VERY IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: PLEASE READ!

If you guys have read up to this chapter before the 11 of February, then you would have realised that the ending of this chapter is very different. In the original chapter, Nadia was sent away from Robb's tent upon threat to her life after revealing the damaging, soul-crushing news that Ned will be killed. I received a few responses where Readers were unhappy with this ending for similar reasons all pertaining to this circle of arguing that Nadia and Robb appear to be stuck in. I've gone back and read the chapter and realised that I agree and was unhappy. For that reason, I've decided to repost this chapter with an altered ending that I think speaks volumes to how their relationship will develop and also how Nadia and Robb as individuals will begin to shape out.

So long-story short, this chapter will be replacing the old chapter 29, and then the story will continue from there.

I hope y'all like how this one turned out. I know I do.

Now onto the story...So without further ado...

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its Characters. They are the property of HBO and George R R Martin. I own Nadia alone.


NADIA

The sun bears down, bright and blinding. The distant scent of salty sea breeze intermingles with that of pissed squallors, the dung of animals and men masked by that of sweet perfumes that burn her senses. There's a low thrum, like of a live wire, of crowds of people going about their business. Yet there is not a single person in sight.

Nadia stumbles through unfamiliar cobblestone alleyways, following the invisible crows. She bears a mask of confusion, her head turning side to side, tripping over her own feet as she turns everywhich way, searching for some shred of physical evidence of the bodies that have swept her into their tide. There are hushed whispers of people as they pass each other by. Some calling to one another, telling them to come. To behold the spectacle. Boy king, she hears. Traitor, too. Lies. Deceit. Dishonour. Black.

She's swept into an open square. A statue of a man dominates the court. Upon his shoulder, a sleek, black raven. Nadia tikts her head, suspiciously. The avian mirrors the action. It blinks then. Three eyes.

Before any words can pass her lips, the creature lets out a loud squawk. He raises his wings, sweeping down from his perch, low over her head as she ducks to let it pass. Her eyes try to follow the ravdn but fall short upon a man she hadn't noticed before.

A man who hadn't been there before.

There's something uncomfortably familiar about him. His hair is ragged, his skin pale and sallow, dried blood and dirt caked across his cheeks and forehead. He looks as if he hasn't had a decent meal nor shower nor bed to sleep in, for weeks. He stands as if he carries a limp, favouring one leg over the other. A noose is tied arojnd his neck, shackles lock his hands and feet.

An invisble force knocks him to his knees. The man manages to catch himself from falling off his perch. His head remains bowed for a few seconds. In this time, Nadia finds herself inching closer to the stage, to the man.

With shaken breath, he raises his head, bringing his gaze to meet hers. The girl hears her breath hitch, her voice catching in the back of her throat.

She'd know those eyes anywhere.

For so long she'd thought Robb had his mother's eyes. Now she realises how wrong she was. He may share the Tully blue, but Robb has none of their softness, wide-eyed, youthful look. No, his eyes were hard and hooded, steely and chilling as a frostbite yet fiery with emotion all at once - much like the man before her.

Nadia's eyes trace over his face, once again taking in the somewhat hollowed, dirt streaked cheeks, noting the strong unflinching jaw and hard lines of stress. She can imagine he must have been quite a catch as younger man. She imagines he looked a lot like Robb sans the colouring.

Her lips part, but her voice falls silent upon them. She's unable to say his name, for fear of affirmation. A shiver runs down her spine, making her hands tremble. She silently wishes to melt into the ground - anything to rid her of the pit of anxiety she'd been feeling for months now. Anything to not see this moment.

He smiles at her then, something in his expression that tells her he knows. He understands. It doesn't help the guilt that swells up.

"Take care of them," he says, voice low, gruff as if he hadn't used it in a while.

From somewhere, she hears a distinct 'schnict' - the sound of metal swiping through the air. The girl flinches, turning away at the last moment.

A beat of silence.

Her heart hammer loudly, deafening. Her fists clench tight, nails threatening to break through the skin of her palms.

A raven's caw echoes about her. Holding her breath, Nadia forces her eyes open. The body is gone, though blood stains the platform and ground beneath her feet. The scent is pungent and... wrong. An idd feeling settles in her stomach. Wrong. It's all she can think as her focus remains trained on the slow soreading pool of blood.

