Author's Notes: The mystery behind the odd message delivered to Catelyn in the last chapter is revealed – but will it have unexpected consequences…?

For Gman (who left a comment as a guest, so I can't respond directly), who was wondering if Catelyn is a time traveller, based on she contemplating whether the messenger had been around the last time when Lord Stark had been executed by the king: That event (Rickard and Brandon Stark killed by the Mad King Aerys) happened when Catelyn was already a young woman and engaged to Brandon - so no need to time-travel... :-)

So what will happen now? How will this turn of events affect our merry travelling companions? Or not? Well, that reveal has to wait for a while, as in the next chapter we pick up with Brienne again, in her tight spot…

Thank you Hardlyfatal for bearing up with me and my writing!

Varys

Varys had always been justifiably proud of his handwriting, which produced neat, ordered lines and precise, even-sized letters. Even better was that when he wanted, he could change it into bold, aggressive script, or into flowery, feminine characters. Yet his most useful skill was to be able to squeeze large amounts of information into a limited space on paper.

That evening he was doing just that; sitting on the most comfortable chair in his solar, stooped over a pile of precise little sheets, writing. The latest turn of events had left him with too many questions with no answers, and he needed the services of his whole secret network to find them.

He paused and rubbed his wrist. How was it possible that he, the master of the game, had been so fooled by a mere maid?

That Sansa Stark's visit to her father was somehow linked with Ned Stark's subsequent escape was glaringly obvious, but still, he had temporarily fallen for the feigned innocence she had displayed when he had baited her about it. Not truly fallen, but enough not to do anything about it; to set guards to follow her every step, or even his own little birds. That the girl would be so brazen as to actually follow Lord Eddard…Varys's cheeks burned of embarrassment that he had let that happen.

The thing that bothered him the most, however, was his inability to deduct how exactly she had done it. Had Stark rushed out of the dungeons wielding a sword and escaped through a bloody rampage, Varys would have understood it. Or had he slipped away with an assistance of one of the gaolers, bribed and bought, that would have made sense as well. But to just disappear...it simply wasn't possible.

Varys had questioned the gaolers, save their leader, who had been found in Stark's cell with a dagger through his heart. Given Varys's experience in extracting information by any means necessary, he had eventually been convinced that none of the remaining guards had been involved with the escape. They were too simple, too clueless and all had ironclad accounts of their comings and goings during the critical periods, including staying in the guard's room where they would have detected any suspicious comings and goings. Since there had been no bloody assaults through the front door, it only left the possibility of secret tunnels as a means of escape. And only the head gaoler as a possible helper – but if so, how?

Because there were no secret tunnels in that part of the keep, not so deep in the dungeons.

Varys sighed and went back to his writing. Of course he couldn't absolutely deny the possible existence of such a tunnel, so many of them having been built in the foundations of the keep – but if he didn't know of one, how on earth could Ned Stark have, or even the head gaoler? Varys had made it his mission to foster the relationship with that pitiful man exactly for that reason; to know what he knew, and Varys was quite sure he had achieved that.

Another bit of news that rankled his already irritated state of mind was the one about the boy. Could an insignificant smith's apprentice be somehow involved with the escape as well? Was it purely a coincidence that he, too, had disappeared at about the same time? All Varys had wanted from the lad had been to remove him from danger and stash him somewhere for safe storage, in case he was going to be needed as a piece of his elaborate game someday. Cersei had been too obvious in her campaign to get rid of all Robert's bastards for Varys to risk losing yet another possible pawn.

Yet they were all gone now, his carefully cultivated pieces, and Varys's game-board was in disarray once again.

Steps on the corridor and a loud knock on his door interrupted his musings. Stifling his annoyance, he called to enter and Ser Arys stepped in, white cloak flowing behind him, appearing out of breath.

"Lord Varys, the king demands your presence in his solar, immediately."

Varys sighed. How much would it cost for small courtesies; 'requests' rather than 'demands'? He suspected, though, that Joffrey specifically preferred the latter and would have been thoroughly offended should anyone present his demands as requests, no matter what the reality behind them was.

"Thank you, Ser Arys. I'll be there presently." When the man just stood there, Varys felt a need to add, "You can leave now. I know my way to His Grace's solar well enough."

After securing his messages in a hidden compartment in his intricately decorated desk, Varys left his room and braced himself for Joffrey's wrath.

Varys had not been wrong about Joffrey's displeasure.

"How did this happen? How is it possible that the man could escape from the black cells of the Red Keep? – the dungeons that are which are supposed to be the tightest and the most secure in the whole seven kingdoms!"

