The Hand

"...what men we have left are..., they're disciplined now," Dickon said rather formally, their war council by their nightly makeshift tents the grimmest affairs since that awful, doomed battle. "We caught twelve deserters today, hung five of them for good measure..."

His son looked unsteadily at the Hand to a captive King, who knew whether Rhaegar even lived at the hands of the Queen's minions after the two devastating victories for her cause?

"You've got the right mind," Randyll allowed his son. "Can't hang them all, not when we need every man now."

"We need to go back," Gunthor Hightower screeched out loud, protesting for what seemed the dozenth time that day, each day longer than the last. "Oldtown lies exposed...my family, we can't just..."

"The south is lost," Randyll exploded in rage, pounding his fist against the table, scabs from the last battle still sticking out of his coarse skin. "Damn it man, don't you understand? And it's because of nitwits like you who panic and throw your little tantrums and distract us from the plan! Don't you think I worry about my family too, my wife, my daughter?"

"We can only hope that the Queen is merciful towards our sisters and mothers," Dickon said calmly, trying to reassure the young lordling, or was he trying to reassure himself? It seemed bitterly ironic that just days before the battle he'd been ruminating the problem of what to do with a captive Queen, were Sansa Stark to be captured alive after the battle had been won. As a hostage she could put a quick end to any who'd dare continue fighting for her cause, except for maybe the Princess Daenerys, another obtuse difficulty. He could use the Stark Queen to trade for Rhaegar's life too, if the Martell bastards who ran Dorne now were reasonable, though he doubted it, and in fact Randyll had already begun to in his head secretly compose the letter he'd send to Starfall, calculated just carefully enough to incite the King's captives into committing regicide, take that problem off his tired hands. Both the royal captives he could forcibly send into the silent sisters, or better yet, use the Queen's son to convince her into abdicating, perhaps to a comfortable life in retirement at Highgarden, burnt flowerbeds or not, then perhaps mollify the Targaryen Princess with a place on her nephew Baelor's regency council.

But indeed it was he who was fleeing with his tail tucked tightly between his legs back to King's Landing, along with a wide bevvy of refugees. Willas Tyrell insisted on staying put to defend his home and castle, much a cripple could do, but at least the man was practical enough to send his young wife and all their households north along the retreat...a retreat which, though orderly now, had been nothing short of chaotically disastrous in its first days.

Though their defeat was far from the worst, barely a rout begun before he'd been able stem the worst and extract a good amount of his army, men soon deserted by the hundreds in the days afterwards, and all the surrounding smallfolk seemed entirely under the spell of the Queen's lies, inciting violence and killing or maiming whatever soldier they could get their grubby hands upon. The Rose Road outside of Highgarden had been lined with the gruesome vigils of nearly a hundred fanatics of the Sparrow order in one place or another, some hung from the trees, others tied to trunks, bruised or beaten, the most unlucky ones spilled in pieces along the road after whatever untold horrors inflicted upon their bodies, or even impaled yet still barely clinging to breath by the time their procession passed them by.

It had taking quite a number of whippings and hangings, both upon his own men as well as the intransigent villagers, in order to regain some semblance of order, and just in time too, their rearguard encountering a band of Lannister scouts, who pursued them north for several days, losing him at least another thousand men to various causes, if not more. Truly, his one salve lay in fleeing the Reach, his homeland which the Queen had somehow inflamed for her cause, the thick cover of the Kingswood finally providing him a sense of sanctuary and air fresh to breath in.

"What now," Mathis Rowan asked gloomily. "If we lose the south, if we lose all our gold and castles and lands, what left, what else is there to fight for?" There was little solace for those who'd survived the battle, knowing that their homes now lay open to the enemy for plunder, that their names and titles may well be attainted if they ultimately lost the war to the Wolf Queen.

