"My lady?" A servant asked, walking into Sansa's tent with a stag's head draped over his shoulders. A second servant carried the haunches. "Where do you want–"

Lady leapt off the ground, the dead stag's neck in her jaws before the man could finish his sentence. The direwolf gave a fierce tug – the servants screamed – and the stag lay on the ground as the wolf tore vicious chunks out of its flank.

Sansa couldn't repress her smile. "Right there is fine."

Pale and shaky, the servants bowed, retreating from the tent as quickly as they could. The guards in the tent watched the whole affair with stoicism.

From the other side of the tent, chains rattled. "By the gods, Ned Stark gave these to his children as pets?!"

Sansa's grin widened. They'd packed up and pitched tents a dozen times on the road to Riverrun, every day taking them closer. And every missive from the Blackfish was more encouraging than the last.

Her uncle reported that Tywin's troops had left the region of Riverrun. The scouting assignments on which the Blackfish had sent his men had returned with little sign of them in the area surrounding the castle. Further out, he couldn't yet say.

It looked like the barest possible gesture towards compliance with Sansa's terms – which was exactly what she'd expected from Tywin if he were agreeing to them. Unfortunately, it was also what Tywin would do if he were feigning to agree while plotting betrayal… which was also exactly what she expected from him.

Sansa would take what she could get.

But, shockingly enough, when surrounded by Bolton and Northern advisors who despised her; her mother, whom Sansa wasn't speaking to; and Margaery and Edmure, flirting vigorously… Sansa had discovered how much she enjoyed being on her own. Even if "on her own" meant surrounded by her personal guard and her personal prisoner.

All Jaime wanted was conversation and not to be thrown back in the same muddy pen. Sansa was happy to oblige.

Her smile hadn't dimmed. "We had to beg Father to let us keep them every time they destroyed something of Mother's or killed a goat meant for supper. Shaggydog was the worst. But Lady was always good. The sweetest, gentlest of all of them, isn't that right, girl?"

Lady looked up from her stag, her muzzle dripping with blood. She gave a low, threatening growl.

"Sweet and gentle?" Jaime rested easily on the floor, his back against a tent pole, his chained hands in his lap. At his tone of disbelief, Lady turned to growl at him. He raised his hands placatingly. "Apologies! You're the sweetest savage beast I've ever met!"

With another low growl, Lady dug back into the stag.

Sansa frowned at her wolf. "She's just restless. Normally, I let her go hunt her own meat."

Jaime raised an eyebrow. "But when you're surrounded by such loving bannermen…"

Rolling her eyes, Sansa picked up her quill to continue her message to the Blackfish. If even Jaime could spot it…

"What has Bolton done to make you hate him so?" Jaime asked. "You always look like you've discovered ice in your shoe whenever you see him."

Sansa frowned down at her quill. Seven hells, I've got to be better than that. "He's done enough," she finally replied. Then, unwillingly, she lifted her eyes from the letter to ask, "Is it that obvious?"

Jaime shrugged, his chains rattling. "No. But you're warm with most of the others. You're polite with him."

Sansa bit her lip. No matter how many war council meetings she'd attended privately in the past few weeks, Jaime had only seen her with Bolton the one time and he'd spotted it. That couldn't stand. Not if she wanted to continue what little hold on leadership she still had. Like it or not, Bolton was now second-in-command of the Northern troops. And that hadn't been Sansa's doing. The more she let on to her dislike of him, the more she'd drive the other Northerners away – and erode her own support.

The tent flap opened. "Sweet sister, I wondered if I might…" Margaery trailed off as Lady pulled intestines from the stag in a wet, stringy line. Margaery shuddered, looking away. Grey Wind sauntered in behind her. He watched the stag eagerly.

Spotting the other direwolf, Lady snarled, lips pulled back from her fangs. She braced over her meal, ready to lunge.

Grey Wind's hackles rose, lowering his head in acceptance of her challenge.

"Lady!" Sansa called out. "That's Grey Wind, stop it! You've shared kills a thousand times before!"

Lady snarled even more ferociously.

Margaery drew back from Grey Wind, knowing there was nothing at all she could do to control him. Even the soldiers cowered away. One stepped in front of Sansa, his hand on his sword. Another stepped towards Margaery, grabbing her arm–

Grey Wind spun, lunging for the soldier. Immediately, the soldier let go of Margaery, reaching for his own sword.

But the moment he let go of her, he lost Grey Wind's interest. The direwolf shoved between the soldier and Margaery, circling her as she stood perfectly still. Once he'd completed two loops, Grey Wind sniffed her hand, licked it, then curled up at her feet.

Margaery let out a shaky breath.

Placated, Lady sank her fangs back into her stag, ripping out a bloody chunk. But her eyes never left her brother. Grey Wind barely even cared to watch.

Margaery sent a significant glance to Sansa, then towards the soldiers in her tent.

"Leave us," Sansa commanded.

"But, my lady," Jorret said. "We can't leave you with the wolves and, and him."

The Kingslayer raised an eyebrow, pleased to be included among the feral beasts.

Sansa had to stifle her own amusement. "The wolves won't attack Starks. And they certainly won't put up with any nonsense from a Lannister. We'll be fine. Leave us."

