A/N: Since we're still dealing/covering the Bloody Mummers and the Boltons, I'm going to keep up the same warnings as with the last chapter. There will be mentions/references to rape, torture, and some depictions of violence and other gory/nasty stuff.
It can be found in parts of Sansa's second scene and the Keeper's scene.
Our Blades Are Sharp
By Spectre4hire
58: Here We Stand
Sansa:
"You look troubled."
They were in her chambers having finished their walk before supper. In the morning, he'd be leaving Riverrun and setting off to fight the Bloody Mummers. She knew the chaperones would only give them a few precious minutes alone before knocking on the door.
A reminder that they were not yet, husband and wife, but still only betrothed. She yearned for the proper day that she can call him husband. When there would be no more need for such onlookers and interruptions and it could just be him and her.
His hands were behind his back. His posture was rigid. A distant look was in his dark eyes and it clouded the rest of his face.
She brushed her hand across his cheek. Pleased to see it caused his expression to soften. His eyes turned to her and when they did they shone with a warmth she cherished.
"Well, I am leaving your loveliness to chase down foreign sellswords," His lips quirked upwards. He then put his hand atop hers. Their fingers instinctively coming together. "While I am away you'll hear stories of what I'm doing in the Riverlands."
"Of your victory against the Bloody Mummers," she wondered why this would cause his disquiet state. Did he doubt himself? "And you shall have it against them."
"It is not just victory, I intend to give the people. I shall give them justice, my lady," Domeric's voice was quiet and grim. "It is not kind nor is it honorable, but I must do this."
She still did not follow. She understood her family and knew Father would ride off with Ice, when it was needed. He'd hear their last words and then he'd sentence them, carrying it out himself. None of this surprised her, she knew Dom had ridden with her father and brothers on many occasions to see it done. So why was he acting so different now?
"If you are worried about how the Riverlanders will react to how the North passes judgment, you should not be," she tried to counsel him. "They want justice for what those Bloody Mummers have done and will be glad that you gave it to them."
"It is how I will give it to them," He said simply. "I intend to crucify any sellsword I find alive."
Years ago, the mere mention of such a horrid act would have caused her to gasp, frightened and sick at such a thing. Now, the first thing it did was give her pause. A testament that she was no longer that girl any more. She had changed.
"You are to be my wife. You have my love and my trust. You deserved to hear this from me and not the gossip of strangers and servants." He spoke into the silence that was between them.
She was touched by his need to tell her. He showed her consideration and respect in all things, and she loved him for it. "Thank you, Dom."
"This is not the way of your family, Sansa," He said softly, "But it is the way of mine."
Our blades are sharp, House Bolton's words, his words, and soon, she paused, my words.
How apt their words are for the judgment her betrothed would render upon them. Sansa knew this was not a choice he would make lightly.
He was not that sort of man.
If he thinks this is the way of it than how could she not support him. The way of their deaths was unsettling to her at first thought. She did not have a warrior's temperament. Sansa knew little of crucifixion, but enough to know how horrific and painful it was. She then measured the stories she heard of these sellswords against this punishment Domeric was to bestow upon them. With all that in consideration, she could not find herself to be scandalized by it.
"It is not your family, Dom," She corrected him. "It is our family."
Justice can be as cold and unrelenting as winter, she reflected, And winter is coming to our enemies.
You'll hear stories of what I'm doing in the Riverlands.
She sat up from her bed, breathing heavily. Her mind racing of what she witnessed and experienced. Her heart beating like a war drum. The taste of blood still lingered, and the smell of death wafted, but even they began to recede as she was left alone in her dimly lit chambers. No longer was she on the battlefield with her betrothed.
It had started as an accident. She was with the Freys and she had slipped into Lady.
She had seen fighting, Domeric, a battle.
It was so sudden and jarring that it brought upon a headache that made her hiss. She had not expected the connection then and in that moment, all she felt was discomfort and confusion.
Fretting from what she had seen only pieces of. Sansa knew she could not stay with her current company and that she needed to tighten the tether between herself and Lady. She retired to her chambers. Informing her companions that she was feeling faint. In order to stay with Lady and to attend her betrothed she sought solitude. There she closed and locked her door not wanting any further interruptions.
Jon had been right. It was easier to slip into Lady when she knew of their connection. To her now, it felt and looked more like a door that she could open, since she could see the handle, more times than naught. With her focus and remembering her brother's lessons, she had slipped into Lady as simply as putting on her favorite pair of worn shoes.
Now, it was over.
The sound of bone breaking and limb tearing played in her ears in sickening crunches.
It was me, both proud and dismayed at what she had done to the sellsword who threatened Domeric. He was fighting another, and did not see the savage. And then all she felt was primal wrath burning through her blood, overflowing her senses as she moved to intercede to protect him.
Sansa let out a shaky breath before slipping out of her bed. The experience sometimes left her dizzy, so she made sure she wasn't before getting up. She padded over to the small table in her room where a pitcher was filled with water. She poured it into a glass, and drank greedily, downing its contents in one thirsty sip.
Ripped flesh, dying cries, echoed still. She poured herself a second and then finished it just as quickly. She let out a soft dispel of breath. The cold and refreshing taste brought a soothing feeling to her dry throat and relaxed the tightness she had felt in her tummy.
He feared that I'd hear the stories without knowing that I could see them.
She put the glass down at the reminder of Domeric's caution.
A smidge of guilt wormed in her chest. I will tell him.
She remembered his confession of his trust, his love of wanting to share all things between them.
Yet, I bar him from this.
The guilt inside her writhing and growing.
That had been her chance to tell him. He trusted me with his plans for the sellswords. I can trust him with this.
Then the moment had passed and she remained silent. It remained my secret when it should be ours.
A part of her feared if he knew then he would not allow Lady into battle with him, worried of hurting her. What happens to a warg if they die in their animal? A disquieting question that she had no answer to, but she would not hesitate to slip back into Lady with that unknown if it meant defending Dom.
The recent battle had not been her first time warging with Lady. She had seen other things since he left to hunt down the Bloody Mummers: Gruesome sights, and terrible foes.
Pushing aside the judgments and battles, the bodies and damage, she moved to her desk where her looking glass resided. With what she saw and did amidst the fighting and death, she half expected to see blood smeared on her cheeks. In her reflection, there was no blood or fangs.
It was just her looking blearily back at her. Sansa's red hair was tousled and frizzy from her resting. She went to fix that first, getting her brush while inspecting the rest of her appearance as she did so. Her dress was creased and wrinkled, knowing she'd need to change it.
A knock came to her door, a familiar voice followed, "Lady Sansa?"
"Yes, Walda?"
"Are you feeling better?"
"I am," Sansa was touched by her new friend's concern. Her family rudely called her, Fat Walda. A poor name for a good girl, she thought. Sansa noticed that without Fair Walda in her presence, the shy Walda was a more vivacious and confident maid, who liked to laugh and tell stories, loudly.
No, not Fair Walda, Sansa corrected herself, not willing to consider that Walda had anything fair about her. She's Foul Walda.
"Please enter," Sansa called to her friend.
The door opened to show Walda. "I didn't mean to intrude," she apologized.
"But here we are," Another voice said aside Walda, and Sansa knew it to be of Arwyn Frey. The pretty Frey slipping between Walda and the door. She dipped her head, but preceded into the chambers without an invitation.
"Forgive us, Lady Sansa."
"It is no bother, Walda," Sansa assured her, "we are friends, are we not?" Sansa was pleased at how her new friend's smile grew at that. She looked between the two Freys who had entered.
"Thank you, Lady Sansa," Walda replied sincerely. "I'm proud to call you friend too." She then closed the door behind her. "I thought you'd like to know that Prince Tommen will be arriving soon."
Than I shall be leaving soon. It had been decided that she and Robb would meet with Ser Kevan.
"This is good news," Sansa said aloud instead. "We must prepare for the Prince's arrival. My uncle will serve as his host while Robb and myself are away."
A smirk came to Walda at that. "Forgive me, my lady, but Lord Edmure may make a poor host." She observed in a tone that conveyed amusement and not concern. ""He's been distracted of late."
"Very distracted," Arwyn added dryly.
Sansa did not try to hide her smile at what was being implied. It seemed she had not been the only one to notice how her Uncle had been acting around the Lady Roslin Frey. A part of the toll required to pass the Twins was her promise to look for potential matches for Lord Frey's children as well as encouraging her uncle to take one as his bride.
Lady Roslin, Sansa was certain would've been the easiest to make a match, and that confidence was not in vain. It appeared she may have landed the best suitor in the Riverlands in Sansa's Uncle. Despite the Frey's reputation their strength could not be denied, and linking that family a bit more closely to House Tully should not be looked down upon too much.
Some Freys more than others. Arwyn and Walda had been a blessing in that regard. They told her which ones of their family could be trusted and which ones to be wary of. And Lady Roslin and her siblings were some of the good Freys, so she was pleased that a marriage between them and her Uncle could possibly happen.
"You should be careful, Walda," Arwyn turned her attention to her sister. "I've noticed your own distractions of late."
Walda's face went pink at that before she ducked her head.
This was the first Sansa was hearing of this. "Have you been hiding something from us, Walda?"
"No," She answered quickly, as if frightened she may be in trouble at such a deception. "My sister teases."
"Your sister sees." Arwyn corrected. They were not truly sisters, but they called themselves such, having relied on one another when they were at the Twins.
Walda frowned at her, but it didn't last more than a heartbeat or two before she looked a mixture of flummoxed, and hopeful.
"Who is this mystery suitor?" Sansa was pleased at the thought her friend may have found someone. She did not want any of them returning to the Twins after the stories they recounted from there.
"It was a talk," Walda replied, "One talk." She held up a finger at Arwyn who did not look the least bit chastised by her sister's words.
"It was a long talk. In the godswood. Alone." Arywn countered, "With smiles, and giggles, and blushes."
"If your sister does not want to speak of it than we shall respect that," Sansa pointed out politely.
"Lady Sansa is right, sister. The lions should be our concerns," A teasing smirk coming to Arwyn's lips when she added, "and not giants."
The Keeper:
A mangled face was staring up at him.
Some of the flesh had been ripped away by an angry swipe of a wolf's paw, revealing bone and muscle. The body was missing an arm, and claw marks had dug deep into the man's ruined chest. This was what remained of one of the sellswords, who had the misfortune to have met Lady Sansa's wolf on the battlefield.
Thank the Old Gods they're on our side.
The skirmish was brief but chaotic. Lord Domeric's position had put him into the thick of what fighting there was. He was battling some Dothraki when the sellsword, whose body was now before him on the ground-dead and shredded had tried to make his move on the Heir to the Dreadfort.
That was when the direwolf emerged. Her sudden appearance as horrifying as her attack. Her jaws clamping down on the sellsword's arm. Shaking her head angrily before pulling it free with a wet crunch, and a geyser of blood.
Disarmed in both senses, he put up little resistance when the direwolf's weight and muscle toppled him over by a tackle onto the ground. Where claws and fangs made short work of the sellsword. His screams had been loud and gurgled. The sudden silence had been equally unsettling.
The fighting had taken place outside a hamlet of homes and farms that were too small to be properly put on a map, but Robard reckoned it had more than fifty inhabitants. Lord Domeric had issued orders to spare as many sellswords from a death in battle as they could. There was little protest from within the ranks. Thirteen Bloody Mummers felt the hammer of northern justice this time.
They want them crucified, he thought. The men want these savages properly punished.
Robard heard the men at the campfires and on patrols. They didn't want these sellswords to be given the easy death of battle. It was difficult to fault them. The more they pursued these Bloody Mummers through the Riverlands the more devastation they discovered that the sellswords had carved in their retreat.
The villagers who had taken shelter in the hills and woods had come drifting back when their homes were secured. Their standards swaying in the breeze. The flayed man serving as sentries, watching over what remained of their hamlet. Even with the sellswords gone, the returning smallfolk were apprehensive and suspicious at the Bolton banners waving them to return. Lord Domeric did not take it as an insult. He looked to have expected it.
We're strangers to them, he said, Northern savages who reject their Seven and stay true to the Old Gods. We've marched down from our frozen wasteland. We must be a terrible sight to behold especially with the flayed man at our backs. The Heir to the Dreadfort was more amused than concerned by it all.
He gave them some of their food and promised them he'd give them justice. He then showed them what that meant when he sentenced and then personally carried out his judgment. He crucified all thirteen sellswords himself.
Afterwards, when the crosses had been put into the earth. Some ventured close enough to the struggling and pinned sellswords to spit and poke at them. The scars of the sellswords would take time to heal, but it was clear that Lord Domeric found some support from the Riverlanders.
However, not all took kindly to Lord Domeric's ways.