The raven caws at her again. Her eyes raise to it where its taken perch on the hilt of a great sword, larger than any she could imagine. What remains of the noose is split by the sharp metal; his shackles lay around the weapon.

Sound becomes still. The wind, the waves, the voices of the unseen crowds, the shuffle of her feet on stone. The cawing of the raven. She likens it to being immersed in water, where sounds are distorted, augmented and quieted. It's like being aware of everything and nothing all at once.

"...ady...ou alright... My Lady!"

Nadia's head snaps to the left. A man towers over her, about 6'4"in height, his hazel eyes bearing down on her with undue confusion and concern.

"What?" she asks dumbly.

He stares at her as if she's the strangest thing he's ever seen. Glancing down at herself, she supposes she is.

Clearing his throat, the man says, "I was asking if you were alright, my lady."

"Oh, yea-yes. Of course I am," she chuckles awkwardly, realising she'd been caught in trance. "I was just - um - admiring the, um," she waves her hands in the general direction of where she'd been staring moments earlier - her face falls blank. "Swords," she bites out distastefully. Stacked outside a swordsmith's tent, they weapons glisten in the sunlight, their edges frightfully sharp. She's familiar with the swordsmith, a man from Winterfell's forge who'd she'd seen several times in passing. Through the shadows of the tent she can just barely see him hard at work hammering away, his face turned away. She only knows it to be him because of the array of swords on display. Or one in particular. Robb's is mounted atop the stack she points at now. It's so much smaller than the one she'd envisioned only moments earlier, yet the style and make was so similar. Clearly Robb's had been designed to imitate his father's as much as possible... a sick feeling settles over her stomach.

"You like swords, then?" a voice distracts her from her own distracting thoughts.

"Yes!" she answers too quickly, and the man raises a brow at her sceptically. Smiling sheepishly, she shakes her head. "No, not really. I don't know a thing about them... or weapons in general." She adds: "Doesn't mean I can't admire."

He grins. "No it does not, my lady."

Her grin falters. "Nadia, please. I'm not used to titles," she explains, using air quotes.

"I suppose it must be strange for someone like you."

Furrowing her brows and pursing her lips, she asks, "Someone like me?"

His eyes widen. He tries to explain, probably feeling guilty about possibly insulting her, but stutters hopelessly in his efforts. Wishing to put the poor man out of his misery, Nadia chuckles lightly, offering him a gingerly smile. "It's okay. I know what you mean."

He returns her smile. 'He's handsome,' she thinks, biting her lip subconsciously, shyly. "It must be strange for you," he says after a short moment. He gestures about them, "All this must be confusing for you."

"Confusing? No. Strange and bit scary? Yes."

He grins at her. "Just a bit scary?"

She shrugs. "Let's just say, I've seen a lot in my life."

"Most women would prefer the safety of their husband's keep to the frontlines."

"Most women would," she agrees.

"But not you," the way he says it, it doesn't sound like a question. More like he's trying to figure her out.

She shakes her head, her expression taut with secrets. "Not exactly," she replies, a slightly haunted tone to her voice.

They fall into a short - but not unpleasant - silence. The silence comes to an abrupt end by Theon. The ironborn claps the other man on the shoulder, butting himself between the pair. "I see you've met Torrhen Karstark, my-"

"Yes, I have," she interrupts Theon. Turning her attention back to Torrhen, the pit in her stomach returning, she adds, "Although I didn't know his name."

"I apologise," Torrhen grins sheepishly.

"Don't." Another friendly silence. Theon coughs. Nadia raises a brow at him but he only shrugs innocently.

Torrhen's gaze shifts back and forth between the friends. He shifts awkwardly on his feet. "I should go," he says, garnering the banshee's attention. If she looks a little put out, he doesn't seem to notice. Shooting her one last smile, he nods at them both and leaves.

Nadia can't help it when her gaze lingers. She barely recognises his name, but realises who he is. Or at least what will become of him. Her mouth goes dry, the heavy weight she bears becoming more prominent, even moreso as her mind flickers back to the vision she'd seen.

Beside her, Theon clears his throat again. He looks at her pointedly, then flickers his gaze to the direction of where Torrhen had left. She realises that it must have looked like she was staring after the young Karstark. Having an inkling of where Theon's thoughts may be running, she rolls her eyes at him. "Relax, nothing happened."

"It didn't look like that."

"I just met the guy."

"Something tells me you'd like to be better acquainted with him."