Joffrey had worked himself up to a mighty rage and was pacing back and forth the length of the room, waving his hands in the air. Cersei was sitting in the chair at the back of the room, looking equally displeased, but calmer.

"Your Grace, I don't know yet, but I have made it my mission to find out," Varys said, bowing first in Joffrey's, then Cersei's direction.

"However he did it, he has vanished, and what matters now is to get him back! He can't have gone far, not in the condition he was in. I was told his leg had suppurated and gone bad." Joffrey stopped in front of Varys, his nostrils flaring.

"All available troops have been sent to scourge the city, and..."

"I know – I commanded so!" Joffrey interrupted him, brushing past Varys and continuing his pacing.

"If I may suggest, Your Grace." Varys bowed his head in deference. Handling Joffrey had turned out to be even harder than handling King Robert, but Varys was a quick study.

"Yes?"

"It might be prudent not to let the word out too widely that Lord Stark has escaped. If the Northerners hear about it, it will damage our chances to get Ser Jaime back."

That roused Cersei, who rose to her feet.

"He speaks sense. We don't want anything to jeopardise that. Surely the commanders have been told about the importance of discretion?"

Joffrey shrugged, and Cersei continued.

"As a matter of fact, if people hear that anyone has escaped the black cells, we'll be the laughing stock of all the kingdoms. We must not let it be discovered." Cersei's pride was getting the best of her, as always. This time, however, Varys didn't mind.

"I agree. As a matter of fact, I'll go one step further; I'll announce that the vile traitor Lord Stark has been executed for his many crimes. What do you say to that, Varys? I know he will be found, dead or alive, and if alive, that state of matter is easily resolved." Joffrey had cooled down enough to sit down, seeming pleased with his plan.

Varys had to think quickly on his feet. If Stark's family and retainers believed him dead, a revenge was sure to follow, the march to the capital continuing and gaining momentum when the other great lords realised that if Joffrey could get rid of one bothersome lord so easily, he could as easily get rid of the others.

Then again, if the Starks heard of their lord's escape and he somehow evaded Joffrey's net, the most likely scenario would see Lord Eddard retreating back to his cold lands to lick his wounds and leave the affairs of the realm for good. Varys knew how loath Stark had been to come to the capital in the first place, and it didn't take a great leap of faith to see him preferring to stay as far away as possible from southern politics.

Should that happen… where the Starks went, the Tullys followed, and the Arryns in their hideaway would not move in one direction or another anyway. Stannis would be left alone with his claim, which was unlikely to gather a big following simply because nobody particularly liked the man. Sansa Stark's virtue and reputation having been spoiled, her marriage to Joffrey had now become impossible, and if Littlefinger's suggestion for the king to marry Renly's widow eventuated, the Tyrrells would throw their support behind the crown. That, in turn, might lead to an overall pacification of the realm. In a few years' time, Joffrey might have truly solidified his hold on the throne, maybe have an heir or two to carry on his line…

Varys couldn't let that happen – too much was at stake. Neither young Aegon or Viserys were ready yet, needing more time to prepare for the second Targaryen conquest. And they could not be left to face a peaceful, stable government with a secured succession when they finally made their way across the sea.

He made his decision.

"Very wise, Your Grace. If I might suggest furthermore, as it is most likely that Lord Stark has escaped with his daughter and the other traitor, if you would make an announcement of a significant reward to anyone who captures the Hound, your betrothed, and any companions they might have, that would ensure the whole countryside rising to haunt them down."

Joffrey's expression changed from pleased to upset.

"That ungrateful bitch – and that stupid dog! I can't understand what the Hound sees in her, she's not even that pretty, with all that moping and simpering. That he would leave me, and everything I have given him, for her…" Joffrey's stare was pained and his hands clenched into fists.

Varys suspected it was the betrayal of the one person who had been the most stable presence in his whole life - besides his mother - that hurt Joffrey the most. He might have called Clegane a dog and acted dismissively towards him, but deep down, Varys believed the Hound had been closer to the boy than his own father had been.

"Don't you worry about that, my dear. The Hound has chosen his path and will pay dearly for it." Cersei hovered next to Joffrey, her hand almost touching his shoulder, the epitome of a concerned mother angry at anyone who had hurt her child.

"I'm not worried. I am furious!" Joffrey snapped. "I will offer a prize of ten thousand gold dragons to anyone who brings the Hound and the girl to me. With their companion, Ned Stark. I want to show that dog personally what happens to those who betray me. I am going to burn the other side of his face while he begs for mercy, I am going to -"

"Your Grace, I am sure he deserves all that and more, but asking him to be caught alive and brought back all the way to King's Landing is a quest not many men, even the boldest and greediest, are ready to undertake."

