Pre Chapter Notes: I'm a big sucker for military maneuvers, and got a bit carried away in this chapter. It may be easier to follow if you pull up a detailed map of Westeros, especially one showing mountains and rivers, etc.

The mountains of the Westerlands don't seem to have a name in canon, so I'm just referring to them as the Western Hills here.

Jon

Dorne. Winterfell. Highgarden.

He understood little of the words in her speech, delivered in foreign tongues, but he recognized those words. And her voice when speaking of those places had been been neither conciliatory nor peaceful.

He knew what he must do. He thought he knew what he must do. Tyrion thought he knew what Jon must do. Tyrion, the Half-Man, who could not do the killing himself, who could only speak murder into others with his words. The guilt oozed out of his skin when they spoke in the cell, that the Hand could not compel his queen to listen to his counsel upon this last, and most critical occasion.

Tyrion wasn't the only only at fault though. Jon knew he held his share in this bloodshed as well. Tyrion had expected it, feared it, for better or worse, as did Varys. But he had not seen it coming at all. Charging through the gates, he expected the slaughter of the Lannister forces, the Golden Company. He expected that she would melt the Red Keep itself, along with Cersei Lannister and the Kingslayer, whom Tyrion had let escape one last time, a treason that, in hindsight, should not have come as a surprise to anyone.

Though freeing the Kingslayer was his crime, a futile one, considering he would've likely died with his sister had he even made it to the Keep, Jon suspected that Tyrion's end was inevitable, even were Jaime Lannister was still chained up on Dragonstone. The Half Man quit his position, he quit her before all her armies, and he embarrassed her in doing so. But should it be this way? Could no one walk away from their Queen without dying? Was this how Aegon, his namesake, had subjugated the kingdoms in the first place, to be sung and praised over the next two hundred years?

He knew where to find her. She made sure her damned chair survived, that was clear, looking up the steps to what used to be the throne room. There was no Drogon though, that was strange. Dragons were intelligent, and perhaps even her last dragon had had enough of the bloodless ashes it left in its wake. Did he share her bloodlust, or had Drogon no choice but to follow her, same as him?

Had Arya gotten to her before him? He had been surprised to find her at the gates, after the battle. Apparently she had arrived just after the slaughter, thank the Gods. He didn't know how he could live with himself had she been caught in that conflagration. He saw death in her eyes, but Arya respected him, he suspected, and she would give him a chance before committing the deed herself. And he would do it for her too, because whatever his sister was now, she did not have the blood of a dragon.

But neither Arya nor Sansa were blameless in this slaughter. They had to provoke her, had to look down upon her, until she started imagining from them impossible treasons...except they turned out to be very possible, hadn't they? He should have fought Dany there, at the Crossroads, and just let Sansa go back to Winterfell. Daenerys may have continued to suspect, she certainly did when Sansa was in the west, but they would not have given her the chance to sow the seeds of discontent in every direction. But Jon had been blinded by his own rage towards her at the time as well, for her betrayal of her vow, for her defiance of Dany and himself. He had wanted to punish her, to teach her a lesson, that she must obey her new Queen, because that was her duty, just as their father bent the knee to King Robert. Just as all the lords who fought for the Mad King bent the knee to King Robert, else none of them could have enjoyed the long peace of their childhood.

Walking up the steps, slowly, one at a time, he wondered if he could give her one last chance...one last chance for her life...one last chance to not force him to become an oathbreaker himself. He owed her that, for what she did for the North, for her love for him, for his love for her. If only she could show a hint of regret, acknowledge she had gone too far, vow for an end, a true end to the war, promise to treat with rather than burn the lords in the south...spare Sansa...

A rough tap on his shoulders.

"Snow."

"Khal Madri?" Where had he come from? This complicated things for him. He would have to kill him first. Who would that alert? Certainly Dany, up in the throne room. Perhaps Drogon too, wherever he was lurking.

"Dragonpit," he said.

"Dragonpit?"

"Queen summons you. Dragonpit."

She wasn't here. She had gone to the Dragonpit, where they had once met as one realm, before all the many betrayals. Was it time to pay the price for his betrayal now? Did she know, had word of his conversation with Tyrion spread to her ears? Or did she merely suspect now, and that was all she needed to deliver the sentence?

"Why?"

"Bad queen caught and brother. Fire."

So they had survived the collapse of the castle after all, though it didn't do them much good. Jon shuddered. He was tired of seeing fire. Cersei did deserve it, he didn't doubt, and he caught himself thinking that Sansa would want be present to see it happen. But she and Cersei had more in common now, didn't they? The plots, the schemes...the fate they may both face, and Jon wondered whether he had lost his last chance to end this war. Not without having to kill the Dothraki guards, Grey Worm, and whomever stood in his way, only to feel the dragon's fire before he got to her.

The rough hand pulled him back as he walked down the steps, and for a second he wondered if the Khal could read his poisonous thoughts. But his hand held out a scroll rather than a weapon.

"Varys."

One more soul he had watched burn. The first of the battle, really. And all that Varys had feared had come to pass. He took the scroll. They must have intercepted it, with no Spider to deliver it to. There was no mark or sigil on the seal, but instantly he knew from whom it came from. Even if it wasn't her handwriting, the words were likely hers. If he read it, he would have to stare her treason in the face.

He handed it back to the Khal, unopened.

"Give it to Yohn Royce of the Vale." Extending both his arms facing outwards in a way that resembled a woman's breasts, he balled one hand into a fist and pounded it against his chest to convey as best he could the giant breastplate the old lord always wore. "We can trust him."

The Khal nodded dutifully, understanding his message, and left for his horse at the foot of the steps. There were plenty of open spaces for a horse to ride through in King's Landing after the battle.

It was still snowing lightly when he reached the Dragonpit. He was almost the last to arrive, the Khal riding in several minutes after him after delivering the scroll. This time he came bringing something else: the former Hand, bound on the back of his horse.

Davos was already there, and Jon took his place by his side. He couldn't bear to look at the old man's eyes. He had been expecting Davos to deliver him the same speech Tyrion had. He didn't. Was it because even Davos had finally lost faith in that he would listen?

He saw the Kingslayer, face mixed between disgust and indifference as usual, the Khal dragging Tyrion next him. At the head of the small circle stood the queen, the woman he loved...the woman he had just gone to murder. He had never seen such hatred in her eyes before, not that the person of the ire, standing before them all in the middle of the circle, wasn't a worthy recipient. Cersei Lannister, formerly the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, was not bound like her brothers. It mattered not, there was no escape for her. He could see the small bulge in her stomach, and while he had known of it ever since they took Jaime the first time, it still jarred him to see it with his own eyes, knowing that he was about to witness yet another child burn.

He would give her credit, the former queen stood stone faced before her conqueror. Yet he saw cracks in her facade, eyes not as hardened as the rest her face, eyes that trembled just like her lips.

As the Dothraki set Tyrion down, the queen chose to address him first.

"It looks like your treason was for naught." Turning towards Yara Greyjoy, who stood beside her now, Daenerys beamed, as she did when she spoke before the city earlier, her harshness taking little away from her beauty. Enhancing it, even. "Queen Yara found the usurper and her brother trying to escape the harbor, after refusing our terms before the battle. More than anyone, she has earned her crown, and my gratitude."

The Ironborn Queen was steel faced, but even she seemed touched by the high praise. "My crown serves your crown, my Queen."

"My life is forfeit, I know." She spoke without prompting, though it should have been no surprise the former queen did not yield the precedence to her captor, even as she stared at the face of her own death. "I have blood on my hands, as do my brothers. Do with our bodies what you wish. But my child...my child is innocent, my child has not harmed anyone..."

"Your pupil did well," Daenerys interrupted, catching Cersei off guard. "She learned from you. She's eager yet to replace you."

When she next spoke, she did so with violet eyes staring directly at Jon. "Sansa Stark has declared herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She has no blood. No right. No justice. No dragon. Yet she declares so all the same." He barely heard her next words as she turned to address Cersei again. "I have good faith that the child of Cersei Lannister will be no innocent. That more blood will be shed to defend a usurper's memory."

"It can't be," Jon protested, aware how everyone in the pit, including the three Lannisters...especially all three Lannisters, were struck dumbfounded by the news. "This must be a mistake."

Daenerys nodded, and Grey Worm handed him an opened scroll. At first he wondered whether it had been the one he held by the steps of the Keep, but then he saw the broken seal, this one two halves of a lone direwolf. Opening it, he saw that it was indeed his own sister's handwriting, neat, perfect...damning.

"The Targaryen invader has burned King's Landing and all its peoples. If you would burn before you kneel to hundreds years more of subjugation, I ask you to call your banners one last time across the Realm, from Sunspear to the Wall, as the lords of the South and West have declared so in Highgarden, as the lords of the northern three have declared in spirit.

Sansa I of House STARK, QUEEN of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the REALM, as named by her PEOPLES."

The small piece of paper slipped from his hand and fell upon the sandy surface below.

"A mistake?" She had watched keenly his entire reaction. "A mistake which will soon be corrected. Like the one before me."

"Please," Cersei began, her composure suddenly fracturing into a million pieces, "I had nothing to do...I told her nothing...please...I want my child to live. I want my child to live."

Her words moved neither the dragon or its mother. Behind her, Jaime looked mournfully at the ground, having already accepted what was to come. Even Tyrion's face was contorted in sorrow, despite all the unreconciled grudges between them. Cersei's legs looked as if they may give, but yet she continued to stand while Drogon bent his head forward towards her, the terror of the beast no comparison to the terror she felt for the child in her womb.

"I want my child to live. I want my child to live." If it were a prayer, it would never find its answer.

"Cersei of House Lannister," she whispered, in a voice even softer than that night in Dragonstone when Varys burned, "usurper of the throne, tyrant of the realm...I sentence you to die."

She continued crying as the flames engulfed her, and Jon imagined the sound of her weeping for several seconds before they transformed into screams. Then thankfully, nothing but silence except for the crackle of the flames. The Kingslayer averted his eyes the entire time, while his brother stared at the entire execution in horror, just as he had at Varys. And the Tarly's, he imagined. And all of King's Landing.

As what remained of her body collapsed onto the ground, a ground where they once all met as one realm, two Queens and one King, he heard a yell, a primal screech of pain and rage and grief. It was the Kingslayer, and it lasted for several seconds, though it felt like hours. Then, blessed quiet, Jaime's face blank and dull, as if he had witnessed none of the horrors before him.

"This is enough," he said, stepping forward. "Enough people have burned. Enough people have died. Cersei is dead..."

"Yet another takes her place." Her eyes were ice cold now. He dared not remember the Night King, so as not to have to compare the two. "I could have spared Sansa before. Allowed her small treasons within the confinement of a castle. But her crimes are beyond mercy now. Before which queen do you kneel, Jon Snow?"

Neither, he thought. Sansa...a queen? Of all Seven Kingdoms? The idea was absolutely ludicrous, and he would think it a joke still, were it not for the scroll he just read, unquestionable proof of it. Part of him still could not declare against Daenerys, even as he had been about to kill her near an hour ago. Even if he did declare for Sansa now, what good would it do? It was a futile cause, Sansa had no chance at winning this war, and Jon couldn't help but think her new lofty title as one last childish tantrum from his sister, denying the truth until the very end. And if he were dumb enough to declare his support for Sansa now, out of all places, that would end any chance at him...doing his duty? Breaking his vow, his word? Protecting the realm?

Aware of all the eyes in the Dragonpit upon him, he was no closer to a response when one of the Unsullied watched up to Daenerys and whisper into her ear. Though her eyes grew with rage, they still remained fixed upon him.

The Unsullied soldier stepped away. When she spoke again, her voice was a barely held scream. "All my armies have left me, Jon Snow. The armies of the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, have abandoned their camps upon, I imagine, the commands of your traitor sister." She took three steps towards him, Grey Worm trailing her every step.

"What do you know about this?"

That scroll. The one he had instructed the Khal deliver to Yohn Royce. He had suspected its contents, hadn't he, though the depth of the treason he could have never guessed. She'd find out the truth anyway, once she spoke with the Khal, once they put everything together, any lie he told now would be meaningless.

When he still didn't speak, Daenerys turned to Yara. "Consider the three northern kingdoms in open rebellion against the throne, along with their Lady. House Stark has forfeited Winterfell by way of their rebellion. It ought to be held by a much worthier, loyal House."

Immediately Yara knelt before her. "What do you ask of me, my Queen?"

Gently, she could still be gentle, she beckoned her to rise. "Sail your ships north. No reaping. But make war along the coast of the rebellious kingdoms. White Harbor. Runestone. Gulltown."

"With pleasure, Your Grace."

"You can't," Jon said, suddenly.

"I can't," she answered incredulously. "I'm the Queen. My kingdoms have declared war against me."

"They fought for you! At Winterfell! At King's Landing! You can't go and burn down their homes!"

"Their lords should have considered that before betraying me." She looked towards the remaining Lannisters. "Lock them in the Black Cells. Give the Kingslayer some time to contemplate the sins of his family tonight." Raising her voice to address the hundreds of Unsullied and Dothraki standing guard outside their smaller circle, she proclaimed. "The last of the traitors will be punished tomorrow. I will ride and destroy the armies who chose to run, and we will take back this realm from any who would proclaim themselves an usurper..."

"Are you going to burn the entire realm?" The anger in his outburst came as a surprise to him. "Are you going to burn every man, woman and children just like the hundreds of thousands you burned here? Do you really think that will win you the hearts of all the realm, win you their love, their loyalty? Is that the kingdom you wish to rule, is that the wheel you wish to break? The living itself?"

She regarded him coldly, almost finding humor in his words, in the fact that he could finally speak so harshly at her, and in this moment he felt an intense hatred, for what she was, for what she could have been, for what she had become, this monster, yet the woman he still loved. And he hated himself for still loving her, even now. His hand found itself moving towards Longclaw, as that primal, that instinctual part of his mind studied his surroundings, taking count of the Unsullied and Dothraki and all of them, calculating how long it would take to reach her, before they stepped in to defend her. Whether he had a chance against every man and dragon in the Dragonpit.

"I see Jon Snow has chosen the path of treason as well," she said coldly, though he saw the fear in her eyes. Suddenly a dozen Unsullied soldiers surrounded him, and he heard the shrieking of the Dothraki warriors. He could fight them all, yet he would never get close to her. Never again. Yet he breathed a sigh of relief, because he still didn't know whether he could've done it, even had he slaughtered every Unsullied and Dothraki gathered to stand before her, sword in hand.

"Take Jon Snow to Dragonstone. He will be dealt with when the war is over."

As Grey Worm unceremoniously grabbed Longclaw from him, as he felt the prod of spears at his back, his mind turned to one last hope.

Arya. Do something. I don't know what you can do, but do something.

Save your foolish sister.

Save us all.

Sansa

The map. The board. The pieces. That's what had started all this, hadn't it? When she looked at the map and thought of the dragon asleep and wondered if that gave her a chance. She had thought it so easy then, the lines, the armies to move at will, just pieces on board. She knew better by The Twins. She knew much better now.

"Your Grace..."

If she heard those words one more time she would need to step out and vomit again. She needed a stronger stomach.

"...we need to vacate Highgarden at once. Send them to the mountains, scatter them in each different valley and ridge, so she can't burn us all at once..."

"With all respect, Lord Paxter," Roland said, "that'll leave us vulnerable to her dragons and her armies. At least together, she can't beat us with a clean battle. All we need is one lucky shot."

"Like Cersei had when she took King's Landing," Paxter rebutted. "Give each command several scorpions. Make her chase us, find us in the hills." He pointed out to the mountains south of Highgarden. "The Red Mountains will eat up her armies, and we can hide the scorpions in forests and cliffs."

Marion shook his head. "It's too close to Dorne. I've yet word from Ser Mortimer."

"What did you offer them?" Roland asked Marion, who looked naturally now, Gods the man was smooth, to her for permission. Which she gave.

"The West. Casterly Rock."

"It's a good offer," Roland said, after considering it. He himself was a western lord, after all, and this determined who his new liege lord would be, his and Marion's. "Cersei would not have liked it, but it's a good offer."

"Cersei's not much in a place to like anything now," Marion said, his voice not at all unaffected by his queen's death. Pointing near Lannisport, he said thoughtfully, "the Western Hills are more secure were Dorne to reject our advances. They would be a longer march however, through exposed terrain."

"If the northern armies do desert her," Brienne said, Sansa insisting, with little objection encountered, of her place at the table, "they'll reach the Western Hills before the Red Mountains."

"Have we heard from them," Sansa asked. It was ironic, the mystery being her own lords, the men who respected her the most, the soldiers who fought for her at The Twins, yet there was still the chance that they would become her enemy, while she led a group of strangers. She hoped they remembered her, that they did not forget the cause she led through the flames of King's Landing.

"Not yet, I'm afraid. If they do abandon Daenerys, we may not be able to fix upon their locations. It'll all depend on the standard of ravenry in their camps. If we leave Highgarden...we may lose all contact with them."

"If they're smart," Paxter said, "they'd divide their armies too, same as us, in case the Dragon Queen decides to chase them first and burn them before they can reach us."

"Why not stay here," Arthur suddenly said, after having maintained a relative quiet observing his elders discuss the war thus far. Next to him stood Margaery, who shot a sudden worried look at him, one which he obviously failed to notice. "Let them try to take us in a siege."

Paxter scoffed. Almost too meanly, Sansa feared. "Highgarden couldn't hold against the Lannisters. And the Lannisters couldn't hold King's Landing against the Dragon Queen."

"It's different though," Arthur insisted. "The Lannisters had the Kingslayer. He's worth five thousand men in the field, I saw that myself. Highgarden is small, but the gardens offer tree cover for the scorpions. We have enough to cover every direction."

"The top," Margaery asked. She was clearly biased. Having just reclaimed her home, she clearly had no urge to present it as an easy target for the last dragon. Sansa knew she could not allow sentiment to sway her decision though, regardless of whose homes or men were placed in harm's way.

"We may have one or two to spare, depending on her approach," another voice, Lord Dremin Ashford, one of the few lords to have survived Stannis Baratheon's last campaign. "Highgarden gives the northern armies a place to meet. By the time her foreign scum arrive, we'll far outnumber her."

"One place to all get burnt together," Paxter protested.

"Not if we engage them in battle on the field. She wouldn't burn her own men."

Marion was skeptical. "She wouldn't?"

"Your Grace," Roland asked now, and Sansa thought about how simple it had been, when it was just Jaime arguing with her uncle. More armies, more strange lords, more names of mountains and rivers and cities she'd never seen, it had been a struggle for her to follow at first, but she forced herself to learn quickly. She had no other choice.

"Are these our only options," Sansa asked.

"Aye, there's thousands more," Roland said, looking back at the map and she almost thought he would go ahead and list them all. But then he shook his head. "Not many more that make a lot of sense though."

Wolf. Fish. Falcon. The sigils representing her own home. Her blood. The pieces furthest away from her.

"Send as many riders as you can. Ride all the roads between King's Landing and here. We need to know as best we can what help we can get, and where they are."

"It will be done at once," Paxter nodded, and Sansa gulped, the finality of the first men she would send to their possible deaths as a Queen.

"It seems the success of any one of these plans ultimately relies on getting a lucky shot on the dragon."

Marion swallowed uncomfortably. "I'm afraid that would be close to accurate, Your Grace."

"If we stay at Highgarden, we can build more," Arthur said, rather uselessly.

"If we send half the armies to the western hills and the other half to the southern hills," Sansa said, talking herself through all she had just heard, "I imagine the difficulty would be to recombine them."

"Correct, Your Grace."

"Would there be any advantage to that?" It combined Roland's and Paxter's suggestions. She remembered the last time she had split her armies, when Jaime Lannister argued against it. It had been a bad move then. But was that always a bad move? Hadn't the Golden Company gotten an advantage over them by doing the same?

Paxter thought through her idea. "Confusion. It'll force her to chase us on opposite sides of the Reach. She won't be able to wipe us out with one breath of the dragon."

"Aye, she'd only need two," Warryn Beesbury said. A useless comment, which few at the table acknowledged.

"If we send the larger of our hosts to the west," Roland said, moving the pieces around, "they may yet outnumber her men, provided they can join with the Northmen."

"Send them in two different directions," Warryn snarled, "hells, why not three, or four, or five?"

He was a problem. She wished she could remove him from the war council, except she could not ignore the men he had indeed brought to Highgarden. Nevertheless, Sansa was about to reprimand him for his insolence when she observed Aemon Estermont frown, staring further upon the map.

"I've more men I can call from the Stormlands," he said, deep in thought, "more lords that may answer the call once they hear of what she did to King's Landing...and once they hear of the Wolf in the south." Moving one piece towards Storm's End, he continued, "give me some men to take east, and we can join by the old ruins of Summerhall. The hills will give us shelter there as well. We may then ride back west back to Horn Hill, or north to the Westerlands."

"Three armies then, each division weakening each further." Marion was skeptical, but he was her most clever adviser. She studied Aemon's manner. That was a Targaryen name, wasn't it? Could he be trusted? Arya thought not. He was from the Stormlands, which meant Margaery knew less of him, everything relying upon Paxter's trust of the man from a long lost youth. And to further split...hadn't she almost lost the Riverlands when she didn't listen to Jaime and divided her armies? How much worse was three?

"Aye, but numbers matter less in the hills. And less against a dragon." Exchanging a look with his friend, she noticed Paxter biting his fingernails while he considered the varying plans, a habit she hadn't witnessed from him before. "It gives us better maneuverability. It makes her underestimate us. If she ever separates her men from her dragons, we can attack her armies from any direction, chip away at them, and run back to the hills before her dragon can find us."

"Summerhall is closer to Dorne than Horn Hill," Marion countered. "We'll need to be sure of their intentions..."

"We know our hills better than they know our hills," Aemon replied. "I trust Paxter and Lady Talla's men know their side of the Red Mountains better than the Dornishmen."

They both nodded, the poor Lady Talla standing silently and looking terrified. Sansa sympathized with her. How long ago had she been the same shy girl? Was it before the Battle of the Bastards, when no one, not even her brother, not even the kind Ser Davos, thought to ask her how to wage the war against a stranger they'd never met?

"Lady Tarly," she said, startling the woman to jump. Sansa smiled warmly at her; had they not talked as mere equals, lady to lady, just several nights prior? "I apologize, that we may need to intrude upon your ancestral home with an army."

"Your Grace," she said bowing, "no, it is an honor. My father was a military man himself and he would be proud if...he would be proud."

"Thank you, Lady Tarly." Sansa wasn't sure what Talla didn't say about her father, but based on the stories about the late Randyll she'd heard from Samwell, as well as Margaery and the other lords here, it'd likely have to do with herself, a woman, leading an army into Horn Hill. "Dividing the army into three works," she said, looking at Paxter. "As Lord Paxter says, numbers matter little against a dragon. Were she to wipe one out, the war still continues."

Marion was clever, but Paxter knew better of war. He was no Jaime Lannister, she didn't think, not without having had the chance to lead rather than follow, but she would have to trust these strange southern men, at least until her northern armies came. If her northern armies came.

"If Dorne turns," Marion said, recognizing the way she was leaning now, "we would have two armies in the south they could join with, and we can dictate better where they would turn up so as to be more impactful."

"But who goes where," Warryn grumbled, apparently not satisfied that his haphazard insult had actually been heeded, that they had, however indirectly, led to a plan. "It's enough to lose count, twistin' yerself around like that."

"For some men perhaps," Sansa said, eyeing Warryn meanly, having had enough of his impudence. No one laughed openly, but she noticed a few chuckles. So did Warryn, who backed away from the table. "I imagine we would want to send men to grounds they are familiar with. Lord Estermont goes east. Lord Crakehall, you ought to accompany the western army north."

"Aye, I know those mountains," Roland replied. "We'll camp near Silverhill. Send yer ravens there, and we'll get the message."

"Lord Paxter, you used to hunt with Randyll Tarly on his lands?"

"Aye, Your Grace. I'll take charge of the retreat south. Lady Margaery and Lord Hightower can ride with me as well."

"The terrain in the Riverlands is similar to the Stormlands," Marion added. "Lords Piper and Smallwood should accompany Lord Aemon east." He turned to her. "Most importantly, Your Grace, is where you will ride."

There it was, the uncomfortable knowledge that she was the most important piece on the Cyvasse board, the one Daenerys would pursue before all else. Recalling Bran's words at another war council, she said, "Daenerys would want to burn me first, I'd imagine. Kill the rival queen, the war ends, the southern lords will bend the knee."

"Not an unreasonable assumption," Marion said.

"She'd expect me to ride north, to join as quick as I can the same lords who followed me to war against Cersei. The closest position that would be is Silverhill, with Lord Roland."

Realization dawned in his face, but to his credit, he met it bravely. "We'll take care of the dragon for you, Your Grace. Or die tryin'."

"There's no need for a meaningless sacrifice," Sansa said, feeling a reluctance to part with a man who seemed may be just as dedicated to her as Brienne. Looking at the map further, she said, "there are mountains still, further north from Silverhill."

"Aye, and caves and plenty of places for men to hide." Roland blushed. "Queens too."

Sansa nodded. "Then we trick her. No open declarations, but whispers that the Queen rides north will do. With any luck, she may spend days scouring the hills for me. That gives her more time in the air for that lucky shot."

"It tempts her to leave her armies behind her too," Paxter said. He turned to Roland. "And it buys time for Aemon to return south with more men, and for us to regroup. Spare a few legions north with some scorpions, so that she may believe the Queen is with them. Leave most of your men closer south, between the Gold Road and the Rose Road. Join with any northern armies as they arrive, and we may be strong enough to attack any of her remaining men while they trail her."

"I'll accompany you, Lord Roland," Margaery said, to the surprise of everyone, her own uncle most of all. Ignoring him, she continued. "The Queen would not ride openly north. But let them see me and think they sent both of us useless women together," she said, winking at Sansa. "I'm sure I can help Lord Roland convince the northern lords the safety of their Queen."

"My ni...Lady Margaery," Paxter protested, unhappy at this new development, "this makes you dragonbait. The Arbor will be much safer for you."

Margaery smiled. "We're all dragonbait, dear uncle. And I don't deserve to be any safer than anyone else." They all looked to her again, and Margaery bowed. "With Your Grace's permission?"

"Lord Roland, I presume there are plenty of caves and holdouts where Lady Margaery can hide?" Sansa would have preferred to have her friend accompany her instead, but the idea made sense. As long as she could be assured that the danger was not too significant, considering Margaery would be drawing the Dragon Queen's ire on her behalf.

"Lady Margaery will be safe, I promise."

"And I trust the sword of my own betrothed will protect me as well," she said, putting her arm around the blushing Arthur. Thankfully, if anyone could induce the young man to forget about his most recent declarations of love, it was the former queen.

Paxter grumbled, but said no more. "Your Grace, you'll ride with me to Horn Hill?" She nodded. "If we hear word of success in the north, we'll combine with Aemon's men to finish them off. If not...," he paled, "we can give battle in the mountains for some years to come."

That was wishful thinking, and Sansa wondered if he knew it as well. Paxter Redwyne may fight until the end, but the longer the war dragged, the more likely more and more of his own lords would abandon them bend the knee one by one. They needed that lucky shot.

"If by chance she does not fall for the northern trick," Sansa said, "then Lord Roland's armies and whomever comes to our side may attack her armies in the rear?" The language of war was becoming more and more familiar to her with every word.

"We'll come out screamin' from the hills," Roland said, his eyes actually beaming at the idea. "Then we'll run screamin' back, hopin' her dragon don't catch us."

The pieces that had once been tidy lay scattered now, a mess upon the lower half of the map.

"It's a plan," Roland concluded. "Not much of one, but no plan finds itself carried through anyway. This one at least gives us more ways to run."

Notes and responses: One war ends, another begins. As usual, thanks to all for reading and reviewing!

As for a lack of 'ships in this story...I usually write around them too, so I'm pretty surprised that this story is evolving very much lacking any. But Season 8 was pretty hazardous for all the 'ships in the story, except maybe Jaime/Cersei. I could have added more Jaime/Brienne to the story, perhaps, but would have struggled to portray them accurately and truly, I think. As for Jon/Dany...rough sailing for them after this chapter...but they may have yet a chance to rekindle things yet...who knows!