"Oh, Theon! Grow up-" she shoves her friend, shouldering past him.

"And judging by the way he was looking at yo-"

Coming to an abrupt halt, she spins on her feet. The ironborn just manages to catch himself before running her over. Her cheeks have the faintest blush in them, and all she wants to do is punch the smug look off Theon's face. "I am not discussing this with you."

"Since when did you become such a prude?" he whines, circling around her as she storms away from him.

"For your information I was always a prude."

"A dirty-minded one."

The young woman shoots him a narrow glare, despite the tiniest of grins threatening to pull at her lips. Rolling her eyes, she bumps shoulders with him. "You're a jackass."

He chuckles, matching her step for step and then some. "So what were you two talking about?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Curiousity."

"Haven't you heard. Curiosity killed the cat."

Theon frowns. "No."

Nadia rolls her eyes, muttering, "Nevermind," under her breath. Theon persistence is only shortlived - afterall his attention span can be as short as hers. They eventually lapse into conversation of the antics the men got up to the night before. That is, Nadia mostly listens while Theon greatly exaggerates, rolling her eyes every so often while trying to fight off the grin on her face.

Their conversation eventually takes a turn for the dour. "You spoken to Robb?"

Nadia sighs, "Not recently."

"And by recently-"

"A few days, Theon. He's been... busy. Planning a war and all..." she trails off, grimacing. She'd fucked up. She can admit that. Had she been rational about it... she thought so... no she'd been selfish and scared and abused Robb's hospitality. She knew she should have left Winterfell the moment Robb had released her from the chains; but for all the intelligence she likes to think she has, Nadia had no doubt that she wouldn't have survived long on her own, with her dignity (for the most part) intact. She'd been a bitch for lack of better word. Not wanted to get involved, not wanted to die since nearly everything and everyone associated with the name Stark seems to die. She'd not meant to get attached to the children, nor had she meant to develop an odd sort of friendship with Theon and Robb. If she hadn't then perhaps the sting of her betrayal wouldn't have angered him as much... or maybe it would have angered him more. Maybe whatever slight fondness they'd shared is the only thing standing between herself and death.

Maybe then she wouldn't be awkwardly trying to dismiss herself from Theon's presence right now. He catches her wrist, though before she can escape. "I know you're not telling us-him things. Lots of things. But there are some things you should tell him."

"I know that," she mumbles, shuffling awkwardly.

"Like maybe why you didn't want him to marry Frey's daughter."

Nadia shakes her head. "Not that."

"Why not? It might save you a lot of trouble," Theon demands, looking at her knowingly. "Might even make things simpler between the two of you."

"I just can't."

"The same way you couldn't tell him about his father?"

Nadia bites her lip. She avoids his burning gaze, ashamed. "No," her breath catches in her throat. Heat flushes across her skin, as if the guilt she feels is prickling at her every nerve ending. Her hands form tight fists, her nails digging into her skin, threatening to break through. The woman sighs, "I was wrong not to tell him."

"You could have stopped all of this," Theon hisses, some of his frustration coming through, despite the gentle expression he tries to maintain.

"I know," she bites out, her words feeling thick in her throat. She feels hot, and wants nothing more than to tear off her cloak and jump in the river. A dull throb begins to swell in her head, aching. She clenches her jaw as if the pressure would alleviate the pain. It doesn't. 'I need to lie down.'

"Can I go, now?" she asks, desperate to get away. "Please."

He lets her go.

Her feet quicken when she hears the distant but familiar call of the raven.


The sun bears down on Nadia, the distant ocean breeze doing nothing to quell the heat. Bare feet burn against the scorching stone. Familiar alleyways she passes by, following the invisible voices around her, the loud bustling pushing and pulling her like a tide.

Her steps fall short of the statue. The raven glares down up her, its three unblinking eyes staring through her soul.

"Harbinger," a voice echoes, rough and gravelly. It's the voice of a man who has had no use for it. Dry and parched, hoarse and thirst upon his lips. Nadia glares at the crow. She doesn't want to turn. Not again. How many times has it been now. Her fists clench at her sides.

The raven caws at her wildly, it's voice like thunder, demanding she look. She shakes her head, pursing her lips.

Schinct. The sound of a metal passing through the air. Gasps and jeers. A moroseful cry, a girl begging, weeping, cursing.