"Our lives," Randyll replied defiantly, the kind of defeatist despair from the man giving him an almost visceral disgust and nausea within his nose and stomach, "our names, our legacies, our pride." He looked to Dickon. "Horn Hill will fall. So will Oldtown, or Highgarden, or wherever they choose to besiege. Then all the armies of the North will be unleashed upon us soon. But it's winter, it'll take a long time for Benjen Stark to rally his banners together, even longer still for their march to pass through the Neck. We need to be prepared when that happens, we need the Riverlands, Westerlands, and Vale united and under our control by then. Let the Queen waste her time picking at each castle in the Reach like a useless scab, we still have a war to win, by the Gods!"

"We return to King's Landing," Dickon said, his tone more calmer than his own. It seemed a small blessing that his son was finally learning, through the dregs of defeat, of what it meant to be a man, to lead. If only such experience could still matter after the war. "Lord Kevan will accompany us north, along with three thousand of his men currently defending the capital."

It wasn't a comforting thought, leaving the seat of the seven kingdoms in the hands of Mace Tyrell, but Randyll had to bet that his liege lord, along with his surprisingly savvy daughter, recent mistakes aside could still control an infant child along with an unruly Targaryen Prince whose dreams of his own crown surely had become reborn with his brother's capture and possible demise. He'd speak to Viserys forcefully too, as he had during the last rebellion, hopefully that action taken, along with the fact that their very lives and safety hinged upon his personal success, could keep the capital in order for enough time that he needed.

"Word is that Greyjoy ships belonging to their exiled Prince and Princess have sailed from the Stepstones," Randyll continued. "I've written letters to King Euron, seeking an alliance on land and by sea. I've written to the Freys too, there's promise there. If the Tully's persist in their intransigence, then Walder Frey gets to pick whichever of his brood to rule Riverrun, Harrenhal, what have you. Kevan Lannister can help us rally the loyal houses in the Westerlands, and I'm expecting to hear good news from of the Vale, once we arrive at the capital."

"Aye," Tanton Fossoway snarled, the only one of his brothers to have survived the battle, "war's not over yet. She's tramplin' our lands, let's see how the bitch screams when we do the same t'hers."

Despite the battle lost, a clean battle by most accounts, one which Randyll had no one to blame but himself, the war itself was getting much uglier, evidenced by the bloody landscape his armies traversed along their retreat. And so it was his duty to make it even worse, crueler, bloodier, if they wished to stand any chance of surviving it. Otherwise, he was sure that he, his son, and all the men gathered around him would suffer far worse than the pungent Sparrow proselytizers lying impaled on makeshift stakes, crows already pecking at their eyes whilst they still breathed.


Cersei

"More wine, mother?"

"Please," Cersei muttered unhappily, reaching her glass out, barely spilling the last few droplets in her goblet onto her bedsheets. What was the point, really, better she sleep in wine, there was little else for her to do.

Myrcella obliged her, and then poured a small glass for herself. Her daughter, her beautiful daughter seven and ten now, a woman grown, ought be married already, Cersei groaned to herself for what seemed to be the thousandth time, rather than wasting away in this awful castle, with its awful and boring hostesses.

"Any news?"

"Nothing since the battle," Myrcella replied. Her eyes were hopeful, happy, the poor girl thinking their ordeal over ever since word came of the first siege at Highgarden, then outside their very own walls. And so she remained hopeful, even when they'd become abandoned again, left to rot in shitty wine and shittier company, forgotten by her own niece by marriage, gods be damned.

"Ungrateful cunts."

"Tommen thinks they'll return," her beautiful daughter offered foolishly. "So does Lady Jeyne."

"Yes, well Tommen would agree with whatever the Lady Jeyne thinks, wouldn't he?"

It bothered her, that as a mother this accursed imprisonment had robbed her of even a pebble's worth of joy when it came to her gentle son's first womanly infatuation. Lady to the Queen or not, a girl like Jeyne Poole from such a poor northern house would've never struck a good match for marriage to a son of Winterfell, even Benjen would've agreed with that. But then what did any of that matter anyway, when they were all stuck to rot in Horn Hill forever, so she'd allowed it, if not indulging it outright. Then came that damned hope, word of her niece's escape, word that the Queen had gained for herself several armies, and by the Gods somehow captured the damned broken dragon in battle!

Fool of me to think that the girl might think her own blood and family worthy to trade a King for.

"Jeyne did hear some whispers though...but she's not sure, not yet, she doesn't even think the Lady Melessa knows for certain."

"Oh?"

The Poole girl was good for gossip, at least Cersei had that. And Tommen did look happy, it was true, he'd been unnaturally cheerful ever since the arrival of the Queen's former handmaiden from whatever disgrace befell her in the capital. Surely they would get out of this now one day or another, the tides of war did favor their side, then Cersei would have to put an end to the nonsense, she should do so now, but Gods she just had not the energy these days to even get out of her own bed.

Let them be, it was easy to concede. Let Tommen get his little dicky wet a few dozen times, because damned if she gave two shits about the dumb northern girl's chastity or reputation.

"They say there's been a battle in the Redwyne Straits," Myrcella continued, her eyes continually bright and hopeful, as they always beamed with each of the barest tidings of good news their hosts begrudgingly bequeathed them, even if they were continually doomed to disappointment afterwards.

"In the water?"

That seemed odd. She hadn't heard anything of Sansa acquiring a navy, though Cersei could attribute that purely to the negligence and laziness of their eminent hostesses. The stupid girl Talla had whinged for days that her father wouldn't allow her to attend the damned wedding in Oldtown, what with a goddamned war going on and all, as if the pretty pillow biter Tyrell boy hadn't been enough excitement for her feeble brain already.

"Greyjoy pirates," Myrcella continued excitedly, blissfully unaware of her skepticism, as she always was. "They won too, she thinks, destroyed the Redwyne fleet...Jeyne said she heard from one of the stable hands that they've even taken Oldtown harbor!"

Gods, is she fucking every boy in this castle, highborn or not?

"Hmmm," Cersei laughed. That was one bloody good picture she could content herself with trying to sleep that night, thousands of ragged Ironborn pirates raping and reaving their way through a city of spoiled cunts. "Good."

Great, her cynical nature reminding herself, yet another excuse for the bitch Sansa to take a different city, and continue to ignore her own blood.

Well, just little Rykka is her blood, but she doesn't know any better.

"Help is coming, mama," her oldest daughter whispered excitedly, clutching her hand tightly, "I know it will!"

Bless my beautiful daughter, she's far too old to be still so naive. But bless her anyway.


Sansa

"Your Grace," the Queen said politely atop her horse, "my condolences on your great loss."

"My sincerest gratitude for your sentiments," Daenerys Targaryen replied, Sansa could tell she was doing her best to keep her lips from breaking out into the knowing grin her eyes already whispered at her. "My dear Lancel died a warrior, a hero, we shall always remember him, I can only hope our son may live up to the great shadow his father's name has cast."

If she'd shed no tears at the bloodied and nearly mutilated body of Loras Tyrell, Sansa barely felt a flicker of even glee, much less sadness, in hearing of the death of the man who'd, unwittingly or not, helped the traitors in destroying her kingdoms, her mother, her brothers. Nor was she surprised, Daenerys had never expressed to her anything besides retrained contempt upon the mention of her dearest husband, and Sansa would not doubt it if she'd somehow on her own volition talked the man into engaging the Tarly rearguard solely for the purpose of getting the father of her child killed honestly in battle.

"We ought write letters across the realm," Sansa said, taking Edric's hand as he helped her off her horse, an older lord doing the same for the Princess. Roland Crakehall, she would guess, by his age and the sigil of the boar upon his breastplate, "telling of his sacrifice, how he saw through the lies his father fell for, how he tragically died fighting, trying to restore his family's good name before the Crown, before the Gods, may the Mother's mercy smile upon him now, may the Warrior bestow upon him in the Seventh Heaven the nobility he carried in life."

"Indeed," Daenerys agreed, both of them still careful, because most of the observing eyes upon their conversing probably believed, hook line and sinker, their buffet of bits about the Sparrows and the Red God. From what she'd heard, Daenerys had indulged plenty herself into the myth, and they would need to spend several nights recalling what was said, Sansa figured, so that their stories did not contradict each other's in the future.

"Your Grace," the older man bellowed at her. There was a knowing wink in his eye, and Sansa wondered whether she'd overdone her salutations towards the late Lancel Lannister, whom anyone besides an impressionable teenaged girl would recognized as the stupidest of fools.

"Lord Roland, I presume?"

"It's an honor, to serve my Queen. And apologies for the delay, we hastened as fast we could towards Highgarden, we did not know you were to march south so quickly from that siege to the next."

"It is no problem, my good lord," Sansa said, graciously accepting his regret, "no war can be conducted perfectly, I know that well myself by now."

"Ah, but you would have the rest of us fooled," the old man said with a hearty laugh, "two great victories, three if ye count the skirmishes by Nightsong. Seems you didn't need us all, this young coming of Daeron the Great," he finished, giving Edric what Sansa recognized as a respectful nod, soldier to soldier, and regardless of age.

"Yes, we did win," Sansa agreed solemnly, "but only because we had no other choice. We need you now, Lord Roland, Princess, and because I've yet had the chance to do so in person, as your Queen I do now both command, and do humbly beg, that you aid in our cause."

"Aye, yer cause is ours," Roland answered, dropping to one knee, the Princess following his example, "and our duty."

"And our promise," Daenerys continued, her intense purple eyes, so much more vigorous, more purposeful than that of her brothers' met her, "shall be kept. I know truly the stakes now, my dear Queen and friend. To have loved, and to have lost my love to such horrid infidels, such traitors, I understand like few others our common cause, the stakes which we fight for."

They'd said, when the Iron Throne had been hers and the council her Council, that the girl had play acted in some mummer's troupe in Essos for a number of years. Surely that was true, because if Sansa didn't know any better, she would guess that Daenerys Targaryen loved Lancel Lannister with ten times the fury she did Trystane.

Or Edric.

I love him, don't I?

I need him at the very least. So much, and not just because he's apparently as splendid in war as he is in bed.

Is there really that much of a difference, between that, and love? Did she still remembered how it felt, to be wrapped and enveloped entirely in Trystane's arm, when she'd been what seemed now a completely different person?

"Your brave Lyonel," Sansa asked, not seeing the child accompanying the Princess, "I pray he is safe, and well?"

"Safely ensconced in Crakehall," Daenerys answered, this time the sincerity in her eyes Sansa could only guess was genuine. "Some say Lord Roland's castle is sturdier than Casterly Rock...my own ancestor, the Princess Rhaena, took shelter there during an uprising of the Faith Militant."

"The war is in our hands now," Sansa said, taking Daenerys's hands, unable to help conceal her concern for the infant boy, or her sadness that his mother had to part with her only child for so long, indefinitely so long as the war continued waging. "We must seize it and choke the life out of our enemies, so that we do not have to worry endlessly for our loved ones."

"Horn Hill is a day's march away," Edric said solemnly. "I don't plan for it to be a long siege, but it won't be easy either."

They had to take better care towards showing their affection now, much of these western lords were more properly religious than the Dornish, or even the marchers, and while they could tolerate some mischief from their rightful Queen as they would an equivalent King, they'd have no choice, Sansa would see to that, she had to be careful not to flout her paramour too much about, not when men like Roland Crakehall might truly believe to the last letter in the pages of the Seven Pointed Star he claimed to be fighting for.

The Princess's eyebrows raised in recognition of something, and she looked towards Edric even as she maintained her grip on Sansa's hands. "Come," she said excitedly, "I arrive bearing gifts, despite my tardiness."


"...you told them what," Sansa asked, her own face blushing at the Princess's words.

"I'd had more than my share of wine that night," Daenerys confessed, eyeing guiltily the dirt upon which their feet walked. "And the Lady Oakheart...the Gods bless her, she's a bit...simple...and so proper." The woman could not continue further, before breaking out in laughter, Sansa feeling the bemusement on Edric's face as he followed them at a respectful distance, the rest of their procession far behind, so as to allow the two royals Wolf and Dragon some time alone to reacquaint themselves with the other.

"I...," Daenerys giggled again, "I told her that they laid my brother Rhaegar naked upon a table, legs hanging limp, the rest of his body as stiff as a sheet of board. And then they laid my brother Viserys naked atop of him, his face towards Rhaegar's feet. And then the priestesses began chanting the name of my father Aerys, singing his praises, whilst my brothers...while they...they...they wrapped mouths around each other and...," Daenerys said, feigning the worst fragility, "they...they sucked each other off until...to...satisfaction..."

Sansa choked and chortled, by the Gods, if this was how Rhaegar intended to assassinate her, by laughing to death, so be it, it was far from the worst way to die.

"And she believed it?"

"Every word," Daenerys said, the grin never leaving her clever face. Ahead of them, she saw a familiar shadow looming against an odd looking wagon.

"Ser Sandor!"

"Yer Grace," the old warrior bowed, looking at her curiously, probably wondering why his Queen and liege Princess were so chock full of laughs as they approached. "In a good mood, I see, after a good slaughter."

"In a good mood to see you're safe and unharmed. I'd feared the worst, after hearing about Lord Tyrion and my sister."

"Aye," Sandor growled, Sansa remembering how he'd taken the same begrudging tone when she'd insisted on knighting him for Tyrion's sake, despite his most fervent protests, "they got what they deserved, didn't they, the Martells?"

Does he know, Sansa gasped, before calming herself. Of course he doesn't. And if he suspects, he won't be able to prove it, no one ever would.

"Sometimes," she said, "the Gods bring forth the justice which eludes the grasps of men." Her eyes turned to his vests and cape. "I see that our Princess made you take the black?"

"Only if you're prepared to release him from his vows immediately after," Daenerys answered, the Hound man grunting in response.

"And you," the Queen pointed an accusing finger at the fat man they told her was Randyll Tarly's eldest son, "you...you know my cousin Jon?"

"I do, Your Grace," the boy answered nervously. "He's...he's actually a good friend of mine." Instantly Sansa regretted her mean tone, he'd been banished to the Wall by his tyrannical father years before the great treason, hadn't he? If anything, they were both victims to Lord Tarly's cruelty. She had to be careful, not to project her rage upon those undeserving of it, especially when they were allies for the picking. Or tools of convenience, wasn't it all the same, really?

"I'm glad," Sansa replied, her tone softer. "He doesn't deserve to be there. Neither do you. Neither does Lord Tyrion." Thoughts of those golden days with the Half Man advising her, speaking in her ears wisdom she could barely comprehend at the time, nearly brought tears to her eyes, as did the reminder that, even placed upon his frozen exile, her former and most loyal advisor was still constantly thinking of ways he could continue helping and serving his Queen, sacred vows of the Watch be damned.

"The plan is simple," Edric said. "I know of a secret gate to the castle, facing the hill behind it."

"Aye," Samwell nodded eagerly, "the Rocky Gate, that is."

"The problem is, the Lady Talla...your sister, knows I know of it too. Which means its been well guarded days before we besieged the castle the first time."

That was odd, she didn't hear that before. How would Talla Tarly know of Edric's secret knowledge? And how did Edric come to know of it in the first place, she hadn't asked him before.

"Well, we'd been planning on stopping home anyway," Samwell said, his nervousness along with a disconcerting stutter returning with his grasping breath, "Lord Tywin had his orders for us but...I'm to guess you know them already."

"Your men need to slaughter all the guards by and above the Rocky Gate," Edric commanded, the voice of a man accustomed to leading by now, a voice other men would follow, because of his reputation, growing by the day. "That way we can take the castle and rescue the innocents your father's kept hostage, with the least amount of blood shed."

"Lord Samwell," Sansa said, placing her hands comfortingly upon his shoulders, looking him in his eyes, "get your mother and sister to safety, anyone you care for, servants, nursemaids, Septa's and old maesters and the like. I promise you, no women or children in the castle will come to harm, so long as I can help it. But you know fighting men can be unpredictable, so do what you can for them before the fighting begins."

"I...," Samwell said, looking down for a moment's pause, "I...I appreciate it, Your Grace. It's my duty, to my Lord Commander...and to my Queen. But, I do love my mother, she and Talla, they've truly done no wrong, I think they would have done their best to make your aunt and cousins as...as comfortable as they could have, I assure you."

"I believe you, Samwell." Retreating from the man, she instinctively stepped next to Edric, avoiding the urge to lean her body against his. "The sooner we get this dreadful business over with, the sooner we can ensure to the safety of all our innocent loved ones."

So long as they didn't interfere.

"If it comes to a choice," she instructed Edric later that day, as their armies waited while Samwell and his merry brethren rode ahead, pretending at escaping from their looming assault, "between my blood and his...well...you know what to do."


Edric

The whole raid ended as easy as he could have ever hoped for. Not that it wasn't bloody, the men of the Watch, real or not, Edric couldn't tell, or care at this point, having left a bloody mess of bodies in the stairways leading up the Rocky Gate into the castle, and his soldiers stormed inside the manor with little adversity after seeing the torch waved upon the above wall. The castle penetrated, the alert raised, the few hundred men who remained guarding Tarly's keep stormed down haphazardly to fend off the attack, but it was too late, Edric having snuck in hundreds himself to fend off the defenders. Both Sansa and the Princess trusted the brute Clegane for some reason, apparently having been vouched for by the absent Tyrion Lannister, so he sent him at once to secure and protect the Lady of Winterfell and the Stark children. To Brienne, whom he trusted, he sent to find Samwell and keep Talla and her family safe, relieved that the Queen had ordered their care and preservation, though Ned wondered if Sansa would be so merciful had she known of his...his history with Talla.

Aside from its barest bones, Edric had barely remembered the details to the castle's rooms and walls, its carpeting, drapery, the statues and paintings, having snuck out in the dead of night, at about the same time he'd led this raid tonight. Not for revenge at Talla, he kept telling himself, even as he continued plunging his sword into the chests of her knights and men, and then a few more stubborn servants after they'd killed most of the soldiers. More and more men continued storming up from the Rocky Gate, and satisfied that he'd lost but a dozen men so far, he ordered them to advance and open the main gates. Trumpets blew before dawn, announcing the arrival of a Queen and a Royal Princess of the Queen's rival house, strange times indeed.

Seeing few of the Westerlands knights and lords besides Daenerys, Edric allowed his lips to indulge a few additional seconds as he kissed the Queen's hand. They'd brought Talla and her mother out, she was watching them, he realized, the strange and ancient pangs of bitterness and jealousy ringing through his lungs. Then came the Lady Cersei, and Edric watched the Queen embrace the older woman as closely as she'd embraced the Princess Arya, in their first private moment together in Starfall, then each of her cousins in turn.

"My dear aunt," the Queen gasped, as she moved from one relation to the next, "never could I have imagined encountering a Lady of Winterfell this far south."

As his heart warmed at the reunions, he couldn't help but see Talla in the corner of his eyes, hunched over by her hearth, sobbing softly at the brute invasion of her home, her mother's embrace doing little to comfort the young woman.

Edric couldn't help but pity her plight...and yet...

She's not as pretty as I remember her.

It doesn't change what I felt for her then.

It also doesn't change what I feel for Sansa now.

With purpose, he returned his attention to his Queen.

What if she orders me to take her head, promises be damned? What would he do? Ned had a feeling that the ghost of Arthur Dayne would not be pleased by his answer.

My valiant uncle Arthur, who retained his name and honour merely because his royal charges bothered to bloody the hands lesser servants at murdering women and children, rather than ask him to perform the deed.

"Your Grace, Horn Hill is yours. What's to be done with it, I await your orders."

It was an oddest scene in the Great Hall, a Queen who'd been betrayed by its hostesses's husband and father, a mother and a sister betrayed by their son and brother, a woman betrayed by a man whom she thought loved her, and finally a Queen who had little idea of that last conundrum of conflicting loyalties.

No, not conflicted, he told himself. There's no conflict, there hasn't been for a long time now.

Except, the most morbid part of his mind couldn't help but continue fixating upon what would happen, if Sansa were to order him to take Talla's head, slaughter her like they did Quentyn and Arianne Martell. He'd follow her orders to his dying day...yet...yet what if? What if Ice struck Sansa instead? Would his men remain loyal to him? What about the Princess?

Resisting the urge to shake his head and the accompanying treasons out of his body, he nevertheless fixed his eyes upon his Queen's soft blue irises, forgetting all of the dangerous thoughts which Edric soon convinced himself had never poisoned his mind in the first place.

"Your Grace," the fat Tarly boy lumbered over to the Queen, dropping on both knees, tears flowing freely from his eyes unashamed. "You promised, you said you'd show mercy."

"Mercy," the Lady of Winterfell snarled angrily, spitting at the young man. She was not far aged, but the years were nevertheless evident in the lines of her face, her beauty a harsh one, cold like the Northern wilds from whence she came. "Where was mercy for me, for my children..."

"Jeyne! Tommen? Is that you?"

Seeing the latest arrivals to the hall, a slim girl with brown hair accompanying the Queen's missing cousin, Edric watched as Sansa embraced tearfully Tommen Stark and the woman whom he knew to be one of her oldest friends. His heart would burst with happiness for them, if it weren't for the quivering weeping noise determined to pierce his ears from behind his left shoulder.

"Ned...," the softest whisper assaulted at him, "please..."

His body stiffened, he determined to ignore it, yet it continued.

"Please Ned, we never meant them any harm, we treated them well, I beg you..."

To his immense dread, the Queen turned towards him, and the broken woman behind his back. Sansa Stark strode across the Great Hall as if it were her own, as she had all the might and fighting prowess of the Conqueror himself, and Edric did not realize that his jaw had dropped slackly and dumbly, until she took his hands, and leaned forward to kiss him as passionately and as furiously as, well...their first nights spent together in Starfall. Unable to help himself, forgetting their vast and varied audience, his hands wrapped around her back, pulling in his beloved tight against his body as if no one else in the world existed, or mattered. As their tongues twisted and turned within each other's, he kept thinking that the Queen had to release him soon, for propriety's sake, if nothing else, so that he, and she, could catch their breaths, but still she refused to give up their embrace.

When Sansa finally pulled away, Edric saw the dumbstruck eyes and jaws of everyone gathered in the hall. The older Stark girl, the blonde one Myrcella, stared at them joyously as if she'd seen just her first dragon, while the younger girl Rykka looked abashedly at her mother, whom Edric swore wore a satisfied smirk upon her lips. Then he saw Sansa's friend Jeyne beaming in her direction out of sheer joy and the purest happiness, and it was only then that Edric noted how the girl's hands were clutched tightly against Tommen Stark's, a golden haired boy who looked to be close to his own age.

"Oh Sansa," Jeyne exclaimed, running towards her friend, but not before examining him with a curious and appraising look, "I'm so happy for you!"

"I'm so happy for you too," the Queen replied, though her voice remained lowered, never losing its composure, "how do you like your new title?"

"New title," the girl asked, twisting her neck in confusion.

"You haven't heard," Sansa asked, pretending to match the girl's confusion. "The establishment of the newest Great House in the Reach? House Poole, of Highgarden? And its Lady, the Lady Jeyne, the Lady of Highgarden?"

Forgetting Talla's pathetic whimpers for a moment, Edric laughed nervously. "To be fair, my lady," he said to the befuddled girl, her plight turned to plunder within minutes, "we still have to take Highgarden, which we will, I assure you. But it's not taken yet. But it will be, I promise."

"And Oldtown too," the Queen continued, returning to the Lady Cersei, and her eldest daughter next to her, "so that we can restore the Hightower and the holiest of cities to its rightful heir...the Lady Myrcella Stark, of the Hightower."

"I...," it was the mother who spoke, her joyous tears seemingly outnumbering the ones shed in mourning and trauma behind him, "Your Grace, I can't begin to give thanks..."

"There's no need," Sansa whispered quietly to her beautiful aunt, the seeds of her rescue planted by Beric years before, who hadn't lived to see its fruition. "We're family, my Lady. We're wolves, you and I, though you weren't born one, you've earned it through so many years of winter, of suffering, for the sake of our shared name. We take care of each other, we watch each other's back. I apologize it took so long, a war can never go the way you'd perfectly like, but I assure you, you were never forgotten in my heart, or that of my sister's."

Again the two women embraced as if they were long lost sisters, even though Sansa had confided in him that she'd never been particularly close to her aunt. Absence and captivity certainly changed one's heart's desire, Edric thought.

"Horn Hill was your prison," the Queen continued, "your torment. What do you wish to be done with it?"

"Burn it," the Lady Cersei said without a moments pause, Talla collapsing upon the floor before she could continue her next words, "I don't care, burn it to the ground."

At first Edric was surprised the woman wouldn't bequeath it to her younger son. Then he realized the Queen's genius, understood by her aunt, that Lord Tommen Stark already had his own castle, were the affections between he and the newest Lady of Highgarden true...and were he able to successfully conclude that particularly siege.

"Ned...please..."

"Very well," Sansa nodded solemnly. "Lady Brienne, take care to strip the castle of all its furnishings, its treasures, its gold, down to the last chair, down to the last pot and spoon. The people have suffered for the crimes of their lords, and we must ensure that the people...and the common spearmen and archers who risk lives and limb for our cause, do not find themselves wanting in the peace to come."

Returning to Talla and her mother, and it was only now that Edric saw the curious gaze from the Princess Targaryen, silent through all the early morning, purple eyes shifting bemusedly between himself, to the Queen, to Talla, then back all over again.

"Lady Melessa, Lady Tarly," his Queen continued, "you will accompany us to Oldtown."

He felt her tug almost violently at his hand, nearly ripping his arm from its socket, as the Queen practically dragged him over to where they both faced the two cowering women. Gripping his palm, squeezing it nearly to the point where she drew pain, the Queen looked back to her aunt and cousin.

"The Greyjoys have already taken the city, but alas, I'm afraid the Hightowers are a large and pestilent brood, we'll have quite a few usurpers to kill before we can restore the Lady Myrcella to her birthright. Then," Sansa returned her gaze to the two Tarly women, Edric fearful that the fire in her eyes may match even the cruelty of King Maegor, "you will sail to Starfall. I'm afraid your castle will no longer be a castle by then, but I trust that my Lord Edric will find suitable and comfortable castles for your stays, after the war is over."

As he breathed his secret sigh of relief, Edric saw in the corner of his eye Samwell visibly doing the same. Then, daring to look his Queen in her eyes for the first time since taking Horn Hill, he saw nothing but ice, taunting him, almost taking a perverse glee in his discomfort, and the boy they once called Ned could not help but look perversely forward to their night together, once away from all prying eyes, his own preservation be damned. The man they called Lord Edric nodded at his Queen, coughing nervously.

"Starfall," he began, "or...or Sunspear, or Yronwood, you'll be happy there Ta...Lady Talla, Lady Melessa, you'll be safe, I promise you."

It was done, thankfully, and Edric could thank all the stars and suns and gods of all the continents that it hadn't gone worse. But even as they walked away, he felt the Queen finally release his hands from her iron grip, and watched anxiously as Sansa retraced her steps back to the Tarly women.

"Oh, Lady Talla?"

"Your Grace?" The answer came in the weakest whimper.

"I regret to inform you of your widowhood. Ser Loras's death was a tragedy indeed...I know it's no great comfort, but be assured that I do pray to the Mother for the soul of your beloved husband, as I do for yours."