Jon

The dwarf looked at the young ranger sympathetically.

"You worry for your friend, don't you?"

"Samwell's not a warrior. If something happens, he's not going to be able to defend himself."

"He's not going alone," Tyrion tried reassuring him. "Grenn, Pyp, Yoren, they're capable certainly. Jaime would accompany them, except...well, I'll admit all this shit cold and snow and snot of yours's beaten him down considerably since the rebellion, but...there's still a few who might recognize him...so happens that most of them appear to be our enemies."

It was odd, that the lion and the wolf would speak of shared enemies, particularly considering that his own father sat atop such a list. Samwell Tarly was an equally odd friend Jon had made in his brief time at the Wall as well. Randyll Tarly, after all, sat atop the list of Sansa's traitors, reaping his rewards in the capital as Rhaegar's Hand.

Jon had been determined in hating the fat boy at first. He'd never liked Thorne either, the old crank had always seemed a prick the few times he'd traveled to Castle Black from Greyguard, but happening upon the old knight beating down at Samwell as he cowered in a corner, Jon couldn't help feel pity for the Lord Commander's unlikely steward. They themselves formed a contradictory combination, especially considering how it was Samwell's father who took and held Tywin Lannister's daughter upon Rhaegar's return, but the old man did not seem to hold a grudge towards the son. Probably, Jon figured, the old lion of Casterly Rock had been biding his time with Tarly all the way up until this moment, when Tywin Lannister would order Samwell for his own purposes.

"I should've gone."

"And give Rhaegar his most valuable hostage of all," Tyrion chuckled.

"Doesn't matter if I'm dead. I'll kill him myself." He meant it. The Septa's would scold him for hating his own father, but Jon found it surprisingly easy in hating a man he'd never met. King Eddard, on the other hand, Queen Catelyn, Sansa and Arya, uncle Benjen's children he all met, he knew them, he loved them, as family.

"Maybe you can. Or maybe you'd fail. Your uncle's right, he's always been right...so long as Rhaegar...so long as the Targaryen cause lives, your best place is here. Safest too."

"I don't care about my safety. I've fought in wars, I've stared death in the face. Samwell hasn't. None of these boys have, save Yoren, none of them's even faced a Thenn!"

"Ah, the Thenns," Tyrion chuckled, a strange matter to find humor in, Jon thought. "Maybe that's the solution...we let them through the Wall, and tell them eat their way down into King's Landing. Though, I've met your father. Rhaegar won't make much of a meal, I'm afraid. But Mace Tyrell...I'd bet they'd cook him up, nice and plump."

Despite his best judgment, Jon chuckled at the thought too, of letting the wildlings dine on all of Rhaegar's Small Council. He wished there was more treason he could commit against his father besides the smallest ones in his mind.

"I do share your concern though," Tyrion continued. They sat in the library, surely the only place Jon knew to look when he sought out the Half Man, aside from the feed hall. Maester Aemon had passed seven moons before, and though they wore not the chains, Tyrion and Samwell kept to all their books and records in the meantime. "Travelling through what's soon to be a war torn country...assuming the war hasn't broken out already..."

"Sneaking into Horn Hill," Jon added, aware that his voice rang too loudly for their own good, "asking a man to betray his father."

Except Jon would happily betray such a man, after hearing from Samwell all the torments he'd endured in his life, the Night's Watch seemingly a better existence than his time as the heir to House Tarly.

"Betraying their vows," Tyrion concluded with a smile, "on behalf of the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who's also betraying his vows in turn. All the more reason to keep your voice low."

"The things we do for family, hmmm?"

"For innocent children...who happen to be family."

Jon could not argue with that. Were it anyone else, were it pertain to anyone else, he'd protest, he'd scream his accusations to every may on the Watch, from Eastwatch to the Shadow Tower. Tywin Lannister using his position to make secretly meddle in the wars of the Throne would threaten to ruin the order forever. It may well do so even if they were successful, for all Jon knew.

Except he thought of Myrcella, Tommen, and Rykka. Sansa and Arya, Bran and Rickon.

Damn Rhaegar, and damn the Watch with him.

Though he imagined that his cousin would doubtlessly pardon all of them were she to end up on the winning end of the war. If not, then Jon may be the only one of his brothers to survive the purge to come.

The pretense was for Samwell to travel to Oldtown, study at the Citadel, and receive his maester's chains on behalf of the Night's Watch. It just so happened that Horn Hill was on the way, so long as they didn't travel by ship. Which was too dangerous, Lord Tywin had stated, because of the Greyjoy threat to the coasts.

"Assuming they make it out of Horn Hill alive," Jon said, feeling little soothed in his concerns, "the most dangerous part might be making it to Dorne." He'd be several glasses of ale deep already, if it weren't for the fact that it was still morning. Even Tyrion seemed restrained in his consumption for the time being.

"The Red Mountains are mild in winter," Tyrion said, trying to reassure him. "The paths are well traveled, and...," the dwarf looked around the empty library cautiously.

"And what?"

"Promise you won't say a word?"

"Aye, I'm caught up in enough secrets already."

"They might have some help."

So he's been holding out!

Jon turned his eyes at the Half Man in disbelief. He'd be tempted to strike him, were it not for the fact that the dwarf just offered the promise of good news.

"I was the Lord of Casterly Rock once, you know, like my father before me. I did make the acquaintance of many of my vassals."

"So?"

"Were there the possibility that a stray lord or two, sympathetic to our cause, who may have written letters for me, which I then passed along to my father...indicating that our relations remain, despite the uncle who usurped our castle..."

"We've got allies in the Westerlands?"

Jon blinked several times. Just what else did they know, that they'd neglected to tell him, that meant life or death for Samwell and Pyp and Grenn? Laughing, reading his frustration, Tyrion merely rose and clapped him on the back, eager to not satisfy him further.

"The war's just beginning, boy. I've a feeling there's plenty of alliances and betrayals to come, that seem inconceivable to us here in this damned icebox."


The Hand

"We need to do something."

Kevan Lannister was a man Randyll Tarly respected, yet the Hand to King Rhaegar barely resisted the urge to snap at his colleague on the Small Council for such an obvious and useless remark. It wasn't the fault of the Lord of Casterly Rock, or even his own, Randyll thought, their sheer impatience and inability to think straight and reasonably through the mess which had broken out across what seemed to be all Seven Kingdoms trying even the gentlest of temperaments.

"We can't move on the Sparrows now," Randyll replied, resisting the urge to thump his head against the table. He'd been so close to solving so many of their worst problems with one stroke. "Purging them will lend credence to the...accusations."

"There's no credence to be had," Kevan cried indignantly. "The High Sparrow is...a bit much, to be honest. He was a necessary evil, at the time. But an agent of some Red God? It's just...it's just ridiculous."

"Purging them would make it seem less ridiculous," he rebutted. "It doesn't help, we let that priestess share an audience with the King and the High Sparrow, that had to be the girl's doing." Who could've thought that she'd outsmarted them, or that it would matter, such a minor and inconsequential detail at the time?

Randyll continued. "At best, it would look like we'd been fooled by the man, that we're reacting to the accusations. Which would suggest there's at least a small degree of truth to the accusations, in the eyes of the realm. And just which kernels of truth would the lords choose to believe in? That we were fools? That we had no choice to raise them, despite our doubts? That we knowingly or unknowingly put the Faith in the hands of a heretic, a fire worshiper? Then what does that say about the Sept..."

"We had nothing to do with the Sept!"

The King's passionate denial would lend Randyll to believe otherwise. He'd always wondered. Particularly when it came to a man like Varys, who had no limits. Or Connington, who possessed little restraint of the personal kind.

"The truth doesn't matter," Kevan conceded happily, "so long as the people actually believe all of these ridiculous lies."

"Pardon the expression," Randyll said, having given much thought to the matter over the last fortnight, "but we have to fight fire with fire."

"How," Rhaegar asked, sitting upwards and alert in his chair.