With only a slight hesitation, the soldiers did as asked. When Lady gave a low growl, the last one stepped faster through the tent flaps.

Sansa looked between the two wolves, one laying contentedly at Margaery's side, the other barely restraining herself from her own kin.

"Grey Wind hasn't gone hunting very much, since…" But Sansa couldn't say the words. "How come he hasn't gone savage, yet?"

"He hasn't gone hunting at all," Margaery corrected, bending down to pet the back of his head. Grey Wind accepted the touch indifferently. "We bring meals to him, just like that," Margaery nodded towards Lady and her stag. "but he often won't eat more than a few bites. And never, when I'm not with him." She winced. "It is… not my favorite part of each day."

Sansa looked between Robb's wolf and her own.

"Why the difference?" Sansa asked. "Lady's going crazy, but–"

"Don't judge off Grey Wind," Margaery cut in, almost harshly. "I don't think he's… right. Not since…" Her gaze dropped down to the wolf. She took a long moment before continuing. "I don't know if even the gods know how your Stark wolf-bond works. When I speak to him, Grey Wind doesn't pay any more attention than a dog would. But Robb's last…" Clearing her throat, Margaery tried again. "When he died, he was…"

But she was no more able to complete her thought a second time. Margaery hid any break in composure behind her hair as she bent down to stroke Grey Wind's back.

And suddenly, Sansa understood. When Robb had died, his last goal had been to protect Margaery. Whatever else had happened, that last desire had lingered on in his wolf, long after Robb, himself, was gone.

"Oh," was all Sansa said.

Margaery nodded, still not composed enough to look away from Grey Wind.

Abruptly, she straightened, shaking her hair over her shoulder and blinking away any traitor tears. "I came to invite you to dinner. My favorite cook came from Highgarden with my men, and the way he handles roast pheasant is just…"

Sansa was already shaking her head.

A little frown creased the skin between Margaery's brows, the closest she came to showing her hurt. "Whyever not?"

"I've been to meals with you and Robb," Sansa stated, thinking back to the shared bites, feeding of grapes, and all manner of unpleasantness she'd been forced to endure. "I can't do it again."

Margaery's hurt smoothed away behind a forced smile. "We all must manage somehow, mustn't we? I do hope you'll change your mind."

And she stalked from the tent, Grey Wind trailing on her heels.

At her exit, Jorret stuck his head into the tent. Sansa waved him and the other guards back inside.

Truth be told, knowing the other companion would be her mother didn't help Sansa any. It sounded like pure, excruciating torture, getting speared by guilt on one side and revulsion from the other.

"I wouldn't turn down roast pheasant from Highgarden," Jaime said. "Not for all the gold in Lannisport."

Sansa sighed. It had been a clear ask from Margaery for Sansa's support, as well, and she'd ignored it. "I'll go the next time."

Jaime shrugged, chains rattling. "If she asks you the next time."

Sansa frowned at him. "And why are you suddenly so interested in giving me advice?"

He flashed his handsomest smile. "Figured you might be grateful enough to bring me back some pheasant."

Sansa shook her head in exasperation. For all that she'd heard tell of the Kingslayer being the world's worst prisoner, full of insults and barbs and horrifying escape attempts, he'd been pleasant to her.

Well, except for the time he had threatened to break her neck for trying to save his life.

But she appreciated his wry asides and hadn't found him obnoxious yet. Apparently he was capable of restraining himself, even with difficulty. Whether it was the threat of injury to Tyrion, injury to himself from the direwolf, or the lure of better treatment and roast pheasant, Sansa had been pleased by his behavior.

Still, she tried not to forget that he'd once killed his own cousin to escape.

"Yes, I'll do my best to smuggle you some pheasant," Sansa replied.

He leaned back against the tent pole. "All a man could ask."

A guard stepped into her tent. "My lady, Lord Karstark."

Sansa gestured him in. "What is it, my lord Torrhen?"

Torrhen Karstark gave her a nod. "Princess. Roose has called a meeting of the Northern lords. I thought you'd wish to attend."

Sansa bit back any swear words and stronger reactions she wished she could make. Roose Bolton had called one – not Sansa. And he hadn't even bothered informing her of this meeting; only Karstark's invaluable loyalty had remembered that the liege lord of the North might want to attend. When Sansa looked up at Torrhen, it was with a fond smile. "Yes, thank you. I'll be right over."

He bowed to her and exited the tent.

"Come on, Lady," Sansa said to her direwolf. "If I'm going, you're going."

Lady gave one final growl at the stag carcass. But as she'd already gnawed most of the meat from it, she let the bony leg fall to the ground, following after Sansa with a sullen droop to her head.

"Good luck," Jaime called cheekily to them. "Though I doubt whatever your favorite bannerman is roasting will be as pleasant."

Lady lunged, her teeth clicking shut inches away from his face. Jaime recoiled, pressing against the tent pole. Slowly, Lady turned away, back to her mistress.

"Thank you, ser, for your advice." With a wry backwards glance, Sansa exited the tent and into the night.

...

"Land," Podrick said lovingly, as he stepped from the docks and onto the solid dirt road. "Something that won't keep trying to pitch me overboard."

Tyrion smiled, grateful as ever for the unasked loyalty of the boy.

"Come on, you sorry lot," Theon called, as the other rowboats emptied their crews on the docks to join them. "We resupply and make for the sea."

