Chapter 7: Freedom Through Fire

Outskirts of Riverrun, Riverlands

Outside of Stone Hedge the air was cold, water dripping down from the grey sky and sinking to the ground below. There had not been a single sight of the sun's beams since their boats had landed on the shores of Rook's Rest, leaving behind the imposing, safe walls of Dragonstone. Beneath the feet of hundreds of men and horses, dirt turned to mud, and their footsteps grew harsh and heavy.

Trudging along through endless nights of little rest and only dried horsemeat to sate them, the men who'd decided that Stannis Baratheon was their true King, grew ragged.

They'd decided to rest in the abandoned halls of Stone Hedge for the long night, taking comfort from the dewy air and spitting rain, lighting fires for warmth, attempting to thaw their cold limbs.

It wasn't Northern weather, but not Southern as well. The harsh winds from Winterfell still came in strong and fast, but their nights were blessed with the humidity of the southern sun. It meant no men died in their sleep, only awoke sweating so terribly that even shedding their skin would not remove the heat from their bones.

A group of men huddled before a small fire, fingers exposed with broken and blistered flesh, some missing a nail or two. Two of them were boys not yet men, faces still bare and eyes still wide with innocence. Three of them were men grown, thirty and forty years of age or more, covered in battle wounds and haggard memories that haunted their dreams.

One of the younger boys, Brant, bit the quick of his nail while staring into the flames. His belly rumbled something deadly, craving anything without the harsh, rugged texture of horse.

To no one in particular, he asked "Will we ever make it there? To Riverrun?"

"Aye," said one of the older men, his eyes jaded and dark. "On the morrow, or the next I suppose."

"That's what they tell us every day. Tomorrow, or the one after." Brant's stomach growled. "I'm so goddamn hungry, I can't take it anymore."

The older man leaned forward, flames shining in his eyes. "We're all hungry, and once we reach Riverrun, I'm sure Lord Tully will provide us with proper meals. But until then, keep your mouth shut. I can't stand men who whinge all day 'bout things they can't change."

"I'm not whinging." Brant grumbled, hunching his shoulders and staring into the bright fire.

"We've alot riding on Lord Edmure." The other youngest boy piped up.

"What'll we do if he doesn't bend the knee?"

"He will," assured the older man. "The age of the Lannister reign is over and a long time coming, too. It's fair Stannis is the only man wise enough to throw the first stone."

"Is that why he's got us shooting down ravens everyday?" Brant asked. "I didn't come here to be an archer. I came here to fight with a sword, not damn arrows."

"The fight will come soon enough." This time, a different older man spoke up, his tone much gaudier with a thicker Northern drawl.

"Best be patient, lad. Men who are eager to fight are the first to die."

"I'm not gonna die. I've a family to go back to."

The Northern man snorted. "You're a boy, you've got nothing but the clothes on your back and a tiny pecker to match."

Brant's face grew hot, and he imagined kicking coals in the Northerner's face, wanting to see his skin melt away to bone. But instead, the other youngest boy offered his own wisdom.

"A little while back, my sister got a letter from King's Landing." His face scrunched up, trying to remember.

"It was something about marriage… I didn't read the whole thing. But my Father refused to let 'er go, locked her up too. No one ever came barging in, askin' about 'er, but I remember the whole thing."

Brant made the motion to cut his own throat, eyes rolling back in boredom.

Twiddling his thumbs, the youngest boy recalled, "My mum used to tell me about the Northern Houses, who I could trust and who I couldn't. I remember 'er sayin' that Lord Edmure had a sister who married into Winterfell. Think she had… seven or eight kids with the Warden of the North. One of the eldest was a girl, I know it."

"And?" Brant snorted, blowing air into his closed palms. "Who gives a fuck about any of this?"

Slowly, the youngest boy asked, "If my sister got word from the Capitol about marriage and whatnot, what if Edmure's sister did as well?"

"I'm not following you," admitted Brant.

Across the flames, the eldest man chuckled deep in his belly, hands stuffed into the dying coals of the fire. His eyes were grey and sharp, mouth filled with sharp teeth meant to tear out a man's neck, and his voice as haunting as the screams of dying men.

"Why'd you think our orders are to shoot down any ravens we see?" The man snorted and adjusted his seat on the chilled ground.

Brant thought back to all the messages tied to raven's legs that he'd seen. Most of them had been normal lines of speech, Milly just gave birth and it's a healthy girl, or even We've run out of food and water, and those especially made him crunch the raven's cold corpse between his fingers and chuck it into any bay of running water.