Varys didn't care about the Hound one way or another, bar as an object of vague curiosity that made him wonder what Lady Sansa had promised – or given - him to make him do her bidding. The Hound had never struck him as someone who would easily succumb to female charms.

Joffrey pouted while Cersei agreed to his suggestion.

"I approve. Announcing that the Hound can be and should be killed will attract much more interest, and send more men after them. Revenge is sweet, but you can exact it on that conniving little bitch instead."

"Fine, it is decided." Joffrey banged his fist on the table. "Do the necessary arrangements, Varys. The sooner the word is sent out, the sooner this sorry mess can be sorted."

"I suggest that you announce that due to many services Lord Stark did to your honourable father King Robert, you in your great mercy allowed him a dignity of a private execution. We can take a small party to the dungeons; Your Grace, the Queen, Ser Ilyn as the executioner, and I as a witness. We can find a body with similar appearance and take his head, tar it and place on the battlements. If we all say it is Lord Stark, who would dare to argue against it?"

Joffrey nodded at Varys's words, as did Cersei, then seemingly lost his concentration and gesticulated impatiently at Varys.

"Yes, yes, it all sounds good. You take care of all of that and let me know when it has been done. You are dismissed."

Bowing once more, Varys turned to go. On the way back to his rooms he wondered whether he had made the right decision in supporting the king's plan, in the end concluding that it had been the best cause of action in the circumstances. Now he just needed to carry out the plan– find a body, draw the declaration about the reward…

A fleeting thought about whether Clegane might have been the instrument behind Stark's mysterious disappearance crossed his mind, but he found it unlikely. The Hound was not likely to know anything about secret passages and, once again, didn't strike him as a cunning conspirator. The small length of the thread he had found in the cell pointed to a feminine touch, and so his deduction led again towards Sansa Stark and her recent strange behaviour.

That evening Varys laboured late into the night, writing missives and sending words; some official in the king's business, some unofficial in his own.

So much to do, so little time.

Sansa

The landscape through which they travelled was beautiful and endlessly fascinating for Sansa, who marvelled with fresh eyes at every shack, every village and every person they came across. She noticed that unlike in the court, where women were expected be docile and deferential – the role which she had learned to play rather well – among the common folk there were some who were strong and loud and stood their ground. That, in turn, encouraged her in her own behaviour, and from thereon she didn't look down demurely when others were present.

However, the opportunities for that were not presented often, as they preferred not to mix much with the other people they met at the roadside stops, such as watering wells and occasional stalls selling the season's bounty. Only once did they stop at a real inn, where Ned bought more staples for them. Nonetheless, as they didn't want to stand out either, they made an effort to exchange affable greetings with the others when it seemed safe.

Sansa had stitched a crude hood from the hem of Sandor's white cloak so he could cover his distinctive scars, to which he had submitted with surprisingly little resistance. Stranger, too, had been relieved of his saddle and his flanks had been smeared with mud to make his appearance less distinctive. His magnificent form and shape could not be altered, of course, but Ned had also started to tie some half-full sacks on his back to make him stand out less. It must have been undignified for a war horse, Sansa thought, but after Sandor took it as his task to load and unload them, his horse seemed to take his clues from his master by enduring his lot with quiet dignity.

After their first encounter with fellow travellers, when Ned had changed his speech from his usual highborn manner to a guttural northern twang, it had been Sansa's turn to be surprised and delighted by the new side of him. Afterwards Ned explained to her that he had not spent a large part of his life with soldiers and retainers of the North and the Vale for nothing, and had picked up his manner of speech from there.

Encouraged by it, Sansa too returned to her modern speech pattern the next time they conversed with strangers, steering away from her newly-learned refined way of speaking. It seemed to cause great amusement for both Ned and Sandor, each telling her separately how well she was acting, her 'pretend' speech considerably resembling that of the common folk.

However, their journey was not always leisurely; they knew the king must have sent troops after them, and that fact coloured their every action. It was easy enough to shrink in their seats when groups of soldiers in Lannister colours rode past them in a hurry, but avoiding roadblocks and targeted searches was more difficult. Luckily Ned was familiar with the route and had a good knowledge about which locations were most likely to be used. Their approach to such places was even more cautious than usual, and more often than once Ned had gone ahead to scout the situation before coming back to tell if the route was safe or if they had to redirect to the woods and take one of the many back roads, which were so small and rutted they were more like paths.

On those occasions, he had made sure that Sandor was safely secured, and had apologetically handed Sansa a dagger telling her to keep it, just in case. Ned had been clearly uncomfortable about putting Sansa into a position where she might even be imagined to having to defend herself, but Sansa had assured him that as little as she knew about the use of such weapons, at least she knew which end to stick to a possible attacker. And besides, Sandor was not going to do anything foolish, nor could he, being so tightly trussed.

Once they had been caught by surprise by a roadblock in an unexpected location. That time Ned and Sandor had unceremoniously jumped down from the wagon, Ned first, dragging Sandor behind him, and Sansa had passed through the blockade on her own. Luckily it had been near a village, so she had explained having been on a nearby errand for her father and on her way back home. The soldiers had poked around at the back of the cart and asked her if she had seen a big man and a girl, just the two of them or in a company, and after her assurances that she had seen nobody but a few villagers, had let her go without further ado.

As days went by, to Sansa's increasing bewilderment another kind of transformation seemed to be happening to her. The faces she had seen in her mind earlier returned to her more and more frequently: the long-faced young girl, the toddler with reddish hair, the boy with knowing eyes, and the woman with a sunset hair. After having heard Ned's stories, she knew who they were, and somehow putting a name to a face made them even more real.

Arya. Rickon. Bran. Mother.

Furthermore, not only their faces but also incidents from the past started to appear to her. Some of them were brought alive by Ned's tales, but still, she began to see – no, to remember – many incidents as they had happened. When Arya and Bran had thrown snowballs at her after a rare summer snow; when Rickon had been born and she had laid her eyes on the squalling babe for the first time. Her mother brushing her hair in front of a fire, talking about the events of the day with her as if she were a grown-up…

An offhand comment by Ned about direwolves had brought another memory; a recollection of soft fur, big paws and bright eyes. It had been so clear that it had been almost a physical sensation, followed by a sharp, painful jolt and a horrible feeling of loss.

"Lady," she had said then, almost without thinking, and Ned had stopped mid-sentence and stared at her.

"You remember her?" he had asked, and suddenly Sansa had started to sob and the pain of losing her beloved pet had washed over her as fresh as if it had happened that very day.

What was odd was that she had never even had a pet; not a cat or a dog, and even less a direwolf. Drying her tears, she had remembered the sadness that had engulfed her in that old lichyard in Winterfell - in another time, in another place - and she knew then that it had been her. Her Lady.

But whose memories were those, if the memories of Lady's life and loss occupied her mind as well?

One afternoon Sansa was contemplating how to solve the issue of Sandor's indeterminate standing in their party, while they were driving along yet another stretch of road somewhere halfway between Rosby and Harrenhal, by Ned's reckoning. It was a beautiful day, sunny and clear, and so much like any day of her past spent on a road trip with her family.

When she closed her eyes and listened to the birds and the wind in the trees and let the warmth of the sun caress her face, she could almost imagine that all the recent events had been only a dream. That she could open her eyes and see her little brother next to her, poking at her side and moaning "Are we there yet?", her mother turning at the front seat to give him a lecture about the virtues of patience, and her father promising everyone an ice cream if they could just hold on for a little bit longer.

Then she opened her eyes and saw the back of the horse, trundling along patiently, Ned on the seat next to her, focussed on driving, and the sandy road and the mostly untouched forest by the roadside… She sighed.

Then, she looked again. A small distance ahead they saw three people and three horses stopped in the middle of the road. Men with arms. Ned pulled the reins to slow the horse down while assessing the situation suspiciously.

"Go to the back, Sansa. Pull his hood up and stay out of the way while we pass them. They look harmless enough, but better to be safe than sorry," he muttered to Sansa.

Indeed, one of the men turned out to be just a young boy, Sansa noticed as they got closer. She did as she was bid, nonetheless, and climbed over the driver's seat to land next to Sandor at the back.

"I am sorry, but if you'd just let me…" she said as she reached to pull the hood from his back and over his head. He didn't say anything, only watched her closely, his eyes focussed on hers. He didn't resist, though, either. Sandor, too, then turned his head and observed the group from under the hood.

"Gnats," was his scornful statement, and he turned his attention back to Sansa.

She settled down more comfortably, leaning against the side of the cart. She understood without needing to be explained that it would be better for a young woman like her to be out of sight when strange men were around. Ned would take care of this, whatever it was.

"Ahoy, is there trouble?" Ned called once they were close enough to be heard. Something appeared to be wrong, as all three men were walking up and down the road and staring intently at the ground.

One of them, a dark-haired, broad-faced man, who could not be much past his twenties, raised his head and assessed them thoughtfully.