Something wet brushes against her heels. It's viscous and heavy, sliding, slithering like snakes beneath and upon her feet. She holds a shuddering breath, the contents of her stomach threatening to lurch up at any moment, growing steadily worse with each passing second that the acrid scent of iron lingers in the air.

"Take care of them," the man's voice says. "Take care of them. Take care-"

The sheets fall away as she lurches forward. The camisole stick to her sweat-slicked skin uncomfortably, as does her messy hair. Brushing her fingers through her dark locks, Nadia sweeps her hair back into a low bun, giving no fucks for neatness. Her hands reach for the flask of water at her bedside and she greedily gulps the liquid down, hoping to quell the uneasiness in her stomach. Trying to relax back against her pillows, she takes note of the sheet that had been drawn over her.

She swears she'd gone without it. Replacing her flask, her eyes fall on a note she'd not noticed before. She can tell already that the handwriting belongs to Catelyn. Groaning, Nadia throws an arm over her face. She had been asleep for hours and now it was well beyond dusk, and well beyond the time she'd agreed to join Lady Stark for dinner. In her absence, it would seem the older woman had come looking for her, and no doubt found Nadia in the midst of a fitful sleep. The only comfort the lady could offer was to cover her sleeping figure, which despite the sweat, Nadia realises is actually rather cold. The kind gesture does nothing to make her feel better.

Biting her lip, she pushes the sheets aside and peels off her top. Taking a wet rag, she quickly cleans her skin of the sweat and salty stench - by god, how she misses modern plumbing. She slips into a pair of legging, throws on a long-sleeved wrap top and hops into her boots as she stumbles out of the tent.

A few men pay her attention, nodding at her politely in passing. She catches sight of Torrhen, her smile widening just a little bit at his familiar face.

She stops before a tent. Taking a deep breath, Nadia tries and fails to calm her nerves. "Just do it," she mutters to herself. "Rip the bandaid off." Parting the curtains, she enters the tent... only to find it empty. She sighs - whether it's out of disappointment of relief, she knows not.

Glancing around, she takes in the decor. It's similar to Lady Cat's in size, larger than her own for sure. On one side a small desk mounted with various notes, scrolls and blank parchment as well as a few lit candles. To the other side is a bed, covered in more furs than she'd ever used at Winterfell - she supposes it's more out of sentimentality for the North than practicality. Beside that a few chests, a mannequin bearing his armour. Nadia shuffles closer to inspect it. She'd never had the chance to properly examine it. The sigil of House Stark howls loud and proud from the chest plate, the metal shimmering in the pale candlelight. There's some scratches, from a few close scuffles during training, though they are few and far between. Curious hands brush against the steel, feeling the cool smoothness between her touch.

Nadia's taken aback by how demure she feels. She's always been on the curvy side of life, but the mere width of the chest plate makes her feel so fragile and small, much like she does whenever she's around Robb or Theon. She can imagine what it would be like to stand beside Robb when he bears his armour; he'd be an imposing sight, no doubt.

Drawing her eyes back down from the shoulders, she catches a shadowy reflection standing behind her, a pair of piercing blue eyes staring into her own. Turning, she meets his bemused gaze. "Always taking me by surprise," she says somewhat awkwardly.

"Could say the same for you." There's an obvious bitterness beneath the forced pleasantry of his tone. His brows furrow at her sheepish figure. "What are you doing here?"

Clearing her throat, she hesitantly answers, "I wanted to talk to you about something." He doesn't answer her. Turning away, Robb moves to the table she'd ignored (purposefully) till now. The map of Westeros is laid bare across it as well as little figurines marking the various armies. Robb ignores these for the bottle of mead. He pours a cup, offering it to her. Nadia declines politely. As much as she would love some liquid courage, she'd rather not take anything more from him. Shrugging, he downs some of it himself, then looks at her expectantly. "Does this have something to do with the bargain made to Walder Frey?"

She nods stiffly, "Sort of."

He stares at her a moment, studying her. "You're not happy about it," he notes.

"I'm confused."

He frowns. "What's confusing about it? You've already said your piece on the matter," he bites out irritably.

"I know," she answers, forcing herself to remain calm. "It's not that, it's just..." she sighs, planting her hands on the table, bowing her forward to take a calming breath. Her eyes focus in on the little wolf figurines. "Why do you want to cross the Twins?"

"... You're joking right?"

"No, I'm not, actually," she looks at Robb, face serious, ignoring his unimpressed expression. "Explain it to me."

"It's the fastest way to Riverrun."

"Why do we need to go to Riverrun?"

"To help them. They're under seige," he explains to her, caught between exasperation, frustration and silently questioning her stupidity.

"I know that... but I just. I don't understand why? I mean, Riverrun can withstand a siege for years can't they?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then why don't you want to march straight on King's Landing? Isn't the whole point of this to get your dad back?"

"We need numbers, Nadia," he explains to her as if she is a child. "We wouldn't last against the city's defences, and that's after going through Tywin Lannister at the Green Fork."

Licking her lips, Nadia shakes her head. "Well then what about a small force to break him out. Smuggle him back here."

"It's too risky," Robb shakes his head.

"Everyone here is willing to lay down their life to save your father-"

"I said no, Nadia!" The girl falls silent. Robb glares at her, replacing his cup and leaning forward. "I send a few men. Even if they do manage to sneak into the city, what then? What if they get caught? Joffrey will rule my father as guilty of the crimes laid against him and execute him immediately."

"What if they don't get caught?

"Do you think this is easy for me?" he seethes. "Do you think any of this is has been easy. Risking my men's lives, gambling the North. Do you think I don't know what those men out there whisper when they think my head has turned. About how foolish I am, how hopeful I am-"

"They don't think that, Robb," Nadia says lowly, trying hopelessly to soothe his growing anxieties.

Robb snarls but says nothing more. He bows his head, white knuckles curved against the dark wood of the table. "It's too much risk. We-we can't. Not until we have the numbers."

Pursing her lips, Nadia blinks away the tears she feels brimming at her eyes. Why does she feel so emotional all of a sudden? Her right hand reaches out to him, hovering hesitantly near his fist, before retracting back to her side. She doubts that he'd want her touching him after everything that's happened between them, especially after what she has to say next. Licking her dry lips, she exhales his name, feeling like the axe has been dropped in her stomach. "Robb," she repeats a little louder, unsure if he heard her the first time. "He's going to die," she manages to bite out.

Blue eyes flash up to meet hers, anger and confusion battling behind those icy orbs. They tell her "go on, explain". Nadia swallows her nerves. "Your father... Joffrey's gonna execute him."

One moment, he's bowed low over his table, finger threatening to break apart the wood. The next moment, the young Lord has her back up with no escape, his fingertips imprinting bruises upon her arms where he holds her tight. He's snarling at her like a starving dog, and yet his eyes are so full of childish petulance. If she weren't afraid, Nadia would be considering yet again how young he is, how he is still only a boy. How if he were in her world his biggest problems would be girls or vying for captain of some sports team, getting his red P's and getting into Uni - not this, not war, not risking his family's life, not dying.

Yet, despite being the older of the two, she feels like a child in his grasp, small in comparison to the wall of muscle towering over her. Heated blue eyes bore into her own, his hot breath like ice on her face. "Tell me you're lying," he begs her. "Tell me."

She shakes her head slightly. "I wish I could," her voice sounds broken to even her. She watches his face fall, reminding her of why she never wanted to tell him in the first place. She didn't want to see this much pain, this much anger, this much disappointment mar his handsome face.

Quiet seconds pass them by. His hands loosen, sliding down slowly over her arms before falling away to his side, merely inches from her own. Robb's voice is pained growl, "When?"

"I-I'm not sure exactly when but... it's some time after you take back Riverrun."

Robb's eyes widen, guilt and torment bleeding into his quiet rage. Realising where his mind has gone, she moves to quickly dispell him of his thoughts... "It's not because of that, not because of you. Robb, your father he would have died anyway," the girl winces at her own words. "I mean, Joffrey was always going to execute him."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he demands, though his voice is barely a whisper, unwanted tears threatening to spill.

"Because... I don't want this. I hate being a banshee. I hate having to deliver the bad news."

"Then why tell me now?" there's a threat in there somewhere, she feels.

"I just- I didn't want you to hate me more than you already do," she answers truthfully. Closing her eyes, because she doesn't want to see anymore of his disappointment and doesn't want him to see her shame, she continues, "And I know how incredibly selfish that is. I should have told you sooner. I should have- I just thought, that maybe, maybe there's still time. Maybe there's something we can do."

When she finally opens her eyes, Robb's back is partially turned on her again. He's bowed low over the map, glaring at the Lion figurine prancing about the words King's Landing. His curly locks does well to obscure his features, but even in the shadows of the tent's candlelight, she can make out the distinct sheen of a tear stain streaking over his stubbled cheek.

She dares not move an inch to comfort him, as much as she'd like. Maybe in another time, maybe if she'd made different choices. But at the moment their alliance is anything but steady.

A few long silences drag out. "What of my sisters," Robb finally asks, breaking the silence.

Nadia swallows. "They're - umm," Robb turns to her slightly, catching her eye. Nadia takes a deep breath. "They'll live. But... they're not safe. They're never safe. Arya will escape King's Landing and she'll constantly be on the run. But she's smart and cunning. She'll see horrific things -" the banshee feels winded images of a wolf's head sown atop a man's body - Robb's body - coming to mind, "She'll learn to fight. She'll become a warrior... an assassin," at this Robb sucks in a breath, no doubt struggling to come to terms with the idea of his sweet, mischievous sister becoming a killer. "And Sansa-" he glances up at Nadia as she continues, "She'll be a prisoner. A bird in a gilded cage. A pawn for the Lannisters, for Petyr Baelish and..." she hesitates to say Bolton's name, knowing that as wretched as the man is, his betrayal of Robb comes at the cost of Robb's own foolish hand at politics, so instead Nadia tells the Stark, "-and she'll always be under threat of murder, of rape... but she'll eventually escape King's Landing. She'll barter and be bartered, she'll play the game as well as Cersei has taught her. She's a true Stark... they both are," Nadia tries to end on a note that promises a hopeful future for the girls well after their pain and sufferings, but even she cannot predict what will become of them. The last thing she knows is that Sansa's safe with Jon in Winterfell and Arya just slaughtered the Frey's.

Robb tries to force a smile at the sentiment she offers, but it's all in vain. "There's no saving him then?" he whispers, defeated. "Any of them."

"I don't know," she whispers.

Figurines scatters to the floor, a chair snapping against the earth as if it were a twig. Robb's shoulders rise and fall with each heaving breath. The young man is struggling to control his haywire emotions. Nadia can see this, and despite the flashing Danger sign in her brain, she steps closer to him, reaching out to him, her hand making contact with the the leatherskin on of his vest. "I'm sorry," she whispers again.

"What is the point in all of this!" he hisses loathingly. "Anything I do and seal their fates. My father, my sisters, my men!"

"Your cause was worthy, Robb-"

"Worthy?" he laughs spitefully, turning to face her. "I am marching men and women to their deaths to save a dead man."

"So what? Now you want to turn back? Tail between your legs?" Nadia questions him.

"Shouldn't I? If it means saving them."

"You think surrendering is going to save anyone?" Nadia asks.

"My father-"

"Will still be killed," she cuts him off. "All Joffrey sees is a threat. Do you think Cersei told him to kill your father? She didn't. Joffrey is out of control. He's afraid. Your father is meant to confess to his supposed crimes in order to protect your sisters; his sentence would have been to join the Black. Instead of pardoning him, Joffrey asks for his head." Robb winces, looking as if he's been slapped. She supposes he has, with the way she's practically lecturing him on the details of his father's imminent murder. "If you bend the knee now after threatening to dethrone him, it's only a matter of time before he asks for your head too. And then do you think the Northerners would stand behind you?"

"They did when the Targaryens first came."

"Yeah well you're not Torrhen Stark-" and maybe Robb does look a little surprised that she knew the name - "It's not all lost Robb," she presses, stepping closer to him. "This kingdom deserves better than a Lannister on the Iron Throne."

"I don't want a crown."

"I'm not saying you have to wear it. Just give it to someone worthy of the burden."

"Like who?" he asks. Given her pause, he adds, "Let me guess, you don't know."

"I'm-"

"Sorry?" he cuts her off. "You've said that once or twice. Honestly I've lost count. You just keep apologising but never seem to do anything about it." She flinches as if she's been slapped. Honestly with the way this conversations going, she's surprised her head still attached to her head what with the whiplash Robb's giving her. 'He's such a boy,' a valley-girl voice in her head taunts.

Pursing her lips, her eyes narrowed with well-kept annoyance, she asks, "What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me what I am supposed to do. For once be useful, give me direction instead of half-truths and omens," he tells her, orders her, yet again sounding like a petulant child asking for guidance. She realises that at this moment, he's willing to put an inane amount of trust on her, more than he's ever given her as yet - which is saying something given recent affairs. Nadia wants to help, she does. She wants to give him advice, but she's not battle strategist, she's no politician. She's just a girl trying to figure out her place in this mess as much as he is.

Perhaps her expression gives her away, for his face hardens, grim and sullen. And disappointed. It's nothing new for Nadia, though it doesn't hurt any less. She glances away from him, her eyes landing on the half askew map. Her eyes narrows as they traipse up from east to west about the mid-section of Westeros. From King's Landing to the Twins to Riverrun to Green Fork. Circling. She feels like a vulture looking for carrion, for some prize, for some answer. 'More like a dragon,' the wittier part of her mind supplies. It also happens to be the same part of her brain that has no filter for inappropriate jokes and babbling. Before her mind can run away again, she latches onto a single term. Dragon.

She turns away from Robb, straightening out the map.

In her mind she hears a man's voice whisper, "...built to withstand an attack from the land..."

Her eyes settle on the picture of ruins. "What is it?" she hears Robb ask.

"A million men could have marched on these walls and a million men would have been repelled... But an attack from the air with dragonfire..."

"Harrenhal," she whispers.

"The Castle ruins?"

"It could still withstand an attack, couldn't it?" she asks, eyes still trained on the map. Robb observes her quietly, nodding only when her inquisitive gaze turns upon him. "Okay," she breathes, turning back to the map once again. The gears in her mind slowly turning, second-guessing herself every half-second reminding her that she's no strategist. But what if...

What if works.

What if it saves Robb's army.

What if it can save Ned and the girls.

"You were going split the men," she tells him. "Split up at the Blue fork. Two thousand to meet Tywin Lannister at the Green Fork. The rest to overpower the seige at Riverrun," she looks back at Robb, looking to him for confirmation. He does well to hide his surprise, though at this stage she wonders why he still is surprised by anything she knows. "Those two thousand," she says, looking at him with a little sympathy, "It's a... fall?" her brows are furrows, her lips pursed in thought

"Feint," he corrects, a slight quirk in his lips at her guess, but it's diminshed by the overwhelming feeling of guilt he feels at the sight of the sympathy in her eyes. "They don't make it, do they?"

"If you're asking me whether they took prisoners, I can't remember. Though I'm leaning towards no." It does nothing to help the boy, and so without thinking, she takes his hand in hers, squeezing gently. "Hey, it was a good plan and they knew what they were walking into. It secured you very first victory. Your first of many," she adds, earning her a questioning look for Robb. Brushing this off, she tells him, "But maybe there's another way. Maybe we can save their lives and still screw over Tywin."

Robb can't help a tiny smirk at her language. "And how do you propose that?"

"He still thinks you'll meet him at the Green Fork? Let him. While he's marching there, while he's waiting for you, you are going to secure Harrenhal as the forward base base for your army." Robb looks ready to argue, so she cuts him off before he can begin, "If you were planning to make Riverrun your base, you know it's a bad idea. It's too far west. Harrenhal on the other hand... right in the centre. You'd be able to control access between the Riverlands, Westernlands and the Crownlands from the look of it-" she leans away from the map, observing the terrain. "Huh, no wonder Tywin wanted it. It's a good position," she adds softly.

Robb hears her. "Tywin takes it?"

"Mhmm. Sometimes after you take Riverrun, he makes Harrenhal his first base for a while before retreating back to King's Landing."

"Why would he retreat to King's landing?"

"Because you're not the only one threatening to dethrone Joffrey."

"Stannis and Renly," Robb nods, recounting the names he'd heard in stories from passing times.

Nadia nods. "Story for another time," she tells him, still watching the map, still trying to convince herself that this might be a good move. Finally she looks to Robb for confirmation. "Whaddya think?"

He stares at her a few moments. It takes everything in her to not squirm, to not look away. Eventually, he allows a small smile to crack his lips. "It's plausible."

She grins up at him. "Really?" Robb nods, smiling a little more despite the shadow in his eyes. Her expression falls, remembering. "But your father-"

"You've done enough, Nadia. That will be all."

It's so abrupt, so disheartening, but she takes his dismissal without further argument. Nadia leaves the young Stark to himself, stopping once only to let her gaze linger on his figure hunched over his map, fingers trailing over the incarnate details of a direwolf figurine.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: *So that was the rebooted chapter.