Some of the messages were written in strange speak; The error of the wolf's way will not go unpunished, or Kill the bear while it sleeps. Those ones were given to Lord Stannis, to which the self-proclaimed King would throw them to his Hand with a sneer.

Other times, they were handed to the woman in red.

"So, we're relying on the fact that Lord Tully may or may not know that his sister's maybe daughter is in the Capitol?"

Brant spat a wad of spit on the ground. "Load of shit, if you ask me."

"Watch yourself, boy," growled the eldest man, his teeth bared in agitation. "Some of us have been with Stannis longer than you've been alive. Disrespect him again, and I'll carve your lungs out."

The Northern man snuffed out the fire with his shoe, glaring through the darkness. "We'll not fight today, not one of us, you hear? We save our anger and our strength for our true enemy, nothing more. Let us all sleep in peace, tomorrow shall be a new day."

The group of men huddled into a fitful sleep, listening as rain pelted the decrepit overhead of Stone Hedge.

High up in the tower in the long forgotten war room of the dead castle, Stannis Baratheon looked to his hand, Davos Seaworth, while his trusted companion and believer of the Lord of Light watched from the corner of the room.

Her shining locks were kissed by fire, and her long crimson gown nearly blinded the two men in the dreary room, but they paid her no mind.

Thunder rumbled outside, light flashing through the caved in windows.

"Any news for me, Ser Davos?" Stannis stood at the head of the crumbling table, fists clenched against the edge, knuckles bone white.

"Nothing much, my Lord. But I fear the weather has not sided with us."

"I'm in no mood for jokes, Davos." Lightening clapped behind his back. "I need answers and bannerman, nothing more."

"There's been no word from the Twins, nor Winterfell, and Lysa is not yet convinced, so the Vale is not with us either. At this point in time, if Walder Frey hasn't sided with us, we mustn't rely on him any longer."

Davos rubbed the stubs on his hand, gulping. "We simply don't have the numbers to go forward, even with Riverrun. The word of a Tully only spreads so far across the Riverlands. It's a risk to think enough bannerman will come to our aid at such short notice."

Stannis nodded.

"I implore that you listen, my Lord. The Lannister army has more man than we can imagine, as well as food and weapons to supply each of them three times over. What we have is not an army. Edmure Tully has enough bannerman to convince Walder Frey, but we're walking on thin ice here. I can see us falling through soon enough."

From the corner of the room, the red woman spoke. "Such little faith, Ser Davos."

Both men paid her no mind.

"And what would you have me do? I cannot return to Dragonstone empty handed." Stannis grit his teeth. "I will not be known as the King who ran."

"I never said you were. But our men are hungry, tired and restless, and Riverrun is two days away. I do not know that they will make it."

Davos thought back to the men who'd fallen from their horses, no longer having the strength to stay upright. The bodies were left in the mud to rot.

"They will if their King commands it."

Outside, a harsh wind blew through the lands.

"How sure are you that Edmure will bend the knee? In my experience, any time a man is asked to bend the knee, it never goes very well."

"Because, Ser Davos," Reaching inside his coat pocket, Stannis produced a small crumpled parchment. "I have this." Holding it out to his Hand, he waited for Davos to take it.

The scripture was clearly from a woman, the penmanship cleaner and softer than any man, and the words spoke of a plea to Edmure to not side with Stannis, for—

"Their daughter is in King's Landing?" Davos' eyes darted between Stannis and the red woman. "How sure are we that this is true?"

"Very sure." Stannis looked outside at the sky, watching lightning strike the ground. "Melisandre has seen it in the flames. Their eldest daughter will lie with Tywin Lannister and bear his spawn."

A choked cough escaped Davos. "You're relying on what one woman has seen in a fire to move forward, my Lord? If you're wrong and we arrive to Edmure Tully slaughtering our men, what will you do then? And besides, denying him the knowledge of the whereabouts of his sister's daughter is wrong."

"We shall keep fighting, Ser Davos, as we have always done."

"And when there are no more men to fight, no one to push forward and proclaim you their King, what then?"

Stannis gave a queer look at his Hand, "If there is something you wish to say, speak freely Ser Davos."

Squaring up his shoulders and talking a deep breath, he urged Stannis, "I've always been faithful to you, Stannis, and I will until the end of my days, but below us, those are children you're sending to their death. Those are not soldiers, they are boys no older than my own, looking to you for salvation, all while you rely on the words of a witch with no magic."

By the end, Davos' voice had raised two octaves, face red with desperation.

"Wars are won with men and coin, two things which we do not have." Stannis admitted before striding to meet Davos face to face. "But I do not care about the wills of men, Ser Davos. I care about ending the Lannister Line and avenging my brother."

"He was your brother only in blood." Davos reminded him.

"And Tywin Lannister killed him all the same." Stannis spat the vile golden lion's name.

"The Iron Throne was meant for Robert, but Tywin stole it from him and gave away that twisted daughter of his. She'll pay for her crimes as well. I will not return to Dragonstone, and I refuse to run like a coward while Tywin Lannister lives."

"My Lord—"

Stannis belted, "He murdered my brother, Davos! I will have Tywin Lannister pay in blood for what he's taken from me, and I will not allow the Starks or Frey's to stop me. Robert's siege was enough to name myself as the next King, and I will have the throne, Ser Davos. Whether you are my Hand or not is entirely your choice."

In a flurry of his cloak, Stannis was gone, thunder cracking in his wake.

From the shadows, the red woman stepped forward, fire shining in her eyes.

Most men would fall under her spell, entranced by her curves and soft flesh, the stunning necklace around her neck, but Davos knew better.

Wickedness and deceit followed the red woman, he was sure of it, and one day, they would all see just as he did. He just hoped it wasn't too late.

"I stand with Stannis because my Lord commands it. The light of R'hllor burns bright for the Baratheon King."

Her voice was soft, yet chilled his bones nonetheless. "Why do you side with him, Ser Onion Knight?"

"Because all that I am, I owe to Stannis." The stumps on his hand pulsed. "I will walk with him to the ends of the world if need be."

"Yet you question him at every turn." Her pink lips thinned. "I do not question my Lord, as it is not my place to." She sighed.

"The night is dark and full of terrors, the likes of which you've yet to see. There is beauty in death, and war must be had for peace. Of the two sides, R'hllor is one and your Seven the other. Will they protect you, as my Lord has protected me? Gift you as his flames have blessed me? I thought not, Ser Onion Knight. I have shown the one true King of the Seven Kingdoms that he must purge this world with fire, the likes which you've never felt. Flesh from bone, is what my Lord commands. Open your eyes, Ser Knight, as I have mine."

Davos met her gaze, refusing to retreat. "And if you think your Lord is wrong, what then? You would follow blindly into the fire, as I see it."

She shook her head back and forth, dark red locks moving in the air. At her sides, her arms twisted against one another. The rings on her fingers glistened in the light of the thunder.

"Everyone shall burn, one way or another. We're alike, Ser Knight, more than you think."

"I don't believe I've ever burned men alive like you."

"But you would for Stannis, such as I do for my Lord."

Skirting past him, she made for the door.

"The fires that you fear have shown me many things. You need only open your third sight and watch without judgment. I've seen our Lord Stannis in all his glory. He stood amongst a sea of red, bodies' slayed at his feet. I have seen him sit on a Throne, not one of Iron as of yet, but a Throne he will have. You were not at his side, Ser Davos. I hope you do not allow the flames to consume you before the reign has begun."

When her footsteps could no longer be heard, Davos Seaworth looked out into the cloudy sky, watching the rain begin to pour with fury.

King's Landing

It's Tyrion who spies the wandering Jon Snow, his stubby legs chasing after the man who still resembled a boy. Dark greasy locks that curled into the nape of his neck, solid limbs made to hold a sword, with a face resembling a crying child begging for scraps. He'd make a fine woman.

With all honesty, Tyrion had thought the Stark bastard to be dead. There had been no sighting or word from him since the young Sansa's initial arrival.

It would've been odd of the bastard to simply return North without his kin, or spend his time in brothels like the other men his age. In Jon Snow, he saw a boy sent to protect the lamb from slaughter, and somehow, the boy had become the lamb.

"Snow! Snow!" Tyrion yelled, eagerly waving down the boy who'd finally stopped.

If he weren't a Lannister, he might've jumped in the air as well, playing the proper part of the fool. But as the forgiving Gods would have it, there was no one around to witness his foolishness.

Tyrion smiled when Jon walked closer, dark brows furrowed in confusion. A small shadow of hair covered the lower half of his face, and the stench coming off his was enough to have Tyrion's eyes watering.

"Tyrion Lannister," said Jon, looking down at the Imp.

"Yes, and you're Jon Snow. I remember you quite well." Tyrion looked the boy up and down. "May I ask where you've been these past weeks?"

When Jon scoffed and made to leave, Tyrion went underfoot and appeared in Jon's path again. "I would not ask if I were not truly curious to know."

"Could you not have been curious sooner, Lord Tyrion?"

Pushing past the Imp, Jon stalked down another endless corridor. "Or perhaps you could ask your sister where I've been."

Tyrion had barely felt Jon push past him; what in the Seven had that malevolent bitch been up to?

"Wait!" yelled Tyrion, catching up to the bastard. "I swear on my name as a Lannister, I do not know that of which you speak."

When the Stark boy still looked unconvinced, he begged, "Please, would a dwarf lie to a man twice his size?"

"But you're not just any dwarf, you're Tyrion Lannister. It's hard to trust someone with that name."

"Not many people would," Tyrion chuckled. "Come, let me treat you to a warm bath and some relief for the empty belly of yours, I can practically hear it growling from here."

Rightfully so, Jon followed Tyrion down an endless path to the Imp's chambers. They were well fashioned for a man, but less so a Lannister.

Fine riches hung in odd areas of the room—rich necklaces of gold hanging by a thread, silk sheets puddled on the floor. Sweet wine permeated the air, other drinks lingering on the cupboard and dresser, which there were multiple of.

It looked more a private brothel than a royals chambers, noted Jon, feeling shame wash over his own miniscule lodgings back at Winterfell.

"Excuse the mess, I'm afraid I wasn't expecting visitors as of late."

While attempting to make a seat for the bastard, Tyrion tried to get the boy to open up. "You mentioned my sister did this to you. How certain are you that it was not my Father's order?"

Jon crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing a lone pair of women's smallclothes peeking out from the Lord's bed. "The guard in the Black Cell said we were imprisoned under the Queen Regent, and I was there when she had the Kingsguard drag me and the Hound from my sister's side."

"Oh." The Hound is here as well, how great. Two Clegane's in the same place. "Yet, I found you alone. Where is the Hound?"

Jon shrugged; the burly, dog faced man had marched off without a word the second they'd seen the light of King's Landing once more.

"Not that I'm not enjoying this, but can you please tell me where I can find Sansa?" His foot tapped against the fine stone floor. "I was looking for her before you found me."

"Yes, yes, your sister, Sansa. Though, she isn't truly your sister, is she, bastard?" Motioning for Jon to take a seat, Tyrion poured himself a cup of bitter wine, drinking it in one go.

"Before I send you off, I'd like to inform you of some developments you've missed during your imprisonment."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, but inclined the dwarf to continue.

"My Father has taken a liking to Lady Sansa, and it's only a matter of time before they announce their plans to elope. Of course, it will take weeks; daresay even months, of planning wedding feast selections, as well as the dress your sweet sister will wear. I recall hearing stories that my Father's first marriage took four months of planning. A bit overzealous, but then again, a royal wedding needs preparation."

When Jon said nothing, his foot still tapping against the ground, Tyrion continued. "I just… I need to be sure that we're on the same side, Snow. I can't have you trying to play knight in shining armor."

"I've done nothing here, Lord Tyrion, and I was still imprisoned and starved." Sitting up with pinched brows, Jon spat, "There are still men—good, honest men— trapped in the Black Cells in your home. And yet you sit here, attempting to manipulate my sister's life to favor yours."

"I never said that," defended Tyrion. "I merely said that I am not your enemy."

Jon leaned forward, "Then who is?"

"The same person who locked you up in the first place."

Downing another glass of saccharine wine, Tyrion admitted, "I despise Cersei just as much as the next person. In fact, when we were children, she tried to bite off my ear, which wasn't shocking, seeing as she hated the sight of me. But I remember the look in her eyes. That look said 'I won't stop until you're dead.' It came as no surprise when she tried to have me sold years later as a slave, and attempted to drown me more than once. Only Jamie could convince her that it was madness to murder your brother."

Jon could not imagine a world where Sansa attempted to harm him, or Robb ever sneered his way. Bran saw him as a brother, blood or not was of no matter to him. And Arya trailed after him like a lost pup. Even Rickon had sweet toothless smiles for him, never disgust.

"Then again, none of that is important. The game of thrones is a dangerous thing, Snow. And the way I see it, it's not about winning or losing," he downed another glass of wine, feeling his head grow dizzy, "it's about staying alive."

Men died in the fight for the Throne, Robert Baratheon could attest to that. Jon could see the sadness that befell Lord Stark's face whenever anyone dared to mention the fallen Baratheon brother. He was more a brother to Lord Stark than his own kin.

"You haven't said what you want yet, Lord Tyrion."

"Yes," Tyrion said. "What I want from you is your word that you will not interfere with the plans already in motion. That would mean anything from shooting down my Father with his prized crossbow, or stealing your sister in the dead of night."

Rising from his seated position, Jon stood over Tyrion. "For how much you hate your sister, you sound just like her. I already promised I wouldn't leave King's Landing, with or without Sansa."

"Promised? You swore to Cersei?" Tyrion looked at Jon as though he'd grown a second and third head. "You're either a fool or simply want to die. What else did you offer in exchange for your freedom?"

The veins in Jon's neck stood out when he said, "A favor, Lord Tyrion. Nothing more."

Gods, I'm speaking with a fool.

Tyrion held back a haughty laugh. This boy knew nothing of the way his sister's mind worked. Cersei danced with the Stranger in her dreams, plotting and weaving, never slowing in her ways. How his brother had fallen under her spell, one could never know. Men lusted after her from all across Westeros.

Tyrion knew that if they got close enough, her cunt would bite any wandering cock.

Messily pouring another glass of sweet berry wine, Tyrion uttered, "You know nothing of my sister, Jon Snow, and for this, I envy you. Let us pray to the Seven she does not command you to take your own head, though I wouldn't put it past her."

The dresser thumped against the wall when Jon easily lifted Tyrion by his tunic, pressing the little Lord against the gilded drawers. The Stark wore a snarl with fiery grey eyes, nearly baring his teeth. Jon shook him.

"I've enough of your games, Lord Tyrion. I do not care for your family affairs, nor do you truly care for mine. You'll show me to my sister. Now ."

The Imp gave a watery laugh. "Didn't I promise you a bath?"

Tyrion chuckled to no one in particular as Jon Snow stormed off, leaving the dwarf to drown in more wine.

After ages of endless halls and confused looks from maids, he found Sansa's chambers. The door was already open, and when he stepped inside, the Hound was already there.

Clegane sat on the edge of the frilly bed lined with soft sheets, a sharp contrast from his filthy skin, as well as the aroma worse than a skunk that wafted off his skin. Grease clung to his hair, sticking to the burnt flesh on his face.

But Sansa, his sweet sister, was everything Clegane was not.

Covering her form was a dress made of purple cloth, fine flowers stitched along the bodice and under her growing bosom. It hugged her hips, trailing down to the floor, hiding her dainty feet. On her face, pools of water welled in her vivid blue eyes. Her cheeks were rosy yet still held the paleness of the North, not having yet succumbed to the heat of the South.

And her hair still burned like fire.

"Sansa," he breathed, catching her when she flung into his arms. Red spilled over his eyes, but the sound of Sansa sniffling into his ear had him clutching her close, ignoring the feel of Clegane's gaze from across the room. Her hair smelt of daffodils and sweet cream, and Jon inhaled it until he could breathe no more, lungs begging for release.

Kicking the door shut, Jon stepped deeper into her chambers with her still held in his arms. Her grip was unrelenting and tight, like a thorn in his side.

"I missed you," Jon confided. "Gods, I missed you, Sansa."

Unintelligible mumbles spilled from her mouth, and after some effort to loosen her hold, Jon plopped her back onto her feet.

"I'm so sorry, Jon," she cried with all the grace of a drowned rat. "This is all my fault. I didn't do enough to free you and I'm so sorry, please forgive me! I was selfish and wrong and stupid!"

When her words turned to tears, Jon looked to Clegane for help, but the Hound shrugged and flopped onto the bed, dirtying it even more.

Everything in the room was soft and beautiful, dainty and perfectly fine. A room fit for a queen.

"Sansa," he hushed her tears, wiping them away. "You've done nothing wrong. Dry your eyes, sister, I cannot stand this any longer."

She sniffled, "But you've been gone so long, Jon. I had no idea what Cersei had done, but I was too worried about King Tywin and Margaery and…"

Her voice trailed off. "I'm glad you're here now, and I swear on the Old Gods and the New, we will not part. No matter what any Lannister says."

Jon lifted his hand to cup her soft cheek. In another world, had their births been different, he would have begged and fought to wed a woman such as Sansa. Wolf blood ran prominently through her veins, teeth bared at anyone who threatened her kin.

They were both wolves in one-way or another, and Jon cursed Tywin Lannister. A wolf did not belong in the jaws of a lion.

While tears dried on Sansa's cheeks, her nose scrunched. "I've called a bath for Sandor, but you are in desperate need of one as well."

Her head tilted while looking him up and down. "If you'd arrived with Sandor, you could've already been more clean than you are now."

"You'll have to thank Tyrion for that." He rubbed his eyes. "He wanted a word with me before sending me here."

"Oh?" She perked up. "What did he want?"

Dishonesty was not Jon Snow's forte. He wore his heart on his sleeve, having learned that only good men swore with truth and trust. Liars and thieves swore with falsities, mistruths and imposters. People loved to tell him that he knew nothing, but he knew how to be a good man.

A part of him did not want to disclose to his sister what they'd discussed, but it felt wrong.

"He drank and spoke of his childhood, all the wrongdoings of his sister and such." Sandor grunted from the bed. "And he mentioned that I should not steal you from here and ride for Winterfell."

Jon watched red blossom on her cheeks, eyes shifting around the room. "How thoughtful of him."

"And what do you think I should do?" His eyes watched as her fingers clenched the material of her dress. "I will do whatever you say, Sansa."

Sandor sat up, both men watching Sansa with interest. She refused to meet either of their eyes, and all three of them jumped when a knock on the door cut through the room.

Hurrying to open and let in Shae and Tysa, both women hefting a bath of warm water, Sansa shooed them off, paying no mind to their worried and curious looks at her male companions.

"Sansa—"

"There is a feast tonight," she said, smiling at Jon and Sandor. "King Tywin has something important to say and I would love you both to join. Please, I'll get another bath. Excuse me."

She scurried out of the room, and Sandor began to shed his clothes, leaving the filthy chainmail in a heap on the floor. It piled up in a foul smelling thing that would take ages to smell right again.

"Little bird's hiding something. Best let her come to you before scaring her off again."

Water sloshed as Sandor sat in the steamy bath, paying no mind to Jon, whose head tilted so far to the side that the Hound feared it would fall off.

Kingsroad, North

Even in summer, the North was still cold.

Two horses bound for the Wall rode side by side, their pace faster than a trot but not a full gallop.

Atop one horse was Ned Stark, Warden of the North. Resting on his shoulders was a stunning fur coat, perfect to ride against the harsh weathers of his homeland. On his face, a tired look remained, surrounded by brown locks and an untidy beard having grown out on the journey thus far.

Atop the second horse was Catelyn Stark, her face shrouded in cloth to protect from the winds of winter, body covered in fine and rugged furs, feeling not an ounce of the winter chill.

She'd almost refused the journey; "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

But Robb was a young man grown, his chin covered in stubble and his voice now deep. One day, he would be the King in the North, when her sweet Ned was buried in the Crypts below. Hopefully by then, they would be buried together. Sweet Arya had cried with Rickon, wanting to come along as well.

It pierced Cat's heart that her youngest daughter had lost one sister, and now, for only a short time, would lose her parents as well. Even Bran had shed a tear during their departure, begging them to return swiftly.

It's dangerous out there, her sweet Bran whispered into the softness of her breast, if you don't give him up, they'll come for us all.

Bran hadn't explained who exactly the he in question was, and he'd held Rickon's hands as their horses trotted down the King's Road.

That had been two weeks and some ago. Now, their trip was close to its end.

"How much longer?" Cat's voice traveled well through the wind.

"Not much, I suppose. We could be there by nightfall."

"Hm." Cat nodded.

Silence had sat between the pair for many days, Cat missing her children while Ned worried for what lied ahead. Yes, he'd alerted King Tywin of his plan to speak Beyond the Wall with the Free Folk, but hadn't received word in return. Perhaps there would already be a new Lord Commander and this would've been for naught.

Cat, in an attempt to fill the silence, offered her thoughts to Ned. "Do you think they're alright? We've never left them on their own like this. Something could happen, there could be an attack, or worse."

Ned attempted to soothe his wife with soft words. "They're well protected, my love. Jory shall show Robb how to take my place and complete my work, and Arya will be busy with her Septa until we return. Bran has taken to visiting the Godswood, just as we once did."

"But Rickon… he's so young."

"Aye, he is, but he must learn to be without his Mother at some point." Ned's head turned, gazing at his wife.

She was still as beautiful as the day they'd wed. "I fear nothing will separate you two once we return."

"If," she corrected. "If we return."

Ned's face grew dark, ignoring the pelting of cold wind on his cheeks. There had been colder days, trips filled with frostbite that many men had not survived. This was nothing, but he could see the shiver in his wife's fingertips.

"We will return home, Cat, I swear on my life. This is nothing more than a talk to soothe the pain that's been caused. We've never hurt the Free Folk, and they've never hurt us, but if we do not do this, they could breach the Wall and flood the North."

"What is the point of Castle Black then?" Cat scoffed, tugging the reins of her horse. "Are they not meant to protect us from Wildlings?"

"Free Folk do not act without cause, such as Mance Rayder was no King. They named him their leader because he was loyal to them, wise in their decisions, and strong."

"And now he's dead, just like any other man."

Both of their horses neighed against the wind, but did not falter. Through the thickness of clouds and icy wind, the fortress of the Wall loomed. It was larger than any man could imagine, whiter than the snow in the air, and to touch it would chill your bones to the core. Ned had been to the Wall dozens of times, but only one other with Cat.

"Do you…" Cat swallowed. "Do you think Sansa is happy?"

A deep frown burrowed into Ned's face, wishing he could lean over and hug his sweet wife.

"The raven from King's Landing told us enough to know she is alive and well, under the care of the Lannister's. We've no reason to believe her words were false."

"What if he forced her hand? Made her lie so we would suspect nothing?"

Maneuvering his horse to the side of his wife, Ned reached over and grasped her chilled hand, intertwining their fingers.

Cat had never been trustworthy of strangers, and then, even her friends. It may have come from the Tully line, Lysa's madness attested to that, but Ned knew his wife meant well.

All of the Starks had read Sansa's words, gazed upon her handwriting as she recalled her stay in King's Landing… and the fact that she would be there for a little while longer, though that part had been written in different handwriting.

"You mustn't think these things, Cat, they will only make you ill with worry. Whether Sansa returns to us as a Queen or simply our daughter, we will be patient and wait."

Instead of snapping at his lackadaisical attitude, which she did most of the time, her voice quivered. "How do you do it, husband? I fear I have not felt peace since she left my arms."

Gingerly releasing his hand from her hold, he pet her hand. "I trust my children, sweetheart, and so should you."

Up ahead, a figure emerged through the dusty winds. While moving his horse in front of Cat's, Ned's fingers rested against the hilt of his sword. It was impossible to tell who it was at first, Free Folk or a lost man, but this would not be the day that Ned let down his guard.

A few beats passed before the figure grew close enough to see, and both of their horses came to a halt. Instead of a man, it was merely a boy, no older than six and ten, his face covered in snow and sweat, nose colored a flaming red.

Sweat covered his entire top, and Ned recognized the armor as that of Castle Black. The boy looked two seconds from passing out, which led Ned to dismounting his sword and approaching the boy.

"Have you come from Castle Black, boy?"

With a feverish nod, the boy stood up straight. "Aye, names Pyp, m'lord. Maester Aemon sent me to find you, said we needed you urgently." Pyp looked behind Ned. "Didn't say you was bringin' anyone with you."

"This is Lady Stark," Ned nodded to his wife, who dismounted her horse as well.

"We've journeyed for many days, Pyp, we're in need of food and shelter."

Pyp nodded his head, wet hair swinging back and forth. "Of course, m'lord, but we need to hurry. Please, we can't wait here."

Cat cut in with a frown, "Why haven't you a horse, boy? You'll freeze out here like this."

"No time, M'lady, and no horses at the Wall. We've no food, but we need to hurry, please, M'lady." Pyp looked ready to collapse to the ground, and Ned quickly caught the boy on a faltering step, gasping at the amount of cold coming off his skin.

How long had he been running? How far was Castle Black?

Ned attempted to shrug off his coat and cover up Pyp, not wanting him to die on the Kingsroad, but the boy kept muttering incomprehensible words while pointing back to Castle Back.

They tried to hear him closely, but the wind washed away his voice.

Tired of the madness, Cat commanded him to speak up.

"Wildlings…" Pyp's eyes turned glassy and delirious. "At the gate…Wildlings… at the gate ," then promptly collapsed to the ground.