"The trouble is that my horse lost a shoe. I know exactly when it happened, and it was right here – and I want to find it. Horseshoes are bloody expensive and I rather not throw my coin away if I can avoid it."

"I see. 'Tis a shame when it happens, can spoil a man's whole day," Ned agreed affably, leaning his elbows on his knees with reins loosely in his hand. The other two also looked up; an older red-faced man with the scruffiest beard Sansa had ever seen, and a skinny boy hardly out of his childhood.

From the looks and possessions of them - the men carrying shields, swords, bows and well-worn but decent looking half armours without banners - they seemed to be just a pair of hedge knights and their squire. They had run across a few of them already, always on the move from one master to another, in search of a better position or a secure employment.

"It sure does. Especially as we have no time to waste. We didn't ride like devils all the way from King's Landing just to be stranded here, in the middle of nowhere." The man who had spoken, looked around, scowling.

"King's Landing?" Ned perked up. They hadn't seen anyone from there, especially not anyone who might have left the city after their departure. Sansa immediately understood his curiosity – maybe they could hear some news. Had their escape been made public, what had been said about it? Maybe these men had heard something?

"Aye. Rode day and night, bloody hard. And look at us now!"

"So what's the news from the capital? Haven't heard anything for a long time, news travels so slowly here in the countryside." Ned's studied nonchalance didn't fool Sansa, but was hopefully enough not to raise too much attention with the strangers.

The second man, with the scruffy beard, spat on the ground.

"Well, some justice has been served, at least. That traitor, the ex-Hand of the King, that Northerner, was finally put to death for his crimes against the good king Joffrey."

Sansa wasn't sure if she had heard correctly, and from the poorly disguised astonishment at Ned's face, he wasn't sure of it either.

"Executed? The Hand of the King?"

"Ex-Hand of the King. Lord Stark or whatshisname. It was about time. I only wish King Joffrey would have made it public, to teach a lesson to anyone who thinks they can betray their king without repercussions!" The man spoke animatedly, then spat on the ground to express the extent of his displeasure.

"How was it done, then?" Ned asked, after schooling his expression back to mild curiosity. The other two had gone back to their search, combing the sides of the road by now.

"His head was hacked off in the Red Keep, the King's executioner doing the deed with the man's own sword, we were told. They say it was kept private in respect of his previous services to the crown. Bugger that, I say, he should have been shamed publicly for what he did." The man spat again. "But at least his head was put on a spike over the battlements of the Red Keep. There he stares now, with empty eyes and tarred face, over the court he tried to slander. Serves him right."

Sansa closed her eyes. Why would Joffrey have done that? When he knew Ned was anything but dead; that he had escaped and was going to announce his presence sooner or later… She rubbed her forehead. It simply didn't make sense.

"Well, that is good news indeed," Ned said mildly. "So what is it that drove you here so hard, anyway? Surely not just to spread the news?"

The hedge knight smiled then, revealing a row of broken teeth.

"We are going hound-hunting!"

"Hound?"

That caught Sandor's attention, and he cocked his head to hear better.

"Aye. Not only was King Joffrey betrayed by his father's Hand, he was betrayed by his own dog too. The Hound, his sworn shield. He took off with the king's bride, the Northern girl. Stole her right under the king's nose."

Sansa's eyes widened and she held her breath to hear what was said next.

"Stole her?"

"Indeed he did. Must have wanted her badly, to do such a thing. I hear she is a pretty young thing, so maybe that's why. Now King Joffrey is furious and has offered an award of ten thousand gold dragons to anyone who brings the girl back. And we are going to get that coin!" He winked at Ned. "After what that poor girl has gone through with the Hound, we might have a little taste of her, too. It would not be like she was still a maiden. No, she would be thoroughly used, and might even be grateful to a couple of likeable lads like ourselves for saving her from the hands of that monster."

Sansa felt sick at the stomach. Every now and then, hearing something like that reminded her that women's rights were still in abysmal state at that time.

"And the Hound?"

"That's the thing, the king's announcement specifically says that the money will be paid only if the Hound is killed. None of this dead or alive nonsense – which is fair enough. Makes the task easier. He is a mean beast, everybody knows that, so it is just a matter of sniffing them out, putting a quarrel to his back and picking the spoils." He chuckled. "The king must be really wroth wanting him dead. Can't say I blame him."

Slowly Sandor turned to look at Sansa. There was something burning in his eyes; rage, fury. Whether his ire was directed at them for forcing him into the position he was in, or at Joffrey, she couldn't guess.

She held his gaze and didn't let go.