Jon Arctic and Cirilla Riannon

by Jxduffy

While his father was away fighting in the Greyjoy rebellion, Jon hears the washer women whispering about how Ashara Dayne might be his mother. With this new information, Jon goes on a quest. He didn't expect that when he passed out, he would wake up in a place called "Ard Skellig"

24. Chapter 23: Night and Day Time Hunts

Before Notes:

MASSIVE shout out to NTluck, I just wanted to thank you for all your support and advice in front of EVERYONE! This reader has been a huge motivation to be going at my current pace, just imagine how slow I'd be without 'em! But seriously, thanks.

Chapter 23: Night and Day Time Hunts

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POV Ciri, 5th day, 1st moon, 299 AC

"How are you going to adventure properly if you don't know how to repair your own armour even a little?" Ciri scolded the girl. Truly, Arya was being too difficult with this, it was only patching old gambeson.

The young girl scowled and went back to it, her right hand trembling with the needle as her left fidgeted over the dense clothes. Just like when Ciri first, without thinking, put a practice sword in her right hand.

Wait...

"Have you always used your right hand to sew?" she asked, the feeling in the back of her head finally making sense.

"Aye, that's how mother taught me." Arya said, grumbling a little towards the end. Nymeria giving a huff.

"Try using your left." Ciri told her, brushing away the odd look Arya gave her.

The girl followed her instructions, just as she always did, and switched the needle from her right to her left. She then went back to her stiches, admittedly simple ones, but it seemed that they were coming to her much easier than before. With less twitching and no fidgeting. It was good to see.

Ciri, ever since they came to Riverrun, had been spending most of her time with Arya, and, to a lesser extent, Lya. She'd enjoyed it, don't get her wrong, but her overall content was limited. For Jon was almost never with them, nor was Sansa, and Alyssa, the darling girl, would only be with them for so long. She had her own things to do after all.

The Witcher was out on a patrol even now, with his men split into small groups. He was out in the Riverlands raiding, scouting, chasing danger, and clashing with what enemy patrols they came across more often and longer than he was in the thrice damned castle. All without her at that!

She understood though, with all the strangers around who else was to watched over the girls? Sansa and Arya's great-uncle was an option, but they didn't know him all that well, and he was swamped with work in the solar besides. It still rankled her, however, yet what was she to do. Her Jon was trying his best.

Then there was Sansa, never leaving the rooms she'd been given, her mother's old room, and even taking all her meals in there. Those that she ate anyway. Ciri didn't know what to do with her, she'd only properly forced the redhead out only once and the look she gave her then nearly broke her heart. So, she hadn't tried again, and Sansa stayed in the chambers. Perhaps she needed her mother?

Although, whenever Jon was here, she was different. But still not at all how she used to be, all clingy and only slightly more talkative.

With her thoughts on Sansa, she glanced at her steel bowl, right next to Arya's on the vanity. Trusting her gut, Ciri made her plan. She would help Sansa just in the way Ciri needed it so long ago now.

She quickly glanced at Arya's progress on her patch, it was loose, but good enough to be tossed back into the armoury. "We'll end this here, Arya." she said, but caught the girl before Jon's sister could run off, "Keep it in the castle."

Ciri waited for Arya's shallow nod and grumbled acceptance, before she let go of her arm and let her zip out of the room.

After waiting a moment, the witcheress swung her legs and hoped out of the chair. She quickly snatched up the steel bowl, hid it in one of the few pouches she had in her casual wear, and slipped into the hallway.

The halls of Riverrun surprised her, when she first arrived. Instead of stone or tile, the floors were made of wood, truly ancient planks of redwood that had all been worn perfectly smooth by thousands of years' worth of steps and brooms traveling over them. Not only that, but the supports on the walls were also made from redwood, and carved with trout and swirling rivers. It all made the castle look as warm as it felt, unlike most others she'd seen. Winterfell, for example, looked like you could freeze alive in its halls, while still being warmer than most other structures Ciri had ever spent time in. The warmest of the non-magically heated ones at least.

Walking through those wooden halls, Ciri bore witness to all the hustle and bustle that she expected from it. Groups of soldiers going to or from training with their serjeants going by, maids scampering around with their loads, and guardsmen doing their rounds. Most of them knew her by sight by now, giving her a Lady Ciri as they went, but she knew most of their hearts weren't in it. She'd done nothing of note that they knew of, as of yet.

But that would change! And soon enough. For in a moon, or two, Robb would join them in Riverrun and Ciri could leave the girls with trusted Winterfell men. Then she could finally join Jon and his outriders in riding through the Riverlands! Ciri was also looking forward to fighting properly again, there was only so much fun she could get from training Arya and helping Jon get his men up to an acceptable level of skill. They did learn well, she'd give them that, Eren Stone had made particularly good progress, but it didn't get her blood pumping like a real fight did.

Finally, her musings helping to pass the time, Ciri reached the door to Sansa's chambers. She knocked, even though she knew there would be no answer. Then she knocked again, louder this time. All she got was a whine from what must have been Lady on the other side.

Ciri took that as an invitation, and let herself in.

When entering the main chamber of Sansa's rooms, the first thing that would strike anyone was how perfect everything was. Every small ornament was arranged with all the others of its kind following the pre-war fashion to the letter. The colours of the flowers and their vases contrasted in ways pleasing to the eye. All the glassware was polished until they shone, free of anything resembling a smudge, and the same was true for all the metals in the chamber. Even the growing direwolf, bigger than any hunting hound she'd ever seen and still with puppy proportions, sadly curled up in the center of a tasteful rug was perfectly placed and groomed.

The second thing was just how lifeless, for lack of a better word, the room was. It was all too perfect, as if no one had ever passed through it, or even entered. It was an eery thing to see.

Walking around the room, Ciri knocked it all over, as she did every time she visited. Much to Lady's audible displeasure, though it never went passed a sad whine. It hurt her to hear it, but she persevered and moved on from the ornaments to the flowers. Without much though, she took flowers from random containers and placed them in others in a depiction of pure chaos. Finally, after running her fingers over the vanity's polished silver mirror, Ciri threw open the shutters and let the powerful wind rage into the chamber.

Looking over her work, Ciri was satisfied that, even if this round of coaxing failed, Sansa would have something to busy herself with.

Striding over to the rug, the witcheress squatted down and messed up Lady gorgeous fur as best she could. Then Ciri wrapped her arms around the pup and, lifting with her legs, used all the strength her training afforded her to lift the young direwolf off of the ground. It was a mighty struggle, but eventually Lady was dangling in her arms, balanced as well as she could be.

Ciri then trudged over to the door to Sansa's bedchamber, and, rather precariously, used her foot to knock on the redwood door.

It took quite a bit of time, and many kicks, but eventually Ciri heard some movement on the other side. Moments, and a few more knocks, later, the door opened to reveal Sansa's almost empty blue eyes. Safe the look in her pretty eyes, the little lady was dressed up just as perfectly as the room was once decorated. Even what little powder on her cheeks and charcoal arounder her eyes she used as make-up was perfect in every way.

"It is impolite to enter a lady's chambers without permission, Lady Ciri." Sansa said, perfectly proper, as Ciri legs and arms started to protest the weight she'd been putting on them.

"Ah, but I heard Lady here call for my aid!" Ciri rebutted, hefting the beast in question as proof.

Then, before Sansa could say anything more and chase Ciri from her chambers, the witcheress pushed her way passed the little lady and into the bed chamber. Sansa's weakened leg making it rather easy.

Ignoring the perfectly made sheets, Ciri fell onto the large featherbed and dumped Lady onto both it and her lap. Where she gave the great beast many pets and cuddles. She knew well of Jon's connection with Ghost, and knew that his siblings had similar bonds with their own direwolves. Perhaps showering Lady in affection would loosen Sansa up. If only a little.

The redhead made no showing of this however, no matter where Ciri petted or scratched. Regardless of the actual affect, which was only a very slight wagging of Lady's tail, she continued her ministrations.

"Sit with me, please." she asked, patting an empty space on the bed.

"That would hardly be proper, my lady." Sansa replied, in clear refusal, despite her stranglehold on her courtesies.

"Fine then." she said, petulantly, but purposefully, yes, purposefully.

Instead of joining her, or even resting in the chair before a small desk, Sansa stood. Her back ramrod straight and her hands clasped before her.

"You should come out, Sansa. Arya's been learning to repair gambeson, and I know you can give her some pointers. You could even get some embroidering done with us." Ciri said, starting her usual ritual of trying to get the girl to leave her room.

"My lady sister has never been one for sewing, if she truly has taken it up then my presence will only make her want to stop." Sansa cut the suggestion down mercilessly, but perfectly proper in doing so, "And, regardless of my accommodations in the castle, I have been keeping up in my own needlework."

"Then we can play games in my chambers, I could teach you how to play Gwent?" Ciri offered, trying a fifth game in as many attempts at pulling her out of here.

"I have no interest in games, as you know, and I am certain that you would rather enjoy playing with my lady sister, or lady Lyanna, instead of myself." again, Sansa quickly refused an overture. If was starting to get at her.

It was then that Ciri pulled out Sansa's steel bowl, ignoring the bristling feeling in her chest, to try a new path towards wining her over, "Perhaps some partnered practise is in order then? I'm sure Jon would be impressed if you improved your quantity, or helped Arya with her control."

That certainly got something out of the little lady, though that something was only a sharp twitch of her clasped fingers. Her voice was just as controlled as before when she replied, "Magic is wasted on me, and I have nothing to impart to my lady sister."

That's it, I'm done with this pussyfooting!

Ciri stopped petting Lady, "Is this how you repay Jory?" she asked, finally deciding, after all her failed attempts, to go for the throat, "Is letting yourself waste away in these chambers how you will honour the sacrifice of each and every one of the men who gave their lives for you to escape the Red Keep? How you pay back all the blood Jon, Willam, and I spilled for you to get to your uncle safely? What do you-"

"I can't!" Sansa cried, her mask finally breaking, "Everything outside is horrible and hurts! Here I can keep it all proper, all as it should be! Out there I'm useless! If- if I go outside I'll only make it all worse... if it wasn't for me Jeyne... Jeyne would-" the girl fell to her knees and the tears she'd been fighting flooded from her eyes, while her voice broke from the sobs. Ciri quickly freed herself from Lady and wrapped the girl into a tight embrace. It hurt to see her like this, but finally breaking through was worth it.

She said nothing as Sansa wept into her chest, soaking the blouse, only making comforting noises and rubbing circles into her back.

When the girl's sobs calmed and her tears petered out, Ciri finally spoke again, "You won't make it worse, Sansa. And what happened to her wasn't your fault." she quickly stopped Sansa's objections, then continued, "But if you feel useless, then we can change that."

Sullenly, but with an undercurrent of hope, Sansa looked up and asked her how.

"Simple." she said, reaching back and then presenting Sansa her steel bowl, "Train." she said, as Sansa hesitantly grabbed it. "Train." Ciri repeated, as she pulled a blade from her boot and gave it to the girl hilt first.

"And train some more, until you finally feel comfortable with both." she finished, gently grabbing Sansa's shoulders.

The little lady bit her lip, and shakily nodded.

"Then let's get started."

_7th day, 1st moon_

"Trebuchet!" Arya proclaimed, slapping the Gwent card onto the table.

Lya was much quieter with her plays, but just as purposeful as she laid down pair of swordsmen, both the type that strengthened those around it.

"Arya, when are trebuchets used in warfare?" Ciri quizzed the girl.

She answered quickly and dutifully, "Trebuchets, catapults, ballistae, and other engines of war are most often used in sieges. By both the attackers and defenders."

"Engines of war are also used to hold back invaders in defensible locations, such as canyons or tunnels." Ciri added, giving Arya a smile to make sure she knew she got it mostly right.

Jon's little sister gave her a resolute nod, then went back to her and Lya's game. While Ciri herself turned back to her small looking glass, which stood as a chunk of daylight in the night time gloom outside the open window. It had been something she'd been toying with recently, breaking only a small part of space to look at various landscapes. Although, there were moments where she saw things she probably shouldn't have.

At the moment, she was looking out to a small meadow. There was a couple far to her right, getting all cuddly with each other, and stoking the fires of her envy. The woman even had ashen hair like Ciri herself did. Looking away from the pair, the witcheress glared into the distance, at the gigantic green-covered ruins.

A gentle wave of chill air suddenly passed over her, quickly followed by a happy noise from little Alyssa. Both indicators letting Ciri know Sansa had finally cast the spell she'd been weaving for the past ten minutes. The wave was stronger than the last, but not nearly as overpowering or far-reaching as Arya's, let alone Jon's. The power of her spells was, however, steadily increasing as she practiced. Her knifework, sadly, didn't keep up with her cryomancy.

A horn blast pulled her from her thoughts.

Ciri quickly healed the rift, letting the bright sunlight and the cheery meadow flip back to cold darkness and the heavily fortified walls of Riverrun. The heavy redwood gates groaned open only moments after the horn had sounded, the party outside having most likely gone unseen until they were close to the walls. When the portcullis finally went up, she heard it clank its way there more than she saw it go.

Then, carried from under the walls by a man in half-plate, Ciri saw Jon's new banner. Made at her request by the seamstress of Riverrun, the fork-ended banner was mostly Cintran blue, but had a roaring wolf's head in the center. Designed to resemble Jon's witcher medallion, but with Ghost's white fur and red eyes. It was quite a handsome banner, if she did say so herself.

She was rather sad to see it was already in a ragged state, with the ends fraying and the colours slightly faded from many washes.

Regardless of the banner's fallen glory, Ciri stood from her slightly too cushioned chair and caught the girls' attention. Arya read her expression before she even had the chance to tell them the good news.

"Jon's back!" the Stark girl shouted, carefully putting her the cards face down on the table and throwing herself from the chair. Lya followed her not half a moment after.

Then Alyssa hopped from her place next to Sansa on the settee and onto the wooden floor. The older girl following just as quickly, if with far more grace.

Ciri waited for all the girls to file out before she allowed herself to walk out of the room. She did so with haste, and as she closed the door, she could hear familiar yipping coming from out the window. Ciri smiled as she heard them, and hurried herself down the warm wood carved halls after the girls. She quickly caught up, and together they passed the threshold of the main keep.

At first, Ciri and Arya led the pack. Until the witcheress decided to let the girl greet her helmless Jon first.

Arya slammed into her brother's torso the very moment he was off his big mare, and quickly started to regale him on what he'd missed. Things like learning Gwent, hitting the center of the target from even farther away than last time he'd been back, and finally managing to get her cryomancy to, though loosely, go in a specific direction.

Jon, with his small smile, easily indulged his youngest sister, before switching his attention to Lya's and Alyssa's comparatively calmer greetings. Then his eyes fell upon Sansa, his surprise at seeing her out of her chambers was clear to Ciri, but after the shock passed his eyes softened. The slits even rounding out more than usual.

It was in that moment, seeing her Jon surrounded by happy children, that Ciri felt an odd tug low and deep in her abdomen. It was a feeling she'd never quite felt before, and paired with her full heart it brought about many questions.

But she dashed them all aside when Jon managed to maneuver Arya so that she was on his side rather than his front, and leaving Ciri a clear path to him.

She took it decisively, with long steps that ate up the small distance, and pressed herself against him while wrapping her arms around his neck. His filthy armour quickly dirtied her blouse, but Ciri hardly cared.

Ciri sneaked a kiss, one she'd forced herself to keep chaste for the girls' sakes, but Arya still made noises to voice her disgust.

Feeling slightly vindictive, Ciri deepened the embrace and smiled as the complaints got worse.

Then a man made an impressed noise a little ways away from them, and Ciri peeled herself from her Jon to acknowledge them.

The interrupter, by the little patch on the shoulder of his gambeson, was one of Jon's men, but she didn't recognise this one. So, she turned to Jon for introductions.

He cleared his throat, the pink of his ears fading, and quickly gave them, "Ciri, this is Rodrik Rivers, he joined us after we killed some men together outside of Stoney Sept."

Rodrik grinned at his introduction, his oddly familiar blue eyes going bright, "So you're the lady the Cap'n goes all distant for." he said, using the title all Jon's riders used after he tried explaining that he wasn't quite a Westerosi knight. His grin proved infectious, forcing Ciri to smile as well.

"A pleasure to meet you, Rodrik." she replied, still clinging to her Jon.

With the now traditional greeting, Jon's typical stray taking included, over with, Ciri took her Jon by the hand and shot him The Look. He nodded back, clearly thankful for her discretion.

She then positively dragged her Jon away from the courtyard, so quickly she left it behind that no one had even a chance of following. She then led him all throughout the main keep, taking what shortcuts she had discovered so far, and keeping away from anything that might get in her way.

Then they finally reached the door to their chambers in the guest wing, and Ciri almost threw the door open in her haste. She then pushed her Jon inside, not that she really had to, and slipped into the chamber.

The redwood door closed with a thud and Ciri dropped the wooden bar into place. Nothing was going to interrupt her in getting her dues, it had been far too long, and she was getting tired of using her will power to ignore the persisting feeling in her gut. What would soon come about, besides its usual benefits, would get rid of it well enough.

POV Tyrion, 18th day, 1st moon

In the distance, Tyrion spotted smoke floating up into the sky. So much that it couldn't be anything but a town or an army, and since he had seen no such thing on his way into the Mountains of the Moon Tyrion knew the source to be the latter.

For a moment he thought it to be the Blackfish's forces, but they had passed by him and Bronn a long time ago, and at quite the pace too. Even after spending as long as he and Bronn had in the mountains, then their time with the clans, and the slow march they took on the High Road. No, that man had to be long gone from there.

So, the army in his way could be anyone from an advance Northern group to Crownslanders, enemies or allies. Tyrion wouldn't take that chance.

"Timett." he called, and Timett, son of Corg, approached. He was a Stone Crow, and a particularly thin one at that, but he was one of the better scouts.

"Aye, The Tyrion?" the young man asked, the dwarf barely able to understand the words behind the thick accent.

"Do you see the smoke over the treeline?" Tyrion asked, gesturing towards the plainly obvious black clouds floating high into the sky.

Timett grunted his affirmative.

"I need you to go out there, look at what's making the smoke, then come back and tell me what you saw. Be sure to look for banners with lions, fish, or wolves on them." he instructed, ignoring the savage's confused look upon his mention of the banners.

"Banners... like Lowlanders?" Tyrion thought he asked.

"Yes."

Timett nodded resolutely, his beard flapping slightly, then walked off into the woods. Tyrion didn't look up when Bronn walked up next to him.

"You think he's coming back?" the sellsword asked nonchalantly.

"If that camp belongs to the Starks or Tully? Most likely yes. If it's my father, mayhaps he won't be." Tyrion said, giving the dark rogue the most non-answer of answers.

Bronn grunted.

Conversation stalled in the entire group, from him and the sellsword in the front to the slowest of the Clansmen in the back. It stayed that for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a dozen or so moments.

Then Timett returned with his findings, "A great Lowlander war camp be the smoke maker, The Tyrion."

"And the banners?"

"Lions of gold, on red." Timett answered, a strange look on his face. Tyrion chose to ignore it.

"Then it's your father." Bronn said, looking down towards him with a raised brow.

Tyrion nodded, and though he knew, and hoped, it might be Jaime, the Gods hated him far too much to bless him like that. The dwarf got the attention of the bored Clansmen, gestured for them to follow, and then went off for the Lannister camp.

The journey was thankfully short, and one of the watchers quickly noticed them.

"Halt!" the man shouted, "State your purpose and identity!" he was young, and taken on recently. Judging by the fact he didn't recognise his Lord's son.

In the face of the demands, many of the Clansmen started jeering and cursing the man out, but Tyrion quickly put a stop to it. "I am Tyrion Lannister, bring me to my father and I shall see you rewarded!" he shouted back, all to get a clearly doubtful look from the man.

Regardless of that, Tyrion marched himself forward with only Bronn as an escort. When they finally reached the watchman, he shrugged and led the way into the camp.

As he walked through it, Tyrion saw the camp to be as organized as one could expect from his father, with clearly distinct areas for each and every necessary section. Tents for the levies, men-at-arms, knights, and Lords all clearly distinct from one another, yet in their own group. The same was for the supplies, livestock, forge and fletchers tents, and quartermaster's tent. All while the latrine ditch and cooking tents were put on opposite ends of the camp.

The men themselves were all as pristine as their quality equipment, even the peasant levies were all given crimson gambeson and helms painted golden.

Eventually, he came upon the command tent. Just outside of which was someone he knew well, "Lucion!" Tyrion called to his distant cousin, "How's your father, still a grouch of an old man?"

His much younger, and significantly taller, cousin blinked, before his eyes widened in recognition, "Tyrion, you're truly alive!" he said, to which the watchman that led them there beat a hasty retreat.

"Indeed, I do. Try as Lady Arryn and her son might, I didn't leave the Eyrie through the Moon Door." Tyrion said with an attempt at a charming smile. He could still hear it now, how the wind itself seemed to howl in hunger when that door was opened. A particularly cruel invention that thing was, but admittedly inspired.

"A good thing, this war could end all the sooner for that alone." Lucion replied, his eyes sad. He was the rare sort of young man that would rather avoid war and battle.

Tyrion walked closer to the tent flap, coming up next to his cousin, "Is he in a meeting?" he asked, it would be good to know what he'd be getting himself into.

"Yes, Lord Tywin has been with all the Lords and commanders for quite a while, I merely left to get a breath of fresh air." Lucion easily answered, smiling apologetically and scratching at his shortly cropped Lannister blond hair.

"Shall we enter the breach together then?" to that Lucion gave him a bemused smile that quirked his well-shaped brows, before nodding.

Then in they went, his cousin reaching ahead to push the tent flap open for him, and silently intruded on the ongoing debate between the lords. Only just hearing his father say something about his "Son" and he knew it was for Jaime. A few of the Lords acknowledged his presence with nods, others with short glances. His uncle Kevan wasn't there, which was certainly strange. Where his father was his uncle often followed, to see Lord Tywin go without his second was concerning.

"We should retreat, and regroup with what remnants of Ser Jaime's army he can find. Both the North and the Vale will be converging here. We do not have the numbers to hold against them both without considerable fortifications." Ser Robert Brax, cautiously as what Tyrion's heard of the man says, suggested strongly.

"You would have us flee before even facing them in battle?" Ser Addam asked, shaking his head, "I say we march up the King's Road, attack the Stark boy along his march. He's green enough, unlikely to suspect such."

"The time for such a maneuver has passed, Ser. We have spent to long camped here to do so." Ser Brax said, glancing to where Tyrion stood near the entrance.

"We have too many foes, my lords." Lord Swift suddenly said, "We should sue for peace with the Starks, thus appeasing all three Kingdoms and saving us from this disaster Ser Jaime put upon us when his army was felled by only five thousand Riverlanders. That way we can focus our might against the Baratheon brothers." the man was a craven fool, but even a blind squirrel is known to bump into a nut or two on occasion.

At that, many of the other Lords and Sers of the table made certain aggreging noises. And although it angered Tyrion to hear his brother slandered so, he also found himself pondering over the main of his words.

"We could be seen as weak if we did so without suitable... material damage." one knight, a particularly burly one at that, said.

"Our army has burned three Riverland castle to nought but ash and rubble, and made certain that the coming winter for the southern Riverlands will devastate the supply of smallfolk. Plenty has been don-"

"They have my son!" The Lord of Lannister said, and while his voice was only raised a slight bit higher, it seemed to boom.

Silence filled the tent, none of the men daring to so much as whisper, let alone speak.

"Leave, all of you." his lord father commanded, and they all obeyed. Tyrion moving to join the rest of the men filing out, "Not you." his stern voice sounded, and Tyrion knew it was for him. When the dwarf looked to him in askance, Lord Tywin merely pointed to one of the recently vacated seats.

He did so, and waited for him to start the conversation. His father was clearly not in the mood for antics, and Tyrion wouldn't indulge himself. No matter how much he wanted to. For Jaime's sake at least.

"You yet live." his Lord Father said, his voice as neutral as it ever was when his words were meant for Tyrion.

"Indeed, I do. I know how that must disappoint you." Tyrion replied. His sire, however, made no notion of hearing his words.

"Then it seems remaining here at the end of the High Road is no longer necessary, and that I require replacement rumour mongers." Hmm, shame that. Michel is a good sort. Wait... His father, Tywin Lannister, waited for him?!

"Are we to retreat to Harrenhal then?" Tyrion asked, it seemed the only place to go with all he knew of what was going on around them. With all their enemies north of north-east it was as good a staging ground as any for their offensive. "And what was that talk of facing the Baratheon brothers?"

"Both Stannis and Renly have claimed crowns, Stannis through lies and Renly through the might of the Reach." his father quite nearly sighed out.

"How did our wise King take the news?"

"Your sister hasn't informed him." Lord Tywin said, "She fears he might march on them himself, or finally kill Stark."

"And with Stannis ready to pounce from Dragonstone..."

"Yes, here I thought you were meant for motley." his sire said, looking down at him, "Perhaps I was wrong." he finished, looking away.

"Goodness, Father, that quite nearly sounds like praise." Tyrion smiled crookedly, before he leaned intently towards his father, "What of Stannis? He seems the more immediate threat, with the exception of the Blackfish."

"Nothing, what I felt to be our greatest obstacle in the beginning, does nothing. Varys tells me his whispers of ships building, sellswords being bought, a shadowbinder swearing themselves to his crown, and dragons flying all about." Lord Tywin sipped his wine.

"Gulls painted by children is more likely." Tyrion laughed, as much as it pained a part of him to say.

"With the Stark boy bringing his host down the King's Road, the Vale marching through the Mountains of the Moon, and the Blackfish rallying the Riverlords in the west we are pressed by all sides." Lord Tywin said, his gaze sliding over a detailed map of central Westeros.

"Perhaps peace would be the best route for the Starks, give them Eddard Stark and they're all like to go back to their snows and forests for the next half-century." Tyrion then pulled a delightful mouthful of Arbour Red from his chalice, "Without the support the Tully's will take any peace we offer them at this point. Then our dear Joff's rule will be safe until the next war comes. I bet it comes from Essos."

"Enough of your japes." Lord Tywin Lannister started, "There shall be no lasting peace with the Tully's, nor the Starks. The impertinence of them both, stealing you away for as flimsy a justification, bathing the Red Keep in blood when your sister moved to arrest Lord Stark." his father swiftly cut down the mere thought of forgiving and forgetting. "And freeing Eddard Stark to the North would be too costly, a commander of his skill and experience would make delivering justice upon them all the more difficult." his father sipped from his wine once again, "He is also our only hostage, thanks to your sister's foolishness. Even now, we have no word on the location of the Stark girls, for all we've heard on the Bastard joining with the Blackfish." his sire almost scowled.

"What are we to do then?"

"You are to go to King's Landing and rule as Hand in my name." Lord Tywin answered.

"Pardon?" Tyrion asked, dumfounded.

"Your sister has proven incapable of ruling the city, nor of controlling her own son, not even the capturing of a pair of young girls." his father said, his forefinger tapping the solid oak table rhythmlessly. "You will take power from her, in my name, and set the capitol to rights." or else, didn't need to be said. It never had to be when his father entrusted anyone with anything. No matter who they were or what it was.

"Why me?" he asked, very nearly stammering. "Why not Uncle even, or any of the cousins. Lord Lefford, Ser Addam?"

"You are my son." his Lord Father answered, taking a sip from his half-empty wine glass.

They sat there in silence for a moment, then Tyrion gathered his wits.

"I will not disappoint." Tyrion promised, not even a hint of his usual flare present. This was an opportunity he'd never seen before, and would never see again.

"Dismissed, Lucion will hand you letters for the council before you depart." his sire said, turning his attention to the parchments on his table.

Tyrion, for the first time in years, bowed properly towards his father before he left the command tent. He just barely remembered to send for his Clansmen and go visit the quartermaster for their promised equipment.

He knew, that once that was done, he would march them as quick as he could. He'd have none say that he ruled the city poorly, and to keep that from coming about he would have to get there before Cersei let anything else slip through her fingers.

POV Ned, ? day, ? moon

Pain was a strange thing.

When Ned was a boy, it's hold over him was so weak that it held very little meaning to him. All it was was the scrapes on his knees, a stubbed toe, or Brandon stealing his sweets. As a young man it was Robert's hammer strikes during their spars in the Vale, being overlooked by the ladies, and the rare tumble off his horse in the tiltyard in the Gates of the Moon.

Then he was sent the letter, the letter that told him of his mother's sudden illness. He didn't even remember what the disease was, though mayhaps he was never told.

But he could still hear her final words for him, muffled though they had been through the door he wasn't allowed to pass.

"Don't trust them, sweet Ned... all that lies south... is ruin." it was like she was right there next to him. He could even see her face, illuminated in the darkness by the light of an unseen candle. Just a beautiful as she was before he went to the Vale.

Once she died, he knew a special sort of pain that left him feeling empty for weeks.

What's worse, she was right, and he didn't believe her. Especially during the tourney, that bittersweet mess where the promise of all he wanted was dangled before him like a carrot before an obstinate mule. But his mother was right, and for his blindness Brandon rode to his death, with their father burning to safe his brave hide. Then Lya... oh Lya.

He could see her as well, but not as he had last, broken in that bed and talking to people who weren't there, but as he saw her before leaving again for the Vale. Her long, saddened face, so much like his Arya's that it hurt to think about, as he rode away shortly after dawn. She shouted for him to return then, to go back with her, Ben and Brandon, perhaps he should have listened. If he had, if he had he might have been with her then, and trade his life that she could escape back to the castle.

Ned, his knees and wrists aching, shifted his weight, and the sharp spike of pain that tore into his spine brought him back to the world, wiping the faces away like blowing out a candle.

The boy had visited him shortly after Filly left to take out his anger on him. He still had his other eye, and had lost nothing more than skin and blood off his back, which was good. His mother rather liked his eyes after all. It would not do to lose the other.

Joffrey's many visits had, over time, taught him some of what happened outside the darkness. For one, the Lannister grip on the city was only strengthening, somehow, but that their influence outside the Westerlands and Crowlands was slipping. Stannis had risen up for his rights with the Blackfish blunting the Lannister offensive, and all would be well, if not for Renly doing the same in the Reach. Gods be good, Ned didn't know what the young man was thinking. He didn't seem like one to do that when he knew him. He could only hope Stannis would put sense into his brother without too many lives lost.

Ned groaned softly, though it echoed back to him loudly, and clenched his eyes shut. Gods they were dry.

When he finally opened them, he found himself on a stone rubbing his gauntlet chaffed wrists. The pain in the joints eased, and he went back to cleaning Ice. But... hadn't he? No, the blade hardly left his side since he took it up when he arrived.

He ran the oil cloth up and down its length, as he'd seen his father do whenever Ned met him in the Godswood after an execution.

The smoky ripples were bathed in blood, just as they usually were, and he worked at cleaning them. It was tiring work, doing so all the time, but it had to be done.

"You're a foolish man, Eddard Stark." a woman's voice whispered.

Silently, as he turned to face her, he agreed.

When he looked to the source of the voice, he saw no one, and smelt only lemons with a hint of the sea. Ned swung his head around to look for her, but it proved futile. No amount of searching would yield anything, and he had other pressing matters to attend to.

Like getting all the damned blood off his sword, and his hands after that. Sadly, it seemed to cling to Ice like a leech on a fat man's back.

As he put his shoulder into rubbing the cloth over it, a snapping twig pulled his attention to the warm pool under the red leaves. "Join me, Ned." he heard, but again he saw nought.

Lord Stark returned to Ice with a fury, then he heard a shout, "What?!" he demanded, standing from the boulder.

Thin arms then wrapped tight around his thigh, "When are you going to come get me?" Lya asked in the soft voice of their childhood.

Looking down to her, he saw her sweet little face twisted in concern with blood-red tears briming in her eyes. "Soon, Lya, but people keep getting in the way." he said, his own tears building. "I'm going too slow."

His vision blurred, "I'll do better..." he promised, darkness swirling around her ankles as she clutched tighter to him.

Ned tried to reach for her, but something hot and scaled held his wrists fast.

The darkness around her grew, and a toothy maw lunged up from the abyss to snap her up, sinking its sharp teeth into her belly. "Lya!" he screamed, tearing the skin of his wrists against his binds as the darkness enveloped them both.

"Lya!" he shouted into the shadows as he thrashed against the beast that held him.

"Ned!" a voice whispered harshly, "Wake up! It's a dream, that's all!"

Both his heart and his thrashing slowed as he recognised the softly accented voice, "Filly?"

"Aye, it's time to get, Ned." the young girl said, something clinking in his shackles, "Ha!" she laughed, as his left arm fell from the wall. He then heard her quickly shift about to his right, and unlocked the shackle on that side as well.

"Can ya stand, Ned?" Filly asked quickly.

"Yes, I believe I can." he replied, though he himself harshly doubted it.

With the help of his awfully heavy arms, Ned got his feet under him. Then, pushing himself up against the stone wall. He struggled not to scream as his wounds tore against the rough-hewn blocks, but, bless the Gods, the pain put enough fire in his veins to keep him from falling over once he was standing.

Gently brushing off Filly's worries, Ned trudged along with his side pressed onto the wall in support.

"Lead the way, if you will." he said, looking over to where the girl must have been.

He heard an exasperated sigh from her direction, and a small hand grabbing his right forefinger. She pulled on him gently, guiