”

"They've not said anything, your Grace," Sansa said earnestly, fighting the urge to cry. "They're frightened, they're good girls, I'm teaching them needlework."

Queen Cersei looked at each of the councillors in turn. “It is not the duty of the prince's betrothed to teach needlework to girls so far beneath her. What shall we do with these little friends of hers, my lords?”

Not Lord Baelish, anyone but him , Sansa prayed, but it was no use. Sansa's skin crawled as the queen entrusted them to Baelish's care and ordered that they be gone before Sansa returned. Not a word was said about Arya— had she escaped? Or had they killed her?

The queen bid Sansa sit beside her. As Sansa sat, she felt eyes crawling over her body. Baelish was staring at her as though she were naked, a sly smile on his face. Sansa shivered, and tried to compose herself by examining his tunic. It was of fine green velvet, stitched with golden mockingbirds.

Mockingbirds. Lord Baelish's insolent voice echoed in her head. For the sake of the love I bear for Catelyn, I will go to Janos Slynt this very hour and make certain that the City Watch is yours. Sansa couldn't think, she couldn't breathe. Dimly she realized tears were pouring down her cheeks.

"Sweetling?" the queen said, her voice as sweet as honey. "Are you well?"

No, Sansa was not well, her Father and Arya were gone and here she sat with the man who betrayed them and the queen who had ordered the deaths of all the Stark men. Someone was panting heavily, choking on air. The world spun, and she swayed in her seat.

"Pycelle," the queen ordered, and within moments something awful was thrust before Sansa's nose, something with the most wretched stench she had ever smelled. She must be brave, brave like Arya, strong like mother. Sansa forced herself to take a long, slow breath, then let it out.

"You worried us, child," Queen Cersei cooed, a look of concern on her beautiful face. "What has upset you so?"

"I- I-" Sansa stammered, desperately trying to think of what to say. A stupid girl, wet with love for Joffrey. "I'm frightened that you hate me, that Joffrey hates me," Sansa managed, trying to sound as lovestruck as she had felt at Winterfell.

The queen's face softened, and she laid a hand on Sansa's wrist.

"Sweet child, why would you think that?"

"Because— because I was locked in a room for days," she replied. The queen shook her head, the very image of motherly sorrow.

"That was for your own safety, sweetling. We found you all alone in the godswood, without a guard in sight. Why were you there, sweetling?"

"I- I was hiding there, Your Grace," Sansa said. "And then I fell asleep, I slept all day, until Ser Arys found me.” She must make them think her stupid, stupid and trusting.

The queen’s lips tightened for a moment, and Sansa’s breath caught in her throat.

“Hiding from what, dear child?” Cersei asked.

“From- from- from my father, your grace, he said he wanted to send me away from Joffrey.” Sansa rubbed her eyes as though she was about to start crying again. “Please don’t let him, I love Joffrey.” The queen smiled— Sansa had passed the test.

"I know, sweetling, and Joffrey loves you dearly.” Sansa forced herself to gasp with delight, but the queen shook her head.

“I am afraid we have some grave news about your lord father. You must be brave, child."

What followed was a dizzying back and forth between the queen and her councilors as they recounted Eddard Stark’s supposed treason. Their eyes watched her every move, their ears heard her every gasp of disbelief. With voices as gentle as poison they sighed over her traitor’s blood, her unfitness to marry Joffrey. Littlefinger defended her, claiming she resembled her mother, but he was no friend. They all wanted something from her, and they were toying with her like the kittens toyed with grasshoppers. Sansa did not have to pretend to be afraid.

At last Cersei Lannister came to the point. They wanted her kin to stay loyal. As loyal as you were to the king?  Sansa thought. She wondered what the queen would do if she dared say such a thing. Rip out her tongue like King Aerys had done to Sir Ilyn Payne? The thought made her tremble.

The queen took Sansa’s hand in both of hers, gently rubbing her hand as if to soothe her. “Child, do you know your letters?”

Sansa nodded nervously. She could read and write better than any of her brothers, Maester Luwin said so. She spelled the words right every time, and didn’t smudge the ink.

The queen asked— in truth, she ordered— Sansa to write to her family, tell them of Lord Eddard’s treason, and beg them to come swear fealty. She needn’t worry about the words, they would tell her what to say. And if her family obeyed, why, she’d prove she was no traitor’s blood, and wed Joffrey when she flowered.

They brought her quill and parchment, and began dictating the letter to her mother, the Lady Catelyn Stark. Sansa wrote a few sentences, then stopped, staring at the page. She needed to send a message, a true message, not these falsehoods. But how?

“Sansa, my dove, is something amiss?” The queen asked, her voice sweet and patient.

“I- I feel dizzy and faint, Your Grace, might I perhaps have something to eat?” Sansa asked in a small voice. The Queen paused, as though weighing whether to coddle Sansa or frighten her.

“Of course, my sweet, you’ve had such a shock,” the queen said, kissing her forehead.

They awaited the refreshments in silence. By the time Sansa had eaten a bit of roast chicken and greens, she had an idea.

The queen leaned over Sansa’s shoulder as she dictated the letters. She spoke slowly, giving Sansa time to write her exact words. Sansa obeyed, praying her hidden messages would escape Cersei’s notice but not mother’s or Robb’s. It was doubtful that Lord Hoster Tully or Lady Lysa Arryn would see them, as they did not know Sansa, but she put a message in each of their letters anyway.

At last she was finished. Her hands were cramped and ink-stained, and her tummy was tied in knots. The queen reviewed each letter, then had her seal them with wax and her father’s direwolf. Then the queen thanked her, and sent her back to her room.

As Ser Mandon Moore closed the door behind them, Sansa strained to hear.

“As obedient as I told you, though perhaps stupider,” Cersei laughed. “Her words were half misspelled. Keep your men looking for the other one— we need them both.”

Chapter Text

When Maester Luwin brought the letter, it was to Robb the Lord. Bran watched Robb's eyes go back and forth as he read Sansa's delicate handwriting. The King was dead, Father stood accused of treason, and Mother and Robb were ordered to come swear fealty.

"She says we must be loyal, and when she marries Joffrey she will plead with him to spare our lord father’s life.” Robb crushed Sansa’s letter in his fist, then dropped it to the ground. “And she says nothing of Arya, nothing, not so much as a word. Damn her! What’s wrong with the girl?”

"May I see?" Bran asked.

Before Maester Luwin could take two steps, Summer gently scooped the ball of parchment in his jaws and dropped it in Bran's lap. The maester blinked in surprise as Bran smoothed the letter out, careful not to tear it. Bran read a few sentences, then frowned.

"Maester, how is treason spelled?"

The maester blinked again, his grey eyes perplexed. "T-r-e-a-s-o-n, child. Why?"

Bran pointed at the letter.

"Sansa spelled it t-r-e-e-s-o-n. She never makes spelling mistakes, not like Arya or me," or Robb, Bran thought but did not say. Robb could read well but Maester Luwin despaired of his spelling.

Maester Luwin plucked the letter from Bran's hand, his bushy grey brows knitted as he read. Quill and parchment lay on the table, and Maester Luwin began to write, one letter at a time. Robb paced back and forth, his blue eyes blazing, Grey Wind at his heels. At last the maester was finished, and he held out the parchment for Robb and Bran to read.

Bran looked at the parchment, his mouth dry. The crows were cawing in his ears. Bran hit the ground and something snapped. Time spun backwards, and Bran was rising, rushing up through the air, to stand on the hard stone sill of the tower. They were there, the matching faces, golden haired and green eyed. “He saw us,” the woman said shrilly.

Robb slammed his fists on the table, bringing Bran back to the present.

“We have no proof,” Robb snapped. “Naught but a misspelled letter and Sansa’s word.”

Bran’s heart still raced, his pulse pounding in his ears. He must be brave like Sansa. He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. Bran coughed and licked his lips, and tried again.

"We have proof.”

The lords murmured amongst themselves as they gathered in the solar. Lord Eddard’s bannermen had been streaming in for weeks, but Bran had not seen them all in one place before.

Robb stood beside the fire, staring into its depths as Grey Wind guarded Robb's back, the wolf's golden eyes flicking from lord to lord. Bran sat in a chair beside them, Summer at his feet. He could feel curious eyes slipping over him, wondering why the broken boy was here. Determined not to show his discomfort, Bran looked back.

Lady Mormont drew his eye first. She was one of the only women in the room, and Bran almost laughed as he wondered what Sansa and Arya would think of her. Maege Mormont was short and sturdy in her chainmail, her loose grey hair mussed by the wind. A tall woman stood beside her- Bran couldn’t remember her name. Darcey? No, Dacey, Lady Mormont’s heir. While Dacey also wore mail, her long black hair was up in an elegant braid. Bran had heard someone say that Lady Mormont never wed, that she claimed a bear fathered her five daughters. Arya would be bold enough to ask, but Bran needed to save all his courage for what was to come.

Greatjon Umber drew Bran’s eye next. While Lady Mormont’s sigil was a bear, the Greatjon was a bear. It was fitting that the Umbers had a giant for their sigil- the Greatjon was the biggest man Bran had ever seen, as tall as Hodor, but far more muscled, with a great black beard and black eyes. His heir, the Smalljon, was near as large, though with a shorter beard.

Lord Karstark, Lord Hornwood, and Lord Cerwyn stood near each other. Although Lord Rickard Karstark was distantly related to the Starks, he intimidated Bran with his gaunt face and long grey beard. His three sons were with him, all in their twenties or thirties, though it was hard to tell with their bushy brown beards. All were garbed in black with silver sunbursts.

Lord Hornwood looked garish beside the Karstarks in his orange tunic. Maester Luwin said the great horned beast on the Hornwood sigil was a bull moose. Halys Hornwood’s eyes and short curls were as brown as his moose, while his heir, Daryn, had long dark blonde curls.

Lord Medger Cerwyn looked the friendliest, with his round belly and soft voice. He had not brought his son Cley, which disappointed Bran. The Cerwyns visited relatively often, and Cley, a friendly lad with an enormous grin, was around Robb’s age. But Cley had been left behind at Castle Cerwyn.

Lord Bolton stood alone, but he was the one who scared Bran most. Roose Bolton had eyes so pale it was if all color had fled them. Old Nan said the old Bolton kings had flayed their enemies, until the Kings of Winter forced them to stop. Roose Bolton looked as if he could flay a man before breaking his fast.

"All are assembled, my lord," Maester Luwin finally said, and Robb turned. Despite his dark red hair and his blue eyes, Robb had never looked more like Lord Eddard, from his grave expression to the set of his shoulders.

"A letter has arrived from King's Landing, my lords," Robb began, his voice ringing like steel. "I would share its contents and hear your counsel.”

The Greatjon shouted “aye”, and stern Lord Karstark glanced at his sons with what Bran thought might be approval.

“This letter is writ in the hand of my sister Sansa. King Robert is dead.” Though the lords began to rumble with dismay, Robb raised his hand and they fell silent.

“According to the letter, King Robert was injured while hunting. A boar gored him. The King was brought back to the Red Keep and died of his wounds.”

“A boar? Kill Robert Baratheon?” Lord Hornwood said, his brow furrowed. “The King was a skilled huntsman.”

Several lords murmured in agreement, then the Greatjon stepped forward. Robb’s eyes shifted from Lord Hornwood to the Greatjon, weighing each man as he spoke.

“This stinks of Lannister treachery,” the Greatjon growled in his deep voice.

“Aye, King Robert wanted Ned to guard his back,” Lord Galbart Glover said. His hazel eyes were steady but his look was sad. His beloved wife had died not three months past, so Maester Luwin said.

“There were more Lannister men than King’s men when he came to Winterfell,” young Lord Condon added thoughtfully, stroking his brown mustache.

“Aye, but he was drunk when he hunted during his visit.”

Several lords shook their heads, but none disputed Lord Cerwyn’s soft words. Lord Cerwyn was known for being a keen hunter, and he had joined the king frequently for hunts during his visit to Winterfell.

“No matter the cause of King Robert’s death, the Lannisters could hardly claim him to be dead if he were not,” Maege Mormont said briskly.

Almost in unison the lords turned to Robb, who held the letter in his hand.

“Well said, my lady.” Robb inclined his head. “The letter has more dire news than the king’s death. It claims that as soon as the King passed, my father attempted to give the crown to Stannis Baratheon, and the Lannisters name Lord Eddard Stark a traitor.”

"Ned, a traitor?" The Greatjon roared. The other lords shared his fury in silence as hands leapt to swords, teeth clenched, eyes flashing. All except Roose Bolton, whose pale eyes were as flat as ever.

"And writ in his daughter's hand," Bolton said softly. The Greatjon growled under his breath, and Robb shot the man a sharp look.

"Lady Sansa is eleven years old and surrounded by enemies. Doubtless the Lannisters forced her to write it." Maester Luwin’s chain clinked as he spoke.

"Aye, women are frail, and girls-" the Greatjon closed his mouth at the twitch of Robb's eyebrow, and Maege and Dacey Mormont turned to glare at the Greatjon, their chainmail clinking.

“Nor is that all,” Robb said, his voice cool. “The letter summons myself and Lady Catelyn Stark to King’s Landing to swear fealty to King Joffrey, and perhaps they  shall spare Lord Eddard's life and wed Lady Sansa to the king."

The lords began shouting. Robb listened, his face impassive, while Grey Wind and Summer sat on their haunches, teeth bared. At last the lords quieted, and Robb continued.

"And yet there is more news to share, news that Sansa risked her life to send. A coded message was in the letter. Maester Luwin, if you would."

Maester Luwin stepped forward, the parchment in his hand.

"Arya missing," Luwin said clearly.

“Escaped, or killed?”

“Dead, surely.”

“A girl of 9, escape the Red Keep?”

“If any child could do it, Arya Underfoot could,” Lord Cerwyn said. Lord Karstark and Lord Glover shook their heads, their eyes grave.

Maester Luwin cleared his throat. “Joff sent catspaw."

“What?”

"The Imp-"

“Lady Catelyn was certain-“

Grey Wind gave a low warning growl, and the lords fell silent. The maester cleared his throat.

"What was the code?" Lord Karstark's eyes were hollow and dark.

"I taught Lady Sansa her letters, as I taught all Lord Eddard's children," Maester Luwin said. "She excelled in penmanship and spelling. Yet half the words in this letter are misspelled. When each word is spelt correctly, the missing letters revealed the message."

"I like it not," Eddard Karstark said.

"A child might spell words wrong for many reasons," Torrhen Karstark agreed.

"Perhaps, but words misspelled at random would not result in such a clear message," Roose Bolton said, to Bran's surprise.

"There was more," Maester Luwin said. He inhaled slowly, the parchment trembling in his hands.

"Joffrey son of Jaime."

The room erupted as voices cried out in shock and in fury. A few spat on the floor in disgust.

"Incest!"

"Treason!"

“An abomination!”

"Do they think they are Targaryens?"

Robb let them have a moment, then raised his hand for quiet.

"What proof have we, other than the misspelled words of a little girl?" Roose Bolton's eyes were colder than winter.

“Lady Sansa was delighted with her betrothal to the prince- she would never claim such a thing unless she were certain,” Lord Cerwyn said hesitantly.

“Is that what we shall tell the lords of the Riverlands?” Maege Mormont demanded. Robb shook his head, grim as the crypts.

“Lord Cerwyn and Lady Mormont speak truly. We must have further proof.”

Robb rested a hand on Bran’s shoulder, and the lords stared at Bran.

"I saw them," Bran said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"You, boy? Yet you said nothing?" The Greatjon asked, his deep voice skeptical. Somehow his doubt gave Bran courage.

"I couldn't remember until the letter," Bran said, meeting the Greatjon’s dark eyes. Summer nuzzled Bran’s hand, and Bran took a deep breath.

“The day I fell, I was climbing the First Keep. I heard voices in the broken tower. It was a man and a woman, speaking about how they didn’t want father to be Hand, and they hoped the king would die soon. I was scared, but I had to see who was talking, so I climbed closer.”

Bran took another deep breath. The lords were hanging on his every word, but he was not afraid.

“When I looked through the window I saw a naked man and a woman. They were kissing and touching each other all over.” Bran couldn’t help making a face. Maester Luwin had explained coupling to him after they spoke earlier, and it seemed very awkward and messy.

“I recognized the queen, then she saw me and screamed. I slipped, but I caught myself on the window ledge. And then Ser Jaime pushed me out the window."

All were silent for a moment, as though the entire world held its breath. The Greatjon was first to break the silence.

"So, this is why they call Ned a traitor," the Greatjon said, his low voice like the roll of thunder.

“He must have learned of it,” Lord Hornwood said.

"Your sister Sansa is brave indeed," Lady Mormont said, her hand gripping the spiked mace she wore at her side.

"A true wolf," the Greatjon said, as though he had not called all women frail not five minutes ago.

Robb squeezed Bran’s shoulder, as though seeking comfort, and began to speak.

“My father taught me that a true lord hears his bannermen before he acts. I seek your counsel, my lords and ladies, as Lord Eddard sought your counsel after the Mad King slew my grandfather and my uncle.”

One at a time, Robb heard the lords. Greatjon Umber wanted to gather a great host, besiege King's Landing, and demand the surrender of Lord Stark and his daughter. Lord Cerwyn urged patience, advising that they march for Riverrun and await more news. Lord Karstark would have none of it. They should move quickly, before the Lannisters could make alliances against them.

The North was spread thin, and the ironborn would surely grow restless with Robert dead, Lord Galbart Glover pointed out. Should they not keep some strength here, in case the ironborn attacked? The Flints and Mormonts agreed with Lord Glover, as their lands were oft the targets of ironborn raids. For the first time, Bran noticed that Theon was standing near Maester Luwin, his usual smirk gone as the lords discussed the treachery of the ironborn.

Nor could the lords agree how to respond to the news of Joffrey's parentage. Smalljon Umber wanted to send ravens to every great house spreading the news and denouncing Joffrey. Lord Cerwyn proposed sending a raven to Stannis Baratheon before arousing Lannister fury. Lord Hornwood thought the matter could wait until they had Ned back safe and sound. The Karstarks disagreed, proposing that they march south, take Tywin Lannister captive, and then trade him for Ned.

Roose Bolton spoke last. He urged that Robb send a raven south seeking peace, but on northern terms. First, the letter should recount the disturbing claims made by Brandon Stark. Then, Robb should say he hesitated to believe the word of a crippled boy, but his doubts would be laid to rest forever by the safe return of Lord Stark. Once Eddard was safely returned home, the North could choose how to proceed at their leisure. Bran wondered if Robb noticed that Bolton made no mention of Sansa or Arya.

"Such a letter is no better than blackmail," said Robb, troubled. "And it is a lie. Bran may not be able to walk, but his mind is sharp as ever, and Sansa's letter confirms the truth. My father would not have me save his life by throwing away all honor."

"Well said," the Greatjon boomed. "A northman does not negotiate with false kings."

"Yet I would not throw away my father or my sister's lives by acting in haste," Robb said slowly.

"Our plan was to march south, free the Riverlands from the Lannisters, and demand the return of Lord Eddard and my sister. We cannot march on King's Landing without marching through the Riverlands, and we cannot abandon my mother's and my grandfather's people to be slaughtered. Let us join our strength to the strength of the Riverlands and set our terms at swordpoint."

The lords had listened quietly as Robb spoke. Now, they roared with approval.

"We'll send the lions running for Casterly Rock," Daryn Hornwood said eagerly.

"Aye, and bring Ned home!" The Greatjon bellowed.

"And Lady Sansa," Dacey Mormont added.

"What about Arya?" Bran whispered, hoping he wasn't shaming himself.

The Greatjon strode forward, bending almost in half so he could clap an enormous hand on Bran's shoulder.

"We'll bring them all home."

Chapter Text

The ginger kitten mewled as he stepped on Sansa's chest, his tail flicking her nose. Sansa stroked his back, her eyes half-closed as she yawned. This was how Sansa began her days- with a purring, needy cat. As she scratched the kitten's chin, he turned his gaze on her. For a moment his green eyes reminded Sansa of the queen, and her tummy clenched. But no, Buttons' eyes were lighter, a rich yellow green like new leaves.

Buttons, so named for his love of licking the buttons on Sansa's gowns, was the only company the queen permitted. To Sansa's dismay, the day after Jeyne and Merissa were taken, new servants had been sent to wait on Sansa. The new servants immediately informed Cersei of the flock of kittens in Sansa's room. When the servants came to remove them, Sansa begged and pleaded to keep one, just one.

The servants pretended to take pity on her, but Sansa suspected they had been given orders in advance. Cersei didn't care about Sansa, she just wanted another way to keep her in line. If Sansa did not do as she was told, doubtless Buttons would share Lady's fate.

An unfamiliar servant helped Sansa dress, and another brought her porridge and fruit to break her fast. There were no lessons with Septa Mordane, no whispered conversations with Jeyne or Arya.

At first, Sansa had thought she might join Myrcella and Tommen for lessons. Surely their septa and guards could keep Sansa in line. But as the weeks passed with no such invitation, Sansa grew resigned to her solitude and fell into a daily routine.

Mornings were spent embroidering in the sunlight by her open window. They had brought most of her things from the Tower of the Hand, including her needlework. At Winterfell she had started a handkerchief for Joffrey. Sansa had not worked on it since Lady's death. The day after she wrote the letters, she resumed working on the golden lions and black stags. She was, after all, supposed to be wet with love for Joffrey. Sansa still wasn't sure what that meant, but she knew it was not meant kindly.

After forcing herself to work on the handkerchief for as long as she could stand, she set it aside and turned to her other needlework. When they brought Sansa's things, they had also brought a few of Arya's. Sansa had dug through the chest of clothing, searching for the cleanest, least ripped roughspun shirt. It was a bit big for Arya, but that was just as well. Sansa did not know how long it would be until she saw Arya again, but she would have a gift ready for her sworn shield. She wracked her brain trying to remember every detail of Arya’s beloved sword, and stitch by stitch she embroidered a row of Needles along the shirt cuffs.

Lunch was as solitary as breakfast. Sansa nibbled on bread, pork, and root vegetables, her head buried in one of her books. Almost all of her books were tales of southron chivalry, of dragons and princes and lovers. But she did have one book about the North, brought accidentally because it happened to be between two of Sansa's favorites. It was a collection of Northern legends assembled by a maester. Some were familiar, echoes of Old Nan's tales. Others were strange and frightening, tales of giants and skinchangers and greenseers.

As the sun began to wane, it was time for Sansa's walk. As soon as the queen granted Sansa freedom of the castle, Sansa had gone to the godswood, hoping there would be some sign that the old gods were pleased. To her disappointment, the only difference was the weirwood sapling's height.

In the few weeks Sansa had been confined in her room, the weirwood had grown as tall as Hodor. The bone white bark had acquired a deeper sheen, and the leaves seemed thicker. Two graceful branches extended from the main trunk, their twigs like fingers. The face wept crimson sap, the tears oozing down the trunk to pool around the roots. Sansa was careful not to touch the sap. It reminded her too much of Quent’s blood.

Sansa visited the weirwood almost every day during her afternoon walk. The godswood was peaceful. The guards that always shadowed her didn't come into the godswood. Why bother? Sheer walls enclosed it. Even if she could climb like Bran, there was no way for Sansa to escape.

At least, not in her own body.

Nymeria was too far away for Sansa to slip into her skin, and Buttons was not allowed outside of the tower. But the godswood was full of birds, now that the kittens and the mama cat weren't waiting in the bushes, ready to pounce. Sansa watched them flutter about until she spied a robin that was headed toward the tower where Sansa was kept.

Sansa carefully set herself on the ground, her back leaning against the weirwood sapling. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. Warm nests and soft feathers. Claws on a tree branch. Pecking crumbs in a courtyard. Sansa opened her eyes and the wind rushed under her wings. The open window, Sansa nudged the robin. Please? There's food there for you. Startled by his unexpected passenger, the robin landed at the top of a tree. It took a few minutes of coaxing before the robin recovered from his fright.

Sansa sympathized. Slipping into Nymeria had scared her witless. She had done it a few times on the road, but once they reached King’s Landing her sister’s wolf was too far away. Sansa had not known she could slip into anyone besides Nymeria. Slipping into Buttons had been an accident.

It was soon after servants took the rest of the kittens away. Buttons mewled at the door, crying for his mother and brothers and sisters. Sansa had scooped him up in her arms, cradling him to her chest. She knew what it was like to be alone. She spoke to the kitten gently, barely noticing when she began to hear replies. They fell asleep together, curled up on her bed, and she dreamed of chasing birds and mice.

It took a week of practice and headaches before Sansa finally slipped into Buttons and saw the world through his eyes. Before she could celebrate her success, she promptly fell back into her own skin when the kitten leaped off the bed. Sansa threw up in the privy, washed her mouth out with water, and tried again.

It was a moon’s turn before Sansa could slip into a bird. Her twelfth nameday came and went unremarked, and still she practiced. It seemed she could only slip into a creature that was within her sight. Once she was inside the creature, her spirit followed it. And so she coaxed the robin up to the window, careful not to look down.

The robin immediately began pecking at the crumbs of bread and green peas she’d left on the ledge. While he ate, Sansa cleared her mind. Napping in the sun. Chasing loose thread. Kneading the bedcovers.

Buttons yawned and stretched as she slipped inside his ginger fur. He didn’t quite understand why Sansa had to consort with birds, or why he wasn’t allowed to pounce on them. Because I won’t have them terrified after they’ve helped me , Sansa told him. It would be rude. Buttons licked himself, unconvinced, then padded toward the door. His yowls quickly persuaded the guard to open it.

“Not enough mice in there?” The guard asked, chuckling as he scratched Buttons’ ear. Buttons purred and rubbed against the guard’s legs as Sansa resisted the urge to hiss. She knew that laugh. She’d heard it as Hullen begged for his life.

It took Buttons and Sansa hours to find every cat in the tower. Most were willing to listen to Sansa’s plea for help, though a few simply scratched themselves and stalked away. The mama cat agreed immediately, saying she could recognize Arya, Jeyne, and Merissa’s scents anywhere.

They were climbing the long steps back to Sansa’s room when a black tomcat appeared out of nowhere. His ear was torn so badly it looked as though he had only one of them. They backed up, their fur puffing up with fear.

The tomcat hissed, unimpressed. He’d killed bigger rats than this pitiful kitten. My name is Buttons, they said respectfully. Do you have a name, my lord?

Long ago, the tomcat answered. I lost my girl and could not find her. Your sister caught me. She kissed me. I remember her scent.

I will find her.

Chapter Text

Arya tried to blend in as she walked down the Street of Flour. A baker's boy gave her a strange look as she passed his master's shop. Perhaps it was the cloak hung over her arm. She had to carry it to conceal Needle hanging in a scabbard at her hip. Flea Bottom boys didn't carry swords.

Her eyes took in the various baker's stalls as she ignored the flock of juicy pigeons just up ahead. Each baker had a different mark painted somewhere on their stall or hanging above their door. Arya vaguely remembered Septa Mordane saying something about a Baker's Guild.

Her stomach growled, and her mind returned to the pigeons. They were plump, happy birds, grown fat from the abundance of crumbs that littered the Street of Flour. It was almost time for her to chase them.

Arya felt Rattail wiggling her skinny haunches, ready to pounce. Wait , Arya told the mangy brown cat. I'll get them closer for you. Unlike the other three cats Arya had befriended since fleeing the Red Keep, Rattail was excitable and impatient. Patches, Wobble, and Shadow waited in the alley without moving a muscle, their eyes watching the birds.

"Shoo!" Arya yelled suddenly, darting at the flock.

The pigeons cooed in distress, and most burst into flight with a swoosh of their wings. But a few merely hopped away. The hopping ones weren't scared of people, and Arya took advantage. She chased the hopping ones, guiding them toward the nearest alley.

Wobble leaped first, sinking her teeth into a grey pigeon's neck. Despite the three legs that gave Wobble her name, she was quick. She'd been born with three legs, or so Arya guessed from the way her fourth limb ended in a tiny stump on her chest. Rattail, Patches and Shadow weren't far behind, each grabbing a pigeon before it could flee.

Shadow was the oldest, his dusty black fur speckled with grey. With the skill of long practice he snapped his pigeon's neck and killed a second before Arya could catch her first. When the flapping and cooing ceased, Arya counted seven dead pigeons. Rattail had caught a second one too, and she rubbed against Arya's legs as she dropped it at Arya's feet.

Good work , Arya said, stroking Rattail's bald tail. She'd caught it against a hot oven once, and the hair never grew back. But she loved having it stroked. Patches mewled, offended, and Arya laughed as she crouched, using her other hand to scratch under Patches' chin.

Wobble stepped on Rattail, pushing the younger cat aside so Arya could put her nails to use on Wobble's fluffy white ears. Were it not for her missing leg, Wobble looked almost like a lady's cat, with her soft white fur and black stocking feet.

Once each cat was satisfied, Arya gathered the birds in her cloak and began to walk, the cats trailing behind her with flicking tails. She found a good spot nearby, a half-burnt stable where she could sleep that night.

Arya plucked four of the pigeons while the cats watched, licking their chops. Your meal is ready, Arya informed the cats, setting the plucked pigeons down on the cobblestones. Shadow licked her hand, then set to work devouring his pigeon.

At least she had company now. It had been weeks since she'd fled the Red Keep, more than a moon's turn. Almost all her things were stolen the first night. Her days were spent in lonely terror, trying to find a way to escape before she starved. Then she'd found Wobble.

Arya had wandered onto the Street of Salt, hoping to buy a fish. Surely, with all the terrible smells, they were selling fish from yesterday's catch. She'd been trying to find the cheapest stall when she saw a group of little boys. They were around Rickon's age, skinny and filthy, and they were throwing rocks into a dark alley.

Arya had already walked past them when a desperate, high pitched shriek for help brought her running back. The wooden sword was good enough for beating children, and Arya sent them running before she realized the cry for help had not come from a girl, but from a pitiful pile of fluff, coated in mud and blood. Arya almost cried, but instead, she took the cat down to the docks, washed her with sea water, and combed out her fur with her fingers.

Wobble had slept by Arya's side ever since. She helped catch pigeons, and scared rats away. A few times she had even found coins on the ground and brought them to Arya, the shining copper clenched tightly between her teeth.

One day, Arya returned from a pot shop to find three new cats awaiting her. Apparently they shared Wobble's interest in pets and scritches and a warm body to curl up with. With Shadow, Patches, and Rattail, Arya could sell enough pigeons to fill her belly, and it was nice to have someone to talk to.

It wasn’t enough. Arya missed Sansa so much that her stomach hurt. Were she and Father still alive? What had happened to Jeyne, and Merissa? She even missed grouchy Septa Mordane.

Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly lonely, she looked for their faces in passersby. There was a fishmonger with Jeyne’s brown eyes. A scruffy girl who tried to steal Arya’s cloak had Merissa’s light brown hair. She even thought she saw the tom cat with the torn ear that afternoon. But there were plenty of black cats with torn ears about. And besides, the tom cat never left the Red Keep.

The next day, Arya roamed the streets by herself. Shadow and Rattail were napping, and Patches scented a cat in heat and sprinted away before Wobble could explain where he was going. Not five minutes later, Wobble prowled away to investigate some intriguing new smell.

Arya was haggling with a baker's boy, trying to trade four pigeons for a loaf of day old bread, when Wobble returned, running as fast as her three legs could manage. Another cat was behind her, one that looked familiar- Arya bent down and the mama cat leaped  into her arms, purring like mad.

Arya! Arya staggered backward in shock as the mama cat rubbed her face into Arya's chest, her claws sinking in as though checking that Arya was real. Sansa?

They spoke until near dusk, huddled in the old stable. I have to go back to myself, Sansa had explained. I'm not allowed out after dark, so I need to leave the godswood before the guards come looking for me. Once everyone is asleep I might be able to get out again, but I'm already exhausted, and so is Softpaws. Arya hugged the mama cat tight, and Sansa was gone. The mama cat— dubbed Softpaws by Sansa— immediately curled up for a nap. It was fun talking to the bright girl, Softpaws said, but it was exhausting having her inside for so long.

Arya stroked Softpaws’ fur as she slept, trying to process her afternoon. There were too many emotions inside Arya, all fighting to get out. Joy at seeing Sansa, horror at finding out that Father was held prisoner, accused of treason. Fury at learning Baelish had promised to help, for love of their mother, and then had betrayed Father.

Arya let the fury settle under her skin. It seemed that while the cats of the city searched for Arya's scent, they were also searching for Jeyne and Merissa. Baelish had taken them, he had sworn to the queen that he would take the girls out of the city, but Sansa was sure he lied. And Arya had an idea of where to look.

Dawn was just creeping over the horizon when Arya roused the mama cat. Shadow, Rattail, Wobble, and Patches waited patiently as Softpaws gave them the memory of Jeyne and Merissa's scent. Then they set off for the Street of Silk.

Mucking about in the streets of Flea Bottom, Arya had heard all sorts of things. Things she didn't understand, mostly, but she knew what a whore was, and she knew that Littlefinger ran several whorehouses.

As soon as they reached the Street of Silk, the five cats spread out, their noses twitching. Arya hid herself in an alley. There were drunk men in the street, staggering home with purses no doubt lighter than the day before. A few were so drunk that they stumbled and fell in the street, snoring for a few minutes before getting back up. That gave her an idea...

Rattail! Patches! They were nearest, and their noses weren't as sharp as Shadow and Wobble's.  See if you can get a purse off one of the men on the ground. The cats were confused. What was a purse? Arya described it as best she could, giving them the sizes and shapes, the smell of leather and copper coins.

The sun was hot overhead, and Arya had three purses' worth of coppers hidden in her pockets, when Shadow came trotting back. He thought he'd found the smells, but he wasn't sure. Was Softpaws nearby? They waited for an hour before Softpaws returned from her end of the street.

Shadow and Softpaws departed together, Arya following at a distance. Most of the brothels had their windows open, lines of sheets hanging in the breeze. The air was full of the chatter of women. Some boasted of their previous night's wages, others lamented injuries or ripped clothing. A few traded bawdy stories about their clients, mocking rich men and knights with strange desires or feeble skill. It reminded Arya of the laundrywomen gossiping at Winterfell.

Finally the cats paused in front of a ramshackle three story building. Shadow and Softpaws sniffed at the door, tails waving back and forth. 

"Now what are you handsome pusses doing?" A musical voice asked from the window above.

Arya glanced up. The woman was perhaps the age of Arya's mother. She was fat, with rich brown skin, and she had a faint accent that reminded Arya of the Dornish master-at-arms at the Red Keep.

"My cousin left her cats behind," Arya said, trying to sound like an annoyed boy. "We need them to keep out the rats, so I followed them."

"And what does your cousin look like?" The fat woman asked, covering a yawn. Her long black hair was wet from washing— she'd been drying it in the sunlight.

"Brown hair, a few years older than me," Arya said. "If she told the cats to go away, I think they'd stay put."

"Jess! Let the poor pussies in," the fat woman called.

"Why?" A woman yelled back. "We've enough in 'ere already!"

After a few minutes a woman with short-cropped straw blonde hair opened the door, clad only in her shift. Arya frowned for a moment, and the woman rolled her eyes.

"It's washing day," she said. "Whores need clean clothes as much as anyone."

Jess led her into a large common room, the cats following close behind. Women in their shifts were washing the chairs and tables, scrubbing away spilled food and drink. Softpaws' eyes gleamed. It's the right scent, and fresh, she told Arya as Jess led them upstairs.

"Thanks," the fat woman said as Jess shooed them into the room. The window was closed now, making the small room stuffy.

"I'm Bel," the fat woman said, reaching down to pet Softpaws. "And I'm surprised you've lasted this long with so little wits, Arya Stark."

Chapter Text

The darkness was absolute, and it weighed upon Ned as though he lay at the bottom of the frozen sea. There was no time in the black cells, and yet each moment of pain seemed an eternity. No windows marked the rising and setting of the sun. Had it been weeks, or months since Littlefinger held the dagger to his throat?

Ned had never quite understood the terror that Old Nan's tales of the Long Night held for his children. But now... if this torment could break him so quickly, how had men survived years of darkness?

When Varys came in the guise of a turnkey, a spiked steel cap upon his head, a ragged black cat at his heels, his torch was agony. But the pain in Ned's eyes was nothing to the shame and terror that wrapped around his heart. He had offered mercy, like the honorable fool he was, and his men were slain, Arya missing, and Sansa trapped in Cersei's claws. He never should have brought her south, he should have told her of the rot beneath the jewels and songs. No child of eleven should have to beg for her father's life.

Varys' voice was as gentle as sweetsleep as he explained what had happened while Ned languished in chains. Cat had released Tyrion, but the Riverlands were aflame as Lannisters fought river lords. The North was marching down the neck, Robb leading the host. That was the moment a tear finally dripped down Ned's cheek. My firstborn. Robb's just a boy, barely fifteen. He still practices with blunted tourney swords. Dorne and the Eyrie brooded on their wrongs, and the queen's greatest fear, Stannis Baratheon, remained on Dragonstone, his movements unknown but his wrath a certainty.

At last Varys came to the point. Cersei Lannister would visit on the morrow, and Varys counseled that Lord Eddard Stark bow before her every demand. Even with the world blurring on the wine Varys served him, Ned could see the path laid before him clearly.

“You want me to serve the woman who murdered my king, butchered my men, and crippled my son?” Ned demanded, surprised at Varys' boldness.

Varys laughed as he shook his head. No, it was the realm Varys claimed Ned would serve by abandoning his honor. For a pack of lies and the promise of peace, Cersei would let him take the black. Life was sweet, but how did it serve the realm to leave the cruel Lannisters in power with a bastard on the throne? Eddard could not, he would not, and he told Varys so.

“Pity.” Varys stood and gave a great sigh, the sigh of a mummer. The ragged cat with the torn ear moved out of Varys' way, his eyes glinting in the torchlight.

“And what of your daughter, my lord? Sweet Sansa pled for your life with grace beyond her years, it would be a shame to see a flower cut down before it bloomed.”

If Varys had thrust a dagger through Ned's heart, it would have cut less deep.

“No,” Ned begged. “Varys, gods have mercy, do as you like with me, but leave my daughter out of your schemes. Sansa’s no more than a child.”

“Rhaenys was a child too. Prince Rhaegar’s daughter. A precious little thing, no more than three. She had a small black kitten she called Balerion, did you know?" The black cat at Varys' feet hissed, and darted into some dark corner of the cell. Varys laughed.

"That mangy cat is the terror of the keep, perhaps even Rhaenys’ lost kitten, but there was no dragon to defend her when Lannisters broke down her door. Did you see her, afterwards?"

The question was asked with all the innocent sincerity of a child, and Ned cursed him for it. He had seen her, he had seen them all, and Varys knew it. The infant Aegon with his skull smashed apart, the blood seeping into the crimson Lannister cloak. Elia with her bloody skirts and shattered hips. And Rhaenys, little Rhaenys, her golden brown skin marred by a thousand wounds. Varys was still talking, and Eddard forced himself to listen.

"The High Septon once told me that as we sin, so do we suffer. If that’s true, Lord Eddard, tell me... why is it always the innocents who suffer most, when you high lords play your game of thrones? Ponder it, if you would, while you wait upon the queen. And spare a thought for this as well: The next visitor who calls on you could bring you bread and cheese and the milk of the poppy for your pain... or he could bring you Sansa’s head.

“The choice, my dear lord Hand, is entirely yours.”

Varys left, and the darkness took Ned, his thoughts as somber as the silence. Had Rhaenys lived, she would be a woman of eighteen now, a septa or a hostage awaiting marriage to Joffrey. Aegon would be sixteen, a boy coming into manhood at the Wall or the Citadel. Princess Elia would be in her mid forties, longing for her children from the safety of Dorne.

But Tywin Lannister had cut their lives short, and now Cersei might do the same to Sansa. Had Lewyn Martell felt this way, when Aerys commanded him to fight or condemn his niece and her babes to death? Ned had seen him at Harrenhal, a brave and noble man who smiled at little children, yet he fought for a madman because he had no other choice.

Something warm brushed against Ned's hand. He jerked, and his leg screamed in pain. The cat, the cat had not followed Varys out. Soft fur rubbed against Ned's palm.

Father! Ned shook his head. He'd finally gone mad. At least it was a sweet delirium, to hear Sansa's voice come from a ragged cat.

Father, father, what have they done to you? He could hear weeping as though Sansa sat beside him.

"I have done it to myself," Ned whispered. "I offered mercy and it will kill my honor as surely as it killed Robert and all my men."

A soft weight landed on Ned's lap. The cat paced in circles, then curled up.

I begged for your life, Joffrey promised to show mercy—

Ned laughed bitterly.

"If I swear Joffrey is trueborn, if I confess treason, if I order Robb to lay down his swords... then I will take the black. That is the mercy the queen will offer."

I know, she said. That made no sense, no one heard him speak to Varys but the cat. But his mind was creating this delusion, so in his mind Sansa knew.

“I will yield.”

Father, don't! It's not true, you can't-

"I can and I must, if I want you to live. I'd die for my honor, but I will not have my daughter die for it."

Father, no! Sansa's voice was a ragged scream. I dreamed it, you confessed your treason and Joffrey had Ser Ilyn cut off your head!

Ned's heart twisted. It was but a dream brought on by starvation and wine, but it felt as though he truly spoke to Sansa. He might as well savor speaking to her for the last time.

"A nightmare, nothing more," Ned soothed, stroking the cat. “All will be well.”

My girl dreamed of a man with a dagger , a ragged voice said.

It was the voice of a weary old man, beaten down by loss but full of rage. It was not a voice he knew. Ned’s blood ran cold. This was no dream.

Father, it was real, we were on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, Arya was in the crowd clutching the statue of Baelor the Blessed, you were dressed in Stark colors with goldcloaks holding you up, it was real!

What was the old gods’ will, giving his child such terrible visions? He must tell Cersei he would bend the knee, or she’d kill Sansa. There were no men to rescue him before they reached the Sept.

But... what if he shouted the truth instead? Would the mob remember Lannister men sacking the city and come to his aid? Or would Joffrey kill Sansa himself before the mob could reach them? No. He dare not. There was no way to escape his fate without risking Sansa’s life.

"Hush," Ned said, a shiver running up his spine. "It was a nightmare only. Even Joffrey would not be so foolish as to order an execution on the stairs of the Sept. Go to sleep, sweet girl."

As Ned drifted to sleep, Rhaenys’ cat purring softly, he wished he could share the false comfort he’d given Sansa.

The torchlight hurt no less when it was born by a queen. Cersei Lannister was dressed in mourning, but rubies dazzled on her black gown like drops of blood. As the queen set the torch in a sconce on the wall, the heavy door began to close behind her. There was a dart of movement, and the cat slipped through the door just before it shut with a dull thud.

"I warned you," the queen said, her smile cruel. Gone was the beauty he had glimpsed in the godswood. "It was my wrath that was to be feared, not Robert's. We ate the boar, by the by— the sweetest meat I ever tasted."

"Get to the point, woman," Ned growled. He had no patience for this dance of words. If he refused Cersei, Sansa would die. If Eddard appeased Cersei, he would die, and the realm would doubtless plunge into the very war Varys feared. He accepted his fate, but not her mockery.

"Is this my thanks for keeping your daughter so safe?" Cersei asked, pressing a hand to her chest in feigned distress. "She spends her days embroidering a handkerchief for Joffrey and praying in the godswood for you, my lord. Such a lovestruck girl, so innocent and dutiful."

Lovestruck? Sansa could not stand Joffrey. But Cersei Lannister was a practiced liar, a viper cloaked in beauty and jewels.

"And to keep her safe I must do as you wish," Ned said through gritted teeth. Cersei smiled triumphantly. Dimly Ned thought of Robert’s smile when he dragged Rhaegar’s corpse from the Trident.

"Littlefinger was right. Any man, even you, will set aside his honor for the right price."

Cersei Lannister had a talent for inflicting pain.

They brought Eddard to his old chambers in the Tower of the Hand. The ghosts of his men surrounded him as servants washed away his filth, leaving the water black. He could almost hear Jory's voice, see Vayon Poole's steady gaze.

The hands that lifted him from the tub were rough, and his broken leg banged against the tub, the cast grey and rotten. Alyn had helped him bathe, his hands near as gentle as Cat's— was Alyn still safe? Had he and Lord Beric defeated the Mountain, or would Cersei show him their heads as a final gift before he was brought before the city?

I am a Stark of Winterfell. I will die with dignity if not with honor , Ned resolved as they dressed him in grey and white. He had not faltered when he dismissed Sansa's dream. He had managed that small falsehood as a comfort. Eddard Stark would not falter now, when a great falsehood would save his daughter's life.

Chapter Text

"You're lucky it was me who saw you," Bel said as Arya wolfed down day old bread and roasted fish.

The door was locked and barred, the window shut, and Bel kept her voice low. The food she had requested for herself, yelling for Jess until it was brought.

Arya had eyed the food with suspicion, her hand clenched on Needle.

"Even if you can kill me," said Bel, one eyebrow raised, "there's an entire house of women below. Would you kill us all?"

Arya couldn't fight all of them, and she couldn't jump out the window, so she sat and began eating. Whatever this woman wanted, Arya would need her strength.

The moment she sat, Bel's hand moved like a flash, and a dagger hit the wooden door with a thunk where Arya’s head had been. Arya stared at her open mouthed. She hadn’t even seen Bel draw the dagger.

"Dornish women learn to defend ourselves," Bel explained. "Nymeria's people were warriors, men and women both. A sword is no good if you're dead before you can draw it."

As Arya ate, Bel talked. Her face was as pretty as her voice, with high cheekbones and dimples a lady would envy. Bel came from a family of musicians, and they had followed Princess Elia Nymeros Martell north when she came to wed Rhaegar.

"She had me sing for her a few times," Bel said, her eyes staring into the distance. "Dornish music is rare north of the marches. Nobles paid for the novelty, and to show courtesy to the new princess. And I was very good at playing the qithara."

Her eyes turned hard.

"Princess Elia and her babes were not the only ones killed in the sack. Lannister men ran through the city, slaughtering and raping at will. As if we had loved the Mad King! The city was closed, we could not leave.” Bel took a long drink from the tankard Jess had brought with the food.

“My daggers kept me safe, but a Lannister man broke half my fingers before I killed him, and I lost my little sister in the panic. I couldn't find her for three days. By then her body was..." Bel trailed off, her dark eyes sad.

"How did you know me?" Arya asked. Whatever had given her away, it must not happen again. There were goldcloaks everywhere. Bel laughed, as though she'd set aside her grief somewhere deep within her.

"Your father came here not long ago. I've never seen a man so stiff and uncomfortable in a whorehouse. I'm surprised Lord Baelish got him through the door. Jess said the Hand slammed him against a wall, knife to his throat, until a man came out to fetch Lord Stark. Pity he didn't finish him off."

Arya tilted her head, confused.

"But you work for Lord Baelish," she said slowly. "And why would my father come here?" Bel shook her head.

"This was my brothel, until Lord Baelish bought it out from under me.” She spat on the floor. “A slyer man I’ve never met, nor a worse lickspittle. Lord Baelish brought your father here to meet a lady in secret.” She gave Arya a look. “A lady with long red hair and a northern gown, though her speech was that of the riverlands.”

Mother? When was mother in King's Landing?

"Now, as to how I knew you." Bel shook her head. "First, you've got the same face as your father. Second, you speak like a highborn girl, and a northern one at that. And third, the goldcloaks have been telling all and sundry how many gold dragons the crown will pay for any member of Lord Stark's household they might have missed."

Arya leapt from the chair, hand on her sword. The cats hissed at her feet. It was a trap, she was going to be sold to the goldcloaks.

"Oh, sit down," Bel said, irritated. She hadn’t twitched a muscle. "Use your head. Aren't nobles supposed to have all that learning that makes you fit to rule us poor common folk?" Arya frowned, confused.

"Lannister men killed my sister and made it so I could never play qithara again. I'd not sell them one of those cats, let alone a child."

Arya sat back down, scowling. She wasn't stupid, she wasn't, but it was hard to think when she was so scared. Look with your eyes, Syrio had told her. For the first time Arya noticed three of the fingers on Bel's left hand were crooked, as though they'd healed wrong.

"Where are my friends?" Arya demanded, using her sleeve to wipe the grease from off her mouth. The sooner she got them, the sooner she could leave. She could worry later about how to hide them and feed them.

"JESS!" Bel shouted.

"What?" Jess yelled from down the hall. Her voice was oddly low, and exasperated yet fond. It reminded Arya of two married cooks at Winterfell who were always bickering back and forth.

"The boy wants to see his cousin. Bring that new girl with the long brown hair, and the quiet one," Bel ordered.

Arya supposed Bel ran this place, since Baelish couldn't be here when he was busy at court. Busy betraying father and kissing up to Lannisters. She finished the bread, and shared the remaining fish with Shadow and Softpaws. They'd more than earned it. If she ever got home, they'd eat fresh fish every day for the rest of their lives.

"Truth be told, I’m not sure if you’ll be able to get out of the city," Bel said as they waited. "There's goldcloaks everywhere, and the gates are watched closely, although the Mud Gate is so busy..." she frowned. "Perhaps a ferry—"

The door creaked open. Jeyne was in her shift, her face wan, her arms red up to the elbow. Behind her stood Merissa, her shift and arms the same, but her gaze steadier than Arya had ever seen. Jeyne's brown eyes went wide with fear as she saw Arya.

"Easy, child," Bel said softly, getting up and wrapping a plump arm around Jeyne. "I know who she is, and I'll not tell anyone."

Jeyne burst into tears.

By the time Jeyne stopped sobbing, Bel and Merissa had told Arya all that had befallen the girls since Baelish had taken them.

"Baelish and a few guards took us from the tower," Merissa said, her voice soft. "He told Jeyne he'd take her t' her father—" Merissa looked down. She’d known he was lying, even if Jeyne hadn’t. "We were locked in his chambers for a few hours while he questioned us, then he had men bring us 'ere."

"Baelish's men told us to keep them safely hidden. They’re to be trained before we sell their maidenheads," Bel said, her mouth twisted with disgust. "As if whores can’t recognize a girl that's been forced, and recently too. She wouldn't speak for days, until Jess took her as a bedmaid."

Arya stiffened, and her hand went to her sword. Bel rapped her on the wrist.

"What did I tell you? Listen, you bloodthirsty child."

"She talked to me, and brushed my hair, and held me when we slept," Merissa said, her light brown eyes soft.

"Jess knew what she'd been through, and she's a soft spot for children," Bel said briskly. "She listened when Merissa finally talked, and didn't shame her or weep all over her."

Arya ducked her head, feeling guilty. Sansa thought that letting Merissa be quiet was the right thing, that gentle treatment and going north would bring her out of her shell. Having no better ideas of her own, Arya had gone along with it. Had they failed her?

"And don't blame yourself, missy," Bel said, scowling. "It was a kind thing your sister did, taking her under her wing. Kinder than many nobles, who ignore their smallfolk, or treat us like dumb cattle."

"But... they're to be trained?" Arya said. She didn't know what that meant, but it sounded very bad, if selling maidenheads was part of it.

Bel's mouth twisted again. "I've had them scrubbing pots and helping in the kitchen, keeping them out of sight.” She spat. "I was hoping to spare them for another month or so before Lord Baelish took a hand." 

Merissa nodded, wrapping a skinny arm around Jeyne's shoulders. Bel stood, her eyes blazing with fury as she paced, muttering to herself.

"I've told his lordship once, I've told him a dozen times, girls can't do this work until they're at least a few years past flowering. They’re not ripe for bedding, it wrecks their hips, and if they get with child…" Some shadow passed over her. "Most girls who sell that young are desperate or forced, and them that buy them are cursed by the gods." She spat on the floor again. Arya wondered if her rushes were half spit.

"I'd sooner knife a childfucker than have them in here. But Lord Baelish, oh no, he thinks a brothel should cater to every taste, the sly lickspittle. He thinks no one knows about his tastes, but whores talk. He likes them young and redheaded."

Like Sansa. Arya's belly swooped and she gagged, forcing herself not the vomit up the best meal she'd had in weeks. The bile stung as she swallowed it down.

"Why don't you just kill him?" Arya demanded. Bel stared at her for a moment, then laughed bitterly.

"Oh, I've dreamt of it. But Lord Baelish is on the small council. I'll not risk my girls; the Queen Regent might decide we're all to blame should he die." She hesitated for a long while, flexing her crooked fingers. "On the other hand," she said slowly, "getting you three out... now that, that might be possible."

Arya left the brothel with a skip in her step, Softpaws trailing behind her. When they reached the end of the street, Wobble, Rattail, and Patches joined them, and Softpaws trotted down a side alley, heading back to the Red Keep.

Softpaws couldn't follow most of what other humans said, so Arya had given her a simple message for Sansa. Jeyne and Merissa were found, and the whores would help them escape.

"Leave the planning to me," Bel had said, handing Arya a few coppers. "And don't come back until I send for you. Gods help you if Baelish sees you here. Can those cats find you?"

Arya had nodded, grateful that she could explain things to Shadow without speaking aloud. Shadow agreed to stay put until Bel sent him for Arya, and Arya left him in Jeyne and Merissa's care. To Arya's relief, Bel didn't ask any nosy questions. Cats were known for their sense of smell, and some were as faithful as dogs. The fewer people that knew Arya could talk to cats, the better.

Jeyne had finally spoken toward the end, asking after Sansa and thanking Arya for finding them. Arya claimed Sansa was fine, she'd heard some lady in the street mention Stark's pretty daughter at court. Bel raised an eyebrow, but Jeyne believed her. That was all that mattered.

Arya's stomach rumbled as she dug into her bowl of brown. Trading pigeons for brown was so much easier with the cats' help, even with Shadow gone. She had coppers now, from Bel and from the cats' clever thieving, even a few silver stags, but they weren't for feeding herself. No, the coins must stay safe and unspent in the purse that rested against her chest.

One day, Arya had seen a skinny man with an odd lump under his shirt, a leather cord hanging from his neck. She'd had Rattail crawl up a nearby post for hitching horses, then leap onto the man's shoulders, spitting like mad. He was so frantic to get the yowling cat off of him that he didn't realize she'd cut the cord with her claws. While he stalked away swearing, Rattail picked up the purse in her mouth and brought it to Arya.

The purse held eight silver stags and ten coppers. Arya had tied a knot in the cord and tucked the necklace under her shirt. It held all her coins now, keeping them out of sight. She'd need coppers and silver to take Jeyne and Merissa north. Arya patted the purse, checking that it was still there more out of habit than concern.

She hoped Softpaws would come back soon. It had been several weeks since she'd returned bearing Sansa in her skin. They'd rejoiced over Jeyne and Merissa's safety, however temporary, and shared all that each of them had learned. When they were done, Sansa had let out a great sigh.

I slept for two days after I came the first time, Sansa said as Softpaws kneaded Arya's leg. I barely managed to get back to my room before I collapsed. I don't think Grand Maester Pycelle believed me when I said I'd had swooning spells before as a child. If I fall asleep for two days again this time...

Arya had begged her not to leave her alone, but Sansa would not change her mind. The queen was sweet as poison and all the servants were her spies.

With a sigh Arya finished her bowl of brown. She was trying to decide whether to catch more pigeons or wash herself in the river when far across the city, bells began to ring.

Arya clung to the statue's feet, frantic with fear. The crowd roared around her, like the entire city was made of lions. Father looked gaunt and thin behind the High Septon's marble pulpit, his brown hair longer than Arya had ever seen it. The two goldcloaks at his sides seemed to be holding him up— he lacked the strength to stand. All around the crowd was talking, their voices anxious.

"What've they done—"

"—treated the folk of Sherrer fair."

"Bah, you believe that cousin o' yours? Just 'cause he works in t’ Red Keep—"

"—killed six men for rape during the sack," a woman said. "Not Lannister men, Stark men. Beheaded 'em wit’ his own sword. I never heard of no Lannister men punished for rape."

Joffrey stood in front of the pulpit, a cluster of high lords around him. A golden crown was on his head, his queen mother beside him. Oh please, Arya begged, scanning the group around Joffrey.

There— there was Sansa, dressed in sky blue silk. Her hair was curled and she wore silver bracelets, but something was wrong with her smile. It was stiff, like she'd been dipped in plaster. Suddenly her eyes were on Arya. For a long moment they stared at each other. Beneath the smile Sansa was terrified.

Sansa looked away, fixing her eyes on Lord Eddard. The bells had stopped and he was trying to speak.

“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King,” he said, “and I come  before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men.”

On the steps below Sansa flinched, her teeth clamped tight over her lip. Red blood trickled down onto her pale chin.

“I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert,” Father shouted above the crowd. “I swore to defend and protect him and his heirs, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose Prince Joffrey and seize the throne for Stannis Baratheon."

Sansa was frowning, her eyes confused.

"Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth of what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Arya couldn't breathe. Stones flew out of the crowd, striking her father and several of the goldcloaks. Why was father swearing by the new gods? Arya wondered as her plinth rocked from the fury of the surging crowd.

The High Septon said something, and Joffrey stepped forward, a smirk upon his lips.

"So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"

The crowd was screaming, louder than anything Arya had ever heard, yet Sansa's voice pierced through the chaos. She fell to her knees, her entire body shaking, a terrible, high shriek echoing off the walls of the Great Sept. The shriek became a scream, then a howl that raised every hair on Arya's neck.

Yet none of the lords looked at her, they looked at Joffrey, who was surrounded by advisors, Varys waving his arms, the queen saying something in Joffrey's ear, the High Septon clutching Joffrey's cape.

Ser Ilyn Payne climbed the steps of the pulpit, and Sansa's howl ceased as though her throat had been cut. Sansa was staring at Lord Eddard. Father was smiling sadly, his mouth moving. Arya stared at Father and suddenly he looked back at her. He still wore the sad smile, as though he knew what was about to happen.

Arya was off the pedestal and in the crowd before she could stop to think, desperately trying to get to her Father. An arm flew out of the crush, hands clenching her arm in a tight grip, pressing her face against black cloth that smelt of sour wine. She knew that terrible smell, it was the black brother who had visited father.

"Don't look, boy," Yoren's thick voice snarled. Arya struggled, and his arms tightened. No, no, she had to get to father, she had to.

Suddenly the crowd went silent, the only sound Arya's heartbeat pounding in her ears.

“They’re done here." Yoren growled. The crowd was streaming away, as though leaving a tourney or a fair, chattering and gossiping as if the sun still shined.

"You’ll be coming with me, and you’ll be keeping your mouth shut.”   

When Yoren released her Arya swayed for a moment, her legs like jelly. Yoren strode across the plaza, picked something up, and came back. He pressed Needle into Arya's numb fingers- she'd dropped it in the crowd, too frantic to notice or care. In a daze Arya followed Yoren from the plaza. He had just shoved her through a doorway when Arya realized she had to go back.

"No!" She screamed, turning and darting for the door.

Arya couldn't leave Sansa all alone, she was her sworn shield, she had to protect her, she promised, she had to free Jeyne and Merissa— something hit the back of her head, and the world went dark.

Chapter Text

“He was a traitor. I never promised to spare him, only that I’d be merciful, and I was. If he hadn’t been your father, I would have had him torn or flayed, but I gave him a clean death.”

Sansa stared at Joffrey, her skin like ice beneath her shift. She'd done all the queen commanded. She'd written every lie in their letters, begged on her knees before the whole court. Not a whisper of an insult had passed Sansa's lips, not even when she wanted to scream the truth for all to hear.

She'd almost done it, on the steps of the Great Sept. Joffrey ordered them to take her father's head, just as he had in her dream. Sansa's blood had boiled with fury, her skin rippling. She could smell every person in the crowd, from Baelish's mint breath to Varys' lavender perfume. Her mind filled with sensations she'd never felt. Cold snow on her paws, a coat of fur so warm it seemed a part of her skin. The bond of the pack and the taste of freshly killed meat.

She screamed, she howled her rage, and then she looked up. Father's grey eyes were upon her, a sad smile on his lips. He knew. Lord Eddard had been delirious when she finally managed to follow Varys into the dungeons, talking to her as though she was a ghost. Father had said that all would be well. Father had lied. She stared at him, accusation in her eyes. Before she could speak, Lord Eddard's lips moved.

"I knew. I love you." His voice was so soft that none could hear it, none but a girl with the ears of a wolf.

Sansa breathed heavily as she pulled herself together, pushing away the itch in her skin and the pounding of her blood. Breathe in and count to four, Arya had told her. Father's eyes looked away, and Sansa knew he'd found Arya clinging to the statue's feet. Now was the moment, she could shriek the truth before they could kill her... Arya is here. They might find her. Father gave his life so the queen would spare me. And so Sansa Stark held her tongue and watched her father die.

"Aren't you listening to me? Ser Meryn, chastise her."

Ser Meryn backhanded Sansa across the face, knocking her to the floor. Her head was ringing and warm blood trickled down from her ear, droplets staining the rushes. A knight of the Kingsguard, sent to kidnap a child of nine and ordered to strike a lady of twelve. And he didn't even catch Arya. Such songs they'll sing of his triumphs, Sansa thought giddily. A flicker of movement caught her eye. Softpaws and Buttons were hiding under the bed beside her, staring silently. She did not blame them. Cats were no match for a knight, even a false one.

"Will you obey now, or shall I have him chastise you again?"

Ser Arys was frowning, but Ser Meryn had no look on his face at all. He might as well have been a stick used to beat dogs, not a man made of flesh and blood.

"I... as... as you command, my lord."

As soon as her bath was ready Sansa sent the maids away. Her limbs felt heavy as lead as she washed away the filth of the last five days. The scar where she'd cut her arm to feed the weirwood tree was silvery in the water, a reminder of her promise to the old gods. And how had they answered her prayers? A keen nose, sharp ears, and nightmares that changed nothing.

Softpaws perched on the edge of the tub, watching over Sansa as she scrubbed her skin until it shone. Buttons, who didn't like water, perched on a chair, his tail flicking. He was angry. Even the black tom cat in his worst moods didn't attack babies.

He had to, Sansa told the ginger kitten. All of us must obey the king. But would Ser Barristan have struck her, if they'd not sent him away? Sansa could not imagine the kindly old knight striking a helpless maid. The Kingslayer had tried to kill Bran, he would have struck her with a smirk like his son's.

What would his old brothers have thought of Ser Jaime? Once the Kingsguard were men of honor, men like Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Lewyn Martell. They wouldn't have followed Joffrey's commands so easily. At least Joffrey hadn't ordered the death of her cats.

Softpaws nuzzled against Sansa's shoulder, careful not to fall in the water. He wouldn't get a chance, the mama cat said. All the cats knew to hide around monster boy. He'd gutted a pregnant cat once to see her kittens. The black tomcat had taken vengeance the next day, slashing monster boy with his claws. Even the cats had someone to avenge them, but Sansa had no one to protect her from Joffrey now. She sank down, keeping only her nose and forehead above the steaming water.

Softpaws mewled and butted Sansa's head, her sandpaper tongue licking the tip of Sansa's nose. At least the girl and the chubby boy were nice. The chubby boy petted every cat he saw, his hands gentle, while the girl made cooing noises. Myrcella and Tommen, Sansa told Softpaws.

How such sweet children came from Cersei, Sansa would never understand. Sansa once thought bastards were shameful, treacherous and cruel. But her brother Jon was a bastard, and he had more honor than the trueborn queen. Myrcella and Tommen were bastards too, but they were sweeter than honey, gentler than a sigh. Joffrey was the only one as cruel and vain as Cersei.

"He wants you to love him... and fear him." The Hound had rasped, lingering after Joffrey and Ser Meryn and Ser Arys left. He was no knight, but he'd tried to help her. Sansa could never love Joffrey, never, but she could pretend. She should fear him, he could have her killed like father, but as Sansa rose from the bath to make herself beautiful, her stomach rumbling, all she felt was anger.

Servants came to help prepare her, but when they left she was still too angry to eat. Sansa paced the room like a caged wolf, wringing her hands.

Growing kittens need food, Softpaws scolded, one paw holding Buttons down as she washed his ears. At least something small. The servants had brought buttermilk and sweet biscuits, but the sight of them made Sansa queasy. Buttons escaped his mother and hopped on Sansa's lap to comfort her, mewling sweetly. When that didn't work, he flopped on his back, purring as Sansa idly scratched his belly.

If only she could visit the godswood! She needed to be brave, she needed to feel something of Winterfell, of home. The weirwood tree would be a comfort, it would give her the strength she needed. But there wasn't time- they might summon her to court at any moment. She had nothing of the weirwood here, no leaves or branches...

Sansa's tummy flipped. She stood, Buttons leaping to the ground with a chirp of annoyance. With shaking hands Sansa opened her wooden chest, taking out a soft fabric bag.

Sansa poured half the seeds into her palm. They shone like pearls in the light as she raised them to her lips.

The strange taste still lingered in Sansa's mouth as she watched Joffrey hold court from the empty balcony. She almost wanted to laugh at the mummer's farce. Lord Eddard Stark had sat on that throne once, ordering justice for the people of Sherrer. Now her father was dead, his head on a spike for daring to speak the truth. He had offered mercy, and they killed him. Now a bastard born of incest sat the throne, ordering a hand cut off for the theft of four coppers, ordering knights to fight to the death over a mile of land. Sickened, Sansa let her mind wander, taking refuge in daydreams of Robb riding to her rescue. 

When they finally dismissed court, Joffrey was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He extended his arm gallantly, his courtesies as false as her own. Sansa half listened as they walked, nodding and smiling as he gloated over his name day and insulted her. I'm not stupid, she thought fiercely. I know who your father is. I know Baelish betrayed my father. I know you're as bad a king as Aegon the Unworthy or Maegor the Cruel.

When she realized Joffrey was leading her to the traitor's walk, she pulled away from him, unable to hide her terror. Sansa didn't want to see father's head, not again, never again. His legs had jerked.... something thrummed in her blood. She tasted snow and honey, she felt the last embrace her father had given her. Her head held high, Sansa ascended the stairs.

"How goes the war against the traitors?" Sansa asked as they walked, her skin tingling. Joffrey scowled, gripping her arm tighter.

"My grandfather fought a northern host to a draw. We captured some of their lords, they captured some of ours. And your brother defeated my uncle Jaime. My mother says it was treachery and deceit. She wept when she heard. If I had led them we'd have sent them running with their tails between their legs."

They reached the top, and Joffrey's mood changed as quick as lightning, a cruel smirk upon his wormy lips as he led her to the iron spikes. Sansa ignored them, gazing out at the city below.

From the high battlements of the gatehouse Sansa could see half the world. There were Visenya's and Rhaenys' hills, named for the first Targaryen queens. There were the tall stone walls that surrounded the city, the enormous gates set at intervals to permit passage.

There were so many people. Tiny specks moved through the streets, mere ants. Sansa had never really thought about how many smallfolk were in the city, or in the Seven Kingdoms. Butchers and bakers, millers and smiths, singers and whores. Had the whores helped Arya escape by now? Had they gotten Jeyne and Merissa out? Perhaps they were already on their way to Riverrun to be welcomed by their Tully kin.

“What are you looking at?” Joffrey said. “This is what I wanted you to see, right here.”

Joffrey led her down the row of spikes. The distorted faces could not hurt her, they were already dead and gone, their spirits at peace. Father was unrecognizable, as was the face Joffrey claimed to be her septa. Septa Mordane snored when she dozed, Sansa thought, but now her nose was gone. Joffrey grew more frustrated with each head as she looked calmly at the faces, dipped in tar and ravaged by the beaks of crows.

“You haven’t said what you mean to give me for my name day," Joffrey finally said, his voice dangerously gallant. "Maybe I should give you something instead, would you like that?”

“If it please you, my lord,” Sansa replied. She doubted he'd give her a gift, but she knew what her gift would be. She'd finish the handkerchief for him, and bow and scrape as he wanted. Her courtesies were a gift to the ungrateful boy. If she were Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, she'd have already killed him where he stood.

"Your brother is a traitor. After my name day feast, I’m going to raise a host and kill him myself. That’s what I’ll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother’s head."

The outer parapet came up to her chin, but along the inner edge of the walk was nothing, nothing but a long plunge to the bailey seventy or eighty feet below. Perhaps the drop should make her dizzy, but her blood was singing in her veins. A breeze as cold as ice brushed against her cheeks. All caution fled as the tingling of her skin sank deeper, setting her very bones afire.

“Maybe my brother will give me yours.”

Joffrey scowled. “You must never mock me like that. A true wife does not mock her lord. Ser Meryn, teach her.”

This time Sansa was ready. She kept her head still as the walls of Winterfell as the knight struck her, once on each cheek. Sansa licked her lips, her gaze fixed on Ser Meryn's bloodshot eyes. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth, and she heard the howling of wolves in the distance.

Ser Meryn stepped back, a look of dread on his dour face. Sansa almost laughed. A knight of the Kingsguard, frightened by her? But the Hound was not a knight, and he was not afraid. His eyes burned as he stared at Sansa, stepping forward slowly as he pulled out a handkerchief. It was white, white as snow, white as the direwolf on father's doublet, white as the bark of the weirwood tree.

The weirwood called to her from the godswood below, embracing her, thanking her for giving it life. And so she should, for she was a weirwood tree, she had fed it her blood and eaten its seeds, and they were one, her skin as pale as bone-white bark, her hair as flaming as the leaves. Let go, the weirwood said. Accept our gift. Sansa's heart pounded like a drum, and she breathed out. Yes.

Something snapped. The smells and sounds Sansa kept at bay came flooding in. She could smell everything, from the stink of fish on Joffrey's breath to the sweat of the men in the yard below. Her ears tingled with every sound, the ravens quorking in the rookery, horses neighing in the stables, dogs barking in the kennels. Dimly Sansa felt Buttons and Softpaws flee her room, drawn to some burst of shining power on the walls.

The smell of nightsoil assaulted Sansa's sensitive nose, and she turned to look at Joffrey. The King stood frozen with terror, his mouth open, his entire body trembling, a dark wet patch at his groin. Ser Meryn fled the battlements, his armor clanging, his white cloak fluttering behind him. The Hound stepped back, his face pale, his eyes wide and white with fear as though he looked at wildfire.

Sansa's own voice echoed in her ears. Please, I know you sent the direwolves to us. Do not let me be the only Stark without any protection.

And the old gods answered.

Blood.

Pain shot across her skin, a thousand needles piercing every vein, a thousand hammers smashing every bone.

Tears.

Sansa screamed in agony, she screamed her fury and her sorrow and a howl echoed through the dusk.

Direwolf.

She heard the sound of ripping fabric, and tried to cover herself with hands she did not have. They were gone, replaced by soft pads and sharp claws.

Queen.

Visions flashed before her eyes. A ring of weirwoods surrounded her, each with a different face. A maid in seashells kissed a wolf crowned with bronze. A knight with black hair knelt before Sansa in the yard of the Red Keep, his leathers bloody, his sword at her feet, smallfolk cheering, lords and ladies staring in shock.

Yes.

Sansa fell to all fours, shaking off the last bits of fabric that caged her, her paws pressing against the stone, her powerful legs ready-

YES.

With a leap the great red direwolf cast herself at Joffrey, taking them both over the edge.

End Part I

Chapter Text

Part II:  Red Wolf

Grief lay upon Catelyn Stark as heavy and deep as the sea. But I am a fish, and I must swim. She could not drown in her sorrow, this was neither the time or place. Upstairs her father lay dying; below the lords of the North and the Riverlands assembled for a war council.

Catelyn's heart was as frozen as the Wall as she reread the words Maester Luwin had scratched at the bottom of the parchment, his hand sharp and clear beneath Sansa's delicate, ladylike script. Sweet Sansa, only just turned twelve, who'd begged to go south with Catelyn's encouragement. I failed you, Catelyn thought as she stared at the words her daughter had risked her life to send.

Arya missing.

At least the Lannisters didn't have her in their claws. Of all her children, Arya was the most wild, the most adventurous, the quickest to befriend smallfolk. Perhaps she would find her way home. If she's still alive. Catelyn pushed the thought away.   

Joff sent catspaw.

There was the answer to a riddle. When she'd received Ned's raven ordering the Imp's release without explanation, Catelyn had been dumbfounded. The Imp had been near as surprised, his ugly face screwed up in concentration. He had denied any involvement, and called Littlefinger a liar... but she hadn’t believed him. She'd thought Ned ordered the Imp's release for the sake of peace, not for innocence.

Joffrey son of Jaime.

The Northern lords had not held their tongues about that. The minute they met at Moat Cailin the Greatjon had immediately, loudly told Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel Manderly all about "Ned's clever girl" and the "brotherfucking Lannister bitch."

Though Robb had not yet decided how to proceed, the word spread like wildfire as the host marched south. Men had shouted Winterfell and Riverrun when they fought in the Whispering Wood, but they'd shouted "brotherfucker" too, even as Jaime Lannister cut down Robb's guard before being captured.

Baelish betrayed father.

There were the bitter dregs at the bottom of the cup. Her own voice rang in her ears. I will not forget the help you gave me, Petyr. When your men came for me, I did not know whether they were taking me to a friend or an enemy. What a fool Catelyn was. Petyr had challenged Brandon for her hand, and she had turned away from him, as was her duty. Small wonder that he bore her no love, nor Ned for taking Brandon's place.

Catelyn set her despair aside. The war council awaited.

The Great Hall hummed as the lords seated themselves, northern lords to one side and riverlanders to the other. Catelyn's brother Edmure looked uncomfortable in the high seat of the Tullys. Her uncle Brynden the Blackfish was more at ease, his face as stern as any northman's.  The river lords were at their side, Blackwood and Bracken as far apart as possible, Piper beside Smallwood, Mallister by Frey.

Ser Karyl Vance sat near one end, his face somber. He’d gone to Ned for justice after Clegane slaughtered his people, and it was he who had come to her this morning to give her the last known word of her daughters. Arya he had glimpsed only in passing, grinning and filthy. But Sansa he praised at length. Sansa had hosted Ser Karyl, Marq Piper, and Raymun Darry, presiding over the dinner table with gentle courtesy. Not only that, but she’d given their smallfolk fresh clothes and kind words. At least the last word of her daughters was sweet. 

Catelyn sat beside her eldest son, surrounded by the northern lords. Robb's back was straight as steel, his blue eyes somber as he waited for the council to begin. Catelyn examined her son's face, her heart aching as she looked for her daughters. Sansa's eyes were a deeper blue, but her brow furrowed the same way when she thought. There was little of Arya Stark in Robb's Tully looks, but they shared their father's long face.

Catelyn looked at her brother Edmure. He had a little of Robb’s looks, but he lacked Robb’s solemn bearing. Despite being twice Robb’s age, Edmure shared his river lords’ boyish self-satisfaction. They were boistrous after lifting the siege of Riverrun. Even little Lyman Darry, a boy Bran’s age whose lord father had been slain not two weeks past, was caught up by the glory of battle.

They had not known Eddard Stark. The northern lords who’d raised the siege were quiet, their joy overwhelmed by their loss. The Greatjon's bushy black brows concealed red rimmed eyes. How many fierce northern lords had wept for Ned? Even Theon Greyjoy's smirk seemed fixed, his face pale. And Ned was not their only loss.

Lord Rickard Karstark was gaunt with sorrow, his youngest son Torrhen cut down by the Kingslayer as he tried to reach Robb. At least his second son, Eddard, was safe behind the walls of the Karhold. Thank the gods Robb had ordered each lord to leave a son behind to defend the north. In private Robb had confessed it had been Galbart Glover's suggestion, wary of ironborn attacks. It was a wise decision, given what had happened at the Green Fork. Lord Hornwood was dead, but at least Lady Donella had their son to comfort her.

Robb had entrusted Galbart’s younger brother, Robett Glover, with most of his foot. While Robb marched on Riverrun, Robett had lured Tywin Lannister into battle at the Green Fork. It had been a bloody mess. The northmen had taken Ser Kevan Lannister captive, along with Ser Harys Swyft and a few others. Ser Kevan shared a cell with his son Willem, a squire captured in the Whispering Wood. The Lannisters held Roose Bolton, Lord Cerwyn, and Ser Wylis Manderly.

Yet there were still plenty of lords left to argue, and argue they did as soon as the council began.

Greatjon Umber proposed putting Jaime Lannister on trial for incest and sending his head to King's Landing. Jason Mallister urged patience, pointing out that the Kingslayer and other captives might be traded for Sansa, Bolton, Cerwyn, and Manderly.

The shouting went back and forth for an age, until Ser Marq Piper interrupted to propose marching on Casterly Rock. Then the arguing switched to strategy. Should they stay at Riverrun, resting their troops while blocking Lannister supply lines? Should they march on Harrenhal and fight Lord Tywin's army?

It was Lord Tytos Blackwood who finally brought up the problem of kingship. With Sansa's letter and Bran as a sworn witness, few doubted the charges laid against Jaime and Cersei Lannister. Catelyn should have been honored by the trust in her children, but she suspected that it was easy for men to believe the worst of their enemies. Honorable Lord Eddard's head on a pike condemned the Lannisters more than any child could. Peace, Catelyn thought. All I want is peace, and that is all I cannot have.

"Lord Renly claims the crown, with Highgarden and Storm's End at his back. Let us join our strength to his," Lord Jonos Bracken urged.

"Renly is not the king," Robb said, breaking his silence for the first time. "Bran cannot inherit Winterfell while I live, no more than Renly can claim a crown while his older brother takes breath."

"And what is Stannis doing on Dragonstone?" The Greatjon boomed. Northern and river lords looked back and forth.

"Brooding," Lord Karyl Vance said with a shrug. 

"Dragonstone should be covered in chickens, then," Robb’s squire, Olyvar Frey said. "He's been brooding nigh on a year."

"If he knew the children were illborn, surely he would have declared himself King when Robert passed," Edmure said, troubled.

"Yet he has not," Robb said stubbornly. "We cannot wait for Stannis. Nor shall I swear fealty to a bastard born of incest."

"Nor I neither," Marq Piper said.

"Never!" Shouted little Lyman Darry.

"Nor I," swore grim Lord Karstark.

"Nor I," Lady Mormont growled.

The Greatjon rose to his feet, the firelight casting his immense shadow behind him.

"MY LORDS!" he shouted, his voice like the crack of thunder. "Here is what I say to these Lannister and Baratheon kings!" He spat. "The Others take the Lannister bastards. But why should I kneel to Stannis or Renly? They did naught to help Lord Eddard, nor to defend the Riverlands from Lannister butchers. A king who fails his duty is no king at all."

All around the room lords were nodding, their eyes blazing. The river lords would not forget their rich fields turned to deserts, their holdfasts ruined and their smallfolk slaughtered. Oh, Ned, Catelyn despaired. I never should have urged you south.

"Why shouldn’t we rule ourselves again?" The Greatjon roared. "King Torrhen Stark knelt to Targaryens and their dragons. Show me a Targaryen riding a dragon and I'll kneel." The Greatjon looked around, one hand over his brow like a mummer, and laughter rang out across the hall. Catelyn envied them. Would she ever laugh again?

"The dragons are dead and gone," the Greatjon spat again. "I'll swear to only one king, one that heeds his bannermen, who knows his duty, who knows his people and mine."

Robb sat as still as stone, his gaze cold as ice as his eyes met the Greatjon's. Without blinking the Greatjon drew his sword and pointed the blade at Robb.

"There sits the only king I mean to bow my knee to, m’lords," he thundered. "The King in the North!"

King Robb sat in her father's seat, his bare head held high as they brought the prisoner in. It was only a week past that the lords had knelt before him, and the smith was still forging a suitable crown.

No sooner had the new king and his men sworn to take Joffrey's head, news had arrived that they were too late. Joffrey Lannister was dead, killed falling from the traitor's walk of the Red Keep. The gods had a cruel sense of humor. And the rumors of how he fell...

"You may rise," her son said coldly. Ser Cleos Frey got to his feet, his knees shaking. He'd fought for the Lannisters in the Whispering Wood and been taken captive there, but it was hard to picture the man holding a sword.

Catelyn would be happy to never see another Frey in her life, but as ever the gods ignored her wishes. Olyvar Frey seemed glued to Robb's side, the image of a faithful squire. Olyvar was handsome, for a Frey. His close cropped brown hair was thick, his frame well built. Perhaps it was because he'd escaped the seething horde of Freys at the Twins, growing up as a ward at Rosby with his mother's kin before being summoned by Lord Walder.

Ser Cleos was a Frey of a different kind, half-Lannister and entirely dispensable, and thus perfect for the unhappy task ahead of him. Catelyn watched as Grey Wind circled the knight, sniffing and licking his chops.

"I brought you from your cell to carry my message to your cousin Cersei Lannister in King’s Landing."

Ser Cleos nodded eagerly as Grey Wind slunk back to Robb's side. “I should be most glad to bring His Grace’s message to the queen.”

Several lords spat on the rushes.

"Brotherfucker," the Greatjon snarled. Ser Cleos twitched.

Robb laid out the terms of Ser Cleos' release. Ser Cleos accepted the terms, swearing to return bearing Cersei's reply and then resume his captivity.  The terms sent to the Lannisters were simple, despite all the time and arguing that had gone into them.

Robb declared the North and Riverlands independent of the Iron Throne. He denounced the new king, Tommen, as a bastard born of incest. He offered to exchange captives, save the Kingslayer. Catelyn cared nothing for these terms. It was the final term she waited for, the one for which she had marshaled every argument, drawing on every instinct and ally.

"Finally," Robb said, his voice as stern as Ned’s. "Word has reached us of the disappearance of our sister, the Princess Sansa, and the charges laid against her."

The lords rumbled.

All knew that rumor ran wild when a king died, but the rumors of Joffrey's death had been particularly strange. One story said he'd fallen off the Red Keep while fleeing from the ghost of Eddard Stark. Another claimed Joffrey was pushed by a Sworn Brother of the Kingsguard. No, others said, he'd been devoured by a great red wolf that carried Sansa away on its back. No, the Stark girl was the red wolf, sent by the gods to punish her father's killer.

Whatever the tale, all agreed that her eldest daughter was missing and charged with involvement in Joffrey's death. Golden dragons awaited the man who found Sansa Stark and brought her back alive. Catelyn shivered to think what Cersei would do if she got Sansa in her clutches.   

"Understand this," Robb said, rising to his feet, Grey Wind snarling at his heels as he descended to stand before the shaking Ser Cleos.

The lords watched, their faces grim. Only the Greatjon smiled, a smile terrible to behold. Catelyn wondered if she should fear the man who had named her son a king and backed her in making this final demand.

"You are to tell Cersei that if any harm comes to Princess Sansa while in Lannister hands-" Robb stopped just in front of the the knight, his eyes hard.

"-then Jaime Lannister will share my father’s fate."

Chapter Text

The air was cold and the river freezing, his mouth watering as he crossed. Prey was near, he could smell it. The white wolf was hungry.

The air was cold and the ground dark, his claws clicking on the stone. King after king he saw, iron swords on their laps. The black wolf was angry.

The air was cold and the sky clear, his ears twitching as he listened. His boy sat beneath the pale tree, the wildling woman crouched beside him. The winged wolf was nervous.

The air was warm and the fire bright, his nose nuzzling against the woman's palm. His boy's mother stroked him. The young wolf was sad.

The air was mild and the breeze fresh, her fur rippling as she ran. She knew her path, her girl was close. The fierce wolf was excited.

The air was mild and the darkness deep, her limbs shivering as she waited. She hid from her companions in the cave. The red wolf was afraid.

"Oi, Arry, wake up," the Bull hissed, shaking Arya's shoulder. For a moment his eyes were the wrong shade of blue, then she blinked and they looked right again.

She'd fallen asleep against the wall of the bathhouse while waiting for the others to finish. Arya rubbed her grimy arms, hating the feel of the thick layer of dirt on her skin. She was supposed to be Arry the orphan boy now. If she took a bath with the black brothers and their new recruits, they'd find her out. Angry, Arya slapped the Bull's hand away.

"What?" She snapped. There was a strange prickling in her skin— was her dream true? Was Nymeria close?

The Bull pointed at the road. Goldcloaks. There was an officer and five men, and the officer was arguing with Yoren. Arya leapt to her feet, her fury overriding all else. The officer turned to look at her, and quick as a snake, Yoren had his sword at the officer's throat.

"You'll be taking no bastard boys today," Yoren snarled. It was almost like one of Sansa's songs, except for how ugly Yoren was. When the goldcloaks were gone, Yoren gave the officer's dropped sword to Hot Pie and turned to the Bull.

"Queen wants you bad, boy."

Arya shook her head in confusion. Hadn't the goldcloaks been after her ? The Bull was broad shouldered and strong, a smith's apprentice. He'd forged the bull helm he carried that gave him his name. But he was just some bastard boy.

"Why would the queen want you ?" Arya asked, unable to help herself.

"I don't know," the Bull snapped. "Why do you care?"

"Because they were after me!" Arya said, forgetting herself.

"Shut up," Yoren said, cuffing Arya upside the head. Her scalp was still tender from the rough shaving he'd given her, and it stung.

"They can’t have either of your sorry hides. You ride them two coursers. First sight of a gold cloak, make for the Wall like a dragon’s on your tail. The rest o’ us don’t mean spit to them."

Arya mounted her horse with little trouble while the Bull struggled to climb on his. Nymeria was close, she knew it.

A few men from the inn had come out to see Yoren and the goldcloaks argue, and she rode near one of them, a man with a long beard.

"Seen any wolves about?" Arya asked, trying to sound casual. The man laughed, revealing gaps where his teeth were missing.

"There's wolves all over the riverlands, boy. And in King's Landing too, I've heard."

Arya frowned. There were no wolves in King's Landing, unless he meant Sansa. They'd had no news from King's Landing since they set out— all the travelers the black brothers passed on the road were coming south. Their news was of fighting in the Riverlands, homes burned, children slain.

"Wolves in the city?" the Bull asked, finally managing to bring his courser over.

"So they say. A big red one, what slew the boy king and stole the old Hand's daughter."

"Joffrey's dead ?"

"Get movin'!" Yoren shouted, slapping her horse's rump.

If Yoren had hoped she'd fall, he'd be disappointed. Arya clung on with her knees as the horse bolted forward, then stopped, shifting her hooves uneasily. The mare hated being startled. She could already smell wolves on the breeze, though they were far off.

Wolves! Arya almost wept. The horse shook her head, confused. Wolves were dangerous, wolves were predators. No, Arya told her. I'm a wolf. Take me to them, I swear they won't hurt you. The mare stamped her feet in disbelief. Please, they're my family, Arya begged. The mare snorted. Wolves were predators, not family.

Arya crossed her fingers behind her back. The men here want to eat you, as soon as we get further north .

The mare took off running, galloping toward the setting sun. Yoren's shouts faded behind her, she was free, no sound but the wind and her horse's hooves. They crossed a little stream with a glorious splash, and Arya whooped with joy— until she heard the second set of splashes behind them.

The Bull was the one who had followed her. Of course he had. He rode badly but stubbornly behind Arya on his courser, his black hair sticking up every which way. Arya's mare needed a rest, she couldn't gallop all night, and the Bull's horse refused to throw him when Arya asked. So they stopped beside a little pool, letting the horses drink while they argued.

"You're s'posed to go to the Wall," the Bull said. Arya eyed him. She didn't think she could outrun him on foot, not for very long. He was around five years Arya's senior, long-legged and strong.

Arya swore at him, and he stared. She threatened him with Needle, and he put his hand on the hilt of the sword at his hip. Finally, in a fit of temper, she ordered him to leave.

"Thought you was highborn," the Bull said. "Too bossy for being so small and skinny." He crouched beside the pool, using his hands for a cup as he scooped up water.

Arya gazed longingly at the little pool. It was cool and clear and shallow. Arya’s limbs ached from long days of travel. Sweat dripped down her back to join the dried salty crust of previous days. It had been a long time since she’d felt even half clean.

"Look," she said. "I'll tell you everything if you guard the pool so I can wash. And no peeking, or I'll stab you with Needle."

The Bull turned around, drawing his sword as though there might be goldcloaks behind every tree.

"So what's your name?" Arya asked, stripping off her filthy clothes and wading into the pool. It was almost dark, so she scrubbed quickly while she could still see. Her skin still prickled like it had earlier, and the sensation seemed to be growing stronger.

"Gendry," he replied. She dunked her head beneath the water, missing whatever he said next.

"What?" She asked, shaking the water from her ears.

"Why did you think the goldcloaks wanted you?" Gendry repeated. Arya sighed.

"You first."

"I never did nothing to no queen,” he said, sullen. "I did my work, is all. Bellows and tongs and fetch and carry. I was s’posed to be an armorer, and one day Master Mott says I got to join the Night’s Watch, that’s all I know."

Gendry sounded wistful, as though he'd been born to hammer steel and the goldcloaks had stolen his dream away.

"I'm sorry," Arya said.

"Your turn," Gendry said gruffly. "What are you— some lord’s bastard?"

"If I tell you, you have to promise you won't make me go back," Arya said.

Needle was close, she might be able to stick him with the pointy end if he said no- but she really didn't want to. Gendry was the only one who'd been kind to her. And he'd never take her to the queen, not when the queen was sending goldcloaks after him. Gendry sighed.

"Fine, lordling. I swear, I won't take you back to Yoren."

"My name is Arya of House Stark."

Telling Gendry had been a mistake. He hadn't taken her back to Yoren, but he also refused to go away. Worst of all, he kept bowing and calling her m'lady. Ugh.

At least he was following her lead, though he thought she was daft to risk riding in the dark. They went slowly, letting the horses pick out their own path through the woods. Arya explained about Nymeria, and how the horses could smell wolves nearby.

She didn't mention the prickling in her skin or how it grew stronger and stronger. Instead, she told Gendry that Nymeria would be as good as ten soldiers, and she'd be able to sniff out Sansa.

Arya expected Gendry to laugh when she told him she was Sansa's sworn shield. Instead he'd been quiet for a long while.

"Never had a sister," he said finally. "But I s'pose I'd want to keep her safe if I did."

They’d been riding for at least an hour when Arya’s mare shied back suddenly. Gendry's horse stopped too, its muzzle quivering. The horses whickered with fear as Arya slid down off the mare.

Something was coming. Arya could hear it rustling in the brush, and she ran toward it, ignoring Gendry’s shout of warning. A dark blur with golden eyes hurtled out of the darkness. The direwolf slammed into her, and Arya laughed as Nymeria's tongue washed the tears from her face. 

Chapter Text

“Two Starks, a steward’s daughter, and a maid. Tell me, sweet sister, how do four girls not yet flowered vanish?”

Cersei glared at Tyrion over her glass of wine. Her cheeks were as red as her eyes, her hair undressed and unkempt. Today would have been the boy’s thirteenth name day. Neither the old gods or the new would be able to help Sansa Stark if Cersei got her hands on her.

"As if you cared ," Cersei hissed. "You must have drunk yourself silly when you heard Joff was dead." The cutting remark was somewhat dulled by the sad little hiccup in the middle. It seemed he and Cersei shared a fondness for wine, if naught else.

"I did no such thing," Tyrion said patiently. "I was with our father at the time, and you know how well he tolerates drunks." Cersei snorted.

It had been a foul day at the Crossroads Inn where Lord Tywin had assembled his bannermen after the debacle at the Green Fork. Ser Kevan's capture by Karstark men was bad enough; to learn Jaime had been taken by a stripling boy of fifteen was catastrophe. His father's fury was colder than the Wall, a sword that cut through the babble of panicked bannermen.

And then the messenger had arrived from King's Landing.

If Tyrion had been asked to choose which Stark would stand accused of shoving Joffrey off the Red Keep, he’d have chosen the other sister. Arya Stark was a grubby little hellcat, running about Winterfell in roughspun. She'd even had the nerve to set her direwolf on Joffrey, or so Cersei claimed.

Sansa Stark was another matter. She was a delicate little blossom of a girl, for all that she was taller than Tyrion. Beautiful and sweet, and thrilled to learn of her betrothal to the prince. Perhaps Starks have room for so much honor because their heads are filled with feathers, Tyrion thought. Betrothal to Joffrey was no prize, as even the Stark girl must have realized once he took Ned Stark's head.

"Your sorrow is not yours alone," Tyrion soothed, daring to pat Cersei's hand. She yanked her hand back, jarring his arm. His elbow throbbed where the morningstar had laid it open. If the gods were good, he'd never see battle again.

"You always hated Joff," Cersei hissed. "Perhaps you were  the one who paid for his death."

Cersei couldn’t seem to make up her mind whether Sansa or Trant had pushed Joff. Lacking any better suspects, Tyrion’s money was on Trant. Bags of gold had been found in the knight’s rooms, though Varys claimed he could not yet identify who had bought Ser Meryn. Cersei suspected he'd been paid to let Arya Stark escape as well, though she was no more certain of the buyer. The simpering Renly and his Tyrell friends? The traitorous Dornish? The cunning old Lord Hoster Tully? Perhaps even the Starks, since Ned Stark had stooped to asking Littlefinger to buy the goldcloaks.

Tyrion sighed. Trant's incompetence was more likely to blame for Arya Stark's escape, if not Joffrey's death, but an angry Cersei was not a thoughtful Cersei. Cersei would blame everyone who crossed her until the mystery was solved, and Tyrion crossed her by merely existing.

"I may not have loved Joff well, but he was still my nephew. And I hope you'd give me more credit than to think I'd trust such a plot to the likes of Meryn Trant."

Trant's head now decorated a spike on traitor's walk. Tyrion had seen it that morning when giving the order for the Stark heads to be taken down. One of the empty spikes might suit Petyr Baelish, if he could persuade his sweet sister it was for Joff's sake and not his own. A Lannister pays his debts, Littlefinger , Tyrion thought grimly. The matter of the valyrian steel dagger would not go unpunished.

"Trant was a fool," Cersei snapped, rising from her seat. The wine in her goblet sloshed, almost dripping on her mourning gown. "A stormlander never should have been trusted with Joff's life."

Tyrion bit his tongue. If he recalled correctly, it had been Cersei's idea to put Trant on the Kingsguard. His birth in the Stormlands was a sop to Robert, but his loyalty had lain with House Lannister.

"Since I cannot question the man myself, perhaps you might tell me what he said before you had Sir Ilyn shorten him," Tyrion said.

It seemed that the small council had questioned Trant, found him guilty, and executed him within a week of Joff's death. Doubtless it was Cersei's work, but Tyrion found it very interesting that neither Varys, Pycelle, nor Baelish had stopped her. And Trant wasn't as lucky as Ned Stark. He had been flayed, hanged, and then beheaded.

Cersei poured herself more wine, her eyes hollow with grief. For once in his life, he pitied her, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Court had ended for the day. Trant and Sandor Clegane were guarding Joff," she began, sipping her wine. "It seems he had a notion to show Sansa her father's head, so he took her up to the traitor's walk."

“His Grace had a unique way of winning the hearts of his subjects,” Tyrion said wryly, unable to resist. Cersei glared.

"Trant said Joff showed the girl Stark's head, and promised to gift her Robb Stark's head for his name day." Tears dripped down Cersei's face, and she angrily brushed them away. "All else Trant said was gibbering nonsense."

"Yet that nonsense may be important, sister," Tyrion said gently, hopping down from his chair. He waddled over to the side table, fetching the open bottle of sweet Arbor red. Cersei stared at him balefully as he poured it into her goblet.

"Ser Meryn said Sansa mocked Joffrey, and Joffrey ordered him to chastise her. Trant said it was like the girl turned to stone."

Cersei took a long drink of Arbor red. "He said she didn't make a sound when he hit her, just stared and stared." She gave a bitter laugh. "Then the air turned to ice, wolves howled for blood, the girl convulsed, fur sprouting from her skin." Cersei took another drink. "He claims he fled, leaving Joff alone with the Hound and the girl."

Tyrion frowned. Trant was a decent sword, but dull as a post. Perhaps he'd found a spark of imagination under the torturer's lash.

"I suppose that's why I heard some of the guards raving about a red wolf running through the keep?"

Cersei downed her entire goblet, then poured herself another cup. Tyrion was almost impressed that her speech was only slightly slurred.

"Yes, the superstitious fools. A guard claimed he saw two cats leading a wolf from the keep, and now every snapping twig or growling dog makes them wet themselves with fear."

Doubtless she'd had the guard killed, but alas, men would talk. Guards were never happy unless they had gossip to share during their long watches. A missing girl with red hair and a direwolf sigil was too dull, so she became a fearsome red wolf. Such fantastical tales were juicy fodder for guards starved with boredom. Soon enough the smallfolk would be repeating the tales, if they weren't already.

"And what did Sandor Clegane say?" Even dipped in tar, Tyrion would surely have recognized the Hound's ugly face on a spike. Cersei's hand clenched into a fist.

"Nothing of use," she spat. "He's in the black cells until I decide his fate."

Droplets of wine hit Tyrion in the face, but he ignored them. The Hound, useless? Sandor Clegane had been Cersei's dog before he was Joffrey's. They were well suited to each other. The man hated people almost as much as Cersei did, and his hideous face made Cersei look all the more beautiful.

"Father sent me here to serve you," Tyrion said patiently. "I cannot serve you if I am kept in the dark. What did Clegane say?" Cersei stared into her goblet, swirling the wine slowly.

"He said he had to take a piss, and that he didn't think Trant needed his help protecting Joffrey from a twittering little bird."

Tyrion barely managed to choke back his laughter. That story had the ring of truth. Of all the times to take a piss. Perhaps the gods did exist and they were smiling on the Lannisters. Tommen would be a far better king than his brother, though Tyrion wasn't stupid enough to say so in Cersei's hearing.

"Every man must piss," Tyrion said instead. "It seems the Hound has been unfairly blamed. He had no reason to doubt Trant, and Sansa Stark is as dangerous as one of Tommen's kittens."

It seemed Tommen’s first act as king had been to acquire as many kittens as possible, now that there was no Joffrey to slay them. He'd shown them to Tyrion not an hour past while he awaited Cersei. Tommen's favorite was a fluffy blonde cat who shared his nephew's green eyes and friendly nature.

Though it was a bit unfortunate that the boy had named the cat Ser Jaime. No one needed reminding that Tommen was the spitting image of Jaime, if Jaime were a chubby and cheerful seven year old. Tyrion had suggested Ser Whiskers instead, claiming the kitten's name might upset the Queen Mother while the northerners held brave Uncle Jaime captive. Tommen had readily agreed.

"Even so," Cersei said, setting her goblet down. "He should have been quicker about it. Perhaps then we'd have the Stark girl to trade for Jaime."

There was another mystery, one that had made a vein pulse in Lord Tywin's forehead. Not even Varys could find a single whisper of where the maid had gone. All they had were the tatters of a green silk gown that had been found on the walkway and beside Joffrey's broken body on the ground below. Had Joff ordered Trant to strip her? Or had Sansa torn her clothes in grief for her father? Or had Joff clutched at her gown as he fell?

The maid hadn't fallen, that was certain. The drop would have turned her into a bloody flatcake like Joffrey. Pycelle said the boy's body was so broken they'd had to cover it with a golden cloth when it lay in the sept. How on earth had a half-naked maid of twelve escaped?

"You're right, sweet sister," Tyrion agreed. "But the Hound is a faithful dog, and I'd not see him chained when he could be guarding the flock."

"We are lions, not sheep," Cersei snarled.

"A poor choice of words," Tyrion soothed, thinking quickly.

"Why not strip him of his white cloak? That will be punishment enough for his failure, and give you two plums to reward men you trust."

Cersei watched Tyrion carefully, suspicious but clearly interested in the idea.

"Men that I trust," she said slowly, setting her goblet aside. Encouraged, Tyrion continued.

"I am here to serve and advise you, sweet sister. The Hound's not fool enough to betray us- let him be your sworn shield. He'll terrify every man stupid enough to cross you."

It took near an hour of careful flattery and cunning, but at last Tyrion was free of Cersei. The Hound would be her sworn shield, and Ser Addam Marbrand would be summoned to take his place on the Kingsguard.

Cersei had actually chosen well. True, she'd chosen Marbrand because the knight was Jaime's closest friend, but he was also a solid and well-respected warrior. Lord Tywin wouldn't like it, but Tyrion cared little. You told me to take things in hand, father, and so I shall. Trant's place would remain open, awaiting a suitable replacement.

And now Tyrion had yet another task ahead of him. He sighed as he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. There might be no trace of the Stark girls, but the steward's daughter was another matter.

Varys had been practically giddy when he divulged that the girl had gone missing from the brothel where Baelish had stashed her. Tyrion suspected the eunuch loathed Littlefinger almost as much as he did. He might have shared Varys' glee, if the news hadn't been delivered at the Broken Anvil with Shae by the eunuch's side. How had Varys found her so quickly, yet discovered nary a trace of a Stark?

"Where to, m'lord?" Bronn asked. Tyrion frowned at the interruption.

"The Street of Silk," Tyrion said.

That was why he was risking the streets of King's Landing with only Bronn by his side. The clansmen would be near useless surrounded by such temptations, and Tyrion did not want Lannister guards drawing attention. With any luck he'd be able to question the whores and get their account before he confronted Baelish.

Baelish's brothel was a three story place, a bit decrepit but humming with laughter. A fat Dornish woman was singing in the common room, her rich voice contrasting with the filthy words. Tyrion glanced about the room. There were only a few men, unsurprising for mid-afternoon. A woman with straw-blonde hair cut short was arranging chairs, a black cat at her feet. The singer finished her song and made for Tyrion, her hips swaying as she walked. 

"And how may we serve our Lord of Lannister?" The woman purred. She dipped a graceful curtsy, the low neckline of her gown giving him a view of her more than ample bosom. Her speaking voice was as lovely as her singing voice, smooth as butter and sweet as honey.

"I'm a bit short to be Lord Tywin, as you might have noticed," Tyrion said. The singer raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"It was a courtesy, as you knew. A blind man could see you are too young and too charming to be Lord Tywin," she said. Tyrion decided he liked her. "I am Belandra. I run this place. How may I serve you, m'lord?"

"M'lord would like to speak with you somewhere private," Tyrion replied.

Bel nodded. "Jess!" she called to the straw-blonde woman. Now that Tyrion had a second look, he noted Jess had a nice plump bosom, though her hunched shoulders did not display her teats to advantage. "Some food and drink for our honored guest."

The room she brought him to was small but clean, furnished with a bed, a few chairs, and a table. A ginger kitten was curled up by the hearth while a calico cat washed the kitten's ears. Bel closed the windows at his direction, apologizing for how stuffy the room would soon become. Jess brought tankards of good beer for Tyrion and Bronn, and set a plate of fresh bread on the table, the loaf still hot from the oven, butter and jam beside it.

"We rarely entertain guests of such quality," Bel said as Tyrion looked over the food. "I hope you'll not take offense."

"Oh, any offense I take is as small as I am," Tyrion japed, slicing the bread and spreading a slice thick with butter and jam. He was famished from his war of words with Cersei, and the food smelled good.

"I'm glad to hear it. My girls are already nervous after our last, ah, lordly visitor. We women are so easily frightened." Bel gave an exaggerated sigh. After dealing with Cersei, this was practically fun. "Lords, stray dogs, spiders, all of them make a whore tremble."

Now that was a surprise. Varys had been here personally? The man must have wanted to be certain the girl had vanished before he threw Baelish to the lions.

"Spiders are very distressing," Tyrion agreed, cutting himself another slice of bread. "When did they last trouble you?"

"Oh, some weeks past. Just before the gods took m'lord's poor nephew."

Curiouser and curiouser. Had that been when Varys first found the steward's girl? Tyrion sighed and stretched, noting that Bel's ebony eyes narrowed when she saw the small bag at his waist, heavy with coin.

"Alas, the gods are taking all sorts of folk, from kings to brown haired northern girls. Mayhaps you've seen one?"

Bel's smile dropped.

"Have your man rap on the door," she said briskly. It was a thick wooden door, with a few dents in the wood. Bronn gave Tyrion a questioning look, and Tyrion nodded. Bronn rapped hard, and a muffled voice yelped. The cats leapt up from the hearth, startled by the noise.

"I'd have your man stand guard outside, if m'lord doesn't want anyone listening," Bel said, crossing her plump brown arms. The crooked fingers of her left hand lightly tapped on her arm as she waited.

"Go on," Tyrion ordered Bronn, and he went. No sooner had Bronn left the room than the kitten strolled over to Tyrion, mewling. With a chirp the ginger kitten hopped on Tyrion's lap, bold as brass.

"That one likes you, m'lord," Bel said as she handed him a fresh slice of bread.

"Perhaps he smells my nephew's cats," Tyrion said, accepting the slice as the kitten curled up, purring like mad. "But I was hoping to find a brown-haired girl, not a ginger kitten."

"Oh, Littlefinger brought her here, her and a common maid," Bel said, shrugging her plump shoulders. "Any more than that takes coin. I'd like to buy this place back from Littlefinger someday."

With a grin Tyrion cast the small bag of coin on the table. A pair of golden dragons and a dozen silver stags spilled out, and Bel gave him the first true smile since he'd arrived.

Chapter Text

Sansa stood on a wall of red stone, her green silk gown shimmering in the setting sun. Beside her was the prince,  a golden crown upon his head. Two knights in white cloaks stood near them.

The prince was speaking, but Bran could not hear his words. The shorter knight stepped forward and struck Sansa, once on each cheek.

Yet Sansa did not move. Her eyes were glowing, the deep blue shining like a star. The knight stepped back, and Bran felt a chill as though he’d fallen through the ice on a frozen lake. Wolves were howling, leaves rustling in a wind that did not blow. Sansa’s skin rippled, her body shaking, cracks echoing off the walls as her bones snapped. The short knight fled, and the other froze, his eyes white with fear. Sansa was screaming, her long hair shrinking back, fur sprouting from her hands and face, her nose stretching into a muzzle, her gown tearing as a howl pierced the night-

"Wake up, Bran," Maester Luwin said gently.

Bran opened his eyes. The deep red fur was gone, and everything was grey, from the grey of the maester's robes to his eyes and hair in the torchlight. A parchment was in the maester’s hand.

“What is it?” Bran asked. It felt as though he’d just fallen asleep, the world outside still dark.

“A raven arrived from Riverrun,” the maester said, lighting a candle on the table by Bran’s bed. “It seems I owe you an apology, my prince.”

Bran frowned.

“An apology?” And why was Luwin calling him a prince? The maester unrolled the parchment, reading clearly.

“By the will of the lords of the North and the lords of the Riverlands, I, Robb Stark, do claim the crown of my grandsires as King in the North. Until such time as I wed and sire children, I name Brandon Stark as Prince of Winterfell and my heir.”

Bran stared at the maester, his heart thumping. A week past he’d dreamt of a giant in broken chains placing a crown on a wolf’s head. A strange crowd knelt before the wolf, bears and trout and a pink maiden dancing with a stream of white silk...

“I told you the dreams were true.”

Maester Luwin had doubted Bran. The awful dream he and Rickon had shared before word came of father’s death was not enough. “All of us have dreams that come true sometimes,” the maester had said patiently. Nor did he change his mind after Bran dreamed of a pair of towers walking to Winterfell, even though the Frey boys arrived three days later, two blue towers flapping on their grey banners.

But now the maester’s eyes were troubled as he sat on the edge of Bran’s bed, one hand rubbing at a link of dark grey metal on the chain around his neck.

“I studied magic at the Citadel. The maesters had many books on magic, but perhaps one in a hundred maesters bothers to examine them. Why should they? Perhaps magic was once a mighty force in the world, but no longer. What little remains is no more than the wisp of smoke that lingers in the air after a great fire has burned out, and even that is fading. Valyria was the last ember, and Valyria is gone. The dragons are no more, the giants are dead, the children of the forest forgotten with all their lore.”

“Old Nan says the comet smells of dragons,” Bran replied. “Osha says it’s blood and fire.”

Almost without thinking, Luwin looked out the window. The comet blazed as it had since the day before they learned of father’s death, a bloody wound against the sky.

“Dragons,” the little grey man whispered, a look of fear and wonder on his face. Then Luwin shook his head as though pushing the idea away.

“Dreams are one thing, dragons another. But if you have such dreams again...”

“I’ll tell you,” Bran promised. The maester nodded, blowing out the candle as he wished Bran pleasant sleep.

The red direwolf whimpered, holding one paw in the air as she tried to walk on the other three. A ginger kitten and a calico cat nuzzled at the direwolf’s fur, urging her on, guiding her through cramped dark alleys and abandoned buildings.

At last the cats let the direwolf rest in a dark corner behind a ramshackle three story building. The direwolf collapsed, whimpering quietly. The ginger kitten curled up at the direwolf’s side, but the calico cat crept toward the building.

“I dreamed my sister was a wolf.”

Osha raised an eyebrow and crouched beside him. Bran sat with his back against the heart tree, Hodor already gone to explore the pools.

“So she might be. You Starks might be kneelers, but you’ve the same blood as our folk.”

Bran frowned. Starks didn’t kneel, did they? Not to anyone but the king. At least Osha wasn’t laughing. The dream was too strange to tell Luwin, but Osha was different.

“What’s blood got to do with it?”

Osha laughed and ran a hand through her short hair. Her light brown skin shone like copper where droplets lingered from her bath in the pools.

“We share the ancient blood of the First Men. When the First Men made peace with the Children of the Forest, the old gods shared their gifts. Some could dream of the past. Some could hear the songs of root and stone and water. Some could slip their skins and share the skins of beasts.” Osha shrugged. “Why shouldn’t your sister share her wolf’s skin as you do?”

Bran bit his lip, thinking. As though sensing his distress, Summer trotted over, his paws quiet against the soft grass.

“Her wolf died,” Bran said. “I dreamed she was a wolf herself, but she didn’t slip her skin, she changed it .”

The wildling woman rocked back on her heels, her brow furrowed.

“We have folk who can speak to beasts or share a beast’s skin- we call them wargs, skinchangers, beastlings. But to become a wolf herself...” Osha shook her head.

Bran’s skin tingled. “What’s wrong with that?”

Osha glanced around, as though Ser Rodrik or Maester Luwin was hiding behind a tree ready to scold her. But there was no one in the godswood but Hodor and the direwolves. At last Osha spoke, her voice gentler than he’d ever heard before.

“They say a warg who shares a beast’s skin too long forgets to be a man. He fills his belly as a beast but his own body starves. Little by little his memories fade, until there’s nothing left but the beast.”

And as Bran’s heart clenched with fear, the direwolves began to howl.

Bran shifted uneasily. He’d been trying to reach Sansa for days without success, and finally thought to ask for the pillow that he’d slept on the last time he spoke with his sister. The embroidered pillow from Sansa’s room was beautiful, with all the romping direwolves, but it was not comfortable.

At least he had Summer by his side, thanks to Maester Luwin. The maester had persuaded Ser Rodrik by claiming that Bran’s health had weakened since the wolf’s confinement in the godswood. And besides, how could Summer pose any threat to the Walders when he was shut behind a barred door? Faced with the maester’s cool logic and Bran’s pleading eyes, the castellan had finally agreed.

Summer rolled over and licked Bran’s nose. He’d missed his boy. The godswood had his brother, and the trees, but it felt like part of the direwolf was missing. I’m sorry , Bran said. Summer gave a low whimper. He knew. He could feel Bran’s longing, just as he felt his black brother’s rage and his white brother’s hunger.

What about Nymeria? Can you feel her? Can you feel Sansa? Summer nuzzled Bran’s cheek. It was time to sleep.

Round and round and round Bran flew, above the gathering storm clouds. He could hear a crow cawing in the distance, calling him northward. He ignored it, turning south. Bran sped past swamps and rivers, past burned fields and broken villages. He could feel his sister’s call growing stronger, leading him to a small cave in the woods.

The red direwolf curled up in a ball, her snout pressed almost against her tail, a bandage of dark red cloth wrapped around one paw. A grey wolf stood beside her. Nymeria whined, pushing a lump of meat at the wolf that was Bran’s sister. She wouldn’t eat, she barely left the cave to drink water from the stream.

Sansa, Bran whispered. The red direwolf did not even twitch. Sansa, please, Bran tried again. You can’t stay a wolf, you’ll become one, you’ll forget who you are.

The red direwolf whimpered. Her dreams were dark. She heard the ringing of steel and the screams of dying men. She saw a man in grey and white shoved to his knees, a sword raised above his head. She saw heads dipped in tar and torn at by crows. She saw a boy lying in a pool of blood, his body broken. She had killed him, but she couldn’t remember why.

Over and over the memories played, and she fled. She didn’t want to remember, she didn’t want to return to such pain.

It’s not all pain! Bran cried. The red direwolf shook her head. No. Father was gone, he’d never come back, but Bran wasn’t losing Sansa too. Desperately Bran called up memories of his own.

Sansa dandling Bran on her lap in father’s solar, cooing encouragement as he gripped a quill awkwardly and wrote his name in shaky letters.

Sansa tugging at Rickon’s rumpled collar as they stood waiting for the king, promising to share her lemon cake if he behaved.

Sansa dancing in the great hall of Winterfell with Robb as her partner, laughing as he twirled her.

Sansa throwing a snowball at Arya, then running away shrieking as Arya gave chase.

You’re not just a wolf, you’re Sansa, you’re my sister, come back, Bran cried. Remember? Don’t you remember?

The red direwolf opened her eyes.

Chapter Text

Sansa awoke shivering. Her naked skin pressed against cold stone, her arms clutching her knees to her chest. Was this how she’d slept in her mother’s womb? I want my mother. Sansa wept silently, her tears dripping onto the floor of the cave.

A warm muzzle brushed against Sansa’s face. Nymeria. Her pack sister lapped at her cheek, washing away the tears. But the direwolf’s heat only made Sansa shiver the harder, her skin covered in gooseprickles. Her gown and shift were long gone, shredded by her transformation. I need clothes. Sansa whimpered as the direwolf’s warmth suddenly disappeared.

Slowly Sansa forced herself to get to her feet, her limbs sluggish. Her left wrist ached with pain as she looked around. She was in a cave of pale faded limestone. The sun shone on the walls, revealing smudges of red pigment.

Almost without thinking Sansa stepped forward, drawn to the paintings on the walls. There were handprints of all sizes. A few handprints above her head were as small as a babe’s. One by her shoulder was immense, as though made by a giant. There were more paintings, beyond the reach of the light…

A low whine came from the cave entrance, accompanied by claws clicking on stone. The direwolf trotted up to Sansa, a bundle of cloth in her jaws. Nymeria dropped the bundle at Sansa’s feet. Her entire body ached as Sansa bent to pick up the cloth. There were smallclothes, a shift, and a faded blue gown like those worn by servants.

By the time Sansa had dressed herself, careful not to jostle her tender wrist, her senses returned. She could smell meat roasting on a crackling fire and hear people moving about outside the cave. Though none of them spoke, she could hear three, perhaps four sets of feet on the grass.

“You should take the first bit o’ meat, m’lady,” a rough voice said.

“Stop calling me that!” A voice hissed. Sansa knew that voice. All fear fled as she cried out.

“Arya!”

The meat was cold by the time Arya and Sansa finally let go of each other, their eyes red from weeping. Sansa wiped her eyes as she looked around the small fire. There was Jeyne, her long brown hair cut short and dyed blond. She cried as Sansa embraced her. Merissa sat by the fire, several cloth bags by her side. Beside her was a boy, no, a young man with jet black hair and blue eyes-

"Renly?" Sansa whispered, her brow furrowed.

"No," the young man replied, sullen. "M'name's Gendry, m'lady."

“He was a smith in King's Landings. The goldcloaks are after him, he doesn’t know why,” Arya said, grabbing a chunk of venison and tearing into it. “How’d you get out of the city?”

“I… don’t remember,” Sansa admitted, accepting a piece of venison from the handsome young man. It was odd how much he resembled Renly Baratheon Was he a bastard like Jon Snow? But Lord Renly could only be a few years his elder… 

“Bel was the one who got us out,” Merissa said quietly as Sansa began tearing at the venison, too starved to worry about her manners.

“Bel?” Gendry asked.

“She ran the brothel we were kept in,” Jeyne said, staring at the fire. “Bel was told to train us, but she had us work in the kitchens instead.”

“Arya found us and Bel promised to get us out.” Merissa’s light brown eyes were focused, and she sat straight, not crumpled into herself as Sansa remembered.

“The day before we were supposed to leave was the day they…” Jeyne swallowed.

“The day they killed father?”

Merissa nodded at Arya.

“Bel sent Shadow for you the next day, but he came back alone. She sent out Shadow again and again, and on the fifth day she said we’d waited long enough. That was the night the red wolf came.”

As Sansa ate her venison Merissa and Jeyne told the story in turns.

Softpaws had appeared just before sunrise, strolling up to Bel as she finished a song. While Bel kept the guests occupied, Jess and a skinny young woman named Nettles followed Softpaws to the injured red direwolf.

Jess and Nettles were the ones who had tended Sansa’s wrist, for they knew much of healing. Even with Bel’s best efforts, whores still received injuries from their guests, or from simple accidents. A sprained wrist was not so different from a sprained paw, or so Nettles told Merissa as she showed her how to wrap the bandages.

By sundown the city bells were ringing for the dead boy king and goldcloaks searched the streets promising gold for word of a highborn maid with red hair and blue eyes. It hadn’t taken Bel long to make the connection between the red direwolf and the missing girl.

Fortunately, Bel’s plan did not require much changing. They waited for a dark night, then Nettles dyed Jeyne’s hair and smuggled the girls out of the brothel in a cart of empty flour barrels. Meanwhile, Jess led the limping direwolf down back alleys to the riverfront and onto the waiting ferry, a flat-bottomed poleboat.

The poleboat was manned by one of Bel’s cousins, a friendly young man named Naet. Like Bel, he came from a people in Dorne called the orphans of the Greenblood. Septa Mordane hadn’t discussed Dorne much, but Arya always begged for tales of Nymeria, the warrior queen. The orphans were descended from the Rhoynar, the people Nymeria had brought in her ten thousand ships. They lived in boats on the Greenblood river, and they were skilled in singing, dancing, healing, and river craft.

Jeyne said Naet had taken them a little ways up the Blackwater, and left them on the northern shore of the river with the supplies packed by Bel and Jess. It was there that Nymeria and her pack had found them.

After that there was little to tell. The wolves led them through the woods at night, keeping them away from the kingsroad and villages. Nymeria brought them meat to cook, and nipped at Sansa’s haunches when she fell behind. They had been traveling for near a moon’s turn when Sansa collapsed.

With Nymeria’s help, Merissa and Jeyne had dragged the red direwolf into the cave. Arya and Gendry had found them while the red direwolf slept.

“And that’s all,” Merissa concluded. “We’ve coin, spare clothes, a little food. Oh, and one more thing.”

Merissa opened one of the bags beside her and dug out a small jar sealed with cork.

Sansa frowned as she ran her hand through her newly brown locks. It felt wrong to lose her Tully hair, but… her hair was the same color as Arya’s now. The same color as father's. She sighed, trying not to think about why dying her hair was needful. 

While Sansa sat by the cave entrance, exhausted, everyone else was busy. Gendry smothered the fire so the smoke wouldn’t attract attention. Arya saw to the horses she’d brought. Merissa and Jeyne gathered piles of leaves and spread them on the floor of the cave. There was a cool chill in the air. Winter is coming. Had the white ravens flown yet? Was Maester Luwin preparing Winterfell for autumn?

Nymeria, guard, Arya said as she walked up to the cave. Nymeria whuffed, amused. She’d been guarding her pack sister just fine without the fierce girl’s help. The direwolf growled to the smaller wolves. Half formed a ring around the cave entrance, then melted into the underbrush. The others slunk away into the trees, some to the stream for water, some to seek out prey.

Arya leaned against the cave wall beside Sansa. It was strange to see Arya with her head roughly shaven, stubbles of hair growing back unevenly.

“So, you were a wolf for… a month?” Arya asked. Sansa nodded wearily.

“As time went on, I could barely remember myself. Every time I tried, all I could see was father kneeling as Sir Ilyn took Ice-“

Tears dripped down Sansa’s nose, and dimly she realized Arya was crying too. She held her arms out, and Arya curled up inside them.

“He knew,” Arya sobbed into Sansa’s shoulder. “I tried to get to him, but Yoren grabbed me-“

“They’d’ve killed you, m’lady,” Gendry said. His black hair was plastered to his head, the sign of a quick dunk in the stream nearby.

“He’s right,” Merissa said softly, laying cloaks on top of the pile of leaves. “It wouldn’t have done no good.”

Jeyne said nothing. Instead, she lay on the cloaks and curled up on her side, her soft brown eyes shining as she began to weep. Arya stood up, roughly scrubbing the tears from her cheeks. With a sniffle she wrapped herself around Jeyne's back. Merissa lay down in front of Jeyne, the girls wrapping their arms around each other. Yawning, Gendry stepped toward Arya, then froze.

"Sorry, m'lady," he said, bowing awkwardly to Sansa. Gendry turned away and lay down alone by the cave entrance. The muscular boy shivered as the cold breeze danced against his tunic.

"Don't be stupid," Arya grumbled, her face buried in Jeyne's short blond hair. "It's too cold."

Sansa bit her lip as she looked at Gendry. It was cold. There was no one here to see, no septa or ladies. Besides Arya, technically. But she wouldn't tell. Wordlessly Sansa reached out a pale hand to Gendry.

And so Sansa slipped into sleep, the smith's strong arms around her stomach and her little sister cradled in her arms.

Chapter Text

Tyrion grimaced as he looked over the crown's accounts. Loan after loan, all with interest to be paid. Either Tyrion had forgotten all he learned in his study of sums, or Baelish had been up to something.

The man had been busy as a bee. Littlefinger wasn’t just a magician when it came to breeding golden dragons, but Tyrion suspected he could make girls vanish.

His conversation with Bel a few weeks past had been quite informative. With gold and reassurance that Littlefinger was no longer in the crown’s good graces, the Dornish singer had sung like a bird.

And oh, what an interesting song it was. Just after Ned Stark arrived in King’s Landing, Baelish had brought him to Bel’s brothel to speak with a woman. A lady, Bel said, with long red hair and a Riverlands accent.

It didn’t matter whether it was Catelyn Stark or Lysa Arryn. What did matter was that Bel said she remembered the lady because Baelish preferred young redheaded whores. Perhaps he meant to return Sansa Stark to one of the grieving widows to win her gratitude and her hand. Or perhaps he meant to keep Sansa for himself, hidden away forever. Either way, Petyr Baelish had betrayed the crown for his own ends.

It was a pity he couldn't stick Baelish's smug face on a spike. Littlefinger was already dead, knifed in his own brothel. And Tyrion had so wanted to see Baelish's face when Tyrion finally convinced Cersei that Littlefinger had outlasted his usefulness.

With a sigh Tyrion pushed his plate away, the roasted beef long cold. When word arrived of Littlefinger's demise, Tyrion had made straight for the ledgers, sending Bronn to make inquiries at Baelish's brothel. That had been hours ago, and Tyrion set the papers aside, resting his aching head. He didn’t dare drink more wine, not with his belly only half full. Unlike Cersei, he had too much work to indulge in drunkenness.

Tyrion had just opened the ledgers for another look, his elbow throbbing, when a guardsman stuck his head in to announce Bronn. Finally. Bronn entered the room with an insolent smile and a ginger kitten. No sooner had Bronn dropped the kitten to the ground then it bounded for Tyrion, hopping up on his lap.

"Bold little beggar, isn't he," Bronn said as the kitten made itself at home, curling up on Tyrion's lap and purring loudly. To Tyrion's annoyance, the sellsword plucked a roll from Tyrion's plate and popped it in his mouth.

"Not near as bold as you. If you'd like to keep yourself in coin, you'll swallow that lump of bread and report what's happened to Baelish.” Tyrion's appreciation of Bronn's insolence only went so far. Bronn swallowed, a wolfish smile on his face.

"Half the street was still in an uproar when I got there. You'd think that Baelish was the old mad king, the way the whores smiled to be rid of him," Bronn said. "Bel gave me a kiss as soon as she saw my face, and two girls offered themselves for free."

Tyrion wondered if Bronn had taken them up on the offer. His thin smile looked just a little wider than usual. Tyrion decided he didn't want to know.

"Seems Baelish sold your northern girl's maidenhead to a sellsword named Loram. This morning, Loram come back from the Riverlands to find the girl gone." Bronn chuckled.

"Littlefinger was at the brothel when the man came in roaring for his girl. Baelish offered to return the sellsword's money and give him a better girl for free, but Loram wasn’t havin’ it. He knifed Baelish in front of a dozen whores before a goldcloak heard the commotion and slew him."

"Did you look into this Loram?" Tyrion asked. Bronn nodded curtly.

"He came back from the Riverlands with some other sellswords. They said he liked 'em young, and he’d been to Bel’s place now and then. Though they didn't know anything about him purchasing a girl's maidenhead."

Most men with enough gold to buy a young girl's maidenhead would boast of it. Although... one couldn't steal what one didn't know about. Tyrion rubbed his chin, wincing as his elbow throbbed. The Grand Maester had offered him something for the pain, but he couldn’t trust Pycelle, not until he knew if he was Cersei’s pet. Perhaps Loram feared one of his fellows would outbid him on the girl. Yet something seemed wrong.

Tyrion stared at Bronn a moment, absentmindedly petting the purring kitten. Bronn claimed he could smell a lie, and Tyrion had no reason to doubt him thus far.

"Did anything Bel said strike you false?"

Bronn shrugged.

"Not especially. Although..." Bronn smiled his dark smile. "If I were a betting man, I'd wager Bel knifed Loram herself. Dornish women know how to use a blade, but the ones who come north don't brag of it."

Tyrion laughed. He could see Bel knifing a man, though not for Baelish's sake. And for it to happen so soon after their little chat...

"You know, Bronn, I didn't think Bel liked our Master of Coin," Tyrion said, shaking his head mournfully. "Why would she slay the man who rid her of him?"

"Mayhaps Baelish wasn't the one who sold Loram the girl."

If ever Tyrion was able to patronize a brothel again without Lord Tywin hanging them all, he would have to give Bel his patronage. Selling a girl and letting Baelish take the blame... Tyrion appreciated such cleverness. At least when it was directed at others.

Though it was a pity some sellsword had gotten the pleasure of killing Littlefinger. Such a fate for a small council member was absurd. If a sellsword had the stupidity to knife Tyrion, Lord Tywin would see the entire brothel dead, along with every member of the sellsword’s family. Lord Tywin might not love his dwarf son, but soon as Catelyn Stark laid a hand on him the Riverlands and their rich harvest were doomed. Though that may cause us problems if there’s a long winter. But Baelish was not a Lannister. Littlefinger had no family, no friends, no bannermen, just gold, wits, and a silver tongue. And at last all three had failed. 

"Bel asked me to send you her thanks, and bid me give you the kitten in the hopes that you might make a gift of him to the little king. Or keep him yourself, since the kitten liked you so much." Bronn rolled his eyes. “She also sent this, for your elbow.”

The sellsword set a clay jar on the desk. Tyrion opened the cork to find a thick green salve. He carefully dipped a finger in it. Within minutes the finger was slightly numb. Tyrion smiled. The kitten could roam the castle for all he cared, but the salve was a worthy gift.

“Bronn, how would you like to become a regular patron at Bel’s?”

Ser Cleos the clod, Tyrion thought as he watched the exhausted knight sip at a glass of wine, the plate before him already empty. Half a Frey, half a Lannister, and completely brainless. No wonder Tywin had been furious when his father Tytos Lannister let Emmon Frey take Aunt Genna to wife. Genna was a clever woman, but her son Cleos had none of her wit. He lacked even the low cunning of his grandsire, old Lord Walder Frey.

Given his druthers, Tyrion would rather have that bedamned Stark boy as a cousin. At least the boy was brave. Few boys of fifteen had the stones to lead men like Greatjon Umber into battle. Meanwhile, Ser Cleos, a man at least ten years his senior, could not deliver Robb Stark's impudent terms without trembling like a leaf.

“I was to take these terms to the Queen Regent,” Cleos said feebly as Tyrion examined the parchment.

“I’ll get them to her, never fear,” Tyrion said. “In the meantime, you should rest.”

Tyrion mulled over the terms as he rode back to the Red Keep. Cersei would not be happy with the last term. Her hatred of the Stark girl was growing ever fiercer since learning that Baelish had likely helped her escape.

Despite Trant’s ridiculous story and the mysterious gold found in his chambers, Cersei was now convinced that it was the girl who had shoved Joffrey. When Tyrion had indulged her by asking why she suspected the child, she’d slammed down her goblet of wine and stalked off muttering something about beautiful young queens. Still, her love for Jaime might be enough to stay her hand if the unfortunate Stark girl should reappear.

Perhaps Joffrey’s stupidity might be of some use. Eddard Stark’s bones would be a good way to begin negotiations. Robb Stark wanted to make threats? Then they’d best remind the Young Wolf what had happened to the previous Lord of Winterfell. Tyrion chuckled to himself. An angry boy was more apt to make mistakes. But how to best rub salt in the wound… he’d have to ponder that.

“No,” Cersei snarled as Tyrion stood patiently in her solar, his legs aching from a day of riding.

“Sister, the sooner I send Ser Cleos back to Riverrun, the sooner we can begin to drag out negotiations.”

They needed as much time as possible. His chain was only just begun. Ser Jacelyn Bywater struggled to bring order to Slynt’s incompetent goldcloaks. And even if the alchemists could make all the wildfire Cersei had ordered, as they had sworn to him this morning, it still wouldn’t be enough to defend the city from Stark, Renly, and Stannis. Enough to blow the city and all its inhabitants to bits, perhaps, but Tyrion enjoyed living.

Alas, Cersei was sober and angry, and she saw no point in sending Ser Cleos back and forth to buy them time. Their hapless cousin had waited for nearly a moon’s turn already, far longer than Tyrion wanted. 

The day had begun with such promise, too. He’d tumbled Shae last night, then spent the morning with the alchemists and their “substance.” Tyrion had arrived in Cersei’s solar feeling pleased with his day’s work, only to be immediately ambushed with a slap and accusations of selling Myrcella to Dorne. Pycelle be damned. I’d hoped Littlefinger was her pet on the council. He might have been able to salvage that discussion, if Cersei hadn’t glimpsed Robb Stark’s most recent letter in his hand.

It was amusing how furious Cersei grew over accusations that were entirely true. Tyrion cared not. He’d known Tommen’s parentage a long while, and if Cersei wanted to pretend he didn’t, that was her business.

“If you send the boy his father’s bones and sword, what’s to prevent him from taking Jaime’s head?” Cersei snapped, pacing like a lion in a cage, her green eyes blazing. Tyrion frowned.

“The bones and the sword are a threat. Or do you think the boy has forgotten that the last blood on the blade was his father’s?”

Besides, if Robb Stark was going to execute Jaime, he’d have done it already. It was honestly a pleasant surprise that one of those bloodthirsty northern lords hadn’t overcome the boy king and slaughtered Jaime personally. Ned Stark might have been a fool, but the northmen loved him dearly.

No, Tyrion would take no chances with his brother’s dubious safety, not when they didn’t have a single Stark as a hostage. By the time Ser Cleos returned with new terms, Tyrion would be ready to send him back with some brilliant escape plan. Not that he’d tell Cleos about it.

“And while Jaime sits in a dungeon, Stark might already have his little bitch of a sister, no thanks to you.”

Tyrion thought that rather unfair. Sansa Stark was long gone by the time he arrived in King’s Landing. Varys still had no word of a highborn red haired maid, and no one at Bel’s brothel knew anything else except that Baelish had been to visit the night the steward’s girl disappeared.

“I am doing my best to find her. I remind you, I was not here when she escaped. Even if Robb Stark does find her first, our father still has several of his lords.”

Tyrion sighed.

“I’d offer you Littlefinger’s head on a spike for losing the other girl, but alas, dear sister, my arms are too short for digging up graves.”

And more importantly, Tyrion still hadn’t found someone to replace him. Now that might improve Cersei’s mood. Ser Cleos could wait a while. For now, he’d best sweeten his tongue.

“Queen Regent,” Tyrion said, bowing low. “I’ve other business to put before you. We desperately need a new master of coin, and as your Hand I beg to know who you deem a worthy candidate to serve our good King Tommen.”

Perhaps she’d surprise him by choosing someone competent. Ser Addam Marbrand had arrived just a few days past, and he was now Tommen’s favorite companion. Human companion, anyway. The gaggle of kittens seemed to grow ever larger. Tyrion had even spotted the ginger kitten once or twice, curled up in the yard with Ser Whiskers as Ser Addam began to teach Tommen the simplest rudiments of the sword.

Cersei stared at Tyrion, her green eyes thoughtful.

“I shall have to think on the matter,” Cersei said, looking pleased. “But as for Myrcella—”

“—betrothals can be broken,” Tyrion assured her. “Prince Doran may hate us, but he hates us in peace. He’ll not kill a helpless child.”

Cersei’s eyes narrowed as she considered Tyrion’s words. She should thank the gods that Oberyn Martell isn’t the ruling prince of Dorne. The Red Viper might decide to thank Tywin Lannister for Elia Martell’s fate by making a gift of Myrcella’s corpse in a red cloak. Not that the gods had anything to do with it. No, it came down to luck. Prince Doran quietly brooded on his wrongs while Prince Oberyn, lacking the power to make the Lannisters pay their debt in blood, spent his time fathering bastards.

“And when Prince Doran comes to take the council seat, we’ll have him as a hostage to guarantee Myrcella’s safety,” Cersei said slowly. Tyrion smiled.

“See, sweet sister? I think of everything.”

Chapter Text

The harsh bronze crown seemed to weigh heavily on her son’s head as Robb accepted a parchment from his squire, Olyvar Frey. He read it, frowning, then sighed heavily and rested his head in one hand. Olyvar watched Robb nervously, his brown eyes concerned. It was as though Robb were a beloved older brother, not his king and two years the younger.

After a moment Robb seemed to catch himself and sat up straight, his face stern and composed. Like Ned putting on his lord’s face, Robb has put on the face of a king. And she could not comfort him lest she shame him. Who will look after him when I am gone? Robb had insisted that she serve as his envoy to Renly Baratheon, and she must depart within the fortnight.

“Is it word of the Greyjoy lad?” Ser Perwyn Frey asked. Theon had been gone near two weeks. Robb had sent him to Pyke despite her protests, and now Catelyn could only pray that her doubts were wrong.

“No. It is from Lord Tywin at Harrenhal,” Robb said, frowning. “He offers to exchange Lords Bolton, Manderly, and Cerwyn for Ser Kevan Lannister, his son Willem, and Ser Harys Swyft. And Lord Cerwyn is badly wounded.”

Bolton and Manderly were unwed, but Catelyn's heart wept for Lady Edythe. A kind woman in her early fifties, Edythe Cerwyn had been born an Umber, but she had the temperament of a warm hearth fire, not her cousin Greatjon's wild blaze.  Lady Cerwyn often came to Winterfell with her husband, and she'd sat many a time with Catelyn, stitching and talking of their children. Catelyn prayed Edythe would not lose her husband too.

“Did Tywin’s men intercept Ser Cleos?” Edmure asked, puzzled. Robb shook his head.

“I think not. There is no mention of our terms.”

“If Tywin Lannister knew we openly declared his precious children guilty of incest, he would not be offering to exchange prisoners,” Catelyn said flatly. “Once he learns he shall be even more dangerous.”

Thank the gods the Lannisters didn’t have her girls. Arya could never hold her tongue, and Tywin or Cersei would have it cut out and send her to the silent sisters without a moment’s hesitation.

“We’ve heard the Rains of Castamere, Cat, we know,” Edmure replied irritably, rolling his eyes.

Catelyn felt her cheeks redden with fury. How dare he ignore the danger? Though it was near forty years ago, long before he was born. Folk still talked of it when I was a girl, for it had happened just a few years past... by the time he was a child it was a distant nightmare. But no, he'd been ten when Elia and her children died. There was no excuse for his folly.

“Have a care how you speak to His Grace’s mother,” Greatjon Umber rumbled from down the table.

Catelyn still didn’t quite know what to make of the enormous man. Half the time he seemed amused by her presence in Robb's councils, but now and then the Greatjon would support her, as he had over threatening to slay Jaime Lannister if any harm came to the "clever little she-wolf."

"I like it not," Ser Perwyn said hesitantly. He was a thoughtful young man, and Olyvar's elder brother. "I've never heard of Tywin Lannister exchanging hostages." 

"Nor I," Maege Mormont said grimly.

"It's a fair trade," Robb said, frowning. "Three lords for his brother and a boy. And yet..." Grey Wind whined, and Robb scratched his ears, thinking.

Catelyn’s body ached from a long day sitting a horse. On and on they went, past burned fields, past woods and streams and stones. Ser Perwyn Frey rode to her left, quietly singing “Flowers of Spring” in a light baritone. If a Frey had to ride beside her, Ser Perwyn was not so bad. He did not try to force her to make conversation, nor did he blather on. No, Ser Perwyn either rode in silence or he sang.

“I’m not as good as Alesander,” Perwyn had said sheepishly a few days past, pushing his brown hair out of his face. “But it helps pass the time on the road.” Alesander was a cousin or a nephew or something of the sort, and a fine singer according to Perwyn.

Down through the fields the rivers sing

Rippling and pouring the water they bring

And up sprout the flowers all in a ring

The flowers, the flowers, the flowers of spring.

But it was autumn now, and there were no flowers here. The wheat field before them was scorched, grey ash and blackened stems all that remained.

Despite Robett Glover’s stalemate at the Green Fork and Robb’s victory at Riverrun, flame and slaughter still consumed the Riverlands. Some foreign sellsword and his company were maiming smallfolk, lopping off hands and feet at whim. Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch burned the crops, killed the livestock, and raped and murdered the smallfolk. When Tywin ordered the murder of Elia of Dorne and her babes, did he also order that fire and blood were now the Lannister words? But no, fire was not his bride. Tywin had shown that as a mere youth when he drowned the Reynes and all their people. His bride was fear, fear and blood and bones. 

Edmure had fought with Robb over whether to let the river lords depart to defend the smallfolk. Thank the gods they'd been in Lord Tully's solar, not among Robb's bannermen. Edmure was determined as a dog with a bone. Catelyn had backed Robb, reminding Edmure of the size of the Lannister armies, of how decisive victory was the quickest way to restore the safety of the riverlands.

But Edmure’s soft heart ruled him. "I have a duty to defend my people," he said stubbornly, “the harvest is burning and winter is coming.”

It was a neat trap, Catelyn had to admit. The white raven was come from the Citadel, and in one strike Edmure turned the Stark and Tully words against them. Near eighteen thousand men had gone after Robb yielded, Vance and Piper, Bracken and Blackwood, Mallister and Darry, sweeping east to chase off the raiders. At least Robett Glover’s host had rejoined Robb at Riverrun before she left.

Catelyn shivered. She didn’t want to think of that frightening evening. She must think of her duty as Robb’s envoy to Renly Baratheon. The man was a fool to claim the crown that belonged to his elder brother Stannis, but Renly might still have enough sense to ally with them against the Lannisters. Yet how was she to convince him?

Ser Perwyn made it through “The Fair Maids of Summer” and had just begun “Fallen Leaves” when they stopped to make camp for the night. Catelyn ate her supper without tasting it, then retired to her lonely tent.

Ned’s smile was soft and sweet as he ran a hand through Catelyn’s hair, his grey eyes shining. He stroked the long auburn strands, running them through his fingers, gently twisting a lock until it curled.

“Wake up, Cat,” Ned murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, to her cheek, to her nose. She groaned and sighed, and he chuckled.

“It’s snowing!”

A stampede of little feet pitter pattered into the room. With a thump Arya flung herself onto her parents, landing half on Catelyn’s legs, half on Ned’s stomach. Ned wheezed as Arya clambered over him, accidentally kicking him in the gut.

“Arya, you’re supposed to knock,” Sansa scolded from the doorway with all the dignity a four year old could muster.

Despite the attempt at courtesy Sansa was grinning, dimples in her rosy cheeks. She wore a cloak and a warm wool gown, and there were snowflakes in her hair. Catelyn beckoned to her, and Sansa ran to the bed, climbing up carefully and pressing a kiss to Catelyn’s swollen belly. 

“Where are your brothers?” Ned asked, smiling as Arya burrowed between her parents. The snowflakes in her dark hair were half melted already, and her little hands and feet were cold.

“In th’ yard,” Arya said, her high voice still marred by a toddler’s lisp. “Jon made a thnow fort, he’th lord of the Wall and Robb is th’ lord of Winterfell.”

“The stableboys are playing the Others,” Sansa informed her mother breathlessly.

“And who are you?” Catelyn asked.

“A wildling!” Arya interrupted, half shouting in her excitement. “Old Nan sayth wildling women fight!” Ned laughed.

“And I’m Good Queen Alysanne coming to see the Wall,” Sansa said, wrapping an arm around Catelyn’s belly. The babe kicked, greeting his sister. Sansa’s eyes grew big as saucers.

“It’s kicking!” Sansa squealed.

“Let me feel!” Arya put her hand on Catelyn’s belly, and the babe kicked again.

Dimly Catelyn heard yelling and shrieking and whooping outside. Arya was off like a flash, Sansa close behind, their laughter echoing through the halls. Catelyn rested a hand on her belly, feeling the babe kick. With a fond groan Ned pulled Catelyn against his side, his hand splaying over hers.

“I think this one will be a knight,” Catelyn said, the babe kicking so fierce and sharp that her hand throbbed.

It was the throbbing pain in her hands that woke her. It would rain today, she could feel it in the swollen red scars on her hands. I shall never write fine letters nor embroider again, but Bran’s life is worth the price, even if he can’t be a knight. A small, angry part of Catelyn wished that she'd taken the dagger and cut the catspaw's throat. But she'd been so weak, starved and tired from keeping her vigil. Without the direwolf... but no. Bran still lived, safe at Winterfell with Rickon.

Her heart clenched with sorrow at the memory of Sansa and Arya’s laughter. Where were they? Were they alone and frightened? Had they been captured by outlaws or Lannisters? Firmly Catelyn pushed those thoughts away. She could do nothing for her lost daughters. It was Robb who needed her now.

They had barely finished breaking their fast when the rain arrived, sweeping across the fields like a silver curtain. At least it will make it harder for the fields to catch fire. On and on and on they rode, the horses carefully picking their way through the mud as the rain seeped into their riders’ clothes.

I want to go home , Catelyn thought. She wanted to hold her babes in her arms, to play with them as she had when they were small, Ned at her side. Ned loved being a father, loved tickling the babes until they smiled and burbled. Did Tywin Lannister ever dandle his children on his knee to make them laugh? Did he sing them to sleep or kiss them when they fell? Ned's singing voice was rough and uneven, but he'd sung to them anyway, rocking them in his arms before laying them in their beds.

But there was no song now to rouse Catelyn from her melancholy. Ser Perwyn was a groggy man in the morning, and the rain seemed to dishearten him further. Yet she must have some distraction. Already her thoughts drifted to the last night before the walls of Riverrun. No, she mustn’t think of Robb, not now. Sansa, she would think of Sansa, whose gentle heart always yearned for songs.

“Ser Perwyn, do you know the words to ‘Alysanne?’”

“Yes, my lady. Shall I sing it for you?”

Catelyn nodded, and Ser Perwyn cleared his throat and began to sing.

Oh Alysanne, oh Alysanne

Our kind and noble queen

Oh Alysanne, oh Alysanne

When shall your like again be seen?

They camped that night by a small stream, its banks screened by willows. Catelyn’s tent was drafty in the cool night breeze, and she clutched the blankets in her stiff hands.

In the distance, a wolf howled alone, her voice sweet yet sorrowful. Catelyn shivered, and against her will she remembered.

It had been a clear day, the sun dipping to kiss the horizon as Robett Glover's men returned to Riverrun. Catelyn had watched from the battlements, Robb at her side with Grey Wind lying between them. Most of the northern lords and remaining river lords were on the battlements as well, to watch the banners stream in and gauge the state of Glover's host. There was the Karstark sunburst- Catelyn hoped the safe return of his eldest son would lift Rickard Karstark's low spirits. There was the Glover fist and the Cerwyn axe, the flayed man of Bolton and the towers of the Freys.

Suddenly a howl split the dusk. It was different than the howl she'd heard in the Whispering Wood, fierce in a way that reminded her of Arya. Grey Wind sat up on his smoky haunches, ears twitching, golden eyes staring. The howl came again, echoing from across the river. Grey Wind bolted for the steps, dashing across half the keep in the blink of an eye. Robb followed at the direwolf's heels, and Catelyn and the lords followed Robb. The howls were coming closer.

Grey Wind darted across the drawbridge, down the center of Glover's host. The host split in two as men and horses backed away, creating a grassy path for the direwolf.

Suddenly Grey Wind halted, throwing his head back in a great howl. The sound rang across the silent host, and there was something strange in it, some ancient music. Catelyn and the other lords stopped before the drawbridge, watching and waiting as their King ran to his direwolf's side.

No sooner had Robb reached Grey Wind than a grey blur sped through the middle of the host, coming straight at king and direwolf. Catelyn's heart leapt into her throat as the strange direwolf tackled Grey Wind. The two wolves wrestled, snarling and snapping at each other. The second wolf was larger than Grey Wind, with fur the grey of storm clouds. Robb laughed and laughed as the men stared with wide eyes. The strange wolf pinned Grey Wind, then leapt at Robb. A few men cried out, and the Greatjon drew his sword, but there was no need. The wolf put its paws on Robb's chest and licked his face. It was then that she realized why Robb laughed.

"Nymeria," Catelyn breathed. The lords looked to her, but it was the Greatjon who spoke.

"What?"

"Arya's wolf," Catelyn explained, watching as the she-wolf sat back on her haunches, letting Robb scratch behind her ear.

"She was set loose near Darry, when Ned came south." How did she know to come to Riverrun? Was Arya dead, or hidden somewhere close?

Robb murmured something and Grey Wind sat. The direwolf had grown; when he sat on his haunches, his shoulders were higher than Robb's elbow. But as Grey Wind sat, Nymeria rose. Her dark golden eyes met Catelyn's for a moment, then the direwolf turned to face the host.

The direwolf surveyed the host for a long moment as the northmen stared at the she-wolf. A few muttered, their eyes wide with fear, but most were as silent as the heart trees they worshipped. Catelyn had never followed the old gods of forest, stream, and stone, yet something in her heart sang as Nymeria threw her head back and howled.

It was a terrible howl, a howl that reminded her of rocks breaking and thunder clapping, and yet in the howl she heard the whistling of winds and the rippling of rivers.

And a chorus of howls replied, so many Catelyn could not count them. Wolves ran up the sward of grass in the center of the host. They moved together down the path, staying clear of the men, their eyes fixed on Robb. Some men reached for their spears, but they froze when Robb glanced their way. When the first wolves reached Nymeria they halted, the rest of the wolves forming a column behind them.

"Gods be good," Greatjon Umber whispered in his bass rumble.

There had to be near a hundred wolves, their coats grey and brown and black, their fangs gleaming white. Nymeria gave a little yip, and all the wolves sat on their haunches, their proud eyes glowing in the setting sun. Nymeria circled Robb once, twice, three times, then returned to her place at the head of the wolf pack, her muzzle facing Robb. Catelyn's heart pounded in her chest, her nerves taut as a bowstring.

Nymeria bowed her head before Robb. One by one, the wolf pack followed, inclining their shaggy heads as the host around them gasped. They are paying homage. And they were not alone. The host fell to their knees, some dropping immediately, some slowly as they stared in wonder. Behind her Catelyn heard the clink of steel as the lords knelt, and at last Catelyn sank to her knees.

No man present would forget this night. There would be songs and stories about King Robb, about Grey Wind and Nymeria and her pack. She should be proud, proud and grateful and amazed.

Yet as she knelt, trembling and afraid, Catelyn wished the gods had sent the wolves to her daughters instead.

Chapter Text

Sansa awoke to the clacking of sticks.

Since Sansa resumed her own shape, Arya and Gendry had practiced with their swords every morning. At first the ringing of steel had made her sweat and shiver, remembering that terrible day in the godswood. Thankfully they had obliged when Sansa asked them to practice with sticks so as not to damage their blades.

Sansa winced as she stretched her tired arms. The old gods were generous, but their gift came with a cost. She was always the last to rise, and she woke exhausted. It had taken days for Sansa to regain her strength, and only now was the ache in her bones beginning to fade. She didn’t intend to change her shape for a long while, not unless it was absolutely necessary. Sansa must not become a burden.

Family, duty, honor, her lady mother always said, and she'd neglected those words while she lay depressed and dreaming. As the elder sister she must watch over Arya with wisdom, as Arya watched over her with steel. As their lady she owed a duty to Jeyne and Merissa, who'd suffered for serving the Starks. And honor required that Sansa be fair to Gendry, who treated Arya with courtesy even when she was hitting him with a stick. A true lady must take the household in her charge, and that was what Sansa must do.

The first task for a lady was to familiarize herself with the castle. What was its size and disposition? Was it an immense fortress like Winterfell or Storm's End? A beautiful array of towers like Highgarden or the Eyrie? Where was it? 

Sansa examined the cave which gave them shelter from wind and rain. The open mouth yawned into the side of a small rocky hill. The entrance was wide enough for the horses to avoid the rain, and once inside there was a chamber with a floor of dirt. Paintings of red pigment adorned the limestone walls, and a passage wound deeper into the hill.

None of them knew quite where they were. Jeyne and Merissa knew they were in the Riverlands north of King's Landing, but how far north they could not say. They had crossed no rivers since leaving the city, nor seen the Kingsroad, and the girls had walked slowly due to the red direwolf's limp. Arya and Gendry had left the Kingsroad and followed Nymeria west for a day before finding the others, but they knew nothing more.

The second task for a lady was to familiarize herself with her people. What lords and ladies occupied the keep? What knights? Who were the principal servants, the steward, the head cook, the captain of the guard and the master of horse? How many servants were in the pantry, the buttery, the laundry, the scullery?

Even a small keep had dozens of servants, and a true lady must know all their names and duties. Arya knew more of the folk at Winterfell, because she was always underfoot, Sansa thought, guilt gnawing at her tummy. Our steward was Vayon Poole, our head cook was Gage, our captain of the guard was Jory, our master of horse was Hullen. Four they were, and three came south, and three would never return to Winterfell.

Now she had but five people and a dozen wolves in her household. Sansa served as lady and steward and oversaw their pack. Merissa served as cook, for she was the only one who could roast meat over the fire without burning it. She was the one who knew what roots and berries and shrubs were safe to eat. Merissa even knew how to cook down the fat to make tallow, and how to make lights from the tallow and rushes. Arya served as captain of the guard, Gendry served as master of horse, and Jeyne helped everyone as needed.

Nymeria and her pack were under Arya’s command. Arya spent half her days with Nymeria, stroking her fur, hunting with her, snuggling her before sleep. During the day the rest of the pack slept or hunted for meat. At night they guarded the cave, with Nymeria curled up inside the entrance as a last defense. And yet... 

Arya wouldn’t be happy when Sansa told her she wanted to send the wolves away.

“I still don’t understand why we couldn’t keep Nymeria with us,” Arya grumbled as Sansa carefully trimmed her hair with a knife.

The black brother might have been in a hurry when he shaved Arya’s head, but surely he could have done a better job. The random tufts of longer hair had been irritating Sansa for days, and finally Arya agreed to let her even everything out before they moved on from the cave.

“Over a moon’s turn they traveled with wolves, and Merissa still quivers when they’re about,” Sansa said quietly so the girls washing in the stream nearby could not hear. “Jeyne hides it better, but...”

It had taken days to convince Arya to send the wolf pack to Riverrun. Almost the minute the wolves departed, Jeyne and Merissa breathed more easily. Sansa couldn’t believe they’d come so far with the pack. Jeyne had known Nymeria at Winterfell, and sometimes stroked the direwolf’s snout while sitting by the fire. But Merissa had never met Nymeria before she appeared near the Blackwater, a dozen wolves at her heels. Yet they were not afraid of the red direwolf. Was it because they sensed it was a girl in wolfskin?

“Robb has men and lords to protect him,” Arya said, scrubbing at her head with her fingers. Fine dark hairs floated down onto the boulder which served Arya as a seat. “We’ve just got me and Gendry.”

“I know,” Sansa replied. “And you’re teaching him well.”

Gendry paid close attention as Arya patiently showed him what she had learned in her water dancing lessons. The smith's apprentice got whacked with a stick frequently as he tried to practice dodging. Gendry was slow and clumsy compared to Arya, and he was particularly struggling with Arya’s latest idea to improve his speed.

With no cats to chase, Arya had decided Gendry should try to catch squirrels instead. Sansa might not be able to risk transforming, but that didn't mean she couldn't listen. Since Sansa awoke she could hear the voices of birds and beasts more clearly, and the squirrels were not pleased with this peculiar exercise. A few found it very frightening, until Sansa explained the purpose of the game. Then the squirrels delighted in taunting Gendry, flicking their tails and chittering insults.

But Sansa heard more than just insults, and what she heard worried her. The squirrels were gathering every nut they could find and hiding them away. The birds were preparing to fly south. The rabbits were digging their burrows deeper and deeper in search of warm earth. The roe deer were stuffing themselves with grass and berries, their coats shedding in tufts as thicker fur grew in. Winter is coming, and we must reach safety before it arrives.

“Are we leaving today?” Arya asked, stretching as she stood.

Sansa bit her lip. She had to choose their path; she should have chosen it already. In truth she'd sent the wolves away partially to see if there was a safe path to Riverrun. With only two horses for five people, the wolves traveled much faster than they could.

The wolves had left ten days past, their snouts pointed north. On the second day they had crossed a river and lapped at the waters of an immense lake, one that sang with power and smelt of weirwoods. From the lake the she-wolf led her pack west, calling new pack brothers and sisters as they sped onward. Sansa could still dimly feel Nymeria as the direwolf drew ever closer to her pack brother. Tomorrow, tomorrow Nymeria would reach them. 

Find Grey Wind, Arya had reluctantly told the she-wolf. Bring him as many wolves as you can. Tell them that Robb will help them take revenge on the ones burning the fields and scaring away game. Nymeria had sneezed at her, amused. Her girl might be strong, but Nymeria did not need advice from people.

Sansa disagreed. You know wolves, but Arya and I know two-leggers, Sansa told her. When you find Robb, go to him alone before you call the pack. You must amaze them, they must see that you are sent by the old gods. A direwolf could not understand the power of tales and songs, but Sansa did. Robb was just a few years older than Sansa; how could he lead a host in father’s stead? But wolves would help, they would show all the lords that Robb was fierce and mighty. Direwolves could not bend the knee, nor curtsy, so Nymeria and her pack must bow instead, even if Arya couldn't stop laughing as Sansa coaxed the reluctant wolves to try it. No one would laugh at Riverrun, Sansa was certain.

"Hey!" Arya waved in Sansa's face, making her jump. While Sansa was lost in her thoughts, both Jeyne and Merissa had returned from the stream, their hair damp and their eyes curious.

"Are we leaving today? I saw you and Meri checking over the packs this morning."

"Meri thought we best keep our things packed away, should we need to flee suddenly. It was a sensible idea.” Sansa said, turning to Merissa, whose cheeks flushed pink.

"Then when are we going?" Arya demanded, her face screwed up in a scowl.

“I want to go home too.” Sansa felt hurt. All Arya could think of was home, not the dangers between here and Winterfell, or even Riverrun. “Do you remember what happened to Sherrer?”

“I’m not stupid,” Arya snapped.

“Arya, they broke the king’s peace.” Arya wrinkled her nose, unimpressed. Did Arya never listen to their history lessons? Sansa tried again.

“The king's peace is one of the highest laws of the realm. Any lord who breaks it can be attainted and executed for treason.”

Now Arya was beginning to think, her forehead creased in concentration.

“Isn’t that why father sent Lord Beric out? I knew that already.”

Sansa stamped her foot in frustration.

“Tywin Lannister sent the Mountain, even though everyone would recognize him and know Lord Tywin sent him. They attacked Lord Beric even though he rode under the king’s banners!”

“You can’t attack king’s men,” Jeyne added quietly. “It’s treason.”

How foolish Sansa had been to think Lord Beric would defeat the Mountain and send the Lannisters running. The Lannisters had tried to kill Bran, cuckolded a king, committed incest, sent away Ser Barristan… they did not care about the laws of the realm. Lord Beric had followed an order from the Hand of the King, speaking with the king’s voice, and for obeying his oaths they branded him an outlaw.

But Gregor Clegane, a burning, murdering raper? A man who ignored every vow a knight swore?  He was their trusted servant. The Rains of Castamere bragged of Lannister vengeance, but there were no songs boasting of the Mountain’s crimes. Singers had no pretty words about Princess Elia's screams or Merissa's trembling and nightmares. And Littlefinger was going to sell Merissa and Jeyne to be raped over and over and over...

Sansa's skin pebbled with goosebumps and she could taste bile in her throat. Arya and Jeyne dodged out of the way as Sansa vomited onto the grass, her stomach heaving until nothing remained. With shaky legs Sansa made her way to the stream, washing the burning acid from her mouth. Arya watched, her dark grey eyes puzzled, her nose wrinkled with disgust.

“I can’t forget that awful dream. Princess Elia…” Sansa fought back tears. “I can’t let that happen. I won’t.”

Arya's face fell. She gnawed at her lip, then awkwardly patted Sansa's back. The grass rustled as familiar steps approached.

"I won’t let it happen, m’lady,” Gendry said, his gruff voice low. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Merissa said quietly.

Sansa looked at Merissa. Her honey brown eyes were steady, but she could hear her heartbeat flutter. Suddenly Sansa felt ashamed. Merissa had suffered enough, and it was Sansa’s duty to get her someplace safe.

“We leave on the morrow.”

It was their last night in the cave, and Sansa could not sleep. Slowly she extricated herself from Arya’s hold, careful not to nudge Meri as she got to her feet.

Sansa patted her skirts, feeling the small lump in her pocket. She'd found her bag of weirwood seeds at the bottom of the smallest pack. How it got there Sansa did not know, but she knew what she must do as she slipped out into the moonlight.

When her task was done and her arm was bandaged with a strip of cloth, Sansa crept back inside the cave, a rushlight in her hand, power still humming in her veins.

The rushlight flickered over her four charges. Jeyne and Merissa faced each other, wrapped in an embrace. At Merissa’s back there was a gap where Sansa had lain between the milkmaid and Arya. Arya was mumbling in her sleep, her eyes shut tight, Gendry curled against her back. Though they slept in different arrangements every night, Gendry and Arya always seemed to end up near each other. Sansa supposed she should be concerned, but it was Arya. If Gendry even thought of trying something unchivalrous, she’d stab him like she'd stabbed the stableboy.

Sansa's tummy flipped. Arya killed him. Did Arya feel sorry for the stableboy? Sansa dared not ask. Yet Arya had to kill him to escape. Did he have a mother who cried for him? It was wrong, all wrong, ladies were not supposed to kill people, let alone ladies of nine. What about ladies of twelve? The Hound’s mocking voice asked. I saw you, little bird. Kingslayer.

Sansa exhaled, trying to calm her racing heart. Perhaps the songs of the night would soothe her. Slowly Sansa lowered her walls, letting the sounds rush over her. The stream's voice was sweet as she burbled over her bed of rocks and sand. Leaves whispered in the trees as the wind caressed them. For a moment she floated in the music, then another voice called her. Sansa frowned. The voice was deep and gentle, but it was coming from inside the cave.

Shadows danced on the walls as Sansa followed the voice, her rushlight held high. As Sansa descended into the passageway the paintings shifted, handprints yielding to images of leaping deer and aurochs raising and lowering their horns. Further she went, and the ancient voice welcomed her. It spoke no words, yet Sansa knew it sang of sorrow, of loneliness, of loss.

Suddenly the passage opened into a chamber. Her rushlight only spread a few feet in front of her, so Sansa kept close to the walls. Now the paintings showed little children dancing beneath the trees. Men in shaggy furs came, swords in their hands, and the children fled before them. Then the children and men vanished, replaced by a plain of grass waving in the wind. Something hung in the sky above it- was it the moon? A comet? Her skin prickled as she looked at the blot against the sky. Whatever it was, in the next painting it was gone. Dark clouds and falling snow loomed over the plains. The grass disappeared, the snow piled higher and higher and higher- and then the paintings stopped, and the stone voice mourned, and Sansa wept.

Chapter Text

Smoke rose in the distance, a billowing dark cloud against the grey skies. It was too far away for Arya to smell, but Sansa wrinkled her nose, a queasy look on her face.

When they first left the cave, they'd traveled through lush woods, softly carpeted with grasses and flowers and a hundred other plants. Arya counted a dozen flowers she'd never seen before, and taught Gendry the names of the ones she knew. There hadn't been many flowers in the Street of Steel, and Gendry got a stupid look on his face when he thought a flower was especially pretty. One night he'd come back from hunting with three rabbits and an armful of crushed flowers. He'd handed a bunch of them to each of the girls, but the biggest bunch he handed to Arya.

Now rabbits were scarce, and they saw smoke nearly every day as Sansa led their little group toward Riverrun. While Arya trudged on weary feet, Sansa rode on one of the horses. Gendry had insisted in a fit of gallantry, and Sansa didn't argue. Her legs were still shaky, and she walked slowly when they made camp. Arya rode sometimes, but she took turns with Jeyne and Merissa.

Even in a plain wool gown, her dyed brown hair in a simple braid, Sansa looked like a princess. She acted like one too, telling them which way to go, when to stop and make camp, how much of their food they could eat at each meal. It annoyed Arya, but they'd not seen any people, or run out of food, so she bit her tongue.

On the fourth day they had reached a winding river. It took hours to find a place shallow enough that the horses could cross. Faithful and Hammer were cautious beasts, for all that they weren't as clever as Nymeria. Faithful was what Sansa had named the grey courser. The mare was not happy about Arya lying to her, but she'd remained anyway. Gendry had named the brown-black courser, a mare near as stubborn and strong as he was.

After crossing the river they'd made camp near a huge lake. Something about the deep blue waters made Arya's skin itch, and even taking a quick bath didn't help. While Arya and Gendry tried their hand at catching fish, Sansa stared silently across the rippling waters. Once she asked if Arya heard music, and looked sad when Arya said no.

That night Arya had dreamed of Nymeria running with Grey Wind, swift and silent, a small pack behind them. A faint red glow lit the sky. Women and children screamed in the distance, begging for help, for mercy. Nymeria howled, and in her fierce song Arya heard the promise of justice.

Over the next few days the green woods began to thin, and finally they disappeared, replaced by bare fields of grey ash. No birds sang here, save for the cackling of crows. They dotted the bleak landscape, feasting on the bloated corpses of cows and horses. Robb will make the Lannisters pay, Arya thought, her hate simmering with every step. He'll thrash their armies and raid their villages, see how they like it.

The afternoon sun beat down on the weary travelers as Sansa led them west. Arya was ahorse, having traded with Jeyne and Merissa when they stopped for water at a little stream. Suddenly Sansa stiffened, turning her head this way and that. Before Arya could say a word, Sansa kicked Faithful into a gallop, bolting toward a dark blur in the distance.

Jeyne and Merissa cried out, Gendry yelled, and Arya gave chase. Hammer thundered across the field, ash spraying behind her hooves. They had nearly caught Sansa when the dark blur became a hovel and Arya heard a baby screaming.

Sansa slid off her horse and dashed inside, Arya close behind. The hovel was smaller than the cave, its thatched roof half burnt. The floor beneath a thin layer of rushes was muddy- rain must have put out the fire before it spread.

The weak screams came from a roughly carved cradle. The baby was tightly swaddled, its hazel eyes huge in its thin face. Sansa picked up the baby, placing it over her shoulder as she’d once done for Rickon. While Sansa patted the baby’s back, Arya looked around.

There was a foul smell upon the air. Dead man's stink, that was what Yoren had called it. A fair haired woman lay in the corner, wrapped in a light blue blanket on a bed of rushes. Her eyes stared at the grey sky, her skin pale and bloodless. At her middle the wool blanket was stained a dark reddish brown. Arya shivered and backed away.

“Shhhh,” Sansa murmured. The baby’s cries were quieter now, and Sansa began to sing in a sweet soft voice.

Hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye
Sleep now my baby
Lullaby, lullaby
It’s time for bed

Sweet dreams may find you
If you lie still
Till morning dew
Sleep you will

Something wet ran down Arya’s face. Was the roof dripping? Arya scrubbed at her eyes.

“I don’t remember that song,” Arya said when the baby had finally fallen asleep.

“I made it up,” Sansa whispered. Arya rolled her eyes. Of course she did.

“What-”

“Sssh!” Arya hissed at Gendry as he burst through the door. He was sweaty and panting- had he run after them? Sansa paced around the hovel, gently swaying the baby as she walked.

“Let’s see if there’s anything left that we can use,” Arya whispered.

Behind the hovel they found a small paddock. Inside were two dead goats, a dead mule, and a small flock of crows pecking at them. They cawed as Arya shooed them away with Needle. The animals were still covered in feathers after the crows flapped away- they'd been shot full of arrows.

Beside the paddock was a small half burned shed. There were a few tools, wooden hoes and shovels, a slingshot and a small pile of pebbles. Hunks of salted meat hung from the ceiling, so high that only Gendry could reach them, and Arya found some bags of dried beans. Everything else was scorched from the fire or soggy from the rain.

Once they'd wrapped up the food, they brought it back to the hovel. Some of the crows had landed on the roof, looking down at the girls. Merissa’s nose was red and swollen as she rocked the baby in the cradle, and Sansa had her arms around a crying Jeyne. Arya’s chest felt tight, as though Hodor was sitting on her. She turned away, grabbed Gendry’s arm, and dragged him back to the shed.

They buried the mother behind the paddock as Gendry held the sleeping baby, a sullen look on his face. For once he'd ventured an opinion unasked- he didn’t think they should keep the baby. She was half-starved, they had no milk, and she might cry and bring down raiders upon their heads. Arya knew Gendry was right, but they couldn't just leave her.

Before Arya could say anything, Sansa whirled at Gendry, her eyes blazing.

"She’s one of our people." Sansa’s face was stern as father’s, and Gendry said nothing more.

But now Sansa's face was still and sad as she sang a hymn to the Mother. Did the mother in the grave know that her baby was safe? Did Arya's mother miss her? Would she ever see her again? Sansa pressed a weirwood seed into the freshly dug earth, and they turned their backs on the grave.

They were preparing to leave the hovel when a crow cawed in the distance. Sansa tilted her head, an odd look on her face.

“Wait,” she commanded.

Gendry’s brow furrowed, and Arya shrugged. A few minutes later, a nanny goat appeared. She was bedraggled but unharmed, and her udder was plump with milk.

While Merissa milked the goat into one of their waterskins, Jeyne and Sansa fashioned a sling from part of the dead mother's blanket, strapping the baby to Sansa's chest. They couldn't find anything to make a lead for the goat, but she agreed to follow them when Arya asked. Her people were gone, except for the baby, and there was little left to eat.

"This isn't right," Sansa said as she dripped goat milk into the babe's mouth. Her voice was soft but full of rage. "This isn't how wars are supposed to be fought."

"My gram told me when lords fight their men might steal our cows, or food." Merissa's eyes were cold. "She said cities were dangerous, if there was a sack. But this..."

"I hope Robb's men burn the Westerlands," Arya snapped. "They deserve it."

"Did Sherrer deserve it?" Merissa asked, her voice bitter. "Will burning the Westerlands bring back my mam and Daisy and Chestnut and t’ sweet milk they gave?"

"Will it bring back my father?" Jeyne's eyes were still wet with tears.

"The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword," Sansa muttered under her breath. "The man who ordered the burning is the one who should pay, not the smallfolk bound to obey him."

"It's all the stupid king's fault for dying," Arya grumbled. "This wouldn't happen if he were alive."

"That old drunk?" Gendry scoffed. "All he cared about was feasts and tourneys, and he was too fat to go to war."

"He used to be young and brave and strong," Arya objected. The old king was a drunk, but he was father's friend. She looked over to see if Sansa was done feeding the baby. Her sister had the strangest look on her face.

The night air was cool as they made camp in the yellow wood. Arya’s limbs ached from walking, and her clothes were muddy. The further west they went, the more twitchy Sansa became. Every crackling twig was soldiers or bandits coming to catch them. Arya knew she should be grateful for Sansa’s keen ears, but she was tired of diving into ditches and hiding in caves.

Gendry was in a foul mood too. His black beard was growing as bristly as a briar patch, and so was his temper. Though Sansa and Meri were usually able to keep Nan quiet, it was only by stopping, milking the goat, and feeding the baby. Her wrinkled face had reminded Arya of Old Nan, but it was beginning to fill out some, even as hunger gnawed at Arya’s belly.

Between the destruction of the fields and their slower pace, food was running low. The yellow wood had a few squirrels and rabbits, but they were skittish. It took hours of practice before Arya was any good with the slingshot. She finally caught a rabbit between the eyes after luring it out by saying hello. She felt bad, but the hunger felt worse.

Arya returned to camp to find Jeyne had filled their waterskins from a little stream. Arya took a sip and nearly spat it out. The water tasted of rot and death. Meri and Gendry had been more fortunate in their search. Meri had found a small thicket of blackberries, and their hands were stained purple by the juice as they poured the handfuls of berries onto a flat stone.

Sansa stared at the ripe berries, licking her lips. Sansa took the smallest, daintiest portions when they ate, as if they were guests at some fancy banquet. Her high cheekbones were growing sharper as their supplies dwindled, and her gown hung loosely. Arya shoved a handful of berries at Sansa, ignoring her protests.

"There was more berries, m'lady" Meri said gently.

Arya barely heard Sansa's reply as she slipped away. When she returned, her cloak piled high with berries, she set them at Sansa's feet with a smirk.

"You can't refuse a gift from your sworn shield," Arya said, trying to bow like Robb. Sansa choked back laughter and rolled her eyes, but she ate Arya's berries while the others descended upon the pile Meri and Gendry had collected.

When all the berries were gone, Meri began going through their supplies while Sansa rocked the baby to sleep. When Meri was finished, she examined Arya's rabbit.

“We need a fire to cook this,” Merissa whispered.

“No fires,” Gendry growled softly, careful not to wake Nan. “A bellyful of worms is better than a bellyful of arrows.”

“There’s been smoke everywhere, how would one little fire do any harm?” Jeyne’s stomach gurgled, and she put a hand on it as if that would fill her belly.

The argument lasted until Sansa finally put her foot down, as courteous and as unyielding as Lady Catelyn despite the baby drooling on her. Merissa would cook the rabbit over a small fire built from dry twigs, and then they'd douse the fire immediately. True to Meri's word, the little wisps of smoke twirled and danced, but they didn’t go far. The rabbit tasted better than any meal Arya could remember. Even Gendry looked a bit happier.

None of the trees had branches low enough to climb, so they made a little nest in a grassy area surrounded by the blackberry thicket. They had to be careful not to brush against the thorns as they squeezed between the bushes, but they should be safe anough. No one would be able to see them, unless they could fly.

The goat lay down first, used to serving as a pillow. Jeyne and Merissa gathered reeds from the stream, and Arya laid cloaks over the reeds. While everyone else settled into their hidden bed, Nan tucked carefully between them, Sansa took the first watch, promising to wake Arya when it was time to switch.

The village at the edge of the woods glowed, lit by the flickering flames on the thatched roofs. Men in dull armor laughed as they threw their plunder into wagons. In the darkness the wolves encircled the men, waiting for the signal.

Nymeria growled as she approached the grappling figures beneath the trees. A woman cursed as the man pinning her opened his breeches, laughing as she struggled. Then the she-wolf leapt, her jaws closing on the flesh jutting from between his legs. With a high scream the man staggered back, and the woman slashed at him with the knife that had been at her throat.

The wolves threw back their heads and howled before descending upon the raiders. Blood spurted from a dozen throats, and the rest of the men fled into the woods.

Arya awoke suddenly. Had Sansa come to rouse her? But there was no one there, just the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Calm as still water, she told herself. Quiet as a shadow.

Arya crept out of the thicket, her hand on Needle’s hilt. Sansa wasn’t at her post. Where could she be? Was she off planting another weirwood? Was she making water behind a tree?

On silent feet Arya searched the woods, not daring to call Sansa's name. The moonless sky was dark, and Arya tripped on the uneven ground, scraping her hands as she caught herself on a rock. She bit her tongue, forcing herself not to cry out.

Listen with your ears, Syrio had said. Arya could still hear herself panting from her fall. Slow, deep breaths, she reminded herself. Once her breathing was quiet, it was easier to hear. The stream murmured behind her. An owl hooted in the distance to her left. There was a rustle nearby, and Arya turned- to hear the scrape of swords being unsheathed.

Chapter Text

Bran looked down from the dais, feeling small in the ancient high seat of the Starks. The seat was once the throne of the Kings of Winter, and its back was taller than Hodor. Carved weirwood leaves drifted down above Bran's head, and direwolves snarled on its massive arms, each face bigger than Bran's fist.

The only bit of comfort was the thin, hard cushion Bran sat on, provided so that he could look over the table at the crowds below. It felt as though half the North had come to celebrate the harvest and King Robb's victories. The Great Hall was stuffed with knights and men-at-arms and servants and smallfolk, while the lords sat at the high table upon the dais.

At one end of the dais sat Mors and Hother Umber, the Greatjon’s uncles, both with great beards as snowy as their furs. At the other end jolly Ser Wyman Manderly boomed with laughter. Lord Manderly had brought an entire retinue, knights and men-at-arms and two pretty granddaughters who reminded Bran of his sisters.

Beside the merman sat the moose. Since his father's death at the Green Fork, Daryn Hornwood was now Lord of the Hornwood. Bran couldn’t understand why Daryn wanted to go to war, not when his mother looked so sad.

Bran had played the prince during the long meetings in father’s solar, offering courtesies to each lord while Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin handled the affairs. Yesterday, Daryn Hornwood had asked leave to take all his remaining men south to avenge his father. He was most wroth when Ser Rodrik forbade it, saying King Robb had ordered Lord Hornwood to hold his keep, and hold it he must. His mother, Lady Donella Hornwood, had smiled then, the tiniest smile of relief, but now she picked at her food, her face lined with sorrow.

At least it had been interesting. Most of the audiences were long and boring, as Bran was not supposed to do much speaking. He had forgotten himself once, when Lady Glover’s maester said he was only setting aside a tenth of the harvest.

“Winter is coming,” Bran said, trying not to shiver as he remembered dreams of icy blue eyes and darkness without end. Ser Rodrik glanced at Bran, both approval and annoyance in his sharp eyes.

“You will set aside at least a fifth,” Ser Rodrik commanded. Somehow Bran knew that was not enough.

“A fourth,” Bran said firmly. “And plant the next crop quickly.”

The steward was not pleased, but he spake not a word of protest. When he had gone, Ser Rodrik turned to Bran, his eyebrow raised. There’d be a scolding unless Bran was quick to defend himself.

“It’s going to be a bad winter.”

Bran folded his hands over his belly as he’d seen Lord Wyman do the previous day. It had made the fat man look serious, and Bran hoped the gesture might do the same for a cripple.

“Perhaps. Still, you should not have spoken, my prince,” Ser Rodrik said.

“Few live with such an injury as Bran, yet his broken back may warn him. Many scholars have found that those with old injuries can sense the approach of rain or cold.”

Maester Luwin was so matter of fact that Ser Rodrik didn’t doubt him for a moment, and after some argument Ser Rodrik agreed to send ravens ordering all lords to set aside a fourth of the harvest for winter.

Now Ser Rodrik sat to Bran's left, his white mustache pink with wine, talking to Maester Luwin over the din of music and chatter and clanking plates. Rickon sat to Bran's right, shouting back and forth with the Walders, and Summer curled beneath Bran's feet, working at a juicy bone. Summer's presence was a special honor that had been denied to Shaggydog, but thankfully Rickon was too distracted to throw the tantrum he had threatened. Ser Rodrik said Shaggydog was as wild as Rickon, and Bran could not deny it.

He glanced at Osha. The wildling woman was serving wine at the tables, and her words came echoing back to Bran. We have folk who can speak to beasts or share a beast’s skin- we call them wargs, skinchangers, beastlings. Bran could not trade his skin for a wolf pelt like Sansa, but he could taste the rich marrow as Summer cracked open his bone and feasted. Summer was a part of him, a part that could still run and leap, even if no one else knew or understood.

And yet, when the slim girl and the mossy-eyed boy came, Bran wondered.

In his dreams, Bran flew. Round and round he circled the world, faster than a raven, soundless as a shadow. The crow called him north, and Bran followed.

North he flew, to a cold dark cell, a fire burning in the hearth. Jon Snow raised his longsword as he faced a man with skin pale as milk and hands black as pitch. With a shout Jon cleaved the man's arm from his body, yet still the dead thing advanced. Further north, the crow cried, but Bran fled from the ancient voice. Warm, he wanted to feel warm, and he knew which way to go.

East he flew, to red sands beneath a sweltering sun. A girl on a silver horse led a ragged band of women and children and old men, and on her shoulder rode a black dragon streaked with scarlet. The heat was too much, too much, Bran longed for cool waters.

West he flew, to cold waves crashing beneath dark cliffs. Longships rode the sea, dozens and dozens of them, their sails swelling in the breeze. Theon looked up at a crumbling castle, a smirk upon his lips, and Bran was afraid. Sisters, he wanted his sisters, he wanted Arya who punched a ghost in the face and Sansa who soothed his hurts.

South he flew, to a village burning in the dark. Silver banners fluttered in the light of the flames, a purple unicorn on one and a scarlet bull on the other. Men screamed and wolves howled. His sisters were near, he knew it.

Further south he flew, to yellow woods bathed in the dim light of the rising sun. Grim men marched through the trees, armed with swords and bows. In their midst walked Arya, a scowl upon her face. Behind her trailed a black haired boy and two girls. One of the girls was trying to soothe a wailing baby, a look of fear on her face as a one-eyed man ordered her to keep it quiet.

Further, just a little further... Bran saw a tiny weirwood seedling, a white shoot with a single crimson leaf shimmering in the sunrise. Sansa shivered as she fell to her knees, her skin rippling as she pulled off her gown to reveal red fur...

Chapter Text

"Wolves gelding rapers? Really?" Tyrion sipped at his wine as Bronn shrugged.

Of late there seemed to be more tall tales about wolves than there were wolves in all Seven Kingdoms, whether Stark or four-legged.

Smallfolk coming into the city from the Riverlands claimed wolves were defending villages from Lannister raiders. Varys reported rumors of a pack of wolves kneeling before Robb Stark. A begging brother preached that the Seven had sent a red wolf to slay Joffrey for profaning the Great Sept of Baelor with Ned Stark's blood. Utter nonsense, of course, but Cersei had had the man seized and imprisoned, along with a dozen begging brothers who'd been foolish enough to pray for his release before the gates of the Red Keep.

Tyrion sighed and put down his goblet.  He really needed some food before he drank any more.

"Pod!"

It was hard to remember that his hapless squire was distantly related to the gaunt, fearsome King's Justice. While Sir Ilyn Payne had terrified many a man with the stare of his colorless eyes, Podrick Payne was a gangly boy of twelve who usually addressed the floor rather than the person to whom he was speaking. Pod also had a tendency to doze off while waiting outside Tyrion's solar.

When the boy finally appeared, rubbing his eyes, Tyrion sent him away with orders to bring fowl and whatever else he could manage. Once the boy was out of earshot, Tyrion turned back to Bronn.

"Did Bel have any useful information?"

In answer Bronn handed Tyrion a piece of parchment. Reading was not one of the sellsword's many talents.

Tyrion read the parchment, his eyebrows raised. It was a list of names. There were two keepers of the keys, the harbormaster, tax farmers, customs sergeants, pursers, wine factors... and he suspected he already knew what they had in common.

"What is this?"

"Bel says Littlefinger ordered that these men only pay half price should they visit her brothel. She thinks there might be more, but the women who run Baelish's other brothels are close-lipped with no word on who's to inherit."

Tyrion sighed. He could feel a headache coming on.

"Bel can run them for all I care. Tell her I'll have the papers drawn up in thanks for the list.”

Tyrion dismissed Bronn, wishing he could slap the smile off his insolent face. Baelish was causing near as many problems in death as in life. Baelish had promised to deliver the Vale by charming Lady Lysa, but his silver tongue lay in the grave with the rest of him. Tyrion wondered if anyone had informed Catelyn Stark and Lysa Arryn that their father's ward was dead.

He could only pray that the sour widow Arryn kept her swords atop her mountain. Perhaps that was where the Stark girls had fled, aided by Baelish and his men. Cersei had mentioned Baelish asking for Sansa's hand after Ned Stark's arrest, which only confirmed Tyrion's suspicions. Even Varys had no word of either Sansa or Arya Stark, or the steward's girl. Who could engineer such unlikely escapes under Varys' nose but the devious Littlefinger?

The issue of the Baelish inheritance was a minor concern by comparison, and it had quite slipped his mind. Littlefinger was the only son of an only son. His grandfather had been a hedge knight, his father the smallest of petty lords. Though few might guess it from his endless velvets and silks and silver mockingbirds. Tyrion frowned. How had Baelish come by such wealth?

A savory aroma wafted in from the hall as Pod returned from the kitchens bearing a plate. Tyrion's mouth watered at the sight of roast duck in honey and lemons, fresh bread, and buttered carrots. His troubles could wait a while.

While the city wasted away from want of food, Tyrion gorged on a banquet of problems. From dawn to dusk he sought to strengthen the city's defenses, secure his own position, handle Varys and Pycelle, and manage Cersei into the bargain. She'd appointed Lord Gyles of Rosby as the new Master of Coin, despite his ever-irritating cough and lack of prominent family or holdings. At least the man had poor eyesight and was easily persuaded to accept "assistance" with his duties.

Finding a bookkeeper to assist Rosby had been another ordeal. Tyrion didn’t have the time to unravel Baelish’s labyrinth of accounts himself, and half the merchants in the city were connected to Baelish. The other half were either completely unknown or actively unfriendly to House Lannister. Despite their amusing camaraderie Tyrion could not trust Varys to find him an honest bookkeeper, no more than he could trust that simpering fool Pycelle.

The answer came during one of Lady Tanda Stokeworth’s useless dinners. Tyrion was in a bad temper after riding through the city, hearing yet more complaints from every mouth, and his wits had been too slow to escape the invitation. Lady Tanda seated him between her lackwit daughter Lollys and Ser Aron Santagar, the Red Keep's master-at-arms. If she thought putting him beside a Dornishman might make him more interested in Lollys, she was sadly mistaken.

Unfortunately, Ser Aron proved taciturn. Aron Santagar was a gloomy man, his attempts at conversation as dull as his olive skin. After ten minutes all Tyrion had for his efforts was an account of all the knights Santagar had trained and confirmation that Pod was attending weapons training with the other squires. Ser Aron said the boy was attentive and showed promise. Tyrion reminded himself to pass the compliment along to Pod- he was such a mouse of a lad that any praise would boost his confidence.

Thankfully, Ser Aron's demure wife was another matter. Lady Cedra was a plain thing, of a height with Ser Aron but with gleaming brown skin. Though quiet at first, Tyrion drew her out with questions until she was pouring forth information like a fountain.

A Jordayne by birth, Lady Cedra been raised amongst a flock of scholars who proudly bore a golden quill as their sigil. Her father was a younger son, her mother a recently ennobled merchant. The lady had grown up in Dorne and with her mother's people in Braavos, and she expounded at length about the differences between the sands of the Tor and the canals of Braavos, her dark eyes bright.

When that topic was exhausted, the talk turned to books. Cedra was currently reading Beldecar's History of the Rhoynish Wars, a book Tyrion had been meaning to read.

The conversation was better than he'd had in some time, but the plum in the pudding came near the end. Not only did the lady frequently borrow tomes from the castle library, but it seemed she kept the accounts for Ser Aron’s household, having learned advanced sums from her merchant kin in Braavos.

Well, she might be a woman and half a merchant, but he could be certain Lady Cedra was no friend of Cersei's. His sister had hated the Dornish for years, though he wasn't quite sure why. Nor was Lady Cedra an enemy of House Lannister- well, not more than any other Dornishman. Elia Martell and her children had not been the only victims of the Sack of King's Landing. Rumor had it that Lord Tywin's men had killed or raped almost all the Dornish in the city.

But Ser Aron and his wife had come to King's Landing after that nasty business, brought by Jon Arryn as a peace offering when he sought to pacify the Martells. Lady Cedra had wed Ser Aron for love, not wealth, and she missed some of the comforts she'd grown accustomed to as the daughter of a more prosperous house.

It took Tyrion less than a week to persuade the lady to assist Lord Gyles with the ledgers in exchange for Lannister gold and a few luxuries. Whatever was amiss with Baelish's ledgers, Lady Cedra would find it and report it. Hopefully.

"My lord father has done what?" Cersei asked, her voice dangerously even. Varys tittered, holding his powdered hands out helplessly.

"He has secured the release of Ser Kevan Lannister and his son Willem, as well as Ser Harys Swyft, Your Grace.”

"By returning prisoners that belonged to Tommen," Cersei snapped.

For once Tyrion shared her fury with Lord Tywin. The terms sent to Riverrun with Ser Cleos Frey included an offer to exchange the same prisoners- prisoners who would be long gone before Cleos arrived. Even if Robb Stark lacked the wit to realize what that signified, the Blackfish would surely inform him. I should have known father would undermine me, Tyrion thought bitterly.

"You are sure there have been no ravens from Lord Tywin?" Tyrion asked Pycelle sharply.

The grand maester stroked his flowing white beard, the very picture of self-satisfied ancient wisdom. Enjoy it while it lasts, old man. Tyrion couldn't touch his father, but the lickspittle maester was another matter.

"None, my lord hand. Though surely, as King Tommen's Hand, he speaks with our dear king's voice," Pycelle said gravely, his chain clinking.

"If he meant to act as Hand, he should have come when I summoned him, not sent Tyrion in his place." Cersei's eyes were wildfire green and blazing with anger.

"Why, sweet sister, I never knew how much you valued my efforts," Tyrion said amiably.

Perhaps it was unwise to tweak the lionness's tail, but it was satisfying to watch Cersei's eyes narrow, caught between telling him off in front of the entire small council and admitting that he, unlike father, at least pretended to give a damn about her wishes.

"Any word on how the exchange is to take place?" Tyrion asked Varys, retreating before Cersei decided to give him a tongue lashing. The eunuch smiled, rubbing his hands together.

"Ah, yes, my lord. Ser Kevan and young Willem are to be delivered to the Golden Tooth, while the northern lords are delivered to Riverrun. The Stark boy is still there, too frightened to face Lord Tywin, no doubt.”

That was odd. Tyrion would have thought his lord father would send them by as long and indirect a route as possible, the longer to deprive Stark of seasoned commanders. Cersei’s eyes narrowed, then she smiled sweetly.

“Ser Kevan should be here, defending his king. Grand Maester Pycelle, prepare a summons for Tommen to sign. The sooner we send a raven the better.”

The maester hesitated, then nodded ponderously.

“Anything else?” Cersei glared at Varys, not even bothering to be pleasant. Varys consulted his parchment, but it was Lord Gyles who spoke.

"Your Grace, if I may, there are certain customs officers and wool factors appointed by Littlefinger I beg your leave to replace."

The obedient cougher had laid the idea before Tyrion first, and Tyrion had instructed him to put the matter before Cersei. The more in control she felt, the less savage she would be.

"Name the cow what you will, so long as the milk flows," Cersei said, taking a small sip of her wine.

To Tyrion's annoyance, Cersei's drinking had somewhat subsided as she poured her energies into Myrcella and Tommen. She spent half her days with them, walking in Myrcella's garden, listening to Tommen prattle on about his kittens.

The other half of her days were spent as Queen Regent, and she was far more active sober than drunk. His sister toured the city inspecting the defenses, she went to the Great Sept to make pious noises, she plotted against him with Lancel and the Kettleblacks… Tyrion forced himself to focus, as Varys was speaking again.

“My little birds report Beric Dondarrion is still running loose in the Riverlands, gathering more outlaws to his cause-“

“Our lord father’s problem,” Cersei said, waving a pale hand dismissively as Lord Gyles coughed into a kerchief.

“Robb Stark has sent Theon Greyjoy to treat with his father, yet the boy arrived on a southron ship, while Lord Balon gathers longships at Pyke. A red wolf has been seen near Stoney Sept, and-“

Cersei shook her golden head, and the eunuch fell silent.

“Any word of Dorne?”

Doran Martell had called his banners, that much they knew, but no more. As of yet there was no response to Tyrion’s raven, no sign whether the Dornish would back Renly or continue brooding in their deserts.

“Alas, I am afraid not,” Varys said with a sigh, his plump lip trembling. “Forgive me, Your Grace, it is difficult to gather whispers in Dorne, with how bitter they remain over Princess Elia and her babes. They mistrust anyone from outside Dorne, and securing Dornish friends has proved difficult. And yet...”

Varys twisted his powdered hands, a doubtful look upon his face.

“And yet what?” Tyrion asked, impatient for the damned meeting to end. Shae awaited him in her manse, the one sweet thing he had in this stinking city. Varys tsked and rubbed his bald head.

“There are rumors that Prince Oberyn grows jealous of his feeble brother. Should Prince Doran accept a council seat, and leave Dorne in his daughter's charge, I fear the Red Viper may seek to supplant him. Doran’s heir is a girl of twenty or so, no match for such a perilous uncle. And Oberyn has eight bastard girls he might wed to either of Doran’s sons.”

Cersei leaned back in her chair as though she lounged on a throne. Her eyes glittered as she looked at Tyrion, a cutting smile on her lips.

"Younger brothers are dangerous," Cersei said.

Chapter Text

The mud squished between Arya’s toes as they made their way along the farm road. She’d finally given up on her rotted shoes, and her feet hurt. The men claimed they would soon find her another pair, but Arya didn’t believe them. They were outlaws, and outlaws were all liars. 

The outlaws surrounded Arya’s pack, half riding and half on foot. Some had armor, but it was rusty and mismatched, and their cloaks were stained from long use. Almost all of them had wild beards that hid their lips and made it hard to tell their mood.

There was Jack, a one-eyed man with scraggly brown whiskers, Dennett, a short and stocky greybeard, Lem, a big man with a bushy brown beard in a dingy yellow cloak, and Greenbeard, an even bigger Tyroshi with green-grey whiskers. The only beardless one was a skinny red headed archer named Anguy who looked to be Gendry’s age.

Gendry walked by Arya’s side, a black eye blooming on his sullen face. He still blamed himself for the rest of them getting captured. When the outlaws took Arya, she’d argued with them loudly in the hope that the others would scatter. Instead, Gendry had tried to free her, and in all the commotion Nan had begun screaming, revealing the hidden nest in the blackberry thicket.

At first they’d all been terrified, afraid that the men would steal the horses or rape them. But they’d let Arya and Gendry keep their swords, and when Nan wouldn’t stop  screaming Lem had taken her from Jeyne and rocked her to sleep. Arya wondered if Lem had a family somewhere, waiting for him to come home. Jack didn’t. Both of his brothers had been killed by Lannisters some moons past.

Meri and Jeyne rode the horses, little Nan sleeping in her sling against Meri’s chest. Jeyne nibbled at a hunk of yellow cheese while Meri yawned. They’d been traveling for days, sleeping in the oddest places.

First they’d slept in the trees of the yellow wood, in a village of little huts built high above the ground. The next few nights they slept in a vault beneath a sept, amongst cobwebs and casks of wine. The begging brothers had given them what food they could spare, and they’d blessed the outlaws as soon as they asked for word of Lord Beric Dondarrion.

At each place the men asked for word of the lightning lord who seemed to be their leader. It felt like years since Sansa and Arya watched the handsome lordling ride forth to deliver the king’s justice to Gregor Clegane. Were there Winterfell men still with him, or had they gone to Robb? Arya dared not ask, lest they suspect who she was. A common girl would not ask for Alyn and Harwin of Winterfell. She wondered how far north Yoren was now- she owed the sour man her life. 

“We may hear sommat this evening,” Anguy said as they made their way through burned fields. “We’ll be sleeping on High Heart, and there’s an old woman there what knows things.”

High Heart was well named. The great hill loomed over the flat land. Climbing it seemed to take hours, and they were panting and drenched in sweat by the time they reached the top. The hill was crowned with weirwood stumps, immense and pale and hard as rock. Arya and Gendry counted them while Meri sat on a stump and fed the baby, the nanny goat chewing on a nearby shrub.

As she looked over the flat plains Arya wondered where Sansa was. Although she hadn’t seen her sister since the outlaws caught them, she could feel that she was near. Was she hiding on the hill? The weirwoods had been cut down but there were plenty of bushes and trees that remained.

The leaves rustled in the wind as night fell. Meri and Jeyne curled up for warmth, Nan between them and Gendry wrapped around them, but Arya couldn’t sleep, for there were whispers on the wind. At last she gave up and crept to the campfire.

Lem and Anguy stood beside the dull embers of the fire, and between them was a woman Arya did not know. She was tiny, her face a mass of wrinkles, her skin pale as milk, her hair a cloud that fell to her feet and whipped about in the wind.

“Tom’s not here to sing for you,” Anguy was saying. The old woman spat on the ground.

“This I know, and more besides. How will you pay me for my dreams?”

Anguy handed the little woman a wineskin, and she examined it for a moment, frowning.

“The lightning lord awakes again, and wishes he might sleep. He’s far afield. You’ll not find him, not until the manticore clutches bees in his claws.”

“We’d hoped for better news, crone,” Lem complained.

“I hoped for a song or a kiss, but I’ll not be getting them either.”

The little woman stared into the darkness, her eyes red in the glow of the dying coals.

“Come, she-wolf,” she called. “I’ll share my dreams for a hair from your tail.”

Lem and Anguy stared at the little woman, frowning. Long moments passed, then Anguy cried out as a red direwolf slunk out of the darkness. Lem drew his sword, his eyes white with fear.

“Put it away, foolish man,” the little woman said as the red wolf crept to her side. “If she wanted your blood she’d have torn your throat out days ago.”

The woman turned and smiled into the gloom, a claw-like hand extended.

“You too, child, you cannot hide from me.”

Ice trickled down Arya’s spine. Warily she approached the dying fire, her eyes fixed on the direwolf.

“The old gods rise from their slumber,” the woman whispered. “But they are not the only ones. Winter is coming, child, aye, and the cold gods walk again.”

The hairs rose on the back of Arya’s neck as the wrinkled woman took a swig from the wineskin, her lips stained red as blood.

“I dreamt two wolves in the darkness, one with wings, the other black as night. A grey man sent them to swim with the merlings, but the winged wolf ran away chasing after a three-eyed crow. I dreamt a kraken came from the east, and his eye and his lips were blue. I dreamt such a clangor I thought my head might burst, drums and horns and pipes and screams. I dreamt of a maid chained to a mountain beneath the shadow of a dragon's wings. The dragon bathed the maid in fire, and the mountain crumbled but the chains remained."

The little woman turned to Lem, her dim red eyes far away.

“You came to seek your lord, but your lady has found you. Weirwood child, wolf child, the queen and her sworn sword.”

“We have no lady,” Lem grumbled, his eyes fixed on the red wolf as the little woman plucked a hair from her tail. “And we’ll not serve the brotherfucker queen.”

The red wolf met Arya’s eyes, then slipped back into the darkness. The crone laughed, and Arya shivered.

“A queen is a queen whenever she’s crowned. Acorn and seedling, sapling and tree, they are all the same oak.” She turned to Anguy. “Archer, you’d best find a fletcher. You’ll need many arrows before winter comes, aye, weirwood for the shafts and dragonglass for the points. The Others fear the frozen flames.”

The very blood seemed to freeze in Arya’s veins, and she heard the click clicking of Old Nan’s knitting needles. In the Long Night the Others came, Old Nan had said, her voice low. Cold and cruel they were, and they hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every living creature with hot blood in its veins. Holdfasts and cities and kingdoms of men all fell before them, until the last hero set out to find the children of the forest…

In the morning Arya wondered if it had all been a dream. Neither Lem nor Anguy said a word to her, besides a grunt as Lem offered her a lump of cheese and stale bread. Yet as they left the hill she saw wolf tracks, dew puddling in the muddy prints. Why had Sansa said nothing to her?

Descending the hill was easier than climbing it, and the outlaws’ mood seemed to improve as the sun peeked from behind the clouds. They saw a few stray horses in the distance after breakfast, and Jack and Dennett managed to catch them. Only afterwards did Arya remember she could have called them. They moved faster with everyone riding, Arya and Gendry on Hammer, Jeyne and Meri on Faithful. Lem had Nan again, his eyes sad as she dozed against his chest.

“We’ll have a hot meal tonight, and a roof over our heads,” Anguy promised. “There’s a keep nearby and the lady is a good woman.”

It was just after dusk when they forded a brook and came up upon the castle. Acorn Hall was its name, and the lord was away fighting raiders. Lady Smallwood welcomed them kindly, though she was very angry when she saw they had a baby and three girls in tow.

“What were you thinking?” She demanded as she pried Nan away from Lem and handed her off to a maid.

“We found them in the woods,” Lem said haplessly. “Surely it was better they come with us than starve or get taken by lions.”

Lady Smallwood harrumphed and marched all three girls upstairs, sending servants to heat water for the immense tub.

“Men,” she muttered as the maidservants stripped Jeyne and Meri and a protesting Arya and hustled them into the scalding bath. “Did they at least have the sense to feed you?”

That was unfair, and Arya told her so. The men might be stinky and swear a lot, but they had shared their food, and given them time to milk the goat for Nan. She’d been speaking for a while when Arya realized that Lady Smallwood was giving her a funny look.

“Either you’re highborn or you were raised by wolves,” Lady Smallwood said. “You needn’t tell me who you are, but you should know no common maid would run her mouth so boldly.”

Meri giggled as Arya gaped at the lady, and a maid dumped water over Arya’s head and began scrubbing at her filthy hair.

By the time the bath was finished Arya felt as though she’d been scrubbed with sandpaper. Her skin was pink and soft, but for her blistered feet. Lady Smallwood frowned over them and found shoes for all three girls.

“My daughter Carellen is about your size,” Lady Smallwood told Jeyne, “but her gowns should fit your highborn friend.” She tried to put Arya in a light green gown covered in acorns, but when Arya saw Jeyne’s wistful look she refused. Jeyne took the acorn dress, Meri was given a servant’s old wool gown, and after much pleading Arya was dressed in a boy’s breeches, belt, and tunic. It was then she remembered something important.

“I lost my sister,” Arya said quietly after dinner, when Lady Smallwood was seeing her to bed. “She’ll need something to wear when I find her.”

They left the next morning with spare clothes but without the nanny goat and Nan. Lady Smallwood refused to let the outlaws keep her, and ignored Arya’s protests.

“You did a good thing saving her, but children have no business raising babies, let alone dragging them through the war. She’ll be safe here, I promise you.”

Lady Smallwood had tried to keep all of them, offering Gendry the forge and Jeyne and Meri a place among the servants. Jeyne was so quiet that Lady Smallwood hadn’t realized she was highborn. Arya she offered to keep as her ward, and teach her needlework and dancing and singing.

“I have few men, but I’ve got strong walls. Lord Beric is away east near Harrenhal, last I heard, and it may be some while before he returns.”

But Arya refused. She wanted her mother and Riverrun, not Acorn Hall and lessons on being a lady. Besides, if she were meant to stay here, then Sansa would have come in, not hidden somewhere nearby as a wolf. She’d dreamed of the red direwolf last night, hunting rabbits and drinking from a brook.

Arya wasn’t surprised when Jeyne and Merissa declined to stay. They’d remained with Sansa a month as a wolf, they wouldn’t leave her after she went missing for just a week. Much as it annoyed Arya to admit, Sansa inspired loyalty like a lady in a song. It did surprise her when Gendry refused to stay. She’d seen him wistfully examining the forge after dinner, holding a hammer like he’d been born to wield it. But he’d refused to stay anyway, and he wouldn’t say why.

“It’s worse ‘n ducklings,” Dennett grumbled as they set out from Acorn Hall. “We can’t watch all four o’ ‘em, not when we should be fighting lions.”

“I can fight,” Arya protested, her hand on Needle.

Greenbeard chuckled. “Perhaps, skinny squirrel, but children should not fight unless they must.” He stroked his whiskers thoughtfully.

“The lightning lord may be far afield, but we know where he’ll come eventually. We can drop them with the others and be on our way.”

That annoyed Arya. She wasn’t a sack of flour to be dropped someplace safe.

“Drop us where?” Arya demanded.

They made no reply, but Greenbeard and Lem and Anguy looked at each other and smiled.

Chapter Text

"Why didn't someone stop the Mountain?" Arya asked.

"The Kingsguard weren't with Princess Elia and her children," Ned said heavily. "Any other guards were slain."

"But where were the Kingsguard?" Sansa asked, her face buried in her father’s robe.

The sun shone down upon dusty red mountains. Three knights stood before a tower, their white cloaks flapping in the wind.

The first knight was old and broad of shoulder, a tower upon his shield. The second knight wore a grim smile, well matched to the bat upon his helm. The last knight was tall and fair, his skin tawny, his eyes amethyst.

Ser Arthur Dayne drew his greatsword. It was pale as his cloak, sunlight shimmering off the blade. A young man with dark hair faced him, his grey eyes full of sorrow. She knew those eyes.

“And now it begins,” the Sword of Morning said.

“No,” Ned Stark said sadly. “Now it ends.” 

Sansa awoke with the taste of blood in her mouth. No matter how much water she drank, the coppery tang lingered. To be a direwolf was to be a hunter, despite her squeamishness. You slew a king, girl, surely even a little bird can slay rabbits, Sandor Clegane’s voice mocked.

Sansa had been able to avoid hunting at first. As she followed the outlaws through the yellow wood she’d found a dying cow and gorged herself. She hadn’t needed to hunt for days as she trailed the outlaws across the fields, careful to keep out of sight.

But at last hunger had defeated her and she’d slain an entire nest of rabbits after hearing them in their burrow. The hot blood tasted finer than wine, the flesh raw and tender as she ripped it from their bones. When she finished eating she resisted the urge to crack the bones and lick out the marrow, but it was a close thing. She buried the bones instead, saying a prayer of thanks and of regret. 

She had much to be grateful for. Every day Sansa thanked the old gods for her keen ears. If not for them, she’d have been captured too.

Sansa was returning from planting a weirwood when she heard footsteps in the distance. To her horror she heard Arya creep out of the thicket and wander straight toward the steps. Yet Sansa had frozen, her heart thumping as fast as a rabbit’s. She should have called out, she should have warned Arya- but she’d hoped they would walk past Arya in the darkness.

They hadn’t.

As the men drew their swords Sansa had fallen to the ground beside the weirwood sprout, the transformation quicker and easier though still painful. Sansa the direwolf crept close, watching the men surround Arya. Gendry came at them, swinging his sword, only to have it knocked from his hand by one man as another punched him.

And yet, she could not bring herself to attack. They had let Arya shout at them, with no attempt to knock Needle from her hand. They had disarmed Gendry, but never tried to stab him. And so she’d followed, listening and watching and waiting and hating herself for her cowardice.

Everywhere the outlaws went they were warmly welcomed. A strange village in the trees gave them shelter. A group of begging brothers shared their bread and beer. A septon shared word that Lord Beric had been slain by Ser Burton Crakehall, and wept with joy when the outlaws told him the lightning lord still lived. Better still, he’d lured Crakehall into a trap and killed him and all his raiders.

“The smallfolk help us because Lord Beric fights for the realm,” Sansa heard Lem explain one evening. “‘Twas the Hand who sent us out, but we went under the king’s banner, and it’s the king’s people we serve, not the Young Wolf or the Little Lion.”

That night the outlaws slept at High Heart. The ghostly woman frightened Sansa with her prophecies, but something about her felt safe, like Old Nan. Still Sansa hesitated. To return to her true skin would leave her naked and defenseless. Best to learn more before she made herself so vulnerable.

She was tempted again at Acorn Hall. Sansa heard Lady Smallwood, and she yearned to reveal herself. Lady Smallwood would know Sansa was a lady. She would dress Sansa in pretty gowns, and let Sansa sew, and dance, and sleep in a featherbed. She was so tired of lumpy earth and mattresses of leaves.

Sansa was staring longingly at the gates when a voice dry as fallen leaves echoed in her head. You came to seek your lord, but your lady has found you. Weirwood child, wolf child, the Queen and her sworn sword. She couldn’t serve the outlaws as their lady if someone made her stay safe within castle walls. Sansa might be happy, but she would be abandoning her duty.

And so when the outlaws left Acorn Hall riding north, the red direwolf followed.

Sansa watched the hollow hill, waiting for the outlaws to leave. As she waited she reached out, listening to the trees and streams and stones. To her relief, she sensed wolves nearby. Once they overcame their surprise, the pack leaders listened to her offer. Help me, and I’ll make sure the two-leggers in the hill never attack you again.

There were two packs of wolves within range. The hill pack had made their dens inside the hollow hill, before the two-leggers drove them out. Fleetfoot, the mother of the pack, was easily persuaded to accept Sansa’s offer. Her mate Brokefang had been slain by an arrow when the two-leggers claimed the hill.

The stream pack was a little further off, across the clear brook from which they took their name. Their leaders were Sharp Nose and Biter, a mated pair. Game was plentiful, and their pack had grown with each new litter. Over the last year alone they’d had a dozen pups, a number that amazed Sansa. What wonders could she do with just half as many healthy children? 

After a day and a night of watching Sansa’s patience was finally rewarded. A group of nearly a dozen outlaws departed the hollow hill, swords at their hips. She recognized four of them, men whose voices she’d heard as she followed her sister.

Her sister and the rest of her pack were left behind, left to be protected like Bran and Rickon were left at Winterfell. But Bran had helped her find herself again, and he was just eight. Arya was ten now, fierce and clever, and Sansa was twelve, practically grown up. It was only right that Sansa and Arya serve their people.

Sansa’s nerves trembled as she prepared to reveal herself.  I must be brave.  I must make it like a song.

Arya awaited within, ready to play her part. Thank the old gods that Sansa had been able to speak to her, after hours of trying and a severe headache. For some reason speaking wolf to girl was much, much harder than speaking to animals when Sansa was in her own skin. 

Enough stalling, Arya grumbled. I’m ready when you are.

Her nerves tingling, Sansa threw her head back and howled. The wolves panted softly, a few of the youngest pups wagging their tails. The wolves sat in a crescent about her. Before each wolf was a fresh kill, gifts for the people of the hollow hill. 

Arya was the first to appear at the mouth of the cave, Jeyne and Meri and Gendry close behind. Slowly others followed, hollow eyed children and women and elders. Sansa forced herself to keep still, even though part of her wanted to flee. They’ve not turned Lord Beric over to the Lannisters, they’ll not betray us either.

There were only a few men left to guard the hollow hill. There was Anguy with his bow, a sallow man with a spear, and a handsome young man with a brown beard— it was Alyn, Alyn of Winterfell! Sansa’s heart soared, and she nearly ran to him— then she saw the terror in his eyes and remembered that she was a direwolf.

Arya approached slowly, a cloak in her hands. Sansa nearly wept when she saw the grey wool trimmed with white satin- where had she found a Stark cloak? Arya draped it over Sansa’s furry shoulders and down her back, and all of Sansa’s fears slipped away.

Sansa took a deep breath, and thought of all that made her Sansa. She thought of graceful fingers embroidering, of light feet following the steps of a dance. She thought of reading tales and singing songs and writing poetry.

Slowly Sansa’s limbs began to shift. Her muzzle shrank, and vivid colors returned to her vision. Soft red fur gave way to smooth white skin. Four sturdy paws gave way to two delicate hands and two dainty feet. Sansa crouched on the ground on all fours, the cloak draped over her. Her thick hair fell to the ground about her face, shining like flame.

Carefully Sansa rose to her feet, the cloak clutched in her hands to preserve her modesty. Everyone was staring, mouths agape. Alyn went down on one knee, and slowly the rest followed.

“Wha- who—” An old man stammered.

“‘Ere, that’s t’ Hand’s daughter,” a grandmother replied, her wrinkled face familiar. Sansa gave the grandmother a smile, and found her voice.

“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully, sister to the King in the North.”

“But- but- why not go to Riverrun?” Alyn asked. His limbs trembled, and he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. 

“That was my intention, at first,” Sansa admitted. “I am a young lady, not made for fighting battles. But I am not the Young Wolf. I am the Red Wolf, and I have a duty to my people too.”

Chapter Text

“Today we will be discussing the importance of lineage and inheritance.”

Bran swallowed as Maester Luwin glanced at him. This was a punishment, Bran knew it. The Walders were always going on and on about their brothers and uncles and cousins and the line of inheritance. Yesterday, Bran had made the mistake of saying that any trained bird from the Summer Isles could do the same, and sing into the bargain. Luwin had scolded him for being rude to his foster brothers, and Little Walder had sulked.

“Bran. What is the line of inheritance for House Stark?”

“I’m Robb’s heir, until he has children,” Bran said clearly. “Then Rickon, then Sansa, then Arya, then… uhm…” Was Jon next? Bastards could be legitimized, but Jon was sworn to the Night’s Watch.

“Don’t you have any cousins?” Big Walder asked.

Bran frowned. His namesake Uncle Brandon died unwed. Uncle Benjen was sworn to the Watch, and poor Aunt Lyanna died unwed too.

“I don’t think so?” Bran said hesitantly. The maester clucked his tongue.

“Your great-grandfather Edwyle had a younger sister, Jocelyn Stark. She wed a Royce, so you do have some distant cousins in the Vale.” Luwin sighed. “I believe your father was close with the Royces, when he fostered with Jon Arryn.”

“Maester, a word?”

It was Joseth, the new master of horse. Bran liked the plump man. He’d trained Dancer so Bran could ride, and he told funny jokes, usually about horses. Though Joseth's jokes weren't nearly as funny as the song about an ass which Jojen had sung the other day. The Walders had been acting rotten all morning, cheating at their stupid lord of the crossing game and making nasty comments about frogeaters and cripples under their breath. When they finally left the godswood, Jojen had launched into a merry tune, one where the crannogmen outsmarted a foolish hedge knight who trespassed into their swamps with nothing but his sword and his donkey.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Luwin said briskly, leaving the boys alone in his cluttered turret.

Of late Maester Luwin was pulled every which way, even during lessons. Ser Rodrik had ridden east to deal with Bolton’s bastard, leaving the maester to run Winterfell.

The bastard and his men had ambushed the Hornwoods on their way home after the Harvest Feast, and the Hornwood men had only barely fought them off. Lord Daryn was badly wounded, so Lady Donella’s frantic raven said, and the bastard had vanished, along with his servant. But Bran wasn’t worried. Ser Rodrik would soon set things right.

“Do you know why there’s so many Freys?” Big Walder asked, interrupting Bran’s thoughts. Bran scowled.

“Because Lord Walder keeps remarrying?”

“Yes, but that’s not the only reason,” Big Walder said seriously. “Our maester is no good at wounds, but he keeps alive almost every babe born in the Twins.”

“What about the mothers?” Rickon asked, his shaggy hair covering troubled eyes. Both Walders shrugged.

“If they live, they live. But it’s easy enough to replace them.”

Bran didn’t like the sound of that at all. Maybe the ladies willing to marry a Frey were replaceable, but no one could replace Lady Catelyn. Bran was just opening his mouth to say so when Luwin’s voice echoed in his ears. A prince is courteous, the maester scolded. Bran sighed.

“What’s the name of Robb’s squire? What’s he like?”

Big Walder’s eyes lit up.

“That’s Olyvar. He’s a Rosby Frey, from Lord Walder’s sixth marriage. He’s the third son-”

“Fourth,” Little Walder interrupted. Big Walder snorted.

“Willamen is forging a maester’s chain, he doesn’t count. There’s Perwyn, he’s the eldest son, he’s boring. He was always away at Rosby growing up, grandfather says he’s barely a Frey. Then there’s Benfrey, he’s tricky. Willamen was third, and Olyvar is the last son. He grew up at Rosby too. Grandfather let him be old Lord Gyles’ ward, hoping he’d inherit because Lord Gyles is so sickly. But it’s been years and he just won’t die.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Luwin said sternly as he swept back into the room, his grey robes swishing. Big Walder apologized eloquently, but Bran didn’t like the look in his eyes.

“Since you seem to be listing the Frey line of inheritance, why don’t you begin at the beginning,” the maester said.

“The current heir is Ser Stevron, he’s Lord Walder’s oldest son by his first wife,” Little Walder said. “He’s ancient and always complaining about being tired.”

“Stevron’s eldest son is Ser Ryman.” Big Walder butted in. “He’s got a bad belly and worse wits-“

Outside the breeze flew through the godswood, tickling the direwolves’ soft fur and sending the Reeds’ curls into disarray. Jojen and Meera didn’t have to attend lessons with the Walders, they could play in the godswood all day long. Shaggydog was napping in the sun while Summer crouched on his haunches, his tail wagging. The moss boy threw the stick and Bran leaped for it, catching it in his jaws. Jojen smiled as he ruffled the direwolf’s ears, then darted away, leading boy and direwolf on a merry chase.

“-then there’s Lame Lothar, he’s my uncle, and he’s cleverer than all the Crakehall Freys put together-“

Little Walder glared at his cousin. Little Walder was a Crakehall Frey, Bran remembered. But no dull list of Freys could compare to romping inside Summer’s skin, and Bran slipped away again.

“Welcome back,” Jojen said, gazing into the direwolf’s eyes. The direwolf licked his nose, then abandoned him for Meera. She laughed as the direwolf nuzzled against her leg. She had a pretty laugh, and the warm sunlight brought out hints of gold in her brown curls.

“Bran,” Jojen called. “Come back- you promised to tell me about your dreams.”

And Bran remembered darkness, darkness and cold without end, and dreamers impaled on great shards of ice… and then, out of the darkness, the eyes.

Chapter Text

The letter from Dorne was writ in a wobbly hand. Prince Doran Martell had gout, Tyrion remembered- a nasty illness. It made the joints stiffen and swell and was reputed to be exceedingly painful. Rumor had it that Doran traveled everywhere by litter, as he was too gouty to sit a horse.

Yet despite his shaky hand, Prince Doran’s mind appeared steady. He accepted the offer to betroth Myrcella to his son Trystane and proposed she travel to Sunspear by ship. With no word as to Stannis’ movements and half the fleet on Dragonstone, sailing directly to Dorne was dangerous. Instead, Doran suggested that Myrcella sail for Braavos, and from there to Dorne. It was a convoluted route, but a sensible one.

Once Myrcella was in Braavos, Doran promised to fortify the marches against Stannis. Tyrion doubted Martell had any intention of committing his men to Tommen’s cause, but at least they wouldn’t be swelling Renly’s host as it crawled up the roseroad. Varys said that King Renly and his little queen Margaery Tyrell stopped at every castle to feast, and watch jousts, and whatever other nonsense. Renly’s crown should have a tortoise on it, not a stag. Thank the gods for Renly’s love of showing off. If Stannis had such a host, he’d already be king. But no. Renly had all the charm and all the men, and Stannis had common sense and not much else.

Tyrion sighed and returned to the letter. The prince wrote that Dorne was glad to accept the crown’s gracious offer of a council seat, but it would take some time to arrange the journey. What with the thousands of miles twixt Sunspear and King’s Landing and the slow pace of traveling by litter, Tyrion doubted Doran would arrive until just before the new year.

The final part of the letter was the most touchy. Prince Doran expressed great interest in the offer of justice for the deaths of his sister Elia and her babes. He didn’t have the crudeness to name the culprits outright, but Tyrion suspected he knew exactly whose heads Doran would like tarred and spiked.

From what little Tyrion had heard the Martell siblings had been close, despite the ten year gap between Doran and his younger siblings. Tyrion didn’t want to think about how he would feel if some Dornish knight raped and killed Cersei, but if sweet Myrcella or Tommen suffered the fates of Elia’s babes… Tyrion would hold that grudge until his dying day, and do his best to see that the killers died screaming. Lorch and Clegane were but two men, and a worthy sacrifice to appease the Martells’ need for vengeance.

Tyrion frowned as he idly scratched his scarred elbow. It hurt far less since he’d begun applying Bel’s salve, but it still itched when he propped it on a desk for too long. In sixteen years, why didn’t  father hand them over? There were plenty of brutal men to do his dirty work, and the friendship of Dorne was worth far more than two knights. But then, Elia’s murder had been a colossal blunder, and Tywin Lannister had never acknowledged a mistake in his life.

Well, Tyrion wasn’t Tywin, and if the gods were good Robb Stark would keep his father busy until Tyrion could deliver Ser Amory Lorch and Ser Gregor Clegane to Dornish justice. In the meantime, Tyrion had reports to deliver to Cersei.

Tyrion rubbed his eyes as he walked into Myrcella’s garden. Cersei was sitting on the ground. Cersei was sitting on the ground, smiling, a ginger kitten on her lap, as Myrcella placed a woven crown of flowers upon her head. The sunlight shone on Cersei’s golden hair and her eyes sparkled like emeralds. Tommen wore a matching crown of flowers, though it was hanging precariously over his ear. The ginger and white kitten named Ser Pounce perched on the young king’s shoulder, batting at the crown with one paw. Tommen looked over, his plump face bursting into a dimpled smile.

“Uncle!”

He jumped up and ran to Tyrion, the kitten clinging on for dear life. As Tyrion accepted his nephew’s hug he realized they were the same height- Tommen would surpass him soon, just as Myrcella had.

“Your grace,” Tyrion said, sweeping a low bow as Tommen giggled and Ser Pounce yowled in protest. “I see your sister has given you and your mother better crowns than any smith ever could.”

“Thank you, uncle,” Myrcella said, blushing, “but I’m afraid they are poor substitutes for gold and gems- they’ll be wilted by nightfall.”

“The brief life of a flower makes it all the more beautiful,” Tyrion replied. “Where is your crown, sweet niece?”

“She didn’t make one for herself yet,” Cersei replied, rising from the grass and brushing off her skirts. The ginger kitten leapt down carefully with a mewl of protest.

“Who’s this one? And where’s Ser Whiskers?” Tyrion asked. Tommen grinned, revealing a missing tooth.

“That’s Buttons. Ser Whiskers is napping with Lady Stripes and Lady Cinders.” Gods, how many cats did the boy have?

“Children, run along,” Cersei said, lightly ruffling Tommen’s hair and straightening his crown. “Your uncle has affairs of state I must see to.”

With a smile Myrcella, Tommen, and the kittens made for the other end of the garden, leaving Cersei and Tyrion alone but for the ginger kitten who had flopped at Tyrion’s feet. The queen’s beauty faded as fear crept into her eyes.

“Any word of Stannis?” Cersei asked quietly. Tyrion shook his head and leaned down to scratch Buttons’ chest.

“None. But I’ve word you’ll like much better. You’ll recall Lord Gyles discovered Baelish’s thieving?” Cersei nodded. “Well, I’ve found some of the gold Littlefinger stole from the treasury. Twenty thousand golden dragons, hidden away in one of his brothels.”

In truth it was Lady Cedra who had discovered Littlefinger’s embezzlement, and Bel who had told Bronn about the iron chest Baelish kept in her cellar. No one could figure out the peculiar Rhoynish lock, and in the end Tyrion resorted to having a smith melt it off. But he could hardly tell Cersei a Dornishwoman was acting as master of coin while a brothel madam supplied him with information.

“Good.” Cersei replied. “The crown needs the coin to keep Tommen safe.”

“To keep all of us safe,” Tyrion corrected her. “Much as I love my nephew, I’m quite fond of living too. There’s so much I’ve yet to see.”

“I’m sure seeing the inside of those brothels lifted your mood,” Cersei said, leaning down to scratch the kitten’s chin. For once there was some humor in her gaze.

“Since when do you like cats?” Tyrion asked, unable to hide his confusion. Cersei gave an elegant shrug.

“I don’t. But they make Tommen happy, and this one has grown on me. He never complains or demands anything, he keeps his claws out of my gowns, and he killed a rat in Tommen’s chambers the other day.”

“Perhaps the rats are the ones who tell Varys everything,” Tyrion japed. “As for the brothels, I’ll have you know that I sent Bronn. I’m too busy for such distractions. Serving as your hand requires all my time and talents.”

Cersei smiled as she stood and returned to her children . He almost felt bad that he was planning to poison her.

Shae’s dark eyes glimmered, as bright as the black diamonds on the golden collar she wore. It nestled against her creamy throat as she lay beside him on the bed, her nude body dewy with sweat.

“M’lord is eager tonight,” Shae said, stroking his beard with her hand. He had already taken her twice, and as he looked at her stiff pink nipples he could feel himself growing hard again.

“M’lord has had a trying day,” Tyrion replied. Shae was lovely but she was a whore, not a wife, and his troubles were his alone.

The week had started so well. Stannis had left Dragonstone, only to march on Storm’s End, the stubborn fool. Renly had found some sense of urgency and was rushing to meet him. Cersei was stuck in her privy, thanks to the powder he’d slipped in her wine, and Tyrion was finally able to confront that toady Pycelle. The man had looked absurd with half his beard shaved off.

No sooner had Tyrion flung the old man in a dungeon than Ser Cleos returned to report that Robb Stark was still at Riverrun, at least when Cleos left over a month past. Though it was a little odd that the Stark boy had refused to see Ser Cleos. The new terms had been sent with Cleos by letter, and with no acknowledgment of the return of Ned Stark’s bones or his greatsword. Tyrion could only hope that the boy was shaking in his boots. Regardless of the boy’s ingratitude for his gesture of goodwill, Tyrion was pleased to have Cleos back.  Tyrion finally had a plan to free Jaime, and Bronn was searching for the men he needed.

But that was days ago. Cersei was healthy as a horse, and he’d given her too small a dose. Within four days she was out of her chambers and furious. Tyrion had expected to receive a tongue lashing for his treatment of Pycelle, but that was only the beginning.

It seemed someone had told Cersei about the begging brothers preaching against the “brotherfucker” queen and praising the wolves who fed and guarded the folk of the Riverlands. Nor was she the only Lannister out of favor. The city had hated Lord Tywin since the sack, and now the street preachers had grown bold enough to denounce him for the murder of Princess Elia and the Targaryen babes, the rightful heirs to the throne. Cersei was positively livid, and had all of them thrown in the black cells before Tyrion could so much as blink.

There were no more smiles, no more laughter when they spoke. Cersei interrogated him like he was a captured enemy and she his gaoler. How much wildfire was ready? When would he free Jaime? What was his chain for? What progress had he made in recovering Littlefinger’s stolen gold? Was there any news of the Stark girls? No, reminding her about the sighting of a red wolf near Stoney Sept was not amusing, would Tyrion like to join the begging brothers in the black cells? It seemed as though it took all his wits just to keep Cersei from having his throat cut. 

And then there was that business with Ser Alliser Thorne. I saw it with my own eyes. I tell you, the dead walk. Tyrion shuddered.

“M’lord?” Shae asked, a frown upon her pretty face.

“Do you think the Others ever existed?”

Shae propped herself up on her elbow, biting her lip as she thought.

“Stories have to come from somewhere,” she said at last. “Even in Lorath we have tales of the Long Night and the demons of the cold. I once heard a storyteller from Yi Ti say that it was caused by a terrible emperor who killed his older sister and stole her throne.”

“There’s stories about snarks and grumkins too,” Tyrion replied, idly stroking her wavy hair. Shae shook her head.

“Those are stories for little children. Do you not feel a chill when you speak of them?”

A chill? No, it was more than that. It was a sharp dread, a knife of bitter cold that cut through his entire body. His stomach turned to lead, his limbs to jelly. But Tyrion could not admit that to anyone, not even Tysha. I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair.

“Hush,” he said instead, and went to sleep with Shae’s warm body clasped against his.

Chapter Text

Catelyn sighed as she watched the Stark banner flap in the wind. Storm’s End was well named. Though the sky was clear, the east wind was fierce and cold. The sea rode the wind, bringing the scent of salt and deep waters. Were the winds the same on the Fingers? Catelyn had never seen the windswept stony lands that Petyr Baelish called home. She wondered if he would be buried there.

Ser Robar Royce had told her of his death at Bitterbridge. She’d been picking at the rich food when he approached her, a slightly sheepish look on his face. Not five minutes past he’d been juggling daggers, egged on by a tipsy Lord Bryce. Catelyn had caught his eye, unable to hide her wistful disapproval. She had been young and foolish once too, thinking chivalry was only great deeds, never dreaming of the horrors of war. Even Robert’s Rebellion, grim as it was, had not crushed her. But watching Bran cling to life, losing Ned, wondering if her girls still lived… could a heart shatter like glass?

“My lady,” Robar had said. “I am sorry for your loss. My father held Lord Eddard in high esteem. May the Stranger receive Eddard Stark with all honor and may the Father grant justice for his death.”

The Starks follow the old gods, you insolent child. No, that that was unfair. Catelyn had met the young knight two years past, when Lord Yohn Royce visited Winterfell. Robar seemed to live for practicing in the yard, and had been happy to spar with Robb and the baseborn Jon Snow, showing them tricks Ser Rodrik Cassel didn’t know. He wasn’t the type of man to insult Ned by deliberately referring to the new gods, he’d just forgotten.

“I thank you,” she replied. “You are far from the Vale, ser.”

“A second son finds glory where he can,” Robar replied with a shrug. Then why not serve Robb? Catelyn wanted to ask. Renly has no claim. But it was not meet to ask such a blunt question at a feast thrown in Renly’s honor.

“My lady…” Robar hesitated. “I understand you rode south from Riverrun? We have  some tidings from King’s Landing that you might not have heard.”

Fear gripped Catelyn’s heart in an iron hold.

“My daughters?” She asked, her voice higher than she intended. Robar’s eyes widened and he shook his head.

“No, no, my lady— there is no word of them that I know of.”

Catelyn exhaled slowly. Thank the gods for that.

“I understand Petyr Baelish was fostered at Riverrun?” Robar said. Catelyn nodded. At least he had enough sense to not reference how Petyr’s fostering had ended. “He’s dead, my lady.”

Cold satisfaction had dripped through her veins at Bitterbridge, but now as she awaited Stannis and Renly, a hint of guilt pricked at her conscience.

Petyr was the confidant of her girlhood, practically a brother. Catelyn did not even know how he had betrayed Ned, and it was possible Sansa had made a mistake… yet somehow she knew there was no mistake. I wonder if Lysa knows Petyr’s dead. When she returned to Riverrun she should send her sister a raven, though Catelyn doubted it would receive any reply. Robb had sent four ravens already to no avail.

At last Stannis Baratheon approached, a woman riding behind him carrying his banner. The banner was as unexpected as the red priestess who bore it. It was a sunny yellow, not Baratheon gold, and there was a blazing heart where the black stag should have reared.

"Lady Stark," Stannis Baratheon said with chill courtesy as he reined up.

“King Stannis,” she replied. He frowned, taken aback.

“Your son claims half my kingdom,” Stannis said, his jaw clenched. “What cause brings you to this field, my lady? Has House Stark decided to make amends for such treason?”

This will not do. Catelyn checked her temper and replied calmly. 

“My son fights to defend the Riverlands from the Lannisters,” she replied. “I have seen no Baratheon hosts defending the realm from the lions. King Robb is not a child playing at chivalry, he is the victor of several battles.” When Stannis snorted, Catelyn regretted the dig at Renly. She had come to forge a peace between the brothers, not mock them behind their backs. 

"Robb acknowledges the bastardy of Cersei Lannister’s children, and your right to the Iron Throne.” Stannis’s deepset eyes glinted. “My son reigns as King in the North, by the will of our lords and people. He bends the knee to no man, but holds out the hand of friendship to all.”

“Kings have no friends," Stannis said bluntly, "only subjects and enemies."

"And brothers," a cheerful voice called out behind her.

Catelyn glanced over her shoulder, a headache slowly coming on. She usually got them during her moon blood, and it had started three days ago. Renly approached, Brienne of Tarth riding behind him. The Baratheon banner fluttered proudly from her lance, and her deep blue armor shone.

Beside the towering Brienne, Renly appeared as he was, a mere stripling, barely past twenty. Stannis was closer to forty than thirty, balding and grim. They looked like brothers, to be sure, with their deep blue eyes and black hair, their broad shoulders and hard muscles. But the only thing they truly had in common was their golden crowns, one wrought with flames, the other with a jade stag’s head uplifted by roses.

“Lord Renly,” Stannis said curtly, and the bickering began.

As they argued over Stannis’s banner Catelyn tried not to despair. If I slapped the crowns off their heads, would they act like grown men? Still, she must try to make them see reason. As Renly japed about the battle to come, Catelyn saw her chance.

“Let us hope there will be no battle,” she said. “We three share a common foe who would destroy us all. Cersei’s bastard sits your precious Iron Throne, and Lord Tywin sits at Harrenhal with twenty thousand swords. The remnants of the Kingslayer's army have regrouped at the Golden Tooth, and another Lannister host gathers beneath the shadow of Casterly Rock. You each name yourself king, yet the kingdom bleeds, and no one lifts a sword to defend it but my son."

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of his little victories,” Renly said amiably. “Rumors fly about that direwolf of his, and about the peculiar behavior of the wolves of the Riverlands. A clever strategy, I’ll grant you. Someday you must tell me how he persuaded wolves to slay aurochs and then lead starving villagers to them- or at least how he managed to spread such fanciful tales. Still, a few battles are not a war, and the Lannisters can await my pleasure. Of course, if Stannis bends the knee to me, I’ll be able to fight the Lannisters a little sooner.”

Stannis opened his mouth, his eyes blazing with fury, but Catelyn spoke first.

“Await your pleasure?” Catelyn snapped. “I have ridden through fields of ash and seen corpses lying unburied by the road. I have seen fields of grain turned to blackened deserts, and once clear streams fouled by the rotting bodies of the slain.”

She took a breath, heedless in her wrath. “A true king defends the realm, and yet you hold tourneys and feast while my father’s people die and starve. Winter is coming, my lords, and it will devour us all if we do not stand together.”

“Such fiery words, my lady,” Renly said, his easy smile unchanged. “I see why Littlefinger spoke so wistfully of you.”

Catelyn was speechless with rage.

“You have no right to the throne,” Stannis said implacably. “I am Robert’s rightful heir. Tommen is a bastard born of incest, and you are a traitor and a usurper.”

“What a convenient story,” Renly replied. “You would be Robert’s heir, if it were true. Yet what evidence have you for such an astonishing claim?”

Stannis stared, fuming. “I brought my concerns to Jon Arryn. He was investigating the matter before he died, no doubt poisoned by the queen. We visited Robert’s bastards in King’s Landing, and they all had his look.”

“And Cersei’s children don’t,” Renly said agreeably. “How incredible— children that resemble their mother. I’ve seen Catelyn’s daughter Sansa— a pretty child, nearly her mother’s copy. Will you accuse Lady Stark of sleeping with her brother next?”

Livid at Renly’s jest, Catelyn found her voice.

“I have proof,” Catelyn said sharply. “My son Bran saw Jaime and Cersei together at Winterfell. He testified before the lords of the North and they judged his word to be true.” Stannis frowned at her, his eyes narrowed. “Nor is that all. Before she disappeared, Sansa was forced to write letters to her family. They contained a coded message that also accused the queen of incest.”

“So we have the word of a dead man, a crippled boy, and a missing girl.” Renly shrugged. “And yet I only received letters from Stannis, not Robb Stark. If what you say is true, why not announce it to the realm?”

Catelyn could have kicked herself. Robb thinks of nothing but battle, and I thought of little else but my dying father and my missing daughters, until Robb sent me here. What might happen if Robb sent his own ravens to support Stannis’s letter?

“It is true, and you owe me your allegiance,” Stannis said, grinding his teeth. “I am not without mercy,” said the man who chopped off the fingers of the smuggler who saved his life. “If you strike your banners before dawn, I will forgive your folly. You will have Storm’s End, your old council seat, I’ll even name you my heir until a son is born to me.”

“How generous my brother is,” Renly said, turning to Brienne. “He offers me a castle that is already mine and a seat on a council he does not lead.”

“Cersei Lannister is laughing herself silly," Catelyn said, appalled. “My lords, there is another way. Let us call for a Great Council, such as the realm has not seen for a hundred years. We will send to Winterfell, so Bran may tell his tale and all men may know the Lannisters for the true usurpers. Let the assembled lords of the Seven Kingdoms choose who shall rule them."

“The throne is mine by right,” Stannis thundered. Renly smiled, and drew a peach from his cloak.

“This came from Highgarden. Have you ever seen a peach so perfect?” Renly took a bite, the juice running down his mouth. “The south has chosen me already, and no one chose you.” Renly turned away from his seething brother and winked at Catelyn with all the easy confidence of youth. “Mark my words, Lady Stark, for you shall see it. Come dawn the chivalry of the Reach will win my claim.”

Dawn came, but no amount of chivalry could win Renly’s claim now. If there was any chivalry that day, it was the chivalry of Robar Royce, who’d held off Renly’s men so Catelyn and Brienne could escape from the king’s tent. A shadow, how could a shadow kill?

Catelyn and her escort rode hard for as long as they dared before stopping in a copse of willow trees to change horses and decide their path. They could not ride due north— the Kingswood was held by the Lannisters. No, they must go west before they could turn north, and Catelyn prayed that they wouldn’t encounter any of Renly’s men.

Brienne said nothing as she rode beside  them, silent and stricken. Her eyes were as blue as a cloudless day, and as innocent. It’s always summer in the songs, the homely girl had said at Bitterbridge. In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining. A dozen times Catelyn almost asked Ser Perwyn to sing, and a dozen times she thought better of it. A song might raise Brienne’s spirits, or crush them entirely, and Catelyn could not bear to take the risk of hurting the awkward girl. Still, Brienne’s silence was unnerving. It was like riding with a ghost. Or a shadow. Catelyn would have almost preferred it if Brienne had wept.

Her escorts treated the girl with courtesy. Ser Wendel Manderly loaned her a few pieces of clothing. Robin Flint offered Brienne the second best piece of roasted quail after offering Catelyn the first portion. After several days of awkward glances Ser Perwyn thanked her for her help with the horses, and admitted none of his brothers was so diligent in checking their shoes for stones. Perhaps Catelyn had been unfair to the young man- Bethany Rosby must have been a good woman, for there was none of old Lord Walder in him.

They rode for days and days, and the lush green of the Reach gave way to scorched orchards. There should be apples on these trees, apples and pears and cherries. Rain had put the fires out before the trees could burn entirely, but they’d bear no fruit before winter. Catelyn thought of Renly’s peach and wanted to scream.

Her scouts helped them avoid villages, but now and then she gave them permission to carefully ask for news. Each time a scout returned she waited with bated breath, hoping there would finally be some word of her girls. But there was no news of her girls, or even Robb.

There was news of Lord Beric Dondarrion. The lightning lord was everywhere and nowhere. He’d brought a flock of sheep to feed the folk of Stoney Sept. No, he was harrying Gregor Clegane. No, he was raiding Lord Tywin’s camps around Harrenhal.

“They say a red she-wolf has been seen stalking the Riverlands,” Hal Mollen told her one evening as they ate. “She finds lost children and howls until folk come. A fisherman swore he saw the red wolf come into Stoney Sept with a toddler on her back. There’s word of a grey she-wolf too, a maneater that stalks rapers and rips out their throats.”

“That sounds like Nymeria,” Catelyn said wistfully.

She’d hoped the direwolf would stay with Robb and Grey Wind. Perhaps Nymeria was looking for Arya. If any highborn girl could survive alone, it would be Arya. The red wolf Catelyn could not account for. Lady was dead, and none of the others were female or red. Had the gods sent the red wolf to help Sansa? Her poor sweet girl, lost and defenseless. She would never forgive herself for sending her south.

That night they slept under the stars, too tired to bother with tents. It was near dawn when Catelyn awoke to a cold nose nuzzling her cheek. A soft gasp escaped her as she saw the great red direwolf leaning over her. It stepped back, shy as a maiden, its large blue eyes pleading. The wolf whined, and Catelyn raised a trembling hand. The she-wolf rubbed her snout against Catelyn’s palm. The fur was thick and soft, somehow familiar.

“My lady!” Brienne cried out, and Catelyn heard the sound of steel as she drew her sword. The red direwolf bolted, a trail of grey ashes flying beneath her paws.

“My lady? Are you well?” Brienne asked, resting a large hand on Catelyn’s shoulder.

“I thought…” Catelyn fell silent, afraid she’d wake from this queer dream. I thought I saw my daughter.

Chapter Text

“Do you still miss Starfall?”

The woman spoke carefully, her words slightly slurred. She was young, perhaps twenty, small and slight. Her skin was darker than that of the tawny knight beside her. A crown encircled her wavy sable hair; dragons roared upon her gown beneath scarlet suns pierced by golden spears. A beautifully carved cherrywood cane lay by her side; one delicate hand rested upon the slight curve of her belly.

“Sometimes,” the knight said heavily. The sun shone off the falling stars that adorned his white armor. The knight looked much the same as he had at the tower, until Sansa looked closer. His amethyst eyes were brighter, his posture straighter.

“Where is Rhaenys?” Sweat trickled down the woman’s brow, and her breathing was shallow.

“Prince Oberyn rocked her to sleep in Lady Shella’s garden; Ser Lewyn is with them.”

“Good. Oberyn will… watch over her. Fetch the maester.” As she turned to the knight, her limbs seemed slightly stiff.

“Princess—”

“Now, Ser Arthur. I will not miss the final day of the tourney, not when my husband rides in the lists.”

No sooner had the knight departed than the woman winced, her amber eyes looking down at her belly.

“Are… you… there… little one? Mother Above… hear my prayer… your father… grows too eager…” Her speech seemed more natural without an audience, though much slower. She sighed, her eyes thoughtful.

“The knight … of the laughing… tree,” the princess muttered. “He dreamt it… and… it came to pass. If he is right… about the other dreams… the Seven… help us all.”

When Sansa awoke, all she could think of was Princess Elia. Who was the knight of the laughing tree? What were the dreams that frightened her? 

Sansa thought of Elia as the old grandmother showed her how to spin; she thought of Elia as she made up a song for a fussy baby; she thought of Elia as she taught a pair of young girls how to hem a tunic. Who was Elia, truly? Had she wanted to marry Rhaegar and be queen someday? Or would she have rather remained in Sunspear and married some lesser noble?

Sansa had always known that she would leave Winterfell to wed a great lord or prince, but of late she had begun to resent her duty. She missed Winterfell, she missed her chambers and her mother’s solar and the godswood. She missed Robb and Bran and Rickon, she missed Old Nan and Maester Luwin. But most of all she missed her mother. 

Sansa wished she could talk to her. She had so many questions to ask. Had Lady Catelyn longed to return to Riverrun? Did she miss her brother and sister and her father? Perhaps her mother could even tell her what Elia was like. Lady Catelyn had been a young lady in the days before Robert’s Rebellion; surely she had met Princess Elia. Sansa had been surprised to learn that only a few of the smallfolk in the hollow hill had ever seen a Tully, let alone a Martell.

It had been over a moon’s turn since her pack arrived at the hollow hill. The massive cave still unsettled Sansa with its many tunnels and nooks and crannies. Weirwood roots ran through the walls and ceilings of the refuge. One great tangle formed a set of stairs behind the massive fire pit, leading up to a dark hollow where Sansa and her pack slept.

Sansa was still thinking of Elia when she settled herself down for the evening meal. A weirwood stump served as her seat, the wood as pale as her skirts.

Thank the gods for Arya’s quick wits and Lady Smallwood’s kindness. The lady of Acorn Hall had given Arya three of her own gowns for her missing sister. The gown Sansa currently wore was soft wool, with cream skirts and an ebony bodice. Swans had adorned it, until Sansa carefully undid the embroidery. It was simple to remove the fine stitches, stitches that must have taken hours and hours of painstaking needlework. Of course Sansa could not display Swann heraldry, but she had still mourned the graceful birds as she picked them apart.

Almost in apology for desecrating the lovely gown, Sansa took great care not to stain the cloth, keeping her skirts well away from dirt and soot. Arya, who sat at Sansa’s left hand, did not share her sensibilities. Her brown tunic, jerkin, and breeches, more gifts from Lady Smallwood, already showed signs of hard wear.

Jeyne was the only one of their pack who remained besides Arya. The dark tunnels made Meri anxious, and she’d departed with a pair of older women, gone to seek cows. There were plenty of children in the hollow hill, children who needed milk. Gendry was gone too, away forging swords. He’d departed with a blessing from Sansa and a hard punch to the shoulder from Arya.

Sansa was surprised by how much she missed Meri and Gendry, even though she still had Arya and Jeyne. Jeyne helped Sansa manage the household, taking stock of their supplies while Arya helped Jeyne with the sums and spoke to the smallfolk.

It was Arya who had suggested the stump at Sansa’s right hand. At Winterfell Lord Eddard had listened to a different person each night, and so Sansa followed his example as Lady of the Hollow Hill. Each evening Arya chose a different person to sit on the stump beside Sansa during dinner, grandmothers and children, crippled men and maidens. Sansa listened to their stories, their fears, and tried her best to help. 

Tonight Sansa’s guest was Anguy, one of the group who had captured her pack. He had remained to guard the hill, though Arya said he was itching to do something more. The archer stared at her, his hands trembling as he ate. Sansa had intended her transformation to inspire faith, but it had also inspired a certain amount of respectful terror. She didn’t like that at all. A lady should inspire love in her people, not fear.

“I saw you shoot at the hand’s tourney,” Sansa said between bites of stewed venison, hoping to put him at ease. “You defeated Ser Balon Swann and Jalabhar Xho at a hundred paces.”

The archer smiled, startled out of his respectful silence.

“That I did, m’lady.”

“How did you become such a fine shot?”

“Well, livin’ in the Dornish marches, the lords like t’ train as many bowmen as they can, in case the Dornish attack. Me dad was a fletcher, he made me a little bow when I was that one’s age,” he jerked his head at Arya. “He had me practice by hunting game.”

The Dornish marches? Would he know of Princess Elia? Sansa examined his face and her heart sank. No, he was far too young.

“And the whole realm saw the worth of his teaching,” Sansa replied, making herself smile. Anguy blushed.

“I’ve only hunted with hawks, not the bow-”

“She’s not very good at it,” Arya interrupted.

Sansa forgot herself and stuck her tongue out at her sister. Someone choked back laughter, and Sansa gathered the shreds of her dignity.

“An archer must practice his craft, just as a wolf must hunt. Might you teach some of the others how to shoot?”

The archer tapped his foot thoughtfully.

“We’ve only a few bows, m’lady,” he said. “I could make more—”

“And how long would that take?” Alyn asked from across the fire, his face skeptical under his scraggly beard. Anguy frowned.

“A while,” he admitted. 

“If we find you bows, would you train any willing to learn?” The young man nodded, and Sansa looked at Arya. Her sister grinned wolfishly.

It took a week before Nymeria and her pack arrived, bows and quivers gently clenched in their jaws. Some of the bows had bloodstains, and Sansa wondered how many men had been slain to steal them.

Arya seemed to have no qualms about riding into battle in Nymeria’s skin, but the thought of killing men still made Sansa feel ill. Had those bowmen been trained like Anguy? Had they grown up hunting game with their fathers, only to be sent to kill men they had never met nor quarreled with?

Sansa did not have the heart to fight like Nymeria, but she could do something else. 

Sansa the direwolf snuffled at the scrap of the child’s shirt. She could smell the mother’s hand that held the cloth, the salty tears upon Liane’s face. Focus. The cloth was heavy with the smell of the child’s sweat. The poor boy had been terrified, and now he was all alone. 

The red direwolf ran south, her feet so swift she felt as if she could fly, bits of poetry running through her head as the leagues slipped away. As she ran Sansa sniffed the air for any trace of little Pate amongst the aromas of wood and water, fire and ash.

She was near Stoney Sept when she found a sleeping toddler, alone and starving. Her tail wagged frantically as she sniffed him but drooped when his scent proved strange. 

Once the child was delivered to safety, Sansa resumed her search. She was lapping water from a stream, stars shining overhead, when an unexpected scent tickled at her sensitive nose. The scent was so familiar that Sansa almost slipped back into her own skin. Mother?  

Liane wept until she laughed when the red direwolf returned with Pate riding her back. Sansa wished her son had been as grateful for her help.

The little boy had screamed himself hoarse when he saw the red direwolf. Sansa had ripped a branch of blackberries off a bush and brought it to him, the thorns prickling her mouth, but he refused to take the ripe fruit. Finally she had crawled under the blackberry bush, slipped back into her own skin, and told the boy his mother had sent her. That had startled him so much he stopped screaming, but it took ages to persuade him to come with her. 

When Liane finally let go of the direwolf’s neck Sansa clambered up into the dark hollow and changed back into her own shape. She dressed herself in a deep blue gown, Jeyne helping her and whispering what had happened in her absence.

Jeyne’s news was worrisome. Though there was plenty of meat from the wolves, they were low on flour and cheese, and they desperately needed cloth and thread. Many of the smallfolk had only one set of clothes, and those half ruined when they fled from Lannister raiders.

“Alyn’s gone out for supplies, and a singer arrived this morning,” Arya murmured as Jeyne finished Sansa’s laces.

There was no word of Robb, or Winterfell, but a fisherman had brought a brace of enormous fish and word that Renly Baratheon was dead, his host gone over to Stannis. Rumor had it that Lady Catelyn had been with Renly when he died. Sansa bit her tongue as she thought of mother’s pale face in the sunrise, and the strange knight who’d frightened Sansa away.

Soon it was time for dinner, and the singer approached Sansa as she made her way to her seat.

“Tom o’ Sevenstreams, at your service, m'lady,” the man said with a gallant bow. Tom was a man of fifty, as thin and worn as his wood harp. He attempted to claim the stump beside Sansa, but Arya sent him off with a fierce glare.

Arya had already chosen Sansa’s dinner companion. Ronnel was a big man gone to seed, his hair almost entirely grey. The man had been born with a clubfoot, but his strong arms and gentle smile had won him an apprenticeship with the blacksmith and the hand of the prettiest girl in the village. His wife was gone now, as were his sons, who were fighting under Lord Bracken. It was his forge that Gendry now used, for Ronnel was too weary to lift a hammer.

When the meal was finished Tom began to play. His voice was sweeter than his looks, and for a few minutes Sansa lost herself as he sang “Alysanne”and “Seasons of My Love.”  Then he began to play “The Rains of Castamere” and the moment was gone. Tom sang half a verse before the crippled smith told him to shut up.

Sansa was grateful that Ronnel had spared her the trouble. She could not think of Tywin Lannister without remembering Princess Elia and her babes. What singer had written such an awful song? Whoever he was, he was surely richly rewarded. Father never had to pay people to sing his praises, they loved him for himself. Yet no one knew what Ned Stark had done, or why his death was so cruel. No one but Arya and me.

Under her breath Sansa began to hum, thinking of poetry she’d composed while running in her wolfskin.

The King he rode for Winterfell
to seek an honest man
the lord there knew his duty well
and said he'd serve as hand

The Hand he was a northern lord 
with eyes as grey as stone 
the Hand he wore a noble sword 
valyrian steel sharp honed…

Sansa sighed as she set her sewing down. Sewing tunics was necessary but incredibly dull. She should be grateful Alyn had returned with good wool cloth, stolen from some Lannister supply wagon, but she desperately missed embroidery. Sansa almost sympathized with Arya’s hatred of needlework.

At least it was finally getting too dark to sew. Dusk was falling, the sun dipping toward the horizon in a glorious riot of gold, lavender and rose. Beams of light shone  between the alder trees, illuminating the children at play. All safe? Sansa silently asked the barley birds who twittered in the branches above her head. They were friendly, restless birds, their feathers grey and green and flax. One of them chirped happily- no unfamiliar two-leggers were about. Sansa exhaled, a knot in her tummy loosening. Everyone needed time outside the cave, but it made her nervous.

Sansa sat near the entrance to the hollow hill, perched on a boulder. Weirwood roots curled around the cave’s entrance; one even embraced the boulder Sansa sat upon. In the distance Anguy was teaching a group of boys to shoot, along with Arya and a few older girls. Most of the women sat beside Sansa, some sewing, some spinning. The surest spinner was the old grandmother from Sherrer. Celia’s wrinkled hands moved with the ease of long practice, her thread as fine as Sansa had ever seen.

“It may be growing too dark to sew, but it isn’t too dark to spin, m’lady,” Celia said, almost absentmindedly.

None of the other women dared reproach a lady of Sansa’s high birth, let alone one who could turn into a direwolf, but Celia was too old to care for such niceties. Alyn had found wool cloth and raw wool, but no thread. They could not do anything without thread, so everyone must do her fair share.

It was Celia who had decided that Sansa must learn to spin, and Celia who had briskly demonstrated the motions over and over until Sansa could spin a lumpy thread. Truth be told Sansa liked the old woman’s little improprieties. They reminded her of Old Nan. With a sigh Sansa picked up her distaff, whorl, and spindle. She had been spinning for only a little while when Tom approached.

“Good afternoon, m'lady,” the old singer said with a graceful bow. Sansa dipped her head to acknowledge him, but kept her eyes on her spinning.

“Your sister tells me you’ve been making up songs for the little ones,” Tom stroked the strings of his wood harp, calling forth a pretty ripple of music.

Sansa nodded, her tongue sticking out as she watched the long thread in her hand. 

“Lady Jeyne says you’ve been writing a song for your lord father.” Sansa pinched the wool too tightly, and the thread snapped.

“A song is a powerful thing, m'lady. I’ll be going back out in a day or two, and I’ll be traveling far. I might help you finish it, and spread it over the Riverlands.”

Sansa stared at the spindle lying on the ground. What if he laughs at it? What if he thinks my song is stupid?

“M'lady?”

Sansa picked up the spindle, frowning as she looked at the split end of the thread. Celia would help her mend it when Tom was gone, but Celia could not help her with this. 

“I thank you for the kind offer,” Sansa said at last. “Come to me after dinner, and I’ll share what I have thus far.”

Sansa absentmindedly stroked the weirwood root, her spinning forgotten. The root was warm from the sunlight, a low hum of power pulsing beneath her fingers.  Father will have a song, a better one than any writ for Tywin Lannister. I swear it.

Chapter Text

"But I love roasted beef. Why would the Walders like old grey dead meat better than I like the roast?"

Jojen stared at Bran, his mossy eyes solemn.

"It isn't like that, Bran. The dreams take strange shapes, and their truth is hidden, but the green dreams do not lie."

Supper that night was pigeon pie, and Bran ate every bite, his eyes flicking to the Reeds. How did Jojen know his dreams were true? Bran had dreamt of forgetting all the answers during a lesson, and Maester Luwin turning into an angry grey beast, but that hadn't happened, no more than he had forgotten all his clothes and presided over the Harvest Feast naked. Were those not green dreams? His dreams of Sansa felt very real, but nothing was green in those dreams except things that should be green.

After fretting for over a week, Bran asked Maester Luwin about the dream. Lessons were finished and the Walders were gone away, and Rickon was distracted playing with one of the maester's instruments. When Bran finished speaking the maester rubbed his bald spot, his expression doubtful.

"Greenseers have not been seen in thousands of years, Bran," the maester said. "No more than the Children of the Forest, or giants."

"Osha said there's giants north of the wall," Bran protested. "Giants and wights, she's seen them." The maester harrumphed, then frowned.

"I suppose true dreams are possible, even if they are not green dreams."  His eyes stared into the distance as he thought.

"The Targaryens claimed Daenys the Dreamer foresaw the Doom of Valyria. Your dream of your brother's crown proved true, as did the dream of the Frey boys arriving..."

The grey man shook his head, and smiled tiredly.

"Do not let yourself fret over what may come to pass, Bran. Even if the dream is true, you cannot do anything to change it."

The raven came on the twenty-third day. Bran felt as though a knot in his chest loosened as Luwin read of Robb's victory over the Lannister host at Oxcross. And yet a chill crept over his limbs as he recalled Osha's words before Robb left Winterfell.

"You tell him he’s bound on marching the wrong way. It’s north he should be taking his swords. North, not south."

Icy hands clutched at Bran's arms, and he shivered as Luwin scolded the Walders for their lack of grief for Ser Stevron Frey, who had died after the battle. Had the maester realized yet? With a feeling of unease, Bran asked to be excused.

Hodor must have been busy, for it was Osha who came to carry Bran away. At first she made for his chambers, until Bran told her that wasn't where he wanted to go.

Osha set him down gently, his back against the trunk of the heart tree. The wood was warm from the sun, and as Bran listened to the rustling leaves he felt just a little better. Summer and Shaggydog were lapping at the pool, their pink tongues bright against the dark water, and Summer came to lie beside Bran when he whistled. He petted the direwolf's soft fur, and gathered his courage.

"Why did you say Robb is marching the wrong way?"

Robb sat in a tent, his eyes fixed on a sheepskin map. He was alone, slumped in a slung leather camp chair. There were new lines upon Robb's face, and deep red whiskers sprouting from his cheeks and chin. But it was still his brother Robb, just a boy of fifteen, his strong limbs gangly from quick growth and a few angry red pimples hidden at the edges of his wavy hair.

"Your grace?" a voice called. Robb sat up, his posture proud and straight. He tucked away the exhaustion that had marred his face, and Bran saw Robb the King.

As the squire entered the tent Bran heard a crow cawing in the distance, calling him. Bran hesitated, but at last he surrendered and followed.

North he sped, flying past a pair of towers astride a river, past swamps and deep woods, until at last he beheld the Wall. It shone like an aquamarine necklace his mother had, as blue green as the sunlight on the sea at White Harbor. Further he flew, past forest and streams, to a great jutting hill that punched out of the ground like a fist.

A man was climbing down the hill, something clasped in his arms. Bran watched him pick his way through the grey rocks, down the bare brown slopes, the wind tugging at his black cloak. At last he stopped behind a fallen tree at the base of the hill. He placed his burden aside and began to dig with his bare hands. The soil was sandy and loose, and he soon had a hole nearly as deep as Rickon was tall. The man pulled off his cloak, laying it upon the ground, and Bran started as he recognized the man's face.

Suddenly it was night. A torch burned beside the fallen tree, one end jammed in the ground. Ghost sat on his haunches, his white fur almost gold in the torch light as he watched the boy unwrap the bundle. Black flames shone in the night as knives, spearheads, and arrowheads fell to the ground. A cracked war horn lay beneath them, bound in bronze. Bran heard a sound like the breaking of ice and then he knew no more.

Bran fidgeted as Ser Rodrik sipped his cup of mead. Maester Luwin still hesitated to believe Jojen’s dreams as he believed Bran’s. Bran had to convince him, him and Ser Rodrik, before the dreams came to pass. 

Ser Rodrik had returned that morning, bearing a grim expression and a prisoner who stank worse than the pig sty. The pudgy young man had plump lips and long hair. One eye was red and swollen shut from a wound that slashed from his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek. The other eye was frightening and pale, and seemed familiar, though Bran couldn't remember why.

Bran had had to wait until supper to learn what had happened. It seemed that the young man was called Reek, and he had served the Bastard of Bolton. The Bastard had attacked the Hornwoods as they returned from the Harvest Feast. They had been on Hornwood lands, less than a day's ride from the keep when the Bastard and his men fell upon their camp by night. Daryn Hornwood had almost been slain, but for the intervention of Lady Donella. The wound on Reek’s face was the mark of her nails, giving Daryn a chance to draw his dagger and put an end to the Bastard.

Accompanied by the few men-at-arms who remained, the Hornwoods had fled to the safety of their keep. Daryn was on the mend, thanks to their maester, and Ser Rodrik had found Reek hiding near the ruins of the Hornwoods' camp, the only one of the Bastard's men to survive. That was why Ser Rodrik had spared him, to serve as witness to his master's crimes.

"Thank the gods that Lord Hornwood survived," Maester Luwin said as he pushed away his plate with a sigh. "Poor Lady Donella has suffered enough without losing her only son."

"He should get married," Bran said. "He could give her lots of grandchildren to play with, and then you could marry Lady Hornwood so Beth has a mother."

Ser Rodrik shook his head, but Maester Luwin gave Bran a thoughtful look.

"Lord Hornwood is of an age to wed, and having heirs of his own would prevent future concerns."

"It is something to think on, but we have more pressing concerns with the ironborn," Ser Rodrik replied, his face lined with worry. "These raiders would not dare attack if our main strength were not so far away. If Tallhart cannot handle them, I may need to ride against them myself."

The sea, the sea is coming, just like Jojen said. The solemn boy had dreamt of waves crashing over the walls, of men lying drowned. 

But the raiders were along the coast, hundreds of miles away. How could the sea reach Winterfell? 

Chapter Text

Arya panted as she wiped the sweat from her brow. Everything hurt. She grinned.

For the past few weeks Arya had risen at dawn, stealing away to the clear stream beside the hollow hill. There was a grassy clearing near as big as the Small Hall where she had learned from Syrio Forel. It was there that she practiced being a water dancer.

She began with stretches, loosening her limbs, waking them from slumber. Then she sprinted back and forth across the clearing, trying not to trip on little stones or slip on the mud. When Arya finished running, she knelt on the grass and pushed herself up with her arms, then lowered herself down again. Syrio had done push ups with his feet on the ground, but Arya had to kneel until she was stronger. When her arms were sore and shaking, she finally began her drills. "An attack does not come when you are ready for it," Syrio had told her once. "It is coming when you are tired, when you are slow."

Arya wasn't sure how long she had been practicing drills when she saw the wolves across the stream, trotting back from their early morning hunt. While Sharp Nose and the rest of the stream pack headed back to their den, Biter lingered. The she-wolf's jaws and brown fur were bloody, and she licked her chops as she watched Arya attack a dead tree, parrying and slashing without ever touching the bark.

Finally Arya lowered her stick, her chest heaving. The stream was cool and pleasant as she cupped her hands and scooped up clear water, drinking it down. Biter trotted nearer, facing Arya across the stream.

The she-wolf was in a good mood. They had run down an aurochs, and she had been the one to tear out its throat. Not a single one of her pack had been injured, and they'd gorged themselves on enough meat to last them for days. Well done, Arya told her. The wolf wrinkled her snout. She didn't need praise, she was here for something else.

Arya rolled up her roughspun breeches and waded across the stream. Biter tilted her head and Arya paused, waiting for Biter to come to her. The she-wolf approached slowly, then rubbed her back against Arya. There was an itchy spot that she just couldn't reach, and she ordered Arya to help with it.

By the time Biter was satisfied Arya's stomach was growling. Arya dunked herself in the stream, washing away the sweat of her morning practice. As she pulled her dry clothes back on, she heard a leaf rustle, and she spun to see the intruder- a small, dirty boy, not more than two. He waved at her from behind an elm tree, his thumb in his mouth.

"Why didn't it eat you?" An older boy stepped from behind the tree. He looked to be seven or so. His hair was a dull sandy brown, and clumped with bits of mud.   

"She has a name. It's Biter," Arya told the boy, putting her stick back in her belt. "And wolves don't eat people." Usually. But since the boys weren't soldiers raiding a village, they had nothing to fear.

"What's your name?" Arya asked. She knew almost everyone inside the hollow hill, but Tom o' Sevenstreams had returned yesterday, escorting a small group of villagers seeking refuge. These must be two of them.

"'M Patrek, ‘n this is Theo," the boy said, nudging the toddler. The toddler waved grubby fingers and began humming a familiar tune.

Arya grimaced. Villagers weren’t all Tom had brought last night. The singer had also brought a new song he'd written for Sansa. The red wolf was a lady fair, the sea in her eyes and flames in her hair. Tom had sung it multiple times, and by the last time half of the smallfolk were singing along. Sansa smiled, and blushed, and thanked Tom. Then Arya looked, really looked, like Syrio had taught her. Her sister’s smile was a little stiff; her thanks a little too polished. She should ask about it after she broke her fast.

Arya eyed the two filthy boys.

"Well, Patrek and Theo, you'd best wash before the Lady sees you.”

Patrek might be Bran’s age, but unlike her brother he was not interested in cleanliness. He was even more upset at the idea of getting naked in front of a strange girl. In the end, Arya shoved him into a shallow part of the stream. After she dunked him twice, he sullenly began washing himself.

Theo had no such objections to getting clean, and she bathed him like she'd once bathed Rickon. There was no soap, but she scrubbed the dirt off him with a leaf, and ran her callused fingers through his tangled hair. She needed to talk to Jeyne, see if they had any soap. Was it something they could make, or would she need to have Nymeria steal some?

"Do you like milk?" Arya asked Theo as she dressed him. He nodded, his thumb still firmly in his mouth. Arya took him by the hand and pulled him back into the hollow hill, Patrek following behind.

Inside the hollow hill was a buzz of activity. Sansa sat upon her weirwood stump beside the fire, braiding a new girl's hair. A simple cloth poppet was clutched in the girl's hands, the head nearly torn off.

A group of women surrounded Sansa. Liane stirred a great cauldron over the fire while Della ladled porridge into rough wooden bowls held by waiting children. They took their bowls and scurried back to their places in the hollow hill. The hill was full of nooks and crannies where children could sit on the ground and drink the porridge when it was cool.

Arya didn't mind sitting on the packed dirt floor, but it bothered Sansa, and so her sister had set an old carpenter to work. Udell worked slowly, for he had stiff hands and few tools. His village near Pinkmaiden had been burnt to the ground, and Udell's apprentice had been called up with the levies months and months before. Matthos and Gawen, a pair of orphaned boys, served as his helpers now. Gendry had chopped down a tree for the carpenter when he brought swords from the forge. The axe was Gendry's own make, as was the saw Udell used to slowly turn the tree into planks. Gendry promised that next time, he’d bring her a dagger to match Needle.

With tired legs Arya trudged to see if the cooks needed any help, and Della handed over the ladle. While Arya filled bowls with porridge, Della cut slices from a hunk of salted pork. Across the fire Arya glimpsed Meri with a pail of milk, offering sips to the smallest children first. Theo and his brother stood waiting their turn, and Theo's eyes widened when he saw the rich milk.

"Um, could I have some?"

Arya blinked, remembering the ladle in her hand. A gangly teenage boy stood before her, his bowl held out. Why did he look so familiar? “Who’s first?” the goldcloak shouted, showing his steel. A boy plucked a pitchfork from a bale of hay. "I am," he said.

"Tarber?"

The boy stepped back, confused, then recognition dawned in his eyes. "Arry?"

"You're supposed to be at the Wall," Arya said, angry.

Tarber reddened.

"You ran away first! Yoren was fit to kill the rest of us when we couldn't find you or t’ Bull."

She had run away from Yoren. Somehow, Arya had forgotten. But she owed a duty to her sister and her pack. Tarber running away was different. Deserters were faithless, dangerous men. Father had said they would not flinch from any crime because their life was already forfeit.

"What about you? Did you run away as soon as Yoren's back was turned?" Arya snapped.

Tarber stared at her, his mouth agape. Jeyne came up behind him, her eyes shifting from Arya to the boy. Her hair was growing fast, giving her a faintly ridiculous look as the blonde dye gave way to dark roots. A plump man in a leather apron followed at her heels. Cutjack, his name was Cutjack, a stonemason bound for the Wall. Why was he here too?

"Yoren's dead."

Jeyne stepped forward, taking the ladle from Arya’s shaking hand.

"The Lady will want to hear this."

Arya stared at the fire as Cutjack and Tarber told their tale. The wood cracked as the flames devoured it. Brown bark became black, then grey, then white as it dissolved into ashes.

It had been a moon's turn after Arya and Gendry ran off. The black brothers had taken shelter in an abandoned holdfast for the night, glad to be safe behind stone walls. They should have known that nowhere was safe. Ser Amory Lorch had come in the night, with steel and fire and death. He didn't care that the Night's Watch took no sides. All were slain, black brothers, recruits, criminals and boys alike.

"Yoren sent us to keep watch in the tower house," Cutjack explained, one hand clutching his hammer. "After the attack was over, we got out. Kurz died from a wound, so me and the boy took his gear and kept walking. Heard there's a host sweeping the lions out of the Riverlands, but Tywin Lannister's at Harrenhal, so we gave it a wide berth and headed west."

"How do you know Yoren was dead?" Arya demanded. "He might've got out, you must have missed him-"

"No, child." Cutjack looked at her, his shoulders slumped heavily. "We found 'im. An axe split his skull in two."

Yoren was no hero. He stank of sourleaf, and his beard was tangled and greasy. But he saved me all the same. Hot tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and Arya sniffled as Tarber began to speak.

"Tom found us diggin' up onions in a burned out village." The boy was thinner than she remembered, his skin stretched tight over his bones. "Said he knew where to find food, so we followed."

"I am sorry for your losses," Sansa said gently. She sat upon her weirwood stump as if it were a throne. "Do you know any more of the host?"

"Not much, m'lady," Cutjack said, looking down. "It's the river lords, not the wolves. Word is there's not a lion left north of the Red Fork, and they're plantin' a crop before winter comes."

"That is good news, and I thank you," Sansa said. She turned to Tarber. "Food we have, enough to share. Our hearth may be humble, but you are welcome to it. I hope that when you have recovered your strength, you might sit beside me at supper and tell me more of yourselves."

The next morning when she practiced, Arya pretended a dead tree was Amory Lorch. She hated him for Yoren, almost as much as she hated Ser Meryn Trant for killing Syrio and beating Sansa. She hated the Hound for slaying Mycah, and Ser Ilyn and the queen for the sake of her father and Jory and Hullen and the rest.

Arya had hacked the tree half to bits with Needle when she heard gasps and realized she had an audience again.

"Is there any more swords like that? Um, m'lady?" Patrek asked. Someone must have mentioned that Sansa wasn’t the only highborn girl. Several other children clustered behind Patrek, their eyes wide.

"No," Arya said flatly. Patrek shrank back as if she'd beaten him, not the dead tree. Arya sighed.

"But I can teach you other stuff."

Arya laughed as she raced through the trees. Who cared if stupid Lem and Greenbeard were back? The wolf pups were leading her on a merry chase, their four paws much faster than her two feet. The wind rushed past her face; the grass sprang back beneath her steps. Was this how ravens felt when they flew?

Awoooooooooooo !

One of the wolf pups darted away from the pack, tail wagging. Berry was a curious pup, named for his eagerness to try blackberries. What is it? Arya asked. Berry wasn't sure. It smelled like a man, but he didn't recognize the smell.

Arya stopped in her tracks, one hand resting on Needle's hilt. The pups had sharp noses, and they knew everyone that lived in the hollow hill, even the new folk who’d arrived a few weeks back. Show me which way, but don't get too close. She shouldn't have laughed, she shouldn't have run so far from the hill. What if it was a knight, a sellsword, a goldcloak?

The man lay asleep, his back propped against the roots of an oak. His nose was broken and poorly healed, and his left shoulder was all twisted and swollen where it met his arm.

Berry sniffed at the man, tentatively licking one hand. The man started, his eyes fluttering open, and Berry leapt away.

"Water," he begged, his eyes fever bright in the afternoon sun. "Please." Arya hesitated.

"Whose man are you?"

The man wept as he told his tale. He was no one's man. His brother died in the first battle, his guts spilling out upon the ground. Then Ser Addam went away, and he was to follow the host, but he fled. He wanted his home, his little cottage and his wife Bess and the babe she was carrying. He walked for miles and miles, getting more lost every day. Then he'd tried to beg for food in a village, and a man had crushed his shoulder with one blow from a mace.

"I just wanted food," he sobbed. "He never said a word, just look'd at my badge 'n swung." His fraying tunic bore a small badge, a tree burning on a grey field. Arya didn't recognize the sigil, and he didn't look like a northman. Was he a riverlander? Or was he a westerman?

While she thought, Arya took the man's simple helm and carried it to the nearby stream. The steel was badly dented, and caked in dried mud and blood. Arya washed it clean, then filled it with water. It sloshed onto the man's legs as she held the brim up to his lips. He gulped the water down, half of it dribbling down his chin.

When the helm was empty Arya set it on the ground beside the man. He was a deserter, whether he'd fought for the riverlands or against them. And yet Arya couldn't help but pity him. His whole left side was stained with blood and pus, and tiny flies buzzed about his wounded shoulder. Even Maester Luwin couldn't have saved him now.

"Mercy," the deserter said. What did that mean? Heavy footsteps drew near and Arya whirled, sliding into her water dancer’s stance.

"Arya!" Lem's dirty yellow cloak flapped in the wind as he approached, Berry trotting at his side.

"I gave him water, but he wants mercy," Arya explained, sheathing her blade. Lem frowned as he looked down at the deserter.

"I've a thirst as well. Fetch more water."

Lem fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other. He still wouldn’t admit that the wolves made him uneasy, but that wasn't it. Lem was hiding something.

“What’s the mercy?” Arya asked.

“Never you mind that, just get the water,” Lem said gruffly.

"No," she said, planting her feet.

“It’s not for little girls to see.”

“I’ve seen plenty, I’m not scared,” Arya insisted.

"Mercy," the deserter begged again, tears running down his hollow cheeks. Lem looked at Arya, grimaced, and stepped forward. She barely saw the flash of steel before he buried his dagger in the deserter's chest.

Chapter Text

"The Others take the boy." Tyrion dashed his goblet to the floor, the wine turning the rushes dark.

"A boy no longer, it would seem," Varys tittered nervously.

The eunuch wrung his soft hands as Lord Gyles Rosby coughed into a square of pink silk, his face even greyer than usual. Cersei glared at him, her golden hair slightly mussed. A eunuch, a dying man, and my sweet sister. Tyrion prayed his own wits were enough, for he'd have little help. At least his uncle Kevan would soon be here, as soon as the servant roused him from his bed to join the Small Council's impromptu meeting.

The raven had come before dawn, bearing dark tidings on its dark wings. Six nights past, Robb Stark had fallen upon Stafford Lannister's host at Oxcross and utterly destroyed it.

"How did this happen?" Cersei demanded.

Tyrion plucked the letter from the table, reading over it again now that he was calmer.

"The northmen crept into uncle Stafford's camp and cut his horse lines," Tyrion read. Cersei snorted.

"Uncle Dolt, more like." She wasn't wrong. Their mother Lady Joanna Lannister might have been brilliant, but her brother Stafford was not. Tyrion grimaced as he kept reading.

"It would seem he did not trouble to post sentries. The horses went mad when Stark sent his wolves among them." Varys' informers claimed Stark's direwolf now ran at the head of a great pack of wolves. More likely it was a pack of large hounds, perhaps a few wolf dogs, but men would grasp any excuse to defend such an embarrassment.

"Knights were trampled to death in their pavilions, and the rabble woke in terror and fled. Uncle was slain as he chased after a horse. Ser Rubert Brax is also dead, as are Ser Lymond Vikary, Lord Crakehall, and Lord Jast."

Tyrion rubbed his eyes, exhausted, and Cersei snatched the letter from his hand.

"Stark's taken half a hundred prisoners, and all Ser Stafford's wayns and the horses and donkeys that survived," Cersei read, her face turning Lannister-crimson with fury.

The door creaked and Cersei spun, doubtless prepared to excoriate the fool servant who'd disturbed them. Instead, Ser Kevan Lannister strode in.

Cersei’s face changed in the blink of an eye as she welcomed their uncle warmly. Ser Kevan was a thickset man in his fifties with a bald head and a close-trimmed beard. Cersei trusted Lord Tywin’s younger brother far more than she trusted her own. The very day Kevan arrived she had begged him to serve as Tommen’s Master of Laws, and he accepted, filling the seat left open by Renly.

Tyrion wondered how Kevan would respond if he learned that Lancel was warming Cersei's bed. Not that he ever would- Lancel was too terrified of Tyrion and of Cersei. Lancel lacked his father’s doughty strength. He was a lean stripling of sixteen, with thick sandy hair and a mustache as wispy as his spine.

"What news?" Ser Kevan's eyes were sharp as he took his seat beside Lord Gyles. Cersei handed their uncle the letter, pouring herself a cup of wine as he read. At last Ser Kevan set the letter down, his brow furrowed.

"How did Stark reach them?"

"That is the mystery, my lord," Varys replied.

The only pass through the mountains lay beside the Golden Tooth, the castle of House Lefford. Their words were None Shall Pass. Lannister forces still held the stronghold there, but somehow Robb Stark had made their words a mockery. Lord Leo Lefford was with Tywin's host at Harrenhal, leaving the Golden Tooth in the hands of his wife Alysanne. Their only daughter was wed to a Frey, but surely Lady Lefford would not have been so foolish. Tywin would have Lord Lefford drowned if his wife's fondness for her child let them through.

"We can do little enough for the nonce," Kevan said, creasing the letter as he examined it again. "Tywin will handle the Stark boy, if Daven doesn't thrash him first." Stafford's only son, Ser Daven, was a formidable warrior. More importantly, he had the common sense that his deceased father never possessed.

"At least the wolves are far from King's Landing." Kevan glanced at Tyrion, his brow furrowed. "With Stannis and Renly preparing to fight each other over Storm's End like two bitches over a bone, Stark's invasion of the Westerlands keeps him from allying with the victor or marching upon our walls."

"Well said, nephew," Ser Kevan said at last.

Tyrion smiled, resisting the urge to sigh with frustration and relief. The smiths were still forging his chain, the masons were still building his winch towers, Ser Jacelyn was still whipping the goldcloaks into shape, and Ser Cleos was still waiting to return to Riverrun. Let Stark enjoy a few days of victory. Lannisters always paid their debts.

"Ravens have the most inconvenient timing. Much more of this and my bed will forget who I am."

Ser Kevan chuckled. "It is a burden that must be born, Tyrion. Best to hear news sooner than late."

It was very late, truth be told. The cocks would not be crowing for hours yet. Tyrion had heard the changing of the watch as he made his way to the Small Council chamber, leaving poor Pod to go back to sleep.

Tyrion had only just gone to bed when Pod roused him. He had worked late into the night examining the latest reports from Lady Cedra. Untangling Littlefinger's accounts was proceeding with meticulous care and precision.

While the Dornishwoman examined the ledgers, Bronn had carefully chosen a few sellswords to assist in searching all Baelish's known properties. A second iron chest had been found hidden in Littlefinger's chambers, and a third in the cellar of another brothel.

Tyrion was almost grateful that both were bound with the curious Rhoynish locks, as it ensured that his sellswords didn't make off with any of the gold. The chest in Baelish's chambers yielded thirty thousand dragons; the one in the brothel yielded another ten thousand. Cersei had given him the first smile in weeks when he told her, and Kevan had clapped him on the back. The memory improved his mood.

"Perhaps Daven has slain the Young Wolf," Tyrion speculated, covering a yawn. It was unlikely, but a man could dream.

Lord Gyles opened his mouth as though to speak, then coughed instead. From what Tyrion had heard the maester at Rosby was more fond of tinkering with clocks than healing coughs. Then again, Lord Gyles had had the cough for years, even before Melwys became maester of Rosby.

Tyrion drummed his fingers on the table. Gods, could Cersei not dress before summoning us? Tyrion grew weary of waiting. As though summoned by his thoughts, Cersei swept into the room, Varys in her train.

"Renly is dead."

Ser Kevan stood, Varys sat, and Lord Gyles coughed. Tyrion leaned forward, hiding his dismay.

"What happened?"

Tyrion's dismay only grew as Varys related his whispers. Renly was slain, his throat cut in his own pavilion by gods know who. The Florents and most of his lords at Storm's End had gone over to Stannis, damn them. He'd hoped for months of Stannis and Renly battering at each other, wasting their strength on brotherly enmity. I should have known better. Tyrion rarely got what he wanted.

There were only two consolations. First, Storm's End defied Stannis. Gods bless Ser Cortnay Penrose, who refused to surrender the castle without seeing Renly’s corpse. Alas for Stannis, the corpse had unaccountably disappeared. Stannis would never leave the castle untaken in his rear, the stubborn fool. Storm's End was one of the strongest fortresses in Westeros, its walls thick and cunningly made, everywhere rounded, curving, smooth, the stones laid with not a single crevice nor angle nor gap by which the wind might enter. Stannis had held the stronghold for nigh on a year during Robert's Rebellion, and that was with little time to prepare for such a siege. Renly had mentioned once that ever since, his castellan kept the granary full to bursting, even in the height of summer. So long as Penrose kept his nerve, the siege could last for years. Far longer than King’s Landing can last with the roseroad closed.

Second, Loras Tyrell had not been among the lords who went over to Stannis, nor Randyll Tarly and Mathis Rowan. He had taken a fifth of the knights and departed, likely for Bitterbridge, where the greater part of Renly's foot remained with his widow, Margaery Tyrell. The sister might have wed Renly, but it was Loras who had been Renly’s bosom companion, and the boy was the apple of his father’s eye.

“There is a chance here, it seems to me," Tyrion said slowly, Cersei watching his face as he spoke.

"Win Loras Tyrell to our cause and Lord Mace Tyrell and his bannermen might join us as well. They may have sworn their swords to Stannis for the moment, yet they cannot love the man, or they would have been his from the start."

“Is their love for us any greater?” asked Cersei. He could almost see the lioness's tail twitching, but was it with interest or with malice?

“Scarcely,” said Tyrion. “They loved Renly, clearly, but Renly is slain. Perhaps we can give them good and sufficient reasons to prefer Tommen to Stannis... if we move quickly.”

They had to move quickly. The price of bread continued to rise, and Tyrion shuddered to think what sort of meat was being used by the pot shops. Already crowds had appeared outside the gates of the Red Keep begging for food. Cersei had had her redcloaks send them off with a few well placed arrows.

“What sort of reasons do you mean to give the Tyrells?” Ser Kevan's face was thoughtful.

“It seems to me we should take a lesson from the late Lord Renly. We can win an alliance as he did. With a marriage.”

"Tommen is far too young to be wed," Cersei objected. "The girl's twice his age."

"So she is, but Mace Tyrell is proud. A golden crown for his daughter and the Iron Throne for his grandson is an offer neither Stannis nor the Starks can match," Kevan said.

With Kevan on his side, the rest was only bargaining. Tyrion could barely keep himself from gloating in Cersei's face. As soon as Ser Kevan departed to make arrangements for his journey to Bitterbridge, Tyrion hopped down from his seat. Cersei eyed him suspiciously.

"Were it not for uncle, I'd never permit this," she said. Tyrion sighed, resisting the urge to shout at her.

"The boy must wed someday,” he made himself say calmly, “and Tyrell swords may be the only way to keep him alive that long. Margaery Tyrell is said to be beautiful, clever, and sweet. Tommen could hardly find a more suitable queen if he were to search the Seven Kingdoms for a decade."

Cersei's eyes flashed wildfire green. "Would you supplant me with Renly's leavings? He is my son, Tyrion, and I will not let this Tyrell girl take him from me."

"He's seven," Tyrion said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "There'll be no consummation for years and years, and the marriage could be set aside if need be. Until he comes of age, you are Queen Regent, not her."

Cersei smiled.

"I've got your poisoner, your murderer, and your thief, but finding a good mummer is tricky work," Bronn said, lounging against the door like a panther. "They're a cowardly lot, fond of audiences and applause, not sneaking about risking death. There was one likely fellow, but he balked at the price.” Bronn eyed the remains of Tyrion’s breakfast that sat on the desk, then helped himself to a sausage.

Tyrion groaned as he rubbed his aching head, too tired to reprimand the impudent sellsword. Two weeks had passed since Ser Kevan left for Bitterbridge. Storm's End might yield at any moment, or hold out for years, and the uncertainty made his belly feel as if it were full of eels.

"My brother is worth more than a hundred mummers." Tyrion frowned at Bronn. "Find that man and offer more gold until he agrees. I want Ser Cleos on his way back to Riverrun tonight. Am I clear?"

Ser Cleos had waited weeks without explanation while Bronn searched the scum of King’s Landing. After much persuading, mostly from Ser Kevan before he departed, Cersei had agreed to send the escort of redcloaks with Ser Cleos. No one suspected envoys, and hiding his four amongst the rest would both slip them inside Riverrun and cut off his sister’s claws.

It was around noon when Pod announced Ser Jacelyn Bywater. Myrcella was leaving for Dorne tomorrow, and Tyrion wanted no cock ups. He was quite fond of his niece. Myrcella was a sweet child, as beautiful as Cersei and as brave as Jaime. She wasn't as clever as Tyrion, of course, but she had her moments.

The goldcloaks were to protect the royal procession to and from the docks as they bid Myrcella farewell. Ser Jacelyn thought it better to have fewer men, only those who were truly reliable. Tyrion was inclined to agree; Cersei, however, was not. She wanted as many goldcloaks as possible to protect her precious Tommen, and Tyrion saw little risk of harm in letting her have her way.

Once Ser Jacelyn had his orders Tyrion called for Pod.

"See those things on the table?" Tyrion asked Pod, who was staring at the floor as usual.

Pod lifted his eyes and glanced at the table. On it rested the gifts Tyrion had chosen for Myrcella. There were several books, a small ornately carved chest filled with tiles, and a pair of golden jewelry boxes.

Tyrion had commissioned two sets of jewelry for his niece. One was a jeweled hairnet with leaves of emerald, vines of gold, and a matching necklace. In them Myrcella would look as soft and innocent as the spring. The other was a golden chain of roaring lions with ruby eyes, with  a ring and bracelet to match. It was not a subtle design, but Tyrion wanted to be sure the message came through clearly.

"Yes, m'lord," Pod stuttered.

"Good. Kindly take them to Princess Myrcella's chambers. Her maids will need to pack them in with her things."

Tyrion would have preferred to give them to Myrcella himself, but he was busy, and Cersei seemed to grow more testy when he tried to spend time with his niece and nephew. She grew testy whenever he saw her, truth be told, and she had never been fond of him to begin with.

"The princess?" Pod gulped. Ser Aron claimed the boy was dauntless during exercises in the yard, but Tyrion had his doubts. True, Pod's hands seemed to accrue a new blister every time he returned from practice, and he never uttered a complaint, but the lad was terrified of everyone, especially ladies. If the gods were good Pod would never have to see battle.

"I doubt she'll be in her chambers," Tyrion assured him. "Ser Aron says you're quite intrepid during training. I'm sure you'll be able to handle a few maids." Pod departed, his arms heavily laden and his lips trembling. Oh, to be young and have no deeper fears than the giggling of girls. Tyrion almost envied him.

“Stop crying,” Cersei scolded, handing Tommen a handkerchief of crimson silk. Tommen snuffled into the cloth, his other hand still waving to Myrcella. His sister stood on the deck of the Seaswift, waving back with dignity.

Tommen had wept since they took their leave on the deck of the ship. The little king had hugged his sister so tight that she squeaked. Tyrion’s hug had been gentler, but no less warm. Myrcella had glowed with delight as she thanked him for the gifts, especially the history of Dorne amongst the books.

At last Tommen managed to compose himself, and Cersei signaled for everyone to mount up. Almost all the nobility in the city had come to see Myrcella off. Tommen needs a new crown, Tyrion thought as Bronn helped him into his saddle. Where Cersei’s crown rested lightly on her curls, the gold and jewels shining in the sun, Joffrey’s crown weighed heavily on Tommen, and the boy struggled to hold his neck straight.

Ser Jacelyn led the way, his riders carrying lances. Behind them rode the standard bearers, then Tommen rode in front of the procession as befitted a king. Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Addam Marbrand rode on either side of the little king, their eyes scanning the crowd for any signs of trouble. Next came Cersei and Tyrion himself, accompanied by Lancel and protected by Bronn, a scowling Sandor Clegane, and a twitching Boros Blount. At the tail end were the High Septon, Ser Preston Greenfield, Lord Gyles, Ser Balon Swann, the rest of Tommen’s tiny court, and more guards.

Tyrion could hardly blame Ser Boros for his nerves, unseemly as they were. The commons lined the streets in the thousands, and the crowd stared with hungry, hollow eyes from behind the goldcloaks’ spears, pressed so close that many were half leaning on the guards. These folk are half-starved and here we ride with a plump boy king and a High Septon so fat he must needs ride a litter. At least the crowd wasn’t actively hostile. 

Yet as they rode up Aegon’s hill Tyrion half wished for more signs of life. The sullen stares were growing ominous. Only a few half-heartedly cheered for King Tommen. Cersei was laughing like a maiden in spring, her smile as beautiful as a summer day, but they were no cheers for her. They liked Robert, and they always cheered for Ser Barristan the Bold. This Kingsguard has no legends like him.

Tommen rode well, but his shoulders slumped just a hint. His sweet nephew had wanted to throw coppers to the crowd, but Cersei had forbade it. Such gestures might win affection when bellies were full, but in this sea of malnourished faces such kindness would bring naught but the storm.

“Your grace!” A voice cried from the crowd. Startled, Tommen reigned up as a woman in a tattered shift forced her way between two goldcloaks. Her arms were thin as spears, the skin hanging from her bones. She did not walk so much as stagger on her bare feet, her eyes huge and staring.

“Please, your grace,” the woman sobbed. She held her hands out like a beggar seeking alms. Bless the boy, Tommen smiled despite the fear in his eyes. He fumbled at his belt, trying to get coins from his purse. When that didn’t work, Tommen pulled the entire purse off his belt and tossed it to the woman. A ragged cheer went up as those nearby saw what Tommen had done, and the woman lurched toward Tommen, tears running down her cheeks as she smiled.

Then it all went wrong.

Tommen’s pony shied away and one hoof landed on the woman’s foot. The woman shrieked in pain, and Cersei shrieked in fear.

“Protect the King! Cut her down!”

Ser Addam Marbrand leaned over and grabbed the pony’s reins, trying to calm the frightened beast as Tommen clung on for dear life. The woman’s foot was a horror of blood and flesh and bone, and her terrible wail pierced through the crowd- until Ser Mandon sliced her head off with one vicious stroke.

For a moment, the street was deadly silent.

But only for a moment.

“Murderers!” A man shouted.

“Fuck the Lannister queen!” Another cried.

“Brotherfucker!”

“Kingslayer’s whore!”

“Fuck the lions!”

Ser Addam pulled Tommen onto his own horse, placing the boy in front of him as the crowd surged. The riderless pony bolted into the crowd, cries ringing out as the smallfolk struggled to avoid being trampled beneath his hooves. Amongst the cries Tyrion heard voices screaming “Stannis” and “King Robb, the King in the North!”

“Bread!” One woman shrieked, and in an instant the entire crowd was shouting with her, countless voices chanting “bread, bread, bread!”

Stones and rotten cabbages and worse flew through the air, and the goldcloaks gave way before the tide of human flesh. Gaunt hands reached towards the procession, every mouth gaping wide and red as the crowd gave voice to their rage.

Ser Jacelyn formed his riders into a wedge and charged, the smallfolk scattering before their lances. Ser Addam galloped behind them, Tommen clutched tight under his shield. Tyrion followed on their heels, Bronn on one side, Cersei on the other. A man grabbed for Cersei’s skirts and the Hound bellowed as he cut the man’s arm off. Ser Mandon and Ser Boros flanked the royal party, slashing at the crowd with their swords.

And suddenly the madness was behind and they were clattering across the cobbled square that fronted on the castle barbican. A line of spearmen held the gates. The spears parted to let the king's party pass under the portcullis. Pale red walls loomed up about them, reassuringly high and aswarm with crossbowmen.

Tommen was sobbing, snot dripping down his chin. He appeared to be unharmed, but there was blood splattered on his face, and blood everywhere around him, on swords and cloaks and horses. As soon as Ser Addam placed the boy on the ground, he retched. Maester Frenken scurried forward at Cersei’s call, and Ser Boros and Ser Addam escorted the little king off to his chambers.

Cersei dismounted, Ser Mandon and the Hound still ahorse by her side as she raged. Tyrion pushed his way across the yard to where she stood, her skirts covered in muck, her crown askew and dung in her hair.

“-go back out and bring me their heads, how dare they-“

Tyrion shoved Cersei to the ground, her crown ringing as it fell from her head and clattered against the cobblestones.

“You witless vicious bitch!” Tyrion slapped her as hard as he could, her head snapping back. “What were you thinking? That woman was as dangerous as Moonboy! Do you want your second son to live longer than the first?” He kicked her in the ribs and she wheezed for air. The sound was so sweet he pulled his foot back to kick her again, but Ser Mandon Moore pulled him off and the Hound held him tight until he stopped struggling.

Cersei stared at Tyrion, one hand on her cheek, her eyes burning with hate. She had it coming, and more besides. Tyrion wrenched free of the Hound’s grip. “Who are we missing?” he shouted at the dumbstruck onlookers. 

Lady Tanda babbled about her daughter Lollys, the High Septon had been left behind in the throng, no one knew where Ser Preston was… Tyrion’s heart pounded in his chest as he shouted orders, the stench of smoke rising in the distance. All of this is Cersei’s fault, but she’ll blame me nonetheless.

And Cersei did not forgive.

Chapter Text

Theon stood on a pebbled shore, green waves lapping against the stones. Before him rode a great longship, an old man standing at the prow. The old man's hair was long and snowy white, as white as his terrible smile. A great scar ran across his face, splitting his lips and chin in twain. He looked at Bran's foster brother fondly, but his words were brusque.

"You set us a battle we cannot hope to win, Theon. This Torrhen's Square will never fall."

Theon smiled. "It's not Torrhen's Square I mean to take."

Bran's nerves tingled as he awoke. He wished he could climb something, or even pace, rather than lie against the weirwood tree. Jojen glanced at Bran, his eyes solemn, as though he knew something was amiss.

"Hodor," Bran called up to the giant stable boy. "Take me to Maester Luwin, now."

The maester was not in his turret, nor in the Great Hall, nor in the yard. They finally found Maester Luwin in the glass gardens, giving instructions to a gardener. The green and yellow panes cast an eerie light on the two men, like waves rippling in the sun.

"My prince," the maester said when he had dismissed the gardener. "What brings you here?"

The maester had to look up to see Bran in his basket on Hodor's back. It usually made Bran feel awkward, but today it made him feel tall as he loomed over Jojen and the maester.

"I had another dream," Bran said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Theon ordered the attack on Torrhen's Square."

Ser Rodrik had left again not seven days past, taking nearly every man of fighting age to throw the ironborn back into the sea. Cley Cerwyn had followed after him with another three hundred men, and the maester had sent ravens to White Harbor and the barrowlands and even the wolfswood, commanding the bannermen to raise their levies.

"Theon?" Maester Luwin frowned. "He should be with your brother, though there was naught about him in the raven from Ashemark."

"I saw him," Bran insisted. "He was on a rocky beach, talking to- to-" Bran paused, remembering the fearsome name Old Nan had spoken "-to Dagmer Cleftjaw, he told him to attack Torrhen's Square, and Dagmer said it would never fall, but Theon said that he wasn't trying to take it.” Before the stunned maester could reply, Bran barreled on. “Jojen, tell him your dream."

Jojen sighed, his mossy green eyes sad.

"I dreamt that Winterfell was surrounded by the sea. Black waves crashed against the walls, and the salt water flowed into the castle. Dead men floated in the waters, their bodies pale and bloated."

The color drained from the maester's face.

"Theon," Luwin said, his lips barely moving. "Theon is the sea crashing over Winterfell."

Bran blinked down at the maester's bald head, confused.

"Why would Theon do that? He's Father's ward, he's Robb's friend."

"A ward, aye, but taken as a hostage to ensure Lord Balon's good behavior," Luwin explained, fidgeting with his chain. "Theon always boasted of the great deeds he would do..." the maester shook his head, his grey eyes flitting back and forth as he thought.

"We do not know how or when he will come, or how many men he has. Theon knows this keep like the back of his hand, there are a thousand ways they might come."

The maester sat down heavily on a bench, twisting his hands. "Ser Rodrik took too many of our men, but I am to blame as much as he is. I never saw this danger, I never..." Luwin looked up at Jojen, a bitter smile on his face. "I should have listened to you, it seems."

"Jojen had another dream," Bran said uneasily. Of all the dreams, this was the one that scared him most. "He dreamt that Rickon and I were dead, and Reek was skinning off our faces." Bran wouldn't have thought it possible, but Luwin blanched even whiter.

"Hodor, take Bran back to his room. Jojen, fetch your sister. I must think- I must think on what to do."

Maester Luwin roused Bran in the middle of the night, as quick and silent as a mouse. He dressed Bran in his warmest clothes, and packed saddlebags with spare clothes, boots, and other things from the chest at the foot of Bran's bed. Summer paced the entire time, the direwolf's tongue lolling from his mouth.

The maester was just clasping a thick woolen cloak about Bran's shoulders when Osha crept into the room, Rickon half-asleep in her arms. He was dressed like Bran was, and the wildling woman had more saddlebags slung over her shoulder. Osha set Rickon on his feet, and the maester took his hand as Osha lifted Bran.

Like ghosts they crept through the halls, Summer's claws clicking softly on the stones. Hodor was waiting in the stables with the Reeds. Jojen and Meera were dressed as they had been the day they came to Winterfell, Meera in browns and Jojen in greens. Meera mounted her horse, but Jojen slipped away into the darkness without a word.

"Hodor?" Hodor asked as he gently deposited Bran in his saddle.

"Hush," Bran said, putting a finger to his lips. Hodor nodded, shaking his great head up and down.

Bran thought Rickon might ride his pony, but instead Hodor brought forward a mare. Luwin was arranging the saddlebags when Osha stopped him, bringing some saddlebags over to Bran's horse and slinging others over the back of a third who had no rider. When she was finished she swung up into the mare's saddle and gestured for Hodor to hand her Rickon.

A shadow sprang out of the darkness, green eyes burning, and Rickon yelped with joy. Osha clapped a hand over his mouth as Hodor set the four-year-old in front of her. Shaggydog stood on his hind legs and sniffed at Rickon, ignoring the nervous whickering of the mare. When Bran turned round to look for Jojen, the boy was already mounted on a horse beside his sister.

"You must ride for White Harbor," the maester whispered when all was ready. "Find the river and follow it south. The ironmen may be here at any moment, so ride as hard as you dare, and avoid the roads where you can. It is a journey of three weeks, if all goes well. Lord Manderly will keep you safe and sound, I pray."

"What about Winterfell?" Bran whispered. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, I promised Robb.

"When Theon comes we will yield. There is no shame in that. I'll have men watching, and I've prepared letters to send with the ravens as soon as they are sighted.”

“Why not send them now?”

“I'll not raise the alarm falsely, nor endanger you should a raven fall into Theon's hands. Now hurry, children, and may the old gods and the new keep you safe.”

That had been hours and hours ago. The walls of Winterfell were no longer visible in the distance, nor the towers Bran had once climbed. All around them seemed grey, from the dull clouds above to the pale grasses below.

Bran clutched Dancer's reins tightly. If his legs still had any feeling, they would surely be paining him now. The horse’s hoofs beat out a steady rhythm, and Osha’s words echoed in his mind. Marching the wrong way. Marching the wrong way. It’s north he should be taking his swords. North, north, north.

The sun was dipping slowly beneath the horizon when they stopped to make camp. Was it only this morning that the maester had sent them away?

No sooner had they finished their supper than Rickon curled up against Shaggydog, his fingers clutching the direwolf’s dark fur. The day had been long and confusing, and Rickon missed Winterfell- his room, the godswood, the Walders. He was angry and then sad, except when he remembered that he had Shaggy. Within minutes Rickon was asleep, leaving the others in their circle around the fire.

“We’re going the wrong way,” Jojen said, the firelight shining in his eyes.

Osha looked at him sharply.

“My home is north, little dreamer, but yours is not.”

“I will never go home again.”

“You don’t know that,” Meera said, leaping to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes blazing.

“Another dream, little grandfather?” Osha asked.

Meera turned to Osha, her eyes hard. One hand clenched her spear tight, the point aimed at the wildling. “Why did the maester send you with us?”

“He didn’t,” Osha said, unafraid. “I heard him in the kitchens, mucking about trying to get food for your journey. The man may be learned but he is no wildling. Half of what he packed was sensible, and half foolish. Weren’t hard to guess who he would be sendin’ away.”

“But why did you come?” Bran asked. Osha snorted.

“Two boys in the forest, with direwolves at their heels. Another direwolf for each of the children gone away. Direwolves and wargs and a girl who is a wolf, and green dreams beneath the heart tree.” The wind whispered in the leaves and Bran shivered. Osha turned to him.

“I overheard the last dream you spoke of.” The wildling spit on the ground.

“There’s what I think of that Theon. I’ve not forgot he would have had your brother feed me to the wolves.”

“You will not stop us?” Jojen asked. His voice was queer; dread and curiosity and excitement all bound up together. Osha met the boy’s strange eyes. Jojen gazed at her until she looked away.

“No. The black wolf is not ready for such a journey. I’ll take him south.”

“Thank you,” Bran blurted, though he still wasn’t quite sure what was happening. “When we return I owe you a debt, I swear it as Prince of Winterfell.”

“I’ll hold you to that oath,” the wildling woman said, her voice strange. “Be sure you return so that you may honor it.”

Chapter Text

"He escaped?" Catelyn's voice betrayed her, a shriek creeping into her words. "How?"

"False envoys," Edmure said grimly, his eyes upon the swollen bodies that dangled from the walls of Riverrun. Their cloaks were soaked from the morning rain, the crimson turned the color of blood.

"Ser Cleos arrived a few days ago, with a hundred redcloaks to guard him. Cleos said that the Imp insisted, claiming he was worried by all the disorder in the riverlands." Edmure snorted. How like the Imp to claim fear of chaos sown by his father's own men. 

"They pledged me their peace and surrendered their weapons, so I allowed them freedom of the castle. Then, when the moon was dark—" Edmure clenched his hand into a fist, fury bristling beneath his beard.

"That skinny one—" Edmure pointed "—opened Lannister’s cell with a bit of wire. The big fellow had already killed the guards. The one in the middle was some sort of damned mummer, used my own voice to order the portcullis raised on the River Gate."

"Where were you?" Catelyn asked, her voice sharp as valyrian steel.

Edmure glared." "I was abed. The mummer told the guards that I- ah..."

Catelyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "That you would be leaving the castle to wench?"

Edmure flushed deep pink.

"As it happened, I was going to leave the castle that night. I heard someone barking orders in my own voice, and when Long Lew saw me he realized something was amiss. He raised the cry, and we caught all of them—"

"Except the only one who mattered." Catelyn's voice sounded strange in her ears, as cold and flat as stone.

"The Kingslayer had gotten hold of a sword. He killed six of my men and slipped under the portcullis as they were lowering it. I fought him myself, Cat, until one of the redcloaks grabbed me from behind. I nicked his sword hand—"

The wind roared in Catelyn's ears. They will kill Sansa. Cersei Lannister was not a reasonable woman, one who would obey the laws of war. If Sansa were to fall in her clutches after Jaime was restored to her...

"How many men are searching for the Kingslayer?" Brienne asked quietly. Edmure gave the girl a curious look.

"This is Brienne of Tarth, the daughter of Lord Selwyn the Evenstar, who served in Renly’s Rainbow Guard,” Catelyn told them. Edmure and his men greeted her courteously as Brienne blushed, embarrassed.

"How many men?" Catelyn repeated. Edmure sighed.

"As many as I can spare. They're combing along the river, and each direction he might have gone. But with Lord Tywin on the march, I'll need to call most of them back soon."

"Jaime will wander straight into his father's host," Catelyn observed, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Edmure shrugged unhappily.

"He may. But capturing the Kingslayer will do us no good if Tywin defeats us."

Defeats you , Catelyn thought bitterly, cursing her brother's pride as they trotted over the drawbridge and into the bustling upper bailey. Losing the Kingslayer would only make Edmure more determined to prove himself.

Though truth be told, it was not fair to blame Edmure for the escape. The laws governing envoys were ancient and sacred. Envoys must be treated with respect, housed and fed according to their station. No envoy might be killed, nor tortured. Envoys were sworn to deliver their lord's terms in peace, their oath bound by the old gods and the new. Catelyn could not recall a single example of envoys betraying that trust, not even during the conquest of Dorne—

The child came out of nowhere, a barelegged urchin in a grey tunic. Catelyn's heart leapt into her throat as she yanked her horse's reins. The mare gave a whinny of surprise and dismay, her hooves kicking up mud as she stopped.

"Pate!" A woman shrieked, darting out from the throng of smallfolk that ringed the upper bailey. She grabbed the toddler's hand, her eyes fearful in her hollow face. "M'lady, I'm so sorry—"

Catelyn sighed, and the woman went silent. Her wide eyes examined Catelyn's face, a flicker of recognition dawning.

"M'lady Stark." The mother curtsied deeply, one hand still holding tightly onto the child. The child stared up at Catelyn, his mouth open. There was a small red blotch at the hem of his tunic.

"What's this?" Edmure asked, reining up beside Catelyn.

"Wolf lady," the child babbled, pointing at her. His mother shushed him as Edmure laughed.

He must have seen the Stark banner.  Catelyn looked around. Hal Mollen was only now riding up. The standard he bore flapped in the breeze, the grey direwolf racing across the field of snow. When Catelyn looked back for the mother and child they were gone.

“Is there any fresh word from Robb?” Catelyn asked, gently nudging her mare into a trot.

“There was a raven a week past. The Greatjon has seized the gold mines at Castamere, Nunn's Deep, and the Pendric Hills, and Lady Mormont is driving thousands of cattle back to us.” Edmure frowned, his face troubled. “Robb ordered that every preparation be made for a hard winter, and bade Maester Vyman send ravens across the Riverlands and the North.”

“A prudent measure,” Ser Perwyn said. “We’ve so many at the Twins that my lord father always keeps the larders full.”

She could barely hear him over the cacophony of the upper bailey. There were hundreds of smallfolk, women and children and old men in ragged clothes. The walls echoed with the lowing of their cows, the bleating of their sheep, and the clucking of their chickens.

"Edmure, why are all these folk here?" Edmure tilted his head, perplexed.

"They are my people," her brother said. "They were afraid.”

As am I, but these walls are not the cure. Riverrun might soon be under siege, and they would starve all the faster with so many mouths.

Thinking of food made Catelyn's belly growl. She had not eaten since breaking her fast this morning with Martyn Rivers and his scouts. The Frey bastard had regaled her men with tales of Robb’s victory at Oxcross while Catelyn and her new sworn shield ate in silence. The girl was as solemn as Ned, and as honorable. 

"Brienne," Catelyn said, as she handed her reins over to a stableboy. "I must see to my father. Take what time you need to refresh yourself, and then wait for me in my solar." Brienne nodded, her brows furrowed over her bright blue eyes. 

It was hours before Catelyn left her father, her steady feet and straight back disguising the sorrow that weighed upon her. Hoster Tully was as haggard as she'd left him, clammy and delirious. He'd thought she was Lysa... I must send her a raven, Cat thought as she climbed the steps. Someone must tell her Petyr is dead . A featherbed and a warm hearth might soothe her tired body, but it would do naught for her weary soul.

It seemed strange how many she knew had died in so short a time. Was it only eighteen months since Jon Arryn was laid in the cold ground? The old man would have wept to see the boys he loved follow him to the grave so soon. Death found Robert Baratheon not ten months later, and Ned, dear sweet Ned... the moon had turned only twice more before they slew him, her light a dull echo of Ned's grey eyes.

Then it was Petyr’s turn to die. May he burn in the seven hells. For a foster brother to show such treachery… Ned only trusted him because of her word, more fool she. Had there been signs of Littlefinger’s true nature when she was a girl? She wished she could ask her father, but Hoster Tully was half in the grave himself. It would be a mercy when he was released from his agony.

After Catelyn spoke to Brienne, she would go to the sept. She would pray to the Father Above to keep Robb safe in his battles, and beg the gentle Mother to lead Sansa and Arya to safety.  I always knew I would bury my father, but not my children, please, never my children. She could not shake the thought that her girls were near, foolish though it was. If Arya were close she would have come with Nymeria. And as for the red wolf... no. I am grown desperate indeed, to think of sorcery. It was but a wolf, a wolf that chanced to have Sansa's look. Yet the way the wolf had gazed at her...  

As she neared the chambers she had once shared with Lysa, Catelyn paused. Brienne stood beside the chamber door, towering in her mismatched armor over the aged steward of Riverrun, Utherydes Wayn. Two women waited beside them, clad in grey, their faces cowled save for their eyes.

"Ned?" Catelyn asked. The silent sisters lowered their gaze.

"Ser Cleos brought him from King’s Landing, my lady,” Utherydes said.

Cat hesitated. A part of her wanted to run to Ned, to see the man she'd loved so well. Somewhere in this castle lay the hands that stroked her hair, the arms that held her close, the eyes that laughed at their children. But her duty to the living must come before her duty to the dead.

"I will be with you presently," Catelyn said, putting her grief aside. "Please await me in the sept." The silent sisters bowed their heads, and followed Utherydes down the passage.

"My lady, I can wait—" Brienne swallowed her words as Catelyn swept past her into the solar. She is but one, and a maid for all her strength and valor. This quest is more like to lead her to death than glory. Yet what other choice did Catelyn have?

"Should I send for something hot to drink? Mulled wine, perhaps?" Ser Perwyn Frey asked.

Catelyn shook her head, her eyes fixed on the fighting below. It was the middle of the night. Nearly the entire keep was abed. But Catelyn could not sleep during battle. From the watchtower one could see for miles, even in the dim light of the moon. The Lannisters were trying to cross the ford again, and again Ser Jason Mallister was thrashing them.

Much had happened in the months she’d been on the road. The riverlords had cleared the westermen from north of the Red Fork, and over half the levies had been released to plant the fields before winter came. The rest were here now, swelling Edmure’s host.

Robett Glover had taken the Ruby Ford and the Crossroads, but he had not sat idly once that was done. He had taken his host east to Maidenpool and then south, chasing the lions toward Harrenhal. Glover’s host was smaller now, with men left behind to help rebuild for winter. Why was Robb so certain the winter would be terrible?

As soon as Lord Tywin abandoned Harrenhal, Glover had charged Roose Bolton with securing it. The Green Fork had gone ill for Bolton, leaving him with only five hundred horse and fifteen hundred foot once the Lannisters returned him and the other captives. Still, it was enough men to hold the cursed place. Any more men and they might starve. Lannister men had stripped the land around Harrenhal bare, though the smallfolk claimed Beric Dondarrion was raiding the raiders.

Glover had pursued Tywin, driving him toward Edmure's host near Riverrun. Edmure hoped to catch Tywin between the two hosts, denying him the crossings and utterly destroying his might. It was a sensible plan, so sensible that Blackwood and Bracken agreed upon it. And yet...

“Is there any news of Lady Brienne?” Ser Perwyn asked hesitantly, interrupting Catelyn's thoughts. 

"No."

Truth be told she expected no word. It was two weeks since she'd sent Brienne out, and she'd emphasized that she was to avoid being seen. Warrior, guide her in her journey, and Maiden, keep her safe. Awkward as the girl was, Catelyn missed her company.

With Brienne gone, and almost all the men fighting beside Edmure, Cat had asked that Perwyn remain as her guard. Perwyn chafed to be in the field, she knew, but if he wondered why she had asked for him, he was too polite to ask.

“It is kind of you to think of her," Catelyn replied. "I cannot imagine awaiting news of so many brothers in the field.” Her worry for her brother and her son was awful enough. Lord Walder Frey had twenty or so sons, and almost all of them were fighting for Robb.

“I fear for Olyvar most,” Perwyn confessed softly. “He is young, and loves his king. He would not hesitate to throw himself into danger to defend King Robb.” 

“He does his house credit, as do you, ser.”

"He reminds me of our mother," Perwyn said, so quiet she could barely hear.

"What was she like?" Bethany Rosby had been Lord Walder's sixth wife, but Catelyn knew little of the lady.

"Brave," Perwyn said. "She gave my father as good as he gave her, and took no impudence from my half-brothers. Olyvar has her knack for jesting."

Likely the poor woman had no choice in marrying Lord Walder; to stand up to the old vulture and his brood showed spirit.

"How old were you when she died?"

"Nine." Perwyn stared across the river, not seeing.

"She gave my father a child every year. No matter that he had a dozen sons when they wed. Nine times she was brought to childbed, and I am the eldest of the five who lived. Benfrey and Roslin are with my father at the Twins. Willamen forged a maester's chain; he serves House Hunter in the Vale."

"Nine babes in nine years?"

Catelyn could not disguise her horror. Even the most dull-witted maester knew so many births so close together was risky at best and a death sentence at worst. No loving husband would submit his wife to such. Her stomach roiled at the thought that Bethany Rosby had no say in the matter.

"Aye." Perwyn's jaw was tight. "She would be about your age, my lady, if she had lived. But the three babes between Willamen and Olyvar all died within a month of their birth, and the ninth came too early. She lost the babe along with her life's blood."

For a long while there was no sound but the splashing of horses in the river and the whirring of arrows.

"I suppose you've wondered why I asked for you to serve as my guard." The clang of steel echoed dimly, the screams of men and horses faint as ghosts in the night.

"I am glad to serve you, my lady. It is my duty."

"Duty." Catelyn gazed at the men dying for their lords down below, so far from hearth and home.

"I have a duty to my children. Yet how can I protect them all? My son is a king, and so I serve him, but what of my missing daughters? What of my boys all alone?”

"I'm sure they understand," Perwyn said. Catelyn laughed, for it was either that or sob.

"Did you understand when you lost your mother? Bran is but eight, Rickon four. They cannot understand. They need me, and I cannot help but feel that I have abandoned them. That is why I could not bear for a northman to be my guard. They remind me too much of what I left behind."

Perwyn hesitated.

"My lady, may I—" Perwyn stepped back. Catelyn stared at him, bewildered.

"I- if my mother were in your place, my lady, I would want someone to offer her comfort," he said awkwardly, studying his boots.

"Your mother would be proud of you."

Perwyn looked up, and she saw that his eyes glimmered with unshed tears. Catelyn could not embrace her children, nor replace Perwyn's mother, but she could accept this small kindness. She stepped into the warmth of his open arms, the clamor of battle fading away.

"Winterfell is the safest place for them, my lady," Perwyn said gently. "You will return home soon enough."

Chapter Text

It was a fine day with nary a cloud in the sky. Breezes danced through the leaves, rustling and whispering, carrying a banquet of smells to Sansa's delicate nose, rich loamy soil, sweet flowers, tart berries, and the fresh water of the stream.

Women and girls surrounded Sansa, some perched on boulders, some sitting on the grass. Cutjack and Tarber had rolled a few boulders into the meadow beside the hollow hill so the women could work in the sunshine. Sansa's weirwood stump they had set beneath a tree, "so m'lady will have some shade," Tarber had babbled, ducking his head.

In the distance, on top of the hollow hill, Sansa could almost see the slender trunks of her weirwood saplings. Six she had planted, one beside each of the weirwood stumps. Only later did she realize she had planted one for each Stark. The old gods had given Jon Snow a direwolf; she must acknowledge him as her brother now, baseborn or not. She wondered if he was lonely up on the Wall. Sansa had Arya, Bran and Rickon had each other, and Robb had an army, but Jon had no one.    

"There's no point," Arya grumbled in the distance. "No one needs embroidery."

Sansa kept her eyes fixed on her needlework, pretending her sharp ears could not hear. As the women around her spun and mended, Sansa's needle glided through the cloth, the thread weaving in and out like a snake through water.

"And what have you been doing, m'lady?"

As always, Celia was spinning. The old grandmother sat beside the stream, keeping an eye on the younger children as they played. Arya stood beside her, covered in sweat. Needle hung at her hip, the steel shining.

"Practicing," Arya said. "I have to do my drills every day, if I'm going to get better."

"Of course, m'lady." Celia's voice was suspiciously deferential.

Arya exhaled loudly, her face screwed up in a scowl. " What ?"

"Do you enjoy practicing, m'lady?"

"Yes. So?"

The grandmother's cloudy eyes watched her thread, not even glancing at Arya. "Mebbe your sister takes comfort in her needle as you do in yours. We've enough women as can spin and mend. Sides, most o' them never had a bit of pretty like that before, let alone made by a great lady."

Arya's shoulders slumped. She stalked off toward the meadow, pausing briefly to half-heartedly kick a rotting log. Sansa's sworn shield was always practicing, running back and forth with the wolf pups, teaching the little children how to dodge a blow, doing drills with her sword. Arya was happy, though she missed their brothers and mother as much as Sansa did.

That was one of the reasons Sansa had chosen to stay at the hollow hill. As soon as they reached Riverrun, Robb would doubtless have marriages arranged for them both. Sometimes Sansa thought he might seek to win the Tyrells by wedding her to Ser Loras. Robb needed Tyrell swords, and Tyrell knights, and in the winter the Reach could send plenty of food to help the North survive. She was only a few years younger than Ser Loras, and he was all that Joffrey wasn't, brave and true.

She daydreamed of babes with brown curls and blue eyes, until she wondered- who would Robb make Arya marry? Would he send her far away, to some lord who wouldn't let her keep Nymeria? Surely Robb wouldn't do such a thing, but how would Arya survive returning to any castle? There would be septas and ladies who would take Needle away, and make Arya give up her water dancing for needlework.

Sansa looked down at her weirwood leaf, her tummy sinking. Five points of crimson glimmered against the dull grey wool. The thread was a gift from Alyn, taken during a raid on a Lannister supply train. It had been intended for cloaks of Lannister crimson, but Sansa had given it another purpose.

The smallfolk had begun returning to their homes as word came of the riverlords driving the westermen away. Almost all those who came from north of the Red Fork were gone, each with a weirwood leaf hidden somewhere on their clothes.

It was meant as a token, a promise, but Arya was right. Needlework could not rebuild their homes. A finely stitched weirwood leaf would not fill their cellars for winter. Lord Beric Dondarrion's raids were feeding entire villages, and what was Sansa doing? Embroidering, singing to babies, sending Arya and the wolves on raids to feed a few dozen mouths.

Sansa set the tunic aside, and one of the women handed her a child's gown. Bitterly Sansa began stitching, wishing she'd asked her mother more about her duties as Lady of Winterfell. She'd realized a few days past that she had no idea how many souls lived in the North, or even in Winterfell. Alyn was unable to answer her when she asked him, and Arya didn't know either.

It was Jeyne who had found her later, and shared what she remembered from listening to her father speak of his work as steward. Sansa knew the great and minor houses of the North, their sigils, their words, their lords, but it was Jeyne who knew which ones paid the most taxes, grew the most grain, and so on. The North had some four million people in all, mostly smallfolk, but plenty of land knew neither plowman nor shepherd.

"There were more, my father said, before Robert's Rebellion. Northmen bore many of the losses on the Trident, and during the Greyjoy rebellion," Jeyne had remembered.

Old Nan lost her sons during Robert's Rebellion, Sansa knew, and her grandson at Pyke. Old Nan had once said Winterfell was greater in her youth. She'd come to Winterfell some eighty years past as a wet nurse to a Brandon Stark, the son of Lord Willam Stark, Sansa's great-great-grandfather. The mother, a Glover, had died in childbirth.

"There were many folk in Winterfell then," Old Nan had said, needles clacking, "bursting at the seams, it was, and the Lord doted on my little Brandon." Then the lad died of a summer chill, and Winterfell mourned.

At last Lord Willam had wed again. "They were happy together, aye," Old Nan had said. Lady Melantha was a Blackwood, beautiful and merry, with hair as dark as her name and a laugh as loud and sweet as bells.

Their love quickly brought forth a son, Edwyle, and a few years later a daughter, Jocelyn. For a time Winterfell echoed with song and banquets and the laughter of children.

"Then Raymun Redbeard came over the wall, with wildlings and wargs and worse," Old Nan had whispered. Lord Willam rode forth to meet them, and his blade was bright as his wife's smile, but on the shores of the Long Lake the wildlings cut off his head. Yet the Stark won the victory in the end, for Willam's younger brother, Artos the Implacable, slew the wildling king in single combat.

"When word came of Lord Willam's death, that were the end of it," Old Nan had sighed. Lady Melantha thought of naught but Winterfell, keeping it strong and safe for her children. Many had died fighting the wildlings, and those who remained had no stomach for singers or jolly feasts. She ruled until Edwyle came of age, for she was wise, and Artos took up his sword against any who defied her.

Then war came again, this time to the west, reavers slaughtering along the coast. Lord Edwyle rode to battle, and the ironmen felt the bite of his sword. But victory came at a heavy price, for Edwyle returned in a litter, his body riddled with wounds, and half the men of Winterfell did not return at all. Edwyle lingered for a year before the gods ended his agony, and his wife soon followed, taken by some wasting sickness. Rickard became Lord of Winterfell at fifteen, having lost father and mother both, and Artos died within the year.

"He was a solemn one, was Rickard," Old Nan said, "losing so many turned him grim, grim as the Kings of Winter in their tombs. Lady Melantha was all he had, till he wed Lady Lyarra." Then there were children again, Brandon and Eddard, Lyanna and Benjen, the Stark line renewed- "until the Mad King took them," Old Nan had hissed, with an anger Sansa had never seen.

Sansa frowned as she pulled her needle through the cloth. The smallfolk had risen against Maegor the Cruel. Why had they not risen against the Mad King? Sansa glanced about her. Jeyne sat beside her, and there were a few girls near Sansa's age, but most of the women were older. Surely they remembered life before Robert's Rebellion.

"What was life like under King Aerys?"

Almost every needle paused as the women looked at Sansa, puzzled.

"M'lady?" Bethany asked, her needle hovering over the set of breeches she was patching.

"I am curious, that is all," Sansa said. A few of the women looked at each other hesitantly.

"Things was peaceful, mostly," Damina said. "The roads were safe, and the harvests was good. My brothers was able to buy a few hides o' land."

"He changed t' laws, though," Tansy muttered, looking down at her thread. "Our rents went up soon as Tywin became hand. Under old King Aegon t' lords couldn't raise rent during winters."

"Aye, and our lord took back the land granted to the poor," Bethany said. "Me grandad said it never would've happened under Aegon, said he was a friend to the smallfolk."

"Shouldn't have tried t' hatch dragon eggs then." Damina spat on the ground, then froze, remembering their lady was present. Sansa turned away, pretending she hadn't seen anything.

"Whatever happened at Summerhall, Aegon weren't no King Scab," piped up Shirei. She was the youngest of many sisters, and had a tale for every occasion. "There was queer stories of Aerys- there were a tourney at Harrenhal, when my oldest sister was a maid there under old Lord Whent," said Shirei. "She told us the king looked a fright, his hair all long and dirty and tangled like a bird's nest, and his nails like claws." The girl shuddered.

"Now Rhaegar, he were a proper prince," Tansy said. "He won the tourney at Harrenhal, he did, an' he were a clever one besides. If he hadn't got hisself killed, he might've been a good king."

"A good king doesn't kidnap ladies and rape them," Sansa said softly.

Tansy shrank back. Poor Lyanna. When Sansa was little she wondered if her father's little sister had gone willingly, if she'd wanted a gallant prince. Doubtless Rhaegar had been forced to wed a Dornish princess, only to have his heart captured by a northern beauty. When Sansa saw the fat old king, she'd been certain she was right. It was a tragic love story, not a tale of violence. Now she knew better. Perfect princes could be perfect monsters, Joffrey had taught her that.

"Shirei, did your sister say aught of Princess Elia?" Jeyne asked quietly. Sansa glanced at her friend, surprised.

The Dornish princess haunted Sansa's dreams, her face wan and her belly swollen as she lay confined to her chambers. It was agony, watching the gentle princess read books of dragonlore, unable to warn her of the terrible fate that awaited her and her babes. The agony only increased when Princess Elia was brought to childbed, the sheets drenched in blood, her body streaked with sweat and tears. The babe was fine, but the mother would not wake, she would not wake-

Jeyne had shaken Sansa from her sleep, concerned by her sounds of distress, and Sansa had wept as she told Jeyne of the princess lying still, unable to hold her crying babe. Why were the gods tormenting her so?

At least when she dreamed of Buttons, she might learn something of use. The cat wandered the entire Red Keep, picking up bits of gossip as he rubbed against ankles and purred on laps. Ser Addam Marbrand longed for battle, but was resigned to training Tommen. The Imp was keeping a mistress, and the queen knew about it.

Shirei tilted her head, her stitches wandering crookedly as she thought.

"The Dornish princess was weak, she said. She walked with a golden cane and sometimes the Kingsguard had to help her. The princess gave the servants coin for every trifle." Shirei frowned. "Always in the godswood, she was; my sister fetched her blankets to keep off the chill."

None of the others had heard much of the Dornish princess, just that she was pretty and sickly. And brave , Sansa wanted to tell them. She calmed her ladies when they fretted over what the Mad King would do if she bore another girl; she never let her own fear show.

"What was life like under King Robert?" Sansa asked, desperately pushing away memories of the Mountain bursting into Princess Elia's chambers.

"About t' same as under Aerys," Bethany said. "But a lot o' rivermen died in the rebellion, and it wrecked our village. The old Falcon made sure we had money to rebuild, what with him being hand and his wife being a Tully."

"M'lady's aunt," one of the women said.

Sansa frowned as she tried to recall Aunt Lysa. She had only met her once, some years past. Lord Jon Arryn and Lady Lysa had come to Winterfell, bearing a baby as scrawny as his father and as red cheeked as his mother. Sansa had been all of six, and longing to see a lady who lived at court, who dressed in the latest fashions. Lady Lysa's gowns were as beautiful as Sansa had imagined, but the lady wearing them was sad and fretful, always worrying about her babe.

"Did m'lady know Lady Arryn was the lady of the court, before King Robert married?" Bethany asked. Sansa shook her head.

"Then we got the Lannister whore instead," Damina grumbled. Sansa froze, her blood pounding in her ears. Dimly she registered the scents of the women, their heartbeats fluttering as Sansa set her needlework aside and fixed her eyes on Damina.

"Whores kept Jeyne and Meri safe, defying orders to train them with beatings and rapes. Whores recognized Arya and said nothing, though they could have had a purse of golden dragons."

Sansa rose, anger thrumming in her veins.

"Whores helped me escape King's Landing, without any promise of reward. Do not dishonor them by saying Cersei Lannister is one of them."

Chapter Text

”Do we have any other matters?" Cersei glanced down the table where Pycelle, Rosby, and Varys sat. Tyrion rubbed his aching head. Was it not bad enough that he must sup with Cersei tonight? Holding court was as tedious as it was lengthy.

Two knights complained that a whore had given them the pox, and the queen ordered that the trembling woman have her private parts scrubbed with lye. A baker complained of being robbed by his own sellswords, and the queen told him to hire his men more wisely. A bedmaid accused a head groom of rape, and Cersei told her to focus on her work, not waste time in the stables. A pair of thieves were dispatched to the dungeons; a murderer was condemned to death. The last case was a singer accused of writing a treasonous song.

"I didn't write it," he pleaded, flinging himself to his knees. "I heard it played and learnt it, the song is all over the city, it isn't mine."

"If the song is so popular, you should be honored to perform it for your queen," Cersei said. The singer's eyes widened, and he begged for mercy, insisting his voice was not fit for such high and noble listeners.

"Play," Cersei insisted, and a guard handed the man his harp. The man gulped so loudly Tyrion could hear him from his place at the high table, and began to play.

The King he rode for Winterfell 
to seek an honest man
the lord there knew his duty well
and said he'd serve as hand

The Hand he was a northern lord
with eyes as grey as stone
The Hand he wore a noble sword
Valyrian steel sharp honed

The queen she wore a golden crown 
and gold shone in her hair
The queen she wore a crimson gown
and emerald was her stare 

Her brother was a Kingsguard knight
her twin in birth and fame
Their beauty hid a vicious blight
a dark and secret shame 

The King was hunting in the wood
The boy had naught to do
A broken tower lonely stood
against the sky of blue 

The boy he climbed with grace and skill
and to his great surprise
he heard soft voices in the chill
and then a woman’s cries 

The boy he looked inside and saw
Two lovers bare as babes
Their hair was golden as the straw
And bloody was their rage 

The queen she saw the helpless child
and in that evil hour
her brother took the boy and smiled
and flung him from the tower 

His body broke upon the stones
yet still his life he kept
His father prayed in the godswood alone
his mother in the sept

The gods revealed the truth ere long
the queen’s crime left its traces
the honest Hand saw what was wrong
writ on her children’s faces

The Hand offered her mercy, shown
to spare the children’s lives
But when you play the game of thrones
you win, or else you die 

Boar’s tusks ripping from nipple to groin
the good king’s life did end
with lordships and with golden coin
the queen betrayed his friend

They forced the Hand down to his knees
his daughter screamed and wept
the bastard King ignored her pleas
and blood profaned the Sept

The King he rode for Winterfell
to seek an honest man
the lord there knew his duty well
and said he'd serve as hand

"You spoke truly," Cersei said coldly, her face as white as a corpse. "The song was not fit for any audience."

She beckoned a pale slender hand at Sir Ilyn, and the pockmarked knight stepped forward.

"Take this man out and remove his treasonous head. Be sure to take his tongue and his fingers first."

Shae's eyes were wide, their depths as dark and unknowable as the night. He should not have slapped her, nor told her of Tysha. But whatever thoughts ran through her head, her body was his to command. Tyrion kissed Shae's cheek, his lips brushing against the red mark where he'd struck her.

He stepped back, and suddenly Shae's hair was longer, her eyes as blue as the sky. "You hurt me," Tysha whispered, her eyes full of tears. "Why did you hurt me?"

Tyrion awoke with a start. A ginger cat perched on his belly, its green eyes perturbed.

"It was for her own good," Tyrion told the cat. "She's safer here than in the manse." He'd glimpsed her once or twice with Lollys, her cheek bruised where he had struck her. Perhaps he'd send for her tonight, after his dinner with Cersei. Tyrion would not miss riding to Chataya's and climbing through wardrobes. Alayaya was a sweet girl, but passing through a gauntlet of overly attentive whores irritated him. Pretty they might be, but Shae was all he needed.

The cat mewled unhappily as Tyrion sat up. Maegor’s Holdfast was only safer than the manse so long as the city held. Storm's End fallen, Winterfell fallen, and still no word from his father. Had he crossed the Red Fork to defend the Westerlands? There was no need for it, not now. Robb Stark would soon be gone, off to reclaim Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy was more sly than Tyrion had imagined. Though it was hardly a thing of glory, taking a castle from a cripple and a toddler.

Tyrion sighed, absentmindedly scratching the cat's chin as he thought. Had Uncle Kevan reached Bitterbridge in time? Mace Tyrell might be a pompous fool, but he was a pompous fool they sorely needed. Stannis could be upon the city within a fortnight, and Tyrion had no army to resist him, just his wits, his chain, and his wildfire.

The city was nearly as volatile as the alchemists' substance. Though it had been over a moon's turn, the rabble were still furious over the Bread Riot. Cersei bore the brunt of their ire. She couldn't ride through the city without calls of 'brotherfucker' and 'murderer' following her train. Not that it stopped her from riding out anyway. His sweet sister was near as practiced as Lord Tywin at ignoring what she did not wish to hear. Given that the mob had murdered Ser Preston Greenfield and the High Septon with their bare hands, Tyrion had to admire her audacity.

No one mourned much for either man. The queen had wanted to appoint Ser Balon Swann to replace Meryn Trant, but their uncle had persuaded her to keep the seat open for a man of Tywin's choosing. With Ser Preston dead, and Kevan gone, Cersei was free to place a white cloak about Ser Balon's shoulders. Truth be told, the change was an improvement. Unlike Greenfield, who came from an ancient but minor house, Swann came from a line of powerful Marcher lords. He was handsomer than Ser Preston, had better manners, and had better skill at arms.

As for the old High Septon, many of the begging brothers declared that he had deserved his fate for being so fat when the smallfolk were starving. Well, the new High Septon was a frail old man, as wrinkled and skinny as one could wish. Tyrion had made sure of it.

At least the begging brothers weren't calling for Stannis. His red priestess had put paid to that when she burned the godswood at Storm's End. It was easy enough to convince the new High Septon that Stannis would do the same to the Great Sept. Bel reported that the whores didn't like Stannis either, what with him trying to ban brothels a few years past. Bronn hadn't brought much information from her lately, but it never hurt to have ears on the Street of Silk. The sellword reported the madam remained grateful for Tyrion's patronage, and was spending the gold on repairs and keeping the whores fed, no easy task with food prices so high.

Food prices kept rising, as did the city's anger. Burning the waterfront had been necessary, but them that lived there cared more for their pitiful hovels than for strategy. If they didn't open the gates for Stannis, there were others who might. Plenty of Flea Bottom remembered the sack of King's Landing. And if those fools open the gates, their precious city will be sacked again. I am all that keeps this city from falling to ruin, and still they call me a demon monkey. Tyrion clenched his fist, and the cat yowled, leaping away with a hiss. He'd forgotten his hand was around the cat's jaw.

Someone timidly rapped at his door. "Come in," Tyrion said, hopping down from his bed. Podrick Payne entered, staring at the floor as usual.

"It's time, my lord," Pod told Tyrion's bare feet. "I mean, it's the time you told me to wake you? For dinner?"

Tyrion sighed. The nap had not proved as refreshing as he'd hoped. He needed all his wits about him for a meal with Cersei.

"Yes, thank you. The velvet tunic, if you please, and quick about it." Pod hurried to fetch it from his chest, smoothing out the plush crimson fabric and brushing off a few specks of lint.

"Ser Aron says you sparred with the other squires a few days past."

It had been nearly the only thing Ser Aron had said during last night's meal. He had been even grimmer than usual since the crowd nearly pulled him off his horse during the riot. Lady Cedra was pleasant as ever, though she had no new reports on Littlefinger's accounts.

"Pages, my lord. Sir. Not squires. I lost," Pod informed the ceiling as he lifted the tunic over Tyrion's head. Well, the lad was skinny, and new to training.

"Ask Ser Aron to teach you strengthening exercises," Tyrion said. "There are ways to make your arms stronger, and that will help. Though there's much to be said for the element of surprise."

"My lord?"

Tyrion smiled as the boy fastened his belt. "No one expects violence from a dwarf, and I'm a smaller target than they're used to. That saved me on the Green Fork." Pod's eyes were wide with awe, doubtless imagining Tyrion cutting his way through the battlefield as if he were Jaime. The idea both pleased and annoyed him.

Tyrion was nearly late, thanks to Varys catching him in the yard. Still, the letter merited the delay. As Tyrion climbed the steps he saw the boys' faces, those dark red-brown locks and Tully blue eyes. Tyrion wondered if anyone had made Bran the saddle he designed. It was a poor apology for his family's role in crippling the boy, but at least the boy would have been able to ride before... well. It was time to see how Cersei took the news.

Tyrion had hoped to see the Kettleblacks standing guard, but his hopes were disappointed. It seemed Kettleblacks were worming their way into the queen's good graces far too slowly, damn them. He'd have to have a word with Bronn. Surely there was something they could do to win Cersei's trust.

Instead, Ser Mandon Moore and the Hound awaited him on either side of the oaken doors of Cersei's solar. Ser Mandon's face was blank as ever, his eyes as cold as his white armor. The Hound looked no friendlier, the torchlight flickering over his scars. No wonder Cersei kept them as her shadows; they'd kill a man without flinching, and forget his name within the hour.

Cersei was a much prettier sight, lovely in a gown of deep green velvet. Her golden hair tumbled down her shoulders, a crown resting easily upon her curls. Trystane Martell was a lucky boy, if Myrcella grew to be half as beautiful as her mother.

"You seem to grow more beautiful each time I see you," Tyrion said, bowing. Cersei did not even pretend to smile. Since the riot she barely tolerated him at best; the invitation to supper had come as an unpleasant surprise.

"What's that?" She demanded, pointing at the scroll in Tyrion's hand.

"Why, news from the North. Varys asked that I bring it to you immediately." He presented the scroll with another bow and watched Cersei's face as she read. After a moment her eyebrows furrowed. Jaime struggled with reading, but Cersei read nearly as fast as Tyrion, when she bothered.

"It would seem we are exceptionally lucky," Tyrion said dryly. "Though Varys says the boy testified before half the lords of the north before Robb Stark marched south."

"The word of a cripple is nothing," Cersei said, setting the letter down with a moue of distaste. "The word of a dead cripple is even less than nothing."

"Even when it's the truth?"

Cersei was still glaring at him when the servants brought the wine. She took small sips of sweet Arbor gold, savoring the wine until the servants left them alone.

"Catelyn Stark must be as mad as her sister by now," Cersei said with a nasty smile. "Her husband dead, her daughters missing, doubtless dead, her sons murdered by her foster son."

Tyrion shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The woman was fiercely dedicated to her family; his brush with death was proof of that. With only one child left to her, what would the woman do to protect him? If she persuaded Lysa Arryn to support Robb Stark...

"Perhaps," Tyrion said, taking a gulp of wine. "But a wounded beast is dangerous."

Cersei waved a pale slender hand dismissively. "A wounded fish, more like. As cold and dull as the northman she married."

That cold, dull northman nearly got your head on a spike, sweet sister . More fool he. Offering mercy to Cersei was like rolling oneself in honey and lying down in front of a bear.

"At any rate, Robb Stark will be marching north, and good riddance," Tyrion said, resisting the urge to tweak Cersei's tail. "Let him break himself against the ironmen; Moat Cailin has never fallen."

"Unlike King's Landing," Cersei said sharply. "I still think we should send Tommen away before Stannis arrives." Not this again.

"Tommen is the king. He must stay in the city to inspire the defenders," Tyrion said carefully. Cersei glared.

"No one need know he is gone. Simply announce that he has redspots and is confined to his chambers." The childhood illness was mild, but contagious.

"He had redspots two years ago," Tyrion said patiently," and doubtless there are plenty who remember. Besides, it is hard to persuade men to fight for a child king. A sickly child king? Rumors run wild. A redhaired girl became a red wolf; far easier for  redspots to become some fatal ailment. Within hours half the city will believe that the king is dead."

Cersei grimaced, and he knew he had her.

"I want him safe. Here, with me, in Maegor's Holdfast." Tyrion shook his head as servants placed creamy chestnut soup and crusty hot bread on the table.

"He must be in public view. The Great Sept is safe; the High Septon can be trusted to watch over Tommen." And see that the boy was spirited away if the battle turned ill, but Cersei needn't know about that. He was sick of arguing with her. "Tommen will have Ser Addam and Ser Boros with him at all times, and a crowd of worshippers between him and harm."

"I'm surprised you didn't try to take Ser Addam away," Cersei said, ripping a piece of bread in half. Tyrion winced. Truth be told, he had wanted Ser Addam to lead sorties, but he'd asked for the Hound first, to test the waters. The queen had reacted very badly, accusing Tyrion of trying to leave her defenseless, and he'd dropped the matter.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Tyrion lied pleasantly. "He is devoted to Tommen, and our little king is more important than any sortie." At least he would have Ser Balon Swann to keep Stannis from crossing the Blackwater. The knight was eager to prove his gallantry, but reasonably cautious despite his youth.

For a while they ate in silence. Every dish was seasoned and cooked to perfection. The lamprey pie had a flaky, toothsome crust, the honeyed ham was just sweet enough; the carrots were tender and buttery. Yet with every bite Tyrion felt himself growing more anxious, his stomach turning to lead.

"Varys says there are more rumors about a red wolf in the riverlands," Tyrion commented, taking another gulp of wine. "Some nonsense about it rescuing lost children. There's even a song about how the wolf is secretly a beautiful maiden who watches over the smallfolk."

Cersei snorted, spearing an apple with her dagger. "And I suppose birds flock to her hand, and flowers grow beneath her feet?"

Tyrion took a sip of wine, waiting for the penny to drop. His patience was quickly rewarded.

"Sansa Stark," Cersei hissed, her face twisted by hatred. "The bitch is dead, or will wish she was if I ever get my hands on her."

"Doubtless you're right. I imagine we've Brynden Blackfish to thank for this bit of cunning. Nothing like a song to inspire men. Or terrify them," Tyrion smirked. Wielded properly, the Rains of Castamere was as threatening as a knife to the throat.

"I suppose," Cersei said, eating roast swan with small, vicious bites. "He must have never met the girl. Leading smallfolk?" Cersei laughed. "She'd be raped and dead within hours."

Her eyes glinted, as though the idea brought her great pleasure. She still believed Sansa was responsible for Joffrey's death, though she thought Littlefinger had somehow orchestrated the whole thing before spiriting Sansa away. It did bother Tyrion that he couldn't figure out who paid Trant, but what motive could Baelish possibly have? No one murdered a king just to have a chance at fucking a girl, no matter who her mother was.

"We've more recent treasons to worry over," Tyrion said. "These Antler Men, for one."

Cersei grew irritable as Tyrion answered her questions about the group of merchants and artisans plotting to help Stannis take the city.

"Why are we plagued with so many enemies? What injury have I ever done to these wretches?"

Tyrion bit his tongue, the coppery blood filling his mouth.

You fucked Jaime, presented your bastards as heirs to the throne, had Bran Stark thrown off a tower, killed Robert, lopped off Ned Stark's head, and started a riot over a harmless beggar. All you had to do was fuck Robert a few times, bear children with his look, and then fuck Jaime all you wanted while drinking moon tea. Then Stannis would not be marching on us, you selfish bitch.    

"Perhaps the wretches share Stannis's hatred of whores," Tyrion said with a shrug. Cersei's lips drew back in a vicious smile.

"Unlike you," she purred. Tyrion shifted in his seat, unsettled by the glint of victory in her eyes.

"What?" Tyrion said stupidly. He shouldn't have drunk so much wine.

"Do you think you can fool me? I know you have a whore," she said. Tyrion's belly felt as if it were full of eels.

"Why should you care? I've never meddled in your affairs."

"Oh?" Cersei asked. "You’ve been scheming against me since the day you came to King’s Landing. While Jaime rots in chains you sold Myrcella and sent Kevan away. You poisoned me so you could rule in my stead, you struck me for daring to defend my son, and now you plot with the High Septon to kidnap Tommen. Would you sell your own blood to Stannis? What was the price, lordship of Casterly Rock? A noble wife to birth a brood of hideous dwarfs?"

"This is madness, Cersei. The High Septon was only to spirit Tommen away if the city fell. A city can be retaken, so long as the king lives. And Stannis would never make such a bargain, you know that."

"No, he wouldn't," Cersei agreed. "But I will not have you betray me.”

"I would never," Tyrion protested. "Stannis will be here in days, Cersei, and my ugly face on a spike will not frighten him away."

Cersei sighed. "No, I suppose not. And Jaime would never forgive me if I had you killed." Tyrion misliked her smile as the queen crossed the room, throwing open the door.

"Bring her in," Cersei ordered. Ser Mandon and the Hound stepped inside the room, and the Kettleblacks quickly followed. Osmund had a faint look of discomfort, but Osney and Osfryd's smiles were cruel as they dragged in the girl.

Her hands were bound with rope, her mouth gagged with a bloody cloth. One eye was black; the other half shut from dried blood that had trickled down her brow. So this was how the Kettleblacks had decided to win Cersei's favor. Tyrion wasn't sure whether he should clap them on the back or have Bronn slit their throats.

"I'm not sure I want to fuck her now," Tyrion said, trying to sound bored. "I prefer them undamaged."

"She fought," Osney said. His cheeks were marked with the scratches of her nails.

"If you're done with her, then I suppose I could have her delivered to the goldcloaks. Didn't father do something similar to your first whore?" Cersei laughed, and Tyrion's vision went red.

"Try it and I'll rape you myself," Tyrion hissed.

His sister’s hand flashed at his face, but he caught her wrist and bent it back until she cried out. Ser Mandon and the Hound stepped forward, hands on their sword hilts.

“One more step and I’ll break her arm,” Tyrion said coldly. The Hound paused, but Ser Mandon kept coming. Never say I do not keep my word, sister , Tyrion thought, pulling Cersei's arm back until he heard something snap.

"Stop!" Cersei sobbed, and Ser Mandon froze, his eyes fixed on Tyrion.

"You are unfit to be a queen," Tyrion snarled, shoving Cersei to the floor. She shrieked as her broken arm hit the stones beneath the rushes. "Now, unless you want me to tell our father every single detail of your relationship with Jaime, you will release her."

Cersei's eyes blazed like wildfire as she cradled her broken arm. "You have no proof," she hissed.

"Oh? I've a dozen witnesses who'd beg to differ. A potboy, a guard, a wet nurse... and they all left the city weeks ago," Tyrion bluffed.

"The lowest scum, easily bribed," Cersei replied through gritted teeth. "Father will never believe you."

"Shall we test that theory?"

They said Tywin Lannister could cow men with his unflinching gaze, and Tyrion summoned every drop of hatred he could muster as he fixed his mismatched eyes on his sister. Cersei's face was red and drawn with pain, her teeth bared as she panted.

"Release the whore," Cersei spat. The Kettleblacks dropped the girl on the floor, her dark skin shining against the pale yellow rushes.

"You're safe," Tyrion said, untying the girl's hands and taking the gag from her mouth. "But I've no interest in bedding you again." Alayaya sniffled, her eyes wide as he helped her to her feet. She had nothing to do with this, she did Cersei no harm. Damn them all.

"Take her back to where you found her," Tyrion snapped. The Kettleblacks looked at him, then looked at Cersei.

"Do as he says," his sister snarled. "Ser Mandon, get Pycelle." Osmund picked Alayaya up, carrying her as if she were his bride, not a whore he'd kidnapped. Ser Mandon followed the Kettleblacks out of the room, his white armor gleaming.

"Help me up," Cersei growled at the Hound. Clegane bent and lifted Cersei carefully about the waist, setting her in her chair. Her arm flopped on the table grotesquely.

"I am not Ned Stark," Tyrion said. "I've served you well, better than you know, and these are my thanks? You may be my sister, but you're as stupid as you are cruel. Try me again, and I swear I'll choke the life from you."

As Cersei stared at him, her eyes so huge that the green was lost among the white, he prayed that she believed his bluff.

Chapter Text

Arya rose from her nook in the hollow hill, dressing herself quickly before creeping past Sansa and Jeyne. Meri's spot was empty; she rose early to milk the cows.

"Gendry," Arya hissed, shaking the boy by the shoulder. His dark hair was shaggy against his neck. With a quiet groan he rolled over, his blue eyes fluttering open.

"Morning, m'lady," he said gruffly, sitting up. Arya rolled her eyes.

A few women were already awake, preparing the fire and the porridge, and they nodded respectfully as Arya slipped past them, careful not to wake the sleeping children. Gendry was getting better at sneaking, his steps quieter than Arya remembered.

The rising sun shimmered on a thousand dewdrops as they entered the clearing. Arya yawned as she pulled their practice sticks from the hollow log where she'd hidden them.

"Already tired, little wolf?" Gendry asked, easily catching the stick she'd thrown at him.

"Tired of beating you every time," Arya replied, sliding into her water dancer stance. The Hound, Ilyn Payne, the queen, Meryn Trant, Amory Lorch. One day she'd kill them, and every spar was a chance to learn.

Gendry was much taller and stronger than she was, but all of her opponents would be taller and stronger too. Arya dodged and wove around him, her feet always moving. He couldn't hit her if he couldn't catch her. The trouble was, she couldn't reach him to get in any strikes of her own. His arms were so long, it wasn't fair. A fight is never fair , Syrio Forel had said. Use what you have. Arya bit her lip as she thought, her stick darting at Gendry.

Suddenly she slid on the wet grass, just barely keeping her feet under her as she glided between Gendry's legs. Her legs screamed as she pulled herself back up, the tip of her stick pressed to Gendry's back.

"Yield," she panted, grinning.

"I yield," Gendry said, dropping his stick. Arya stepped back, lowering her stick and wiping the sweat from her face. Gendry bent to pick up his stick.

"Got you-" Arya only barely raised her stick in time as Gendry brought his stick down at her shoulder. The blow was so hard that her stick rapped herself on the head. Gendry winced.

"Sorry, m'lady," he said sheepishly as Arya glared.

"What was that for?"

Gendry ran a hand through his hair, frowning.

"You said fights weren't fair. Someone could pretend to yield and then attack."

"You- you-" Arya made a rude noise. "You listen too much."

"Of course, m'lady," Gendry said. Arya turned away, as if heading to the stream, then whirled on Gendry, her stick a blur as she attacked.

They sparred until they were both soaked with sweat. A small audience of wolf pups watched, their tails wagging. When they finally lowered their sticks, one of the wolf pups yipped and made for Gendry.

"Who's this?" Gendry slowly extended his hand to the pup, letting her sniff at his fingers.

"She doesn't have a name yet. Guard the stream so I can wash?" Sansa got cranky if Arya came to breakfast stinking of sweat. Not that she said anything, she just wrinkled her nose and sighed while looking in Arya's general direction.

"Was there any more word of Robb?" Arya asked as she scrubbed herself with a sliver of soap. Gendry had come from the forge last night, bearing a dagger for her and news for Sansa.

"Just what I told the Lady at dinner. He won some victory in the west, and he's sent ravens ordering all the lords to prepare for a bad winter. Northmen are helping rebuild north of the Red Fork and out east by Maidenpool so the rivermen can focus on getting the crops planted."

The stream water was cool and clear as Arya dunked her head, running her fingers through her growing hair to sort out the tangles.

"She's just Sansa, you don't have to call her the Lady all the time." A splash doused Arya's legs- Berry had leaped into the stream to pounce on a fish.

"You say that now, but it'll be different at Riverrun, m'lady," Gendry said. Arya stared at his broad shoulders and back.

"What? We're not going to Riverrun, not yet."

"Half the smallfolk have gone home, Arya. Do you think the lightning lord will let you and Sansa stay here for winter?"

Arya sat down in the stream. Beric Dondarrion had been gone so long she'd almost forgotten about the leader of the brotherhood without banners. He was following the Lannisters west, that much seemed to be true, but...

"Sansa would have told me," Arya said, watching a minnow swim over her pale legs.

"Have you asked her?" Arya made a face.

"Thought so."

Arya blew a raspberry at Gendry's back as she stood up, shaking the water off her like the wolves did. She threw on a simple gown and bundled up her sweaty roughspun.

"Your turn," Arya grumbled, stalking past Gendry.

While Gendry washed, Arya thought. Riverrun . She'd see her mother again, but would her mother want her? She'd killed a stableboy, she'd ridden in Nymeria as she slew rapers. Her hands were covered in calluses and blisters and her feet were hard from running around barefoot practicing her water dancing. At Riverrun there'd be no more Needle, just needlework and gowns and being a proper lady.

At least Sansa could say she'd spent her time well. Comforting babies, rescuing lost children, ensuring the hollow hill stayed fed. Those were important tasks, so important that stupid Tom o' Sevens had made up a stupid song. Arya didn't have a song. All Arya did was practice water dancing and ride in Nymeria when she stole supplies. No one even knew she was there.

Arya sighed as she ruffled the wolf pup's fur. Breakfast was a loud and busy affair. After breakfast Sansa usually spoke with Jeyne, checking on the state of their supplies. When that was done Sansa helped with the babies and younger children until the midday meal, then sewed all afternoon, surrounded by all the women of the hollow hill. If Arya wanted to speak to her alone, she would need to choose her moment wisely.

"Are we going to Riverrun soon?"

Sansa frowned as she rocked the baby in her arms. Little Sansa was only a few months old, born just after they arrived at the hollow hill. Sansa had sat with the mother during the birth, putting cool cloths on her head and praising her strength and courage, and the mother had named the baby girl for her. Sansa had thanked her, promised to sew her baby a gown, and then thrown up as soon as they were alone. 

"Why do you ask?"

Arya blew a strand of hair out of her face as she picked up a toddler who was wobbling on unsteady legs. Walder gurgled as she dandled him on her lap.

"Gendry said half the smallfolk are gone, and the lightning lord will be back soon."

"He's not wrong," Sansa said softly. "I just... you've been happy here, Arya."

What? What did that have to do with anything?

"Robb needs alliances, and marriages are one of the only ways to seal them. As soon as we reach Riverrun, there will doubtless be marriages arranged for both of us. Maybe we'll go back to Winterfell for a while, but they could send us away immediately. You won't be my sworn sword anymore." Her blue eyes welled with tears.

"I don't want to get married," Arya protested. "I'm only ten!" Sansa laughed bitterly.

"I was eleven when father betrothed me to Joffrey." Arya frowned. Had it really been only a year since they left Winterfell? "Betrothals can last a long time. You might not wed for another five or ten years, but they could foster you with your betrothed and his family."

"No," Arya retorted. "We won't let them. I've got Nymeria, and you can talk mother into letting us go home."

"Mother isn't in charge, Robb is; he's our king too."

Arya snorted. "So? I'll tell him that if he makes me go before I'm ready, I'll behave so terribly that they'll break the betrothal."

Sansa stared at her, then shook her head.

"Robb needs alliances to win the war," she explained. "I don't want to be betrothed either, not- not again." Sansa swallowed. "But this is how we can help Robb avenge father."

Arya's stomach sank.

"It's stupid ," she said, bouncing Walder. "I could help other ways. I wish Nymeria and I could do something worthy of a song before- before-" The toddler wriggled, and she set him down.

"I don’t think I deserve a song either,” Sansa said quietly. “Lord Beric feeds a dozen villages, and Robb is rebuilding the riverlands. All I do is sing to babies and do needlework." Arya winced. Had Sansa overheard her?

"Besides, half the song is Tom talking about how shapely I am.” Sansa shuddered. Arya frowned. Sansa was getting  a bit bigger in the chest. “And if it makes you feel any better, Bran would probably get betrothed too, if he weren't crippled.”

"I miss Bran and Rickon," Arya whispered. "I want to go home, not go to Riverrun." Sansa reached out, her pale hand soft against Arya's calluses.

"I do too. But we have a duty, and we can't run from it."

In her dream she ran. The she-wolf snarled, her jaws slavering as she chased her prey. The man was filthy, his cloak hanging from one shoulder. He reeked of a sickly sweet aroma, the scent of a wounded beast. The stink had lured her close to his camp, curious to see if the injured man was friend or foe. Then she had recognized the man beneath the shaggy hair, and the hunt was on.

Nymeria howled, the pack music echoing through the night as her smaller brothers and sisters raised their voices with hers. Arya shared the she-wolf’s excitement as they closed in, the man’s lead dwindling as he made for a hawthorn tree.

The smelly man leapt, her jaws snapping shut on his boot as he clung to the branch. Nymeria shook her head back and forth, tugging at the leather as the man kicked and yelled. The voice was vaguely familiar to Arya. Why did she know that voice? The she-wolf yanked, and the boot came off. Disappointed, she dropped it.

The man was trying to climb higher, but his cloak caught on the thorns that sprouted from each branch. With a growl the direwolf-girl leapt, grabbing the cloak in her teeth. It ripped, sending the she-wolf back to the ground. She spat out the cloth, her eyes fixed on the climbing man. The massive direwolf crouched on her haunches, gathered her strength, and sprang. At the last moment he pulled himself out of her reach, and she yelped as the thorns bit into her paws.

Her pack had the tree surrounded. It was only a matter of time before he tried to come down. Panting, Nymeria lay down and began licking her wounds. One of her pack brothers was shredding the cloak into ribbons. Another trotted back to the man's camp, to see if he'd left any food behind.

Up above, an alarm call broke the silence. The man had climbed too close to a nest, and its occupants, a pair of robins, shrieked their fury at the intruder. The robins dove at him, pecking and clawing as the man flailed. Nymeria chewed on the leather boot as she watched, utterly enjoying herself. She could feel the fierce girl laughing, her presence warm within her skin.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and a light drizzle began to fall. Within minutes it was pouring. The wolves clustered against the trunk of the tree, the thick leaves sheltering them from the rain. The robins had given up their attack, huddling in their nest for warmth.

A low wuff caught Nymeria's attention. Her pack brother had returned, a sack held tightly in his jaws. He dropped it at Nymeria's feet. The scent of ham made her mouth water, and the pack descended upon the cloth bag, tearing it to pieces to get at the hunk of meat within. From above the man shouted curses at the wolves, his voice hoarse beneath the patter of rain.

"I tell you, Lord Beric's going t' give 'isself up," the stocky man insisted. His leathers were poorly patched, his head balding.

"Start from the beginning, Huntsman," Anguy said. The Huntsman's eyes flicked to Sansa.

"You’re havin’ me answer to a little girl?"

"You speak to Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell," Alyn snapped.

"Princess," someone called from the shadows within the hill. Robb had made them both princesses, but Arya didn't care. Alyn forgot half the time, he was so used to calling them lady.

"Lady or princess, she's still a little girl," the Huntsman objected.

"I understand your hesitance." Sansa's voice was different than usual, queenly and gentle, yet strong. "My brother is young too, but he is a King and winner of many great victories."

The Huntsman looked at Anguy, then at Alyn. The archer had one hand on his bow, and Alyn's hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Thankfully Lem and Greenbeard were off somewhere else; Arya wasn't sure if they would support Sansa so strongly. The Huntsman exhaled, annoyed.

"Ser Amory Lorch were raiding near Rushing Falls. He took a beekeeper and his wife, claiming they were some o' ours. He says he'll hang 'em unless the lightning lord surrenders and takes their place. They've been spreadin' the news far an' wide; Lord Beric will go if he hasn't already."

"Ser Amory?"

The Huntsman glared at Arya. He wasn't happy that she'd greeted his arrival with Nymeria by her side. His hounds had run away whimpering, despite Arya telling them that Nymeria would leave them alone if they behaved.

"That's what I said."

"Is Lord Beric near here?" Sansa asked.

"Aye, away to the west. Searchin' for the Kingslayer." The Huntsman spat on the ground.

"The Kingslayer? He's locked up at Riverrun," said Anguy.

"He escaped, weeks ago."

Arya's skin prickled, and she rubbed the goosebumps from her arms. "We have to help Lord Beric." The men frowned at her.

"How?" asked the archer. "There's only three of us, and then there'd be none left to guard the hill. And Lord Tywin’s host is gods know where, since no one’s seen it since your uncle threw him back at the fords."

"We have to help," Arya insisted. She looked at Sansa. "We could find Lord Beric before he gets to Ser Amory, or maybe we could kill Ser Amory somehow." Sansa bit her lip, her eyes uncertain.

"The queen wants Lady Sansa’s head,” Alyn snapped. “And you want to go within spitting distance of Amory Lorch ?”

“Who is Amory Lorch?” Jeyne piped up from behind Sansa. Alyn looked at her solemnly.

“One of Lord Tywin's mad dogs. 'Tis said was he that killed Rhaenys Targaryen.” Sansa paled, and Jeyne grabbed at Sansa's hand, her brown eyes wide.

“My lady, it is time. The folk of the hollow hill can take care of ourselves. Let us escort you to Riverrun,” Alyn said. “Your lady mother should be there, and your uncle and grandfather.”

Sansa glanced at Jeyne, then Arya.

"He's right." Arya looked at her feet as she scuffed one toe against the floor.

"We shall prepare to leave on the morrow," Sansa said at last, her eyes lingering on Arya. Arya smiled.

The sun had not yet risen when Arya slipped away from the hollow hill, a sack of food slung over her shoulder. Faithful came at Arya’s whistle, and Arya carefully saddled the mare, packing the food in the saddle bags. Taking a last look at the hollow hill, horse and girl turned south.

At midmorning Arya stopped beside a stream. While Faithful drank, Arya sat on a rotted log and closed her eyes, reaching out for Nymeria. The she-wolf was still beneath the tree. It had been two nights; the man must come down soon. The wolves could hear his stomach rumble with hunger, and smell the stink of the wound in his hand. No. I need you, Nymeria. Killing Ser Amory mattered more than taking down a strange man, no matter how much Nymeria disliked him. The direwolf whined, then obeyed.

It was mid afternoon when Arya next checked on Nymeria. The direwolf was running through the woods, the wet grass soft and slippery beneath her paws. As the wolves crossed a stream Nymeria paused, her nose twitching. She smelled another stranger, a woman on a horse. But the scent was different than Nymeria expected. Most women smelled of soap, or sweat, or wool. This woman smelled of steel and leather.

Nymeria, come , Arya insisted. The woman wasn't near enough to the hollow hill to pose any danger, no matter how oddly she smelled. The she-wolf obeyed, her pack at her heels.

Arya wondered how far Riverrun was from the hollow hill. Perhaps they would be there by evening. For a moment she imagined Sansa hugging their mother tight, Jeyne crying behind her and Gendry scowling. That wasn’t so bad. Sansa went out now and then in wolf form to let herself be glimpsed, but she didn't have the stomach for getting her teeth bloody. Sansa just wasn't a fighter, and neither was Jeyne. As for Gendry, he'd forget all about Arya as soon as he saw the forge.

Nymeria caught up with Arya on the second day. They were careful to keep to the woods, the wolves guiding Arya away from any whiff of a man. On the fourth day Nymeria slew a Lannister outrider, and Arya called the frightened horse over, releasing her after emptying her saddlebags.

On the fifth day they had to change their path to avoid a group of soldiers carrying a standard with a brindled boar. Crakehall, that was it, a house sworn to Casterly Rock. After the incident with the deserter Sansa insisted that Arya learn all the sigils of the North, Riverlands, and Westerlands, drawing them in the dirt with a stick. How did Sansa remember all of them?

On the ninth day they made camp in a thicket, the falls thundering dimly in the distance. As Arya chewed on salted beef, she wondered what the others were doing. Was Sansa being fitted for new gowns? She deserved something pretty, after months with only three old gowns that were too short. Was Jeyne taking a bath every day? She hated washing in streams. Gendry was surely busy in the forge, learning whatever he could with a proper master to teach him. Well, Arya would see them soon enough, when she finished her business here.

Quiet as a shadow , she told herself as she crept through the trees and hid herself beneath a bush. Nymeria and her wolves were scouting around the camp, careful not to get downwind of the horses. Arya didn’t want anything to warn of her presence, and spooked horses were loud .

A standard bearing a manticore flapped in the wind beside the camp, the tents shuddering as the wind pulled at them. Arya glanced at her hip, where she wore the dagger Gendry had made her. All she needed to do was wait until nightfall, then she would creep into Ser Amory's tent and slit his throat.

But first she needed to figure out which tent was his. None of them were especially grand, though a few were larger. And so Arya watched, waiting for Ser Amory to show himself. It was hours before she finally saw a stout man with ornate scrollwork crawling across his steel breastplate. She thought it was Ser Amory because everyone did as he said. Then a squire handed him a shield with a manticore on it, polished bright. It had to be him.

When Ser Amory went into his tent, Arya cursed her bad luck. His tent was in the middle of the camp. Even if she could slip past the sentries, it only took one man rising for a midnight piss to catch her. There had to be another way.

Carefully Arya crawled out from under the bush and began climbing a tree, hoping for a better view of the camp. She was so preoccupied with thinking of a new plan that she didn't notice the next branch was half broken. As she pulled herself up, it snapped, and Arya plummeted to the ground.

She awoke to rough voices.

"Awake already?" a man rasped. Arya blinked. She was lying flat on the ground, the broken tree branch digging into her back. Above her loomed a group of soldiers.

"What happened?" Arya asked, trying to think what to do.

"Spying on our camp, you was, til you fell out of the tree. Knocked yourself out for a few minutes." The soldier's friendly smile didn't reach his eyes.

Dimly she sensed the direwolf slinking through the bushes behind her. No, Nymeria! Even if her wolf handled the soldiers, she’d never get to Ser Amory. And what if they realized who Arya was? The whole camp would chase her down.

"Wasn't spying," Arya said, sitting up. Her head throbbed and her belly ached. "I... I have word of the lightning lord." The men looked at each other.

"Is that so?" The first soldier asked with a sly smile. "Why don't you tell us, then? There's a reward."

"I can only tell your commander," Arya said stubbornly.

"Hear that, Denys? The boy wants to see Ser Amory," the friendly one said. The others laughed, and Arya's skin prickled as he hauled her to her feet. Something rustled in the bushes- where was Nymeria going?

Her stomach roiled as they dragged her halfway across the camp and threw her to her knees before Ser Amory. Up close she could see he was no taller than Robb. The knight's face was pale and piggy, his expression bored.

"What's all this?" Ser Amory demanded, frowning. His voice was high and thin.

"The boy says he knows where we can find Dondarrion." The one called Denys smirked, as though he knew some amusing joke.

Ser Amory looked down at her with his little eyes. "A girl, I think."

They hadn't noticed the dagger at her hip, but Ser Amory was out of reach. Arya cast her eyes down, surreptitiously glancing about her. She was surrounded by the men who had found her, and other men were all around, pulling down the tents. But they were busy, and Arya was fast. As soon as she got loose she could call Faithful to her, and be gone before they realized what had happened.

"Well, speak up," Ser Amory commanded, the waterfall thundering faintly from the other side of the camp. Arya kept her eyes fixed on the ground, her hands hanging loosely at her sides.

"I saw the lightning lord." Let them think her voice was quiet from fear.

Ser Amory stepped closer. "Speak up," he ordered.

"I saw the lightning lord, near Stoney Sept," Arya whispered, swallowing back bile. If he would just take a few more steps...

"She saw the lightning lord near Stoney Sept, she says," one of the men volunteered. Ser Amory stood still, his piggy eyes blinking. Arya bit her lip to keep herself from screaming with frustration.

"When?"

"Last night," Arya said, hoping that was the right answer. It was hard to think with her head still pounding. Ser Amory's eyes narrowed.

"You're one of his," the knight said. "Put her with the others." Strong hands gripped Arya's arms, pulling her to her feet.

"No, I'm not," Arya protested. What had she said wrong? "I saw him, I did, I just want the reward."

"Maybe you did, maybe you didn't," Denys chuckled, dragging her toward the opposite end of the camp, away from Ser Amory and the men. The falls roared louder. Or did she hear hoofbeats? "But you'll see him again, never fear."

Arya's foggy mind spun as they approached the river. Had they caught him already? Were Beric and his men captives?

Then she saw the gallows.

Three bodies dangled in the wind. Between a man and a woman hung a knight in a ragged black cloak speckled with stars. His battered breastplate bore a forked purple lightning bolt, and a thicket of red-gold hair hid most of his swollen face. Arya's stomach lurched again.

"Another rope," Denys called to a man in chainmail. "We'll put her beside Dondarrion."

"No!" Arya shrieked. At last her stomach overcame her, and she retched. With a noise of disgust Denys released her, and she drew her dagger and slashed open his belly, his guts spilling out like worms as he fell.

The man in chainmail charged, his blade drawn. Arya grabbed for the dead man's sword, but Denys had fallen on his belly. Desperately she tried to roll him over, her hands slipping in the blood and guts. The man in chainmail raised his sword for a killing blow- and a great red direwolf tackled him to the ground.

Suddenly the air echoed with howls and snarls. In the distance ragged outlaws were fighting Ser Amory's men, and as she squinted she recognized some of their faces, Greenbeard and Lem, Alyn and Gendry- Get behind me, Sansa shrieked. Arya crawled behind her sister, her legs shaking, her head spinning. Why was the earth moving so much?

The man in chainmail stood, his face contorted with rage. The red direwolf snarled as the man approached, his sword streaked with blood.

"Want some more, bitch?" He swung the blade at Sansa, and the red direwolf dodged.

Arya scrabbled for the dagger and stumbled to her feet. If only she could get behind him! She took a few steps, then the ground rose up and slapped her.

The man charged at the red direwolf, Arya forgotten. Forward he came, and back Sansa retreated, her blue eyes fixed on the sword. Blood dripped from the direwolf's chest as the man drove her toward the falls. Where were the other wolves? Where was Nymeria? Arya licked her dry lips and screamed, just as Sansa slipped and fell into the river.

Time seemed to slow as the red direwolf thrashed against the current. Her fur was darker in the water, her eyes wide with fear- and then she was gone.

The ache in her legs disappeared as Arya got to her feet. She was on the man before he knew what hit him. His body might be covered in chainmail, but his head and neck weren't, and she stabbed and stabbed and stabbed until someone pulled her off, the dagger falling from her bloody fingers.

"Let me go!" Arya screamed, twisting and kicking. Her elbow flared with pain as it smacked against the knight's breastplate, but still she fought. Didn't he understand? It was all her fault, she had to go after Sansa. At last her energy was spent, and she went limp, her breaths ragged.

"She's gone," the man said, his raspy voice filled with sorrow as he deposited her on the ground.

And Arya looked up into the eyes of Beric Dondarrion.