Robard had heard some whisper that Lord Domeric killed the sellswords in a way to appease his gods. A ritual of blood and death, a sacrifice to the Old Gods.
The source of this voice came from the surviving Septon of the village. A man who was only alive because Lord Domeric arrived in time to rout the Mummers before they could finish their work. The northern heir protected the septon's home and flock, but he still saw the need to criticize his savior.
Robard knew little of the southern faith or their ways, but from the glimpses he had seen from the man who claimed to represent them, it made him glad he followed the Old Gods. He was certain that the septon was the one who had given Lord Domeric, the new name-The Demon of the Dreadfort.
He was pleased to report that it lost some traction as an intended insult. It was proudly used by the northern soldiers who followed Lord Domeric. A title they said as reverently as those who once called the King, The Demon of the Trident.
These foreign sellswords couldn't hide themselves or their sins from the Demon, the men boasted to one another, proud at how Lord Domeric was handling the Bloody Mummers.
Robard did not know nor did he know what Lord Domeric thought of the name. The heir to the Dreadfort was more concerned about wiping out the sellsword company. He estimated to have whittled the Bloody Mummers to half their numbers. Many remained free or unaccounted for such as the sellswords' leader, Vargo Hoat. A man who Robard believed would be facing a harsher sentencing than the rest of his ilk. A difficult thing to claim since the sellswords so far have been gelded and crucified.
So what could be worse than that? He did not need to think long to find his answer. All one had to do was look at the Bolton banner.
Flaying is outlawed, he knew the law, but he had seen the rooms. He had seen the victims. He knew that's what awaited him if he did not prove himself to the Bolton family. The memory came to him more now that he had watched so many men get crucified on crosses.
He could see it all: The flayed skin, the weak moaning, the smells. In one nightmare, it was him on the cross. A terrible dream that had him wake in a cold sweat nearly pissing himself because it had been so real and so awful. He had rubbed his hands as if expecting to find holes from the nails.
Would Lord Domeric flay Vargo?
The fact that he did not immediately dismiss it caused him to wonder...
"Bitter?"
He looked up to see Captain Rylen approach. He put his arm to his chest in greeting. "Captain."
"Any luck?"
"No," he said regretfully. He had been given the unenviable task of trying to identify the corpse in front of them. Lord Domeric wanted to know if this was one of the Mummers' lieutenants or was he just some unlucky grunt brought to ruin by the rage of a direwolf.
"Shit," Rylen looked down at the corpse himself. "I do not think he's one of the leaders."
"Captain?"
Rylen's dark eyes and scarred face turned to give Robard his full attention. "I've been in a lot of battles, Bitter. I've seen the difference between a leader and a follower," He explained. "How they dressed, how they fought, how they were armed. And from what I saw of this man." He kicked the corpse, "He didn't look like a leader. He didn't try to give commands. He did not try to rally the men." He listed, "No the man before us was just a soldier who met the wrath of a wolf." He gave a vicious smile at the fate of the man before them.
Robard saw the sense in the man's words.
"I said as much to Lord Domeric, but he wanted to be certain." Rylen nudged the corpse with a boot while wearing a look of undisguised disgust. "Lord Domeric would have been upset if one of the Bloody Mummers' lieutenants had escaped his judgment."
"Aye," Robard knew the heir would be pleased in knowing that was now not the case.
"He wants us out at first light," Rylen motioned for Robard to follow him which he did. They left the corpse where it lay.
There's nothing left to be done here, Robard agreed, the sellswords have been captured and judged.
He looked out to the silhouette of thirteen crosses that had been planted in the background. Behind them in a clear sky was the comet, cutting through in a red streak that resembled a stream of blood.
The comet had already been a topic of much discussion and arguing as the men tried to explain its meaning. It was only after watching Lord Domeric crucify those men, did it start to spread that it symbolized the Boltons-the blood signaling the justice that was being done throughout the Riverlands.
Robard would not forget the first time, he gave Lord Domeric the hammer.
Utt was bound. The former Septon blubbered and prayed to his Seven for strength and mercy, and forgiveness. Claiming he was led by temptation, and what a sinner he was. A lost sheep wanting to return to the flock.
Claiming dozens of 'slips.' That's what he called it. A pretty word to try to hide his ugly sins.
Now he was a corpse, crucified and gelded. Robard thought that was justice.
Lord Domeric wore a mask of pale stone. His eyes were two dark pits, void of emotion.
Robard had been closer than any man. He saw no hesitation. He saw no regret.
This was the same young man, who Robard had watched both up close and at a distance smile and laugh. He'd play his harp for his beautiful betrothed, talk fondly with her and be as gallant as any southern knight. And then he watched Lord Domeric crucify five men without a flicker of emotion passing over his face. And thirteen have since followed, all of whom were judged and then crucified by him.
"With that corpse being nothing but a no name sellsword that means we still have a few of Vargo's men to track down," Rylen pulled him out of his musings.
"Do we know which ones?"
"Aye," Rylen replied, "Not counting the Goat, there is Urswyck the Faithful, Shagwell the Fool, Zollo the Fat, and some healer of theirs."
"Some of the worst," Robard had heard stories involving all of these men.
"Aye, but Lord Domeric will have them all." Rylen's face conveying his thoughts on the sellswords plainly. He then suddenly held up a hand to stop Robard from going further.
Up ahead, an old man was approaching them. He was dressed like one of the villagers. He was tall with a slight stoop. His hair was short and grey when he neared, he lowered his head.
Is this one of the elders? Robard looked at the man before him. Assuming him to be some grandfather from the hamlet.
"You are Lord Bolton's men?" He asked after he raised his head.
"Aye," Rylen answered proudly, "We serve Lord Domeric."
The elder man smiled, "I'd like to speak with him." He asked, "I have something he'd want to know."
"What's that?" Robard felt something stir in his gut when the man's eyes met his. They looked warm and friendly, but there was something lurking beneath that he had seen before.
"I have information about the Bloody Mummers."
"Do you?" Rylen was unmoved towards the man's claims.
The man did not seem bothered by their reactions. His smile did not waver. "Yes, I do. Will you lead me to him?"
Robard turned away from this grandfather and to Rylen to see he was looking at the man closely before he finally nodded. "Very well," he relented, "Though I warn you, Lord Domeric does not like his time wasted."
He did not look concerned. "Believe me what I have to say will please your lord."
Rylen didn't look convinced. "We shall see."
Myrcella:
Princesses do not hop.
It was an urge Myrcella had been fighting since the first call of Stark banners being spotted went up in their camp. To her credit, there was no jumping or standing on her tiptoes. She stood still, displaying the grace and restraint expected from ladies and especially their princesses. She was beside Uncle Kevan.
She turned to see he had an eyebrow raised at her, the corners of his lips quirked for a moment when their eyes met. Myrcella replied with her own smile. She could not fool her Uncle about her current feelings so she did not try to.
He was finally coming. Her eyes returned to the road where any second Stark riders would be approaching. Where he would be approaching.
The thought of Robb brought a delightful thrum to go through her. She hadn't seen him since her departure from Winterfell all those months ago.
In that time, they grew closer despite the distance between them.
It was that reminder that he hadn't seen her for so long that inspired Myrcella that morning to carefully pick out what to wear and meticulously ensue no slips in her appearance. Her hair had been washed, brushed, and then carefully braided.
Her knight, Ser Arys was thankfully quiet during this ordeal. He had already learned it was not a knight's place to question the manner or time it takes for a princess to prepare themselves.
For her dress, she chose one of her newly done southern cut dresses. It was gold with black thread, and cut in a way that gave small, but noticeable glimpses of her form with cut sleeves, a more daring back and a less than modest neckline.
Let Robb see me as a lady, she decided, let him want me as his wife.
She chose to wear a gold and opal necklace and at its center was a finely carved black stag. A gift from her father for her last name day. This was one of the few pieces of jewelry she did not keep with her others. She had been afraid her mother would take it away from her or see an accident befall it.
Because of Father, Mother despised the stags and any reminder that she had to share her children with the king.
The cut stag rested just above her chest, but she hoped that and the dress would be enough to entice Robb to see her as a woman, and not the shy girl he saw at Winterfell. She had flowered before the trip north, but she was covered in furs and other thick materials that made her look small and girlish. Here, she could show her future husband, the wife he will marry.
A commotion rang up through the men that brought Myrcella's attention to the road and to sight and sound of riders approaching. However, she spotted the source of the uproar from her uncle's men. Sprinting forward without guard or horse was the direwolf, Grey Wind.
She eyed the creature in quiet wonder. It was nearly the size of a pony.
Last I saw Grey Wind he was a pup. She remembered him back at Winterfell. Robb would carry him around, and she had petted him in Robb's arms. That had been the closest she was allowed to get to her betrothed under such strict supervision from her Septa.
It was wonderful, she remembered dreamily. Seeing Grey Wind approach, she recalled the stories of the damage the direwolves had done in their battles against her grandfather's forces. The men and horses they killed, the panic and fear they spread at their charge. At Grey Wind's appearance, she couldn't help but wonder if the rumors of Robb riding him were true too. He looks large enough.
Grey Wind had outrun the riders and drew closer to them. Myrcella heard men shifting in their armor, cursing under their breaths, and could see some going for their weapons at the direwolf's approach. The wolf paid none of their outrage any heed. Grey Wind's attention was solely on something else.
Someone else, she corrected, when her eyes met the wolf's. It was at that discovery, that prompted her to move forward to greet Robb's direwolf.
"Princess," Her Uncle warned her, but still she went.
Myrcella heard Ser Arys dutifully following, but she gave him a signal to stop behind her. Grey Wind knew her, not her knight. She did not want any incident between them.
"Grey Wind," she greeted him when the wolf was near. Quietly amazed at how high the wolf reached her now at its size. She extended her hand and could hear her knight's intake of breath and a disapproving sound from her uncle, but she ignored them both. She was proud of herself that her hand wasn't shaking.
The direwolf stopped just out of reach.
Myrcella had watched Lady interact with Domeric as well as she did with Sansa. Here, she was presented with Robb's direwolf, and Grey Wind showed none of the loyalty or affection that Lady did with Domeric.
She couldn't help but feel discouraged by Grey Wind's behavior. How can Robb marry someone who his wolf does not like?
That was when a cold press to her hand broke through her reverie. She looked forward to see Grey Wind's cold nose touching her fingers and she couldn't help but giggle at the feeling of it as well relish the relief that Robb's wolf did indeed seem to like her.
"Grey Wind," she said his name again in the same tone she often caught her brother using with his kittens. The wolf's head dipped below her hand so that she could scratch behind his ears which she dutifully did. A look flickered over Grey Wind's features that made her laugh -If a wolf could look satisfied that was it.
So lost in her focus and affection towards Grey Wind, she did not notice that the riders had neared them. It wasn't until she heard his voice did she stop.
"Grey Wind."
That was when she looked up to see him. He looked so handsome and gallant in his armor. A crown of red curls atop his head, and the beginning of a beard on his cheeks. In all of her thoughts and dreams, she never pictured him having one.
What would it feel like to kiss him with it? She nearly had to duck her head at that wicked thought, afraid her cheeks may betray her. "My lord Robb," She curtseyed instead, when it was finished she looked up to see he was watching her.
His eyes, she tried not to stare, but his eyes were so lovely. Being at the center of them, she feared she may melt.
"Princess," He dipped his head to her.
It was his tone that pulled her out of her reflections of him. It was not what she expected, what she hoped, what she dreamed it would sound like when she thought this scene through. Myrcella was no longer distracted by his presence alone, and now was beginning to see things she had not seen at first blush. He was handsome, but she could see the tightness in his expression. His eyes held a certain hard glint to them. This wasn't her Robb, who she remembered with his smiles and kind words. He looked more like Lord Stark before her: Quiet and stoic.
Taking him in, he did not look happy to see her. He had a strange look and when their eyes met. He turned away first, something flickering across his face.
Am I imagining this? She feared, but she knew she wasn't. "It is good to see you again, Robb."
"You as well, Princess," he said in a tone one would not give to one's betrothed but a stranger.
"Robb," she hoped her tone didn't crack like she felt her heart was beginning to inside her chest.
"Princess," He inclined his head to her, but he moved passed her to speak with her waiting Uncle.
She stood there, silent, but reeling at his reception.
It's Joffrey, she realized.
Of course, Robb is angry with you. Your brother arrested his father, the voice said flatly.
In that moment, all she wanted to do was weep for everything her brother had taken from her.
A/N: I plan on having one chapter dedicated/dealing with wrapping up the Mummers storyline and one chapter to handle the Lannisters/Starks talks. I'm not sure which will be first.
Thanks for your support,
-Spectre4hire