The six ships of the Greyjoy fleet lurked further out in the harbor of the little town on Cape Kraken.

"Still say we could have sacked this pile of shit," one of Theon's sailors muttered. "That or the rat-hole city near the Crag."

"Ah, but that was a Westerlands port," Tyrion replied blithely, before anyone else could cut in. "They pay fealty to your Lord Greyjoy."

The man shot a distrustful glance at Theon. "They do?"

"Not yet," Theon said. He looked at Tyrion, unsure what the dwarf was driving at.

"And then north of that was the Riverlands, sworn to your dead greenlander king," another ironborn chimed in. "And then now we're north of that, in the North, home to all your bloody favorite greenlanders. No good place to pillage for leagues."

"Don't forget the Reach, home to the greenlander Queen," another replied. "No place left to reave on the whole bloody coast."

"Get supplies," Theon cut them all off. "You have your tasks."

"Buy them, he means," the man grumbled. "At least it's his gold."

Muttering in agreement, the rest did as told.

Werhalt, captain of one of the ships, clapped a hand on Theon's back. "We could have taken this little shit of a town. Likely would have rolled over and begged for mercy at the first sign of blood."

"Likely," Tyrion emphasized. "Not necessarily. If they'd put up a fight, they're big enough that you'd have broken your axes against them, and all for a few sides of meat and some ale."

Werhalt grinned down at him. "Likely. Can't take them all, can we? At least it's good ale."

Theon grunted, heading for the nearest butcher's stall. "How is your crew holding up?" he called back to Werhalt, examining a cut of salted pork.

"Well enough." Werhalt hooked his fingers in his belt. "Though you're driving them hard. Any reason as to why?"

Theon gestured to the shopkeeper. "Ten of them." He turned to lean against the counter as the shopkeeper bundled up the meat. Theon said to Werhalt, "Need to get North. No point in dawdling."

"Plenty of point when the men are tired." But Werhalt clapped Theon on the back again and wandered off to join the rest of his crew.

As Podrick hung back, Tyrion stepped closer, glad that Theon usually seemed content to let him tag alongside. Perhaps Tyrion wasn't the only one missing properly cultured company. "Is there a point to the pace? Because otherwise, if you're not letting them reave the towns they pass, driving them this hard will cause… dissent. As your friend alluded."

Theon raised an eyebrow down at Tyrion. "Then you think I should have let them reave the Westerlands?"

It was a rhetorical question, as they both knew. But Tyrion hated being put on the spot for his obvious biases. "Not if you ever hope to rule as their lord, no. If you plan to abandon Casterly, as all the Greyjoy rebellions tend to go, then by all means." Theon scowled fiercely at that and Tyrion softly added, "Unless there's a point to the pace."

Theon looked away. "I need to get as far north of the Iron Islands as fast as I can," he said softly. "I don't trust any of these men to keep following me if a ship from my father catches up with us." He glared at Tyrion. "Any more pithy remarks?"

"No. Only that if it's their loyalty you want, don't demand it until you have it. Let them have their easy pace. If a ship catches you then, you may be surprised by their answer."

Theon pulled a pocketknife out, turning it over in his hand. "And if they leave with my father?"

Tyrion shrugged. "Then let them go." Theon jerked sharply at that, but Tyrion continued. "Make sure to earn proper spoils with the ones that remain and they won't be so quick to leave, the next time."

Theon laughed, shaking his head. "And how am I to earn proper spoils while I can't reave without breaking the exact deal I'm securing?"

"You there!" Tyrion called to the shopkeeper, passing off slabs of salted pork to Theon's men. "How much for a barrel of that salt?"

The man jerked his hand toward a barrel. "Fifty silver stags."

Tyrion nodded: an excellent price. "I'll take five for a gold dragon."

The shopkeeper shrugged. "Four, but I'll throw in an extra side of pork."

"It's a deal." The shopkeeper stared at Tyrion, waiting. Belatedly, Tyrion realized the problem with his deal. He turned to Theon, who was watching him with amusement. "You… wouldn't happen to have an extra gold dragon lying around, would you? I believe King Stannis took all of mine."

"I took a few of yours, too," Theon replied. But he flipped a gold dragon onto the counter with a grin. "How's it feel to finally be as poor as the rest of Westeros?"

"Bloody horrible," Tyrion said. "I feel the pox coming on already."

The shopkeeper slapped a lid on the barrel, rolling it toward the waiting ironborn, and came back to grab another.

"I can't change the pace, now that I've set it," Theon softly admitted as they waited. "They know I'm green. If I can't even do that right, what business do I have leading them? A journey up the coast is one thing; I need these men to follow me into war."

Tyrion took a silent moment to thank every god he knew that whatever Sansa had told Theon of himself had apparently been enough to put him in Theon's confidences.

"They follow strength," Tyrion agreed. "So far, they think you have it. You captured Casterly, didn't you? All from a clever idea. Now, you have a clever idea to retrieve your sister from the North's vengeance. You don't have to be any stronger than you are."

Theon looked at him. "I still can't risk being weak."

Tyrion gave a slow nod. "Stubbornly insisting on a path you know is wrong is the weakest thing any man can do. Strength is having enough confidence to adopt good advice when you hear it."

Gods, Tyrion hated how much he sounded like his father.

Theon raised an eyebrow down at him. "Like adopting your advice?"

Tyrion shrugged. "I certainly think I give good advice. What matters is if you do."

The shopkeeper returned. "Anything else, my lords?"

Theon paid him. He ignored Tyrion entirely and strode back into the street, giving a whistle sharp enough to carry for leagues. "Let's go, lads!" Theon called out.

They pushed off in the rowboat, heading back for the Sea Bitch with all their bounty onboard. Theon talked and laughed with his crew, seating himself at the other end of the craft from Tyrion entirely.

"I couldn't hear all that was spoken," Podrick said, whispering to Tyrion as he pulled on the oar. "But it seemed important."

"I hope so," Tyrion replied. He shot a glance back at Theon, as the man laughed loudly at a joke from his kinsman. The fate of my homeland depends on it.

No matter his own thoughts on the North, Tyrion knew that Theon only had two real options before him: piracy, or an alliance with the Starks. If Theon chose the former, the first target for his pillaging would be the lands that the supposed Lord of Casterly Rock was supposed to rule.

There is one true Lord of Casterly Rock, Tyrion vowed to himself. And it isn't Theon Greyjoy.

The rowboats, crew, and supplies were all hauled aboard. But when the Sea Bitch's sails unfurled and the crew pulled at the lines, Theon called out, "Easy as she goes, lads!"

Grins answered from the faces of every member of the ironborn crew. Theon didn't look at Tyrion once; didn't acknowledge the source of the change.

But Tyrion's grin was the biggest of all.

...

"My lords," Sansa said, arranging her skirts as she settled into the chair at the foot of the table. Bolton gave her a polite nod from his seat at the table's head. Behind Sansa stood Lady, warily eyeing the other members of the table.

At his right sat Umber, shifting uneasily. And at Bolton's left sat Karstark, with a warmer smile for Sansa. Maege Mormont appeared to have not been invited, either. Sansa deeply felt the loss of Lord Hornwood, left behind securing Casterly, and Glover and Manderly, sent ahead to secure the North.

The table stretched long, with the two lords clustered by Bolton's end and empty seats by Sansa's own, but she refused to take a seat on the side, as if she were some vassal.

Bolton's tent was smaller than her own meeting tent, with darker fabrics, and furs draped on the surfaces.

Most of the furs were wolf pelts.

"Thank you for meeting with me today, my lords, my lady," Bolton started. "An urgent matter has come to my attention." He looked around the room, laying eyes on each of them. His gaze stayed on Sansa before declaring, "Tywin Lannister, and how we can beat him."

Immediately, Umber and Karstark leaned forward eagerly.

"If you know how, then why the bloody fuck didn't you mention anything before this?" Umber said.

Bolton gave Umber a small smile. "The option of attacking Tywin was never on the table. We were to have peace."

Grumbles answered from Umber and Karstark, along with glares shot her way. Sansa kept a perfectly calm composure, betraying nothing.

Bolton unfurled a map before him, showing the entirety of the Riverlands, from Moat Cailin at the neck down past Harrenhal in the south. "Whether the Kingslayer is freed or killed, Tywin's response will be the same: he will make us pay for the insult." Bolton steepled his hands before him. "I see two options that he can pursue, after his son is out of our control. The first: Tywin resumes his ravaging of the Riverlands. The second: he besieges Riverrun."

"How are either of those a good thing for us?" Karstark asked.

Bolton smiled. Apparently, he'd been hoping for that question. "If he puts the Riverlands to the torch, his forces will be weak and divided, spread among the different towns. We know the terrain and can pick his troops off one group at a time. In fact, we could even take Harrenhal from him."

"And if he besieges Riverrun?" Umber said.

"As it stands, right now, we've thirty thousand to his forty thousand. But there are two groups that we haven't counted." He tapped his finger on Moat Cailin. "Lord Glover has four thousand Northmen taking back the Neck. And…" He dragged his finger southward. It stopped on The Twins. "There are other arrangements that could be considered."

Sansa grew very still. Around the tent, suddenly no one could look at her.

"My lady," Bolton said to her, his eyes full of sorrow that couldn't be anything but feigned. "I know it's so soon after your brother's death, but perhaps the original treaty and betrothal between House Stark and House Frey could still be honored."

Sansa said nothing, staring straight back at Bolton. Lady growled. As awful as the idea of her marrying a Frey was, that was not Bolton's true goal. For once, Sansa's superior knowledge of Bolton laid his plan bare before he had made it. Bolton expected her to balk and bluster at being betrothed to a Frey, after which he'd gallantly step up and volunteer to marry the Frey, himself. After all, he had married a Frey wife the last time, received a dowry of her weight in gold, and had borne a trueborn son by her.

With Bolton's marriage, Walder Frey's five thousand men would be Bolton's five thousand men – and Sansa would be grateful to Bolton for sparing her the betrothal.

And those five thousand Frey men would help Bolton supplant the Starks and secure his leadership of the North.

She could not let it happen.

Sansa smiled at him. "The Freys are an interesting proposition for my future, Lord Bolton. I will consider it. Please continue."

He nodded in reply, not expecting her response, but hiding it expertly. He gestured to the land before Riverrun. "If Tywin stations his troops here, we will obviously have the advantage of Riverrun's defenses against him–"

"And the Blackfish to help from inside," Umber chuckled. Karstark snorted, pouring himself a goblet of wine.

Bolton nodded again. "And we'll be able to crush Tywin against the castle. Both from the south–" He gestured toward the River Road, indicating their own forces. "And from the north." He tapped Moat Cailin, dragging a line down, through the Freys, and to Riverrun.

"But supposing he decides to burn the Riverlands, instead," Umber replied. "It's what he did before. How do you expect to–"

Turning to her with a smile, Karstark passed his filled goblet to Sansa. With a snarl, Lady lunged. He barely drew away, wine slopping out of the cup, the wolf's fangs snapping shut on air.

"Lady!" Sansa screamed.

The direwolf turned to Sansa. Her lips curled back to bare her fangs.

Bolton and Umber were on their feet, their hands on their swords. Karstark stumbled backwards to get out of the wolf's way.

Sansa was on her feet. "Lady! Heel!" she commanded again. Reluctantly, the wolf drew back to stand at Sansa's side. Lady's eyes never left the bannerman, her lips twitching to resume her snarl.

Sansa reached for Lady. The direwolf turned with another growl. Steeling her will, Sansa forced herself to remain calm. She stretched a hand to her direwolf, burying it in the fur on the back of her neck. Gradually, Lady's growling calmed.

"That beast's not bloody safe," Umber spat. He hadn't let go of his sword hilt. "I lost fingers to your brother's damned wolf and never blamed the creature. Your bloody beast can't tell friend from foe."

"My apologies, my lords." Sansa tried to keep her voice from shaking. Lady could have killed Karstark. What in seven hells had set her off?! "I… she needs to hunt, and I…" When Sansa looked up from her wolf, Karstark, her closest ally, couldn't return her gaze. Sansa took a deep breath. She couldn't risk Lady disobeying her again. Her bannermen would call for her wolf's head – and they would be right. "My apologies. I will ensure she behaves. Come, Lady."

Sansa left the tent, her direwolf walking stiffly at her side. She made for the closest edge of camp, waiting until the tents had spread out and the trees behind the clearing were visible.

"Go, hunt," Sansa whispered.

In a flash, Lady was off. She barely saw the grey blur disappear into the trees.

Sansa let out a deep breath. Lady had been the only creature in camp that Sansa could depend on utterly. But apparently, that, too, had been wrong.

There was no one.

Sansa was tired. She was so bloody tired of having to fight to wrangle support behind her, of always having to align her supporters' various petty causes. Margaery wouldn't support her without access to Edmure, Edmure disapproved of her killing his traitorous men, Catelyn would betray her if she were scared enough, Royce disapproved of how she'd handled Baelish, Umber thought her a fifteen-year-old slip of a girl, and Karstark had almost been maimed by her wolf.

And those were the ones who liked her.

Sansa sucked in another breath. She didn't have time to be tired. There was work to be done.

She strode through the camp, feeling the loss of her wolf by her side as the soldiers hollered to each other, jeering out lewd camp jokes. Ones that spotted her immediately stopped, tipping her a nod or a, "my lady." Sansa nodded in reply to those and pretended to ignore the rest.

Outside her tent, she paused. Maege sat eating stew with a few others of Sansa's guards. Just because she couldn't depend on anyone utterly didn't mean she couldn't depend on anyone at all. There was an ally she'd been neglecting.

"Lady Mormont, might I have a word?"

Maege immediately stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she joined Sansa. "What is it?"

Sansa had to fight down her smile at the woman's gruffness; it was refreshing. "I must confess," Sansa started. "I did not order my guards doubled out of fear for the Kingslayer's life." As ever, it was hard for Sansa to tell her secrets, or even a lie with a sliver of her truth embedded in it. She would become beholden to the secrecy of the one hearing it – and Maege was the most forthright person she knew.

Maege stared at her, unmoved. "Spit it out, then."

"I fear another attack like at Casterly," Sansa finally said. "Whoever was responsible for betraying us and killing Robb has not been caught."

"Tywin Lannister," Maege said, and spat. "He snuck in, stole armor–"

"Someone helped him inside," Sansa replied. After a pause, she added, "Someone who is still in our camp."

Maege stepped closer. "Not an ally," she whispered. Sansa's silence was confirmation. "Not a Northman," Maege hissed, full of furious venom and betrayal.

Sansa stepped away. She, herself, was bad enough at pretending around Bolton; Maege would be ten thousand times worse. "I do not know for certain," Sansa replied. "But I have my strong suspicions."

Maege glared at her, taking her measure. Her whistle split the night. "Jorret! C'mere, boy!"

Jorret hid his exasperated sigh as he trotted over from where he'd been guarding the other side of Sansa's tent. "Yes, Mormont?"

Maege thrust her chin towards Sansa. "One of the two of us is to be with the princess at all times. Clear? Trust no one."

Jorret frowned. "My lady, I–"

Maege glared at him. "Clear?"

Jorret nodded. "Clear."

"Thank you, my lady," Sansa said.

Maege studied her one last time. Coming to some internal decision, she shook her head. "Gods, you're barely older than my youngest." With a final nod to Sansa and Jorret, Maege settled back down with her stew.

Sansa strode into her tent, Jorret on her heels. The five guards waiting inside exchanged nods with her. But she didn't slow her pace, marching to the table where Ice leaned, grabbing a parchment off of it, and unfurling the map on the tent floor.

Jaime leaned forward from his tent pole, able to see it from his vantage point, but unable to reach it while chained. "Riverrun?"

Sansa was done with being uneducated about warfare. She refused to let Bolton walk circles around her any longer. "Riverrun." Grabbing a handful of Lannister tokens, she tossed them down on the map. "How would you besiege it?"

He had already led that siege, in her previous life. But this Jaime would never know that.

Still, he leveled an unimpressed look up at her. "If you expect me to betray my family, you'll have to try harder."

Sansa shrugged, acting as if she didn't particularly care one way or the other. "I'll do it, then. I'm sure it's easy enough."

Jorret started forward, his mouth opened to interject. Sansa shot a glare at him. He fell back into his place against the wall.

Sansa picked up a horse token. "Let's see." She tapped it against her mouth. "I know horses don't do well on hills, so I'd put them here, in the valley between."

Jaime – and every guard in the tent – winced.

"Pikes go in the front," Sansa continued, setting that piece down before the horse. "And what else do we have… bowmen? Lannisters don't have the longbowmen of the North, but I suppose a crossbow unit could still do some damage… here?"

Jaime quickly tried to school his features as she studied him. "Don't forget siege weapons," he added mockingly. "Where do you think we'd put them?"

"Hilltops," Sansa replied, glad to have remembered something. "So that they've the range. I'll bet the Lannisters build two…" Jorret shook his head furiously, gesturing higher. "Four trebuchets–" He nodded. "–here, here, here, and…"

Jaime was smirking broadly. "That south hill is barely 200 feet from Riverrun's towers. The Blackfish has…what, a thousand men with him? He places a single archer on that tower and you'll never be able to build a thing. Did you think trebuchets came assembled, Princess? How long do you think they take to load? To fire?"

Sansa moved her trebuchet to a further back hill. Jaime nodded. "What are your horses doing in the valley?"

She blinked at him. While she'd been trying to sound as stupid as possible, some parts had been… easier to feign than others. "I don't know."

He rolled his eyes. "Horses don't like breaking ankles on broken rock, but that's an easy sloping hill. There's no need to put them at the bottom of it."

Feeling as unsure as ever, Sansa moved the horses to the top.

Jaime sighed. "What in seven hells are you doing?"

Sansa gestured down at the horse. "You said…"

"What are you doing with your horses?" Jaime corrected.

"Charging down the hill," Sansa replied, realizing she had previously forgotten the point of cavalry. One of her guards at the side of the tent gave her an approving nod.

But Jaime didn't sound any less exasperated. "Towards what? A castle? Do you think if the horses hit the stone hard enough, the Blackfish will feel sorry for them and let them in? Maybe their corpses can all pile up in the moat to let the pikemen walk across?"

A guard snorted.

"Well, not when you put it that way," Sansa replied. "What does cavalry do in a siege?"

"Not a damn thing, my lady," another guard chimed in.

Jaime smiled, sweeping a hand toward the man.

Sansa frowned down at the horse token in her hand. "But the Lannisters have extensive cavalry. They're not just going to let them sit around, doing nothing…"

Oh. Tywin wouldn't have his cavalry sit around, doing nothing. Bolton had pitched Tywin's options as a choice: either attack Riverrun or ravage the towns of the Riverlands. It wasn't a choice at all; Tywin would do both.

"Oh," Sansa said.

"Sieges are easy," Jaime continued. "You're not trying to break down the castle. You're just trying to starve them out. Set up trebuchets, block supply routes, and wait."

"Shoot down ravens," Jorret added. Jaime nodded.

Sansa moved her Lannister forces to the rivers and both sides of the road leading to Riverrun. "So say I'm doing that. How would the Blackfish stop me?"

"With difficulty," Jaime replied. He gestured toward the castle. "Archers on all the walls at all times."

Sansa obliged, setting out Tully archer tokens.

"The real trick is smuggling in rations," Jaime continued. "But Riverrun is used to that difficulty. Get a small enough boat with no lights, and in the dark it can slip right past enemy eyes and into the bowels of the castle. Of course, your Lannisters will be looking for exactly that. But," He shrugged. "The Blackfish is wily. I'm sure he'll find a way."

"Especially if I've an army at my back," Sansa mused. She spilled Stark tokens, more Tullys, men of the Vale, on the other side of Tywin's besieging army. A castle lay at the crux of the rivers and the road; Tywin's army spread around it, in an attempt to cut off access; and Sansa's Stark army circled around that, pressing tighter.

Jaime gave a slow nod, unsure what she was driving towards. "The Blackfish could stay supplied endlessly. Riverrun would never fall."

Sansa looked down at the map that she and Jaime had made. It had one problem: it was stupid. A siege made Tywin's position so ludicrously stupid that she was now sure that he'd never do it. But what else could he do? Attacking the towns and villages of the Riverlands wouldn't get him anything, in the long run, and certainly not an appropriate level of vengeance for his fallen castle and captured, freed, or killed firstborn son. Neither could he take back Casterly Rock, not with the Stark army between it and him, and apparently, neither could he take Riverrun. Even further, neither could he stay indefinitely at Harrenhal – not with half his army made of mercenaries he had to continually pay and not with a notoriously hard castle to properly man.

He could attack the Stark forces directly. But if Tywin's concern were maintaining his fearsome reputation throughout Westeros, a direct attack – on its own – would never be enough to do it. Not when the Starks had taken Casterly and captured his son.

What else was Tywin planning?!

"You're not planning on trading me, are you?" Jaime gave Sansa a level stare, his words not at all a question. Outside the tent, a laughing horde of drunken revelers belted out a song in the distance. The sound carried through the silent tent.

Jaime swept a hand towards the map. "Last time, Robb kept me pinned in a remote corner of camp so I wouldn't see things like this, wouldn't hear even a whiff of your strategy. Then, in my next imprisonment, you kept me chained in a remote corner of Casterly Rock. But now…" He gestured around himself, his look hard, his tone biting. "I thank you, Princess. My new prison is much more comfortable. But it's not going anywhere, is it?"

Sansa had no words for him. No, not if she had her way. She would never trust Tywin again, would only trust his care for Jaime to stay his hand. As long as Tywin lived, Jaime would grow old walking the halls of Winterfell. At least she would give him that much freedom – for what little it was worth.

Jaime's look hardened. "I thought not."

The revelers' song grew louder as they approached, garbled snatches of The Bear and the Maiden Fair drifting through between more loud laughter.

Sansa looked away from him. "I want peace between our Houses," she said softly. The thought of Robb cut through her like a lance. Her father, as well – always – but at least this time, Joffrey had already died for it. The Starks had taken the Lannister home, worn their crowns, danced on their graves. At some point, didn't it have to be enough? Baelish wanted Lannister and Stark pitted against each other; so she would do her best to defy him. But… Robb. Tywin still had to pay for that.

"Though I will never trust your father to hold to any peace without leverage," Sansa forced herself to continue. "As I hold him capable of every cruelty." Finally, she looked back at Jaime. He still studied her, his face hard. "Give me another option for peace and I will consider it."

The drunken song grew louder as the revelers drew nearer to the tent.

"High time for the lot of you to be catching sleep," Maege called to them, from the outside of Sansa's tent. "Away with you. Back to your fires."

"We found a bear!" one of the drunkards cried out. Laughter followed. "Let's see if we can–"

The sounds of drawing steel cut through the air. Cries followed, overlapping each other. Swords clashed, followed by the sickening squelch of rending flesh, and–

Sansa recoiled. She knew those sounds. Had lived through them, in Casterly, had–

Jorret was in front of her, his sword in one hand, her arm in his other. "Help Mormont!" he cried to the other guards. The soldiers in her tent hadn't needed to be told. They flung themselves through the tent flap, swords drawn and cries on their lips.

"You're fine, my lady," Jorret said to Sansa, his tone soothing. Another guard remained with her, as well. Sansa furiously shook her head. Jorret smiled. "I've got you, and–"

A sword blade stabbed through the cloth on the other side of the tent. The tent cloth parted beneath the blade. Five men stepped through, into her tent.

The one in the lead grinned. "Perfect. Wolf's gone."

Jorret spun, placing Sansa behind him. "In here!" he called. "In–"

He parried one blow, but not the next. Jorret fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding throat. This was how Robb went. Sansa fell to her knees, one hand desperately pressing against his neck as he gurgled. "Stay with me!" she cried. "Please! Just–"

Jorret's eyes stared at nothing.

One of the infiltrators laughed. "Keep trying, girl."

She looked up, wet eyes filled with hot rage. On the other side of the tent lay her second guard's body. The leader of the brutes stared at her with gleeful contempt while the other four clustered around Jaime, pulling up his stake.

Jaime grinned at them. "Thank you. My father will pay you handsomely for this, you know–"

"Oh, he'd better," one of them replied. The others laughed. "I ain't did all this just to kill a princess."

The leader's smirk widened. "That's right, girly." Outside, the battle still raged. Horns, in the distance, signaled more men joining the fight. She had no idea on which side. The leader tipped his bloody knife towards her. "We're here for you."

Sansa jumped to her feet. She bolted toward the battle at the entrance to the tent–

Hands wrapped around her arm.

"Let go of me!" she screamed. "Let me go, you can't–"

He clamped a hand over her mouth. "Shhh, princess. I know how to make it quick. No need to fret."

Sansa wriggled her mouth away from his hand. "You need me," she breathed. "I'm useful alive, to control the North, to–"

The leader laughed. "I thought so, but Bolton was most insistent. Said nothing mattered 'cept you dying. Said you've a sister good enough for breeding with his bastard, if needs come to that–"

Sansa bit down on his hand. Hard. She shook her head like a wolf with a kill, reveling in the feel of his flesh tearing beneath her fangs.

A heavy blow knocked her vision sideways.

"Enough of that!" he hissed. His knife bit into her neck, forcing her to hold still. His other hand gripped her breast painfully, pressing her back against his chest. At least that hand dripped blood. She could taste the tang of it in her mouth.

At the other end of the tent, Jaime stood, rubbing out his wrists. "I find I must thank you again, sers…?"

"Names don't matter," the leader said. "Bolton's paying us handsomely from your father. Run, while you have the chance."

He dug his knife tighter against her throat. Sansa whimpered in pain.

Jaime stared at her. He looked at each of the five assassins in the tent in turn. "I'm not to receive an escort?"

"Need us to hold your hand, Lannister?" one of the others snorted.

Another laughed. "Escorts cost extra."

"Run, you fool!" the leader snarled. "We don't know how long–"

Jaime sauntered over to her table, picking up the sheathed form of Ice from where it leaned. His arrogant smile was all for Sansa. "Then I think I'll take a trophy, for all the time I've spent in Stark hands. A little parting gift, if you will."

Sansa glared murder at him over the Bolton man's hand. Jaime's smile widened.

"Now get!" the leader hissed.

Again, Jaime didn't listen. Sauntering closer, the Valyrian steel sword sung as he drew it from its sheath. His misshapen right hand shook from holding the sword – so he added his left to grip the hilt. The blade grew steady.

Jaime tilted the sword close to Sansa's face. "Poetic, isn't it? Now, answer me this: what man of the North would let me take this blade?" The leader frowned. Jaime's eyes crinkled. "One expecting to hunt down the 'runaway' and take it back from my corpse."

Jaime ran the blade through the leader's neck. The man's knife bit into Sansa's collarbone as his body fell. Before it hit the ground, Jaime had already spun, his sword flashing. The other men charged, but Jaime was faster – and unexpected – and they fell just as surely.

Sansa crumpled, clutching her bleeding neck, shoulder, blood running from her mouth and red hair falling freely about her face. Jaime stared down at her, the sword of the North in his hands, Northern blood dripping down its blade.

"Stannis didn't kill Joffrey and Tommen and Cersei," Jaime said to her, his voice cold. "You did."

A growl came from the sliced opening into the tent. Lady crouched, covered in blood and favoring one paw. But the direwolf stared at Jaime with murder in her eyes.

Jaime simply turned, greatsword in his hands, staring down the direwolf without the slightest concern.

"Lady, NO!" Sansa cried, begging, pleading, through her sobs. Lady paused, waiting, and Jaime watched Sansa. "I killed them," Sansa confessed through her tears. "I killed them all and I'd kill them again. Joffrey killed Father and Cersei watched, she did nothing!"

"So you kill her?" Jaime spat. "You kill her for doing nothing?"

"She tried to kill Bran!" Sansa yelled. "She helped push him from that tower for learning her secret–"

Jaime recoiled. "Cersei… she didn't…"

"Didn't what?" Sansa snarled. "Didn't mean to cripple him? Only to kill him?"

Jaime's sword wavered. "Cersei didn't push Bran."

I did.

The words rang through her tent without him uttering a sound.

"I know," Sansa said, bitter tears coursing harder. "I know, gods damn it. But I tried anyway. To save you, your brother, all the half-decent members of your wretched family." She stared at the ground, her hair falling forward to hide her face as more tears fell. "Kill me and be done with it. But don't make me watch you kill Lady. I can't bear it. Not with that sword. Not again."

Sansa braced for pain, for the sweet release of death. She looked up at Jaime. Still, he stared down at her, Ice held in his bloody hands.

A commotion sounded from the entrance to the tent. "I don't care! She's my daughter, and–" Catelyn shoved through the flaps. "Sansa!" she cried, running to her. "My girl, my sweet–"

Sansa let herself be held by her mother, soaking up her affectionate warmth. Men rushed into the tent behind her, staring in horror at the bodies – then at the Kingslayer. They raised their swords–

"Disarm yourself, my lord," Sansa said to Jaime, from within her mother's embrace. "If you demand my men die to recapture you, I will demand your good hand for it."

Jaime dropped the blade. The Tully men rushed forward, knocking out his knees, forcing his face to the ground. Jaime winced against the dirt.

"Unharmed!" Sansa broke away from her mother to command.

The Tully men looked at her in confusion. "But, my lady, he killed your guards, and–"

"He killed my attackers," Sansa spat. "Touch him and I'll order double on you."

More confused than before, the Tullys loosened their grips, doing as told. Lady stepped up to her side, giving a lick to Sansa's hand. She buried her hand in the wolf's fur.

But Sansa had another order of business. Picking up her father's sword, she shoved open the flap of her tent, surveying the scene. The dead lay everywhere. The Bolton men hadn't worn their own colors, but the opposing dead that lay with them bore Stark sigils, and Tullys, Umbers, Karstarks… she even spotted the seal of Lord Royce's personal guard.

Bolton had known she would eventually thwart him; given his chance, he had spared no cost in lives to see her dead. And, unlike the Betrayal of the Rock, she doubted he'd had the resources to be as careful.

Wounded lay everywhere, as well. Edmure nursed a cut on one arm, displaying it to one of his men. Maege leaned against a cart, wincing as a woman bent to sew a gaping gash in her leg. Others gathered around, searching through the bodies and trying to piece together what had happened.

"My lady!" Umber rushed towards Sansa. "You're bleedin'! Let me get one of those Silent Sisters–"

"Bring me Roose Bolton," Sansa declared loudly to all gathered before her. They stopped, watching the small girl covered in blood, holding the bloodied sword, her bloodied direwolf at her side. Sansa turned her cold-eyed stare on Umber. "Bring Bolton to me in chains."