"They throw out accusations of heresy, we do the same. Sansa Stark is a fanatic of the Old Gods. We found letters in her chambers after her escape, telling of she'd fallen under the influence of her uncle Benjen, and all his northern lords, after her father's death. She called the Boltons to the capital, and ordered them to do her bidding. This is the war she continues to wage still, not for the Faith, not even for House Stark...but for the Old Gods of the North." Randyll sighed, forcing himself to say out loud the next words. "And we must depend on the Sparrows to turn back these northern fanatics."

"Doesn't hurt our cause then, Blackwood's rebellion," Mace Tyrell said. Apparently Tytos Blackwood had attacked and taken Stone Hedge the moment he'd learned of the Queen's escape, and read of her accusations. But the Lord of Highgarden looked more skeptically at Randyll. "Just how...believable is this story we're telling?"

"As believable as these tales of the red god," Randyll rebutted, before looking carefully at his King, "were it not for the fact that it's the Princess who's the one spreading them. We'll need someone similarly credible. Your daughter Margaery attended to the Queen for several years, didn't she?"

"She did," Mace replied, furrowing his bushy eyebrows as he understood the implication. "I can have her say that...she saw Sansa Stark keeping to the Old Gods?"

"That she attended to the Godswood in secret daily," Randyll. "That she saw her hiding away for secret audiences with the Boltons. Perhaps we can have some letters forged, suggesting she knew and instructed Roose and his bastard...but it'll have to do for now."

The matter was settled with relative speed, thank the Gods. The idea was far fetched, Daenerys Targaryen's crazed testimony catching fire through the Westerlands and beyond by the day, along with the late Doran Martell's convenient yet damning confession, and Randyll understood that whatever story they could scramble together at this point would pale comparatively. But they had little other choice, did they? The girl, both girls actually, had caught them unawares, sneaking through not a march on them, but an equally deadly coup of stories, though Randyll supposed this was how women would fight their wars. So they had to respond quickly in return, there was no time for dithering now, nor could they afford to underestimate these two women again.

"We still have four positions in the Kingsguard to replace," Mace added, chagrined.

"I have a man," Kevan said from his position, seated across from Tarly, both of them bordering the King by the head of the table. "He's...well, he's a brute, but he's a damned good fighter. Tyrion thought him useful, and he served as the Queen's Justice on several occasions before..."

"Clegane," Mace guessed. Lannister nodded. "He's a beast of a man, he'll be good to have on our side once the war starts."

The words sounded good, but to honest, Randyll was not so much concerned about individual whitecloaks once the war did inevitably start, not when the men whom he would need to win it numbered in the thousands. But the fact that they'd been reduced to one surviving Kingsguard, not counting Swann in the Black Cells was, like everything else since that dreadful night, a disaster when it came to the perception of King and Council by the realm, from the lords down to Flea Bottom. Old Mandon Moore was a good swordsman and would serve a good placeholder Lord Commander for now, but Tarly saw no need to summon the man to their meetings in the meantime.

They'd worried for a fortnight after not having heard from Penrose since his departure with the Queen. Connington sent word to Griffin's Roost and his knights rode north, confirming what they suspected already. The Master of War had wondered sardonically if it had been bandits after all, but then came whispers of armies rallying and gathering from the marches to Griffin's Roost itself, where Connington's own bannermen had stood by and done nothing as a thousand men landed from Tarth and marched their way westwards, presumably in the direction of the treasonous Marcher lords. Then came the letters, all but confirmation that not only had the Queen survived, but that she'd somehow rallied the few lords who would still raise their banners for the girl south of the Trident, a prospect which he'd unfortunately overlooked, thinking all their enemies lay within the northern three kingdoms.

"Who knew the girl still had friends in the Stormlands," Connington muttered unhappily. "All these rebels slipping by Baratheon's nose, we should have his head for that."

"She pulled one over your head too," Kevan snapped accusingly at the red haired man's direction. The King's old friend wasn't worth much, Randyll had come to decide, beside a random bout of whinging ever so often. "We were all fooled. I...I'd worry for my own life now, were I to return to Casterly Rock."

"Then don't," Rhaegar commanded. "I'll ride west. Daenerys is my sister, her treas...her...misperceptions my failure."

"It's too risky, Your Grace. If you are unable to speak reason to the girl, then we give the rebels their most valuable hostage, if we're lucky."

"No, that won't do," the King agreed, the idea dissipating just as quickly as it formed. Rhaegar mulled his fingers together morosely, undoubtedly recalling his father's ordeal at the hands of the Darklyns.

It was yet another stupid idea, but at least all the disasters had finally awakened the King out of his stupor, Rhaegar not having missed one Council meeting since the news came of Penrose's death. His mind seemed to perceive all that was discussed, albeit most of it was bad news, besides the one raven telling of Lysa Arryn's death.

"I've a response from the Eyrie," Tarly remembered, pulling out a scroll. "From Ser Lyn Corbray, the heir to Heart's Home and now, apparently, Lord Protector of the Vale. 'The Vale will remain independent as it has been for thousands of years. King Robin I Arryn will rise and be remembered as his greatest ancestors.'"

"A rogue knight and a sickly child," Connington said dismissively. "That can't last for long, the man probably pushed the boy's mother out the Moon Door."

"So long as they hold the gates," Kevan said. He asked Randyll. "Have we reached out to the Royces?"

"Sent the letters the last night," he replied. "The Hardyng boy too, he stands to gain if Robin Arryn is attainted for his continued defiance. Nothing we can do now but wait."

"Maybe Bracken will hear of something up north," Kevan conceded.

The first whisper their new Master of Whispers had heard was news of his own castle's seizure by Blackwood, his remaining family barely managing their escape. Whatever abilities the Lord of Stone Hedge possessed, or didn't possess, his greatest asset was undoubtedly the five unwed daughters his wife had borne him. Their first Council meeting upon learning of the Queen's escape had been spent arranging the subsequent flurry of betrothals, ones which would not have been arranged so hastily under the typical circumstances.

Willas Tyrell and Barbara Bracken would be wed the moment his army arrived at Highgarden, the bride's father's presence be damned. Garlan Tyrell to Wylla Lydden, a middling house in the Westerlands but whose family held Deep Den, the key mountain pass connecting Casterly Rock to King's Landing. His own Talla's wedding to Loras would occur days after his brother Willas's, the very day his host passed from Highgarden to arrive at Horn Hill. He'd had better hopes for Dickon's prospects, but considering the circumstances his son would have to wed Bess Bracken alongside his sister. Jayne Bracken was to wed the boy Lord of Driftmark Monterys, nephew of their Master of Law, and of the two remaining girls, one had already been promised to House Brax in the Westerlands, who'd been amongst the first to denounce the treasons coming out of Casterly Rock, the other to whomever Jonos would see fit to reward in exchange for putting down the Blackwood rebellion.

The importance of the Redwynes were not to be understated, considering their fleet, a significant advantage over any army the girl Queen might try to raise. Horas Redwyne, Paxter's heir, had already been betrothed to Baelor Hightower's eldest daughter, though Randyll had written for them to move ahead the marriage as soon as they could. His twin brother Hobber would already be tied to a Bracken girl by now, had they not called him to King's Landing to help replenish the Kingsguard. There was even talk for Connington to marry, not something which appealed to the old man, or any blushing maiden who'd have to share his bed and carry his child, Randyll figured. But even Connington recognized the severity of the situation, and so they had discussed Leyton Hightower's eldest daughter Malora, the Mad Maid, who was a recluse in the tower along with her father.

Better two broken seeds together than apart.

Letters sent to Storm's End had not been returned, or else it would be the Lady Shireen Monterys Velaryon would be betrothed to and not a Bracken. For Renly Baratheon they'd considered the Mad Maid too. Perhaps Shireen's guardian had perceived the offer of the strange old spinster an insult, Renly had always been a bit sensitive, and Tarly swore he'd make no similar mistake again. Regardless, it was a good start, they stood more than a fighting chance in this war, so long as they did not hesitate.

"I march south before the sun sets tonight," Randyll said, rising to leave. "Every single bannerman in the Reach will be surrounding Horn Hill in less than a fortnight, the North will be kept out of this war."

"I don't like doing nothing," Kevan said, the frustrated Master of Ship moaned unhappily.

"You're not doing nothing," Randyll insisted, "you hold the defense of King's Landing, should Bracken be rebuffed and the Tully's make their move. The Brax's, Lyddens, and Baneforts will move on Casterly Rock, though I've no doubt they'll take care to be gentle with the Princess and Lord Lancel."

"Gentle, yes," Rhaegar said ponderously. "She must be in a...state...her mind must not be well. We will help, bring her to King's Landing...she'll be well again...I'll see to it myself."

"And Connington," Randyll turned to the Master of War, though he was the one conducting the man's duties at the moment, "you know your orders?"

"Burn the marches to the ground," the man they called Griff said with glee. It made Randyll nervous. War was a serious business, not to be something looked forward to, as if a game or a tourney. Perhaps that had been the reason the man had failed in both his last two wars. While any defeat for the Crown would be devastating, out of all the wars set alight against the four winds, Randyll wondered whether the demise of Connington's campaign could be the least deleterious to the Crown's cause.

"I'll go with Griff," Rhaegar pronounced out of nowhere, referring to his old friend by the name he'd been known as during the reign of the King's father. They all looked to Rhaegar in shock, even Connington.

It was Griff who would dare rebuff the King first. "Your Grace, are you sure? We have to march...quickly, make haste."

"Then tell the riders to make haste with my wheelhouse," Rhaegar replied coldly, his tone firm, scolding, and unrelenting, a bizarre echo of the valiant Prince he had been twenty years before. "A King cannot sit and wait in his castle while his men do battle for him. The people deserve to see their King. And they will."

"Your Grace..." This time it was Kevan's turn, but immediately Randyll moved to interrupt him.

If Rhaegar and Connington win their battles, it will restore faith in the Crown.

If not...

Even if they scour the Stormlands, they'd be tempted to continue south to Dorne, the deathtrap of past Targaryen kings...

Then around whom would people rally...

To a girl, a failed Queen?

Or a child who represents the perfect union from the last two wars?

And a Regency Council of rare stolidness and ability.

"You're right," Tarly agreed, to Kevan's shock and chagrin. "This war will be like no other, not even the Stark and Baratheon Rebellion, what with the stakes, not with the faiths and all the accusations of heresy thrown about. There'll be slaughter, people will suffer, cities and villages will burn. We need the people to see their King, so as to remind them of whom they fight for."

"A King's duty rises above that of all men's," Rhaegar said nobly, as if he were about to stand and draw a sword or proclaim a knight amongst a table of old lords. "I know mine, by the Gods I will do it."

"Just stay away from Prince's Pass or the Boneway," Tarly warned, wondering whether the two men would take his counsel as a suggestion or a taunt. "Dorne is the girl's stronghold now, and Dorne has never been taken."


Sansa

Most of her travels have always been from the inside of a wheelhouse. They had her learn to ride, of course, and as a young princess she could ride well for short distances, her posture and speed good enough to spare her from criticism. Sansa had never particularly enjoyed the activity, which meant it a burden once they crowned her, the few journeys she'd taken as a Queen requiring short bouts of endurance whenever her royal procession rode through any small village, town, or to her destination in Winterfell and back.

Then came everything that happened. Then they'd found her, Edric and Beric and Brienne. So she'd ridden through the marches and the mountains day and night, not just because her life depended upon it, though it did, but because Arya's life depended her still, and aunt Cersei's and her children's. And all her enemies, all their lives depended upon her survival too, at least to the extent so that she'd see their demise one day. Every muscle in her body ached those first mornings from the constant riding, though Edric contributed his share to her exhaustion as well, but pain was little trouble for the Queen in what she'd already considered to be her second life.

By the time they'd reached Starfall her body had become accustomed to the constant riding. That was fortunate, because it boded for what was to come ahead. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes returned to Sunspear with Joffrey and the bodies of Doran and Arianne. Upon their arrival, they would continue on to the Water Gardens, send every piece of gold back to Starfall, and sell every jewel and treasure, laces, dresses, statues and trinkets, so as to pay for the feed and keep for the army they were calling, every fighting man and the occasional woman through the entire kingdom of Dorne. Apart from her, the Water Gardens had been the great love of Trystane's short life, the one treasure he loved even more than his distant father or siblings who'd paid him little heed all his life. Sansa did not ever wish to see the palaces with her own eyes, because if Trystane were not alive to see them, then they simply did not deserve to exist.

"I'd never seen the desert before," Sansa said, riding over one wave of hilly ridges after another, her body stronger than she'd ever felt it. "Not until I'd come to Dorne."

Though they'd ridden several times west, to inspect the defenses lying between Starfall and the Reach, they could never continue any further towards the other side of the mountains, where Horn Hill lay. Every scout who'd returned from the passes overlooking the Reach had stated that Randyll Tarly's castle seemed at this point the most closely guarded in all of Westeros, most of Highgarden's banners having marched south to man the walls by the time the Martells had met their end in Starfall.

"Didn't you say you know of some secret entrance the castle," Sansa questioned him.

"I do," her lover, her paramour, as the Dornish called it, answered earnestly. "But we'd doubtlessly raise the alarms, even if we were to reach Lady Cersei and her children, we'd never make it back to Starfall with all the Reach giving chase."

She'd fretted, pacing the tiles of their room that night by the fire.

"They're still alive, aren't they," Edric questioned.

"They are. For how much longer, I don't know."

"If they haven't killed them, they're smart enough to know to keep them alive. They wouldn't be sending more and more soldiers there, if it was Lord Tarly's intent to have them murdered. Then, they'll truly be outnumbered, with all the North thundering south in revenge."

It was true. It also seemed like an excuse, were Edric wrong, and Sansa could only hope, because she no longer prayed, that his conjecture would prove correct.

"They say the Red Wastes in Essos stretch as far from Castle Black, to past King's Landing," Edric said dreamily, his wild hair blowing in the dry breezes of Dorne, warm even in the winter. "It's a child's garden, what we have here in Dorne."

There were always places to ride. More and more men were gathering at Starfall and in the hills north along the Torentine. So she rode with Edric, to explore each ridge after the last, see what lay upon the other side, the view points, the terrain, the streams and bogs and hidden nooks of the mountains, each feature a potential defense or battleground. Edric brought no map, he kept none either, yet he held all he saw in his mind, Sansa had questioned him afterwards to test him, and he'd never failed. Sometimes she rode with Arya, who drilled and practiced formations with the men arriving, along with Thoros and Arys Oakheart, one of her Queensguard who'd fallen captive to Doran along her sister and Tyrion, and Andrey Dalt, a young and handsome knight her sister had befriended in her years in Sunspear. Obara and Nymeria, the eldest of the Sand Snakes, remained as well, to help ready their gathering army.

"I won't say it's beautiful, the desert," Sansa said, riding the path from Starfall to Prince's Pass, a well familiar road that even she could recall by memory now. "It's different though. It's strange, it's...vivid, and clear, and..."

"Stark," Edric finished her sentence with a grin, "that's the word you're looking for, isn't it?"

First she stared incredulously at the young man. "You're the stupidest knight in all seven kingdoms, do you know that?"

"What about you then, Your Grace," Edric teased, "following such a stupid man, relying upon him to win for you seven fucking kingdoms and an Iron Throne, a dimwit who's stupider than the stupidest of the Conqueror's dragons?"

He always teased her, he'd never been afraid to, even when they'd first met. Sansa liked that actually. The Littlefinger never teased her, he just praised her, seeking her approval and favor while he stabbed her in the back. The Queen found herself remembering how to laugh, riding with Edric between one camp and another. She smelled more, she saw more...she felt more. It was as if Ser Boros's sword had indeed cut through her neck that morning, setting her free into this new life, though the burdens of her old life remained with her, the ghosts.

"You're right," Sansa agreed. "I am stupid. You know what isn't stupid? My sister, and her sword hand."

"I believe that," Edric replied, feigning a shiver.

Rarely did they ride together, the three of them. Edric knew her well enough that she needed her time alone with Arya, and not just inside Starfall either, and if she had to guess, Arya knew her sister felt the same needs with Edric.

"He's good for you," she'd whispered to her one night, both of them having taken in far too many of the ample jugs of Dornish red.

"He's just a boy," Sansa replied, though she couldn't help but smile, "with a good name and a better army."

Seeing Arya about to object to something, Sansa had interjected first.

"Years ago, I thought he'd make a good husband for you, did you know that? When I first met him by the banks of the Blackwater after the battle."

Arya squinted her eyes at her. "Why?"

"Well...he's handsome. Though...I was really a child then, and Edric even younger, so I wouldn't have thought him handsome then. But fair to look at, he'd probably be handsome one day, I figured. And a good soldier, he'd killed a man that battle, I thought you'd like all that. You'd like his name too, Arthur Dayne's nephew. I thought...considering the whispers about father and the Lady Ashara before the war...perhaps it'd be appropriate, a Dayne and a Stark, united once more."

"Seems like you fulfilled your own prophecy, sister," Arya replied with a wink. First she took another sip of wine. Then Arya pressed one finger against her lips. "Better it stay that way, Andrey wouldn't like hearing about me and Edric."

"Andrey," Sansa asked incredulously. "Andrey Dalt?"

Though that particular young heir wasn't bad on the eyes, it was more that Sansa was surprised her sister would have taken a liking to anyone, particularly Andrey who, though fair and fair with a sword, didn't seem to possess much more abilities than that.

Arya stared her down, and but it was her younger sister who gave way first, breaking into laughter. "Trust me, Your Grace, he hasn't touched your sister. Nor will he, not until he's won seven kingdoms for Queen Sansa, I made him promise that."

"That's mean, you're using him!"

"And you're not using Edric," Arya challenged.

It wasn't a fair question, and her laughing came to a stop.

"I am," the Queen insisted, but her sister refused to be mollified.

"And?"

"I like it too," she admitted, before reaching and swallowing several mouthfuls of her wine. "Is that treason?"

"I don't know," Arya shrugged. "You're the Queen, you tell me."

They talked about boys, Sansa realized, because that subject hurt the least. They'd not exchanged a word about their brothers, not since that first reunion under Doran Martell's watchful eyes. Nor her daughter, Sansa hadn't even confided to Arya the name she'd given her. That was a secret she swore to keep to herself, until the day she met Rhaegar again, her family's eternal enemy knelt in submission before her. Father and Robb...or mother, would they argue with each other what was worse, seeing mother wounded, bleeding and dying in a cramped wheelhouse? Or sitting half a world away, frittering the days until the worst enemy of your family comes bearing the ill news?

"Look," Sansa pointed out.

"What is it?

"The path to the hot springs!" Where she'd bathed while Edric stood guard. "We should go!"

"I don't know," Edric hesitated. "Lord Manwoody's host await us on the other side."

Sansa giggled. Stupid. You're not a stupid girl anymore, Sansa.

"What?"

First she gripped the reins of her steed, riding towards the side path. When Edric followed, Sansa gestured him closer, and whispered to him with a smirk. "Come join me in a bath, and we can find ourselves our own man woody host."

As she'd predicted, Edric had needed little more convincing after that. Once submerged under the soothing waters, they did little more than bathe, and kiss, and play with each other with their hands and fingers. If Edric were disappointed, he could be assured that he'd get all he could handle from her in camp later that night at the Manwoody camp, but Sansa had a feeling that he was plenty satisfied by their watery frolicking for the afternoon. She'd fallen asleep first, for a few minutes perhaps, less than an hour certainly, and she'd woken to Edric snoring lightly, his head rested beneath her collarbone. The sun already past its midday mark, Sansa shook her lover awake.

"Are you alive?"

He woke with a the grin of a satisfied glutton upon his lips. "No. I'm dead, and waking in the seventh of the heavens."

You poor boy, you're really falling for me.

"Thank you," Sansa suddenly whispered, without any prior thought, realizing too late that her mind still lay by slumber's door.

"For what," her lover asked, befuddled.

"For everything," she replied, lifting his body up with her arm with a strength she possessed only under the surface of the water. Everything else came easily, once she'd mouthed the initial words. "For saving me. For riding with me, for...for giving me this new life. I wouldn't have thought it possible, after that night. That I could smile again. That I could fall asleep and wake, not absolutely dreading the next day. That I could hope, that I wouldn't feel that I was dead already, my body just going through the motions. And I'd just realized now...that I'd never had a chance to properly thank you yet, for all that. So thank you, Edric."

For breaking guest rights for me, for allowing me to curse the both of us.

Fuck curses.

His dumb grin remained stuck upon his lips. "It's my duty, Your Grace. As a...well..."

"Well what," Sansa questioned harshly. What stupid jibe was going to come out of his mouth now, after she'd confessed the secrets of her heart to him?

"You were wrong earlier."

"About what," the Queen asked threateningly, digging her fingernails deeper into his skin, though careful not to actually hurt him.

"I'm not a knight," Edric answered shyly, as if ashamed of the fact.

"You're not?"

"Nope," he affirmed, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Well, you should be."

"We were too...well, busy trying to figure out a way to save your royal ass, Beric and I," he said, his sloppy grin turned maniacally impish again, as Sansa felt his fingers sliding deviously against her thighs, the boy fully awakening from his nap. "We just never had the time, I guess, I thought Beric would do so before we parted, but it wasn't worth the risk of capture."

Pulling away from him, Sansa glared cruelly at his crestfallen glance as she swam the short distance to the other side of the springs, where their clothes lay in a heap. Pulling herself out of the pool, Sansa shivered at the cold bite of the winter sun, yet forced herself to avoid the temptation of drawing and covering her body with her robes. Instead, she found Edric's sword by his belt, laid against the stump of a tree, and unsheathed it.

"Kneel."

Her lover's deep blue eyes widened. "Are you being serious?"

"Do you want to be a knight or not?"

Without further hesitation he swam in her direction, pulling his pale body from the hot springs and knelt clumsily before her, his half swollen manhood fluttering dumbly against his muscular thighs.

"Should we get dressed," he asked, but the Queen was already lowering the blade against his bare shoulder, droplets of water crawling against his skin down upon the sandy shoreline.

"In the name of the Warrior," Sansa began, citing words seemed long lost, paying fealty to Gods she no longer believed in, "I charge you to be brave."

Ignoring their naked state, the cold air nipping against their skin, Edric bowed his head and shut his eyes.

"In the name of the Father," she whispered, "I charge you to be just."

Like my father, Eddard the Just. No God can compare to him.

"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent."

I miss you, mother. You made your mistakes, but you tried so hard. And we're still here, Arya and I.

His eyes still closed, he did not see the cruel smirk growing upon her face.

"In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to pleasure me with your tongue."

That woke him up. Knelt before her still, blue eyes searched hers, hopeful, yet unsure, as if he were her puppy dog, awaiting orders that weren't sufficiently clear.

"Your Grace?"

"You heard your Queen. Better get on with it, before she allows you to arise."

When his eyes shifted, it was not in the direction of where Sansa wanted them to. Instead, Edric looked nervously at his sword, still hanging casually in the grip of her right hand.

"Um...don't you think you should drop that first?"

"What," Sansa challenged, "are you too much of a coward to fulfill the first knightly task you're charged with?"

She did need to taunt him further. Feeling his hands grip the back of her thighs, the Queen closed her eyes, dropped her lover's sword upon the ground, and held with both her hands fistfuls of his hair, as if the reins to her steed. Edric bent down as far as he could, and the Queen stepped forward, to mount herself over his lips, allowing herself to forget for a few blessed moments the winter's cold air against her skin, and trying to not recall too vividly how Trystane had pleasured her in a similar manner a lifetime ago.

Except it hadn't been the same, had it? The surroundings were far more plush, yet they'd both been prisoners.

But this day she stood freely, a wolf in the wild. Even as she screamed in growing delight, Sansa Stark swore she'd never be a prisoner again, so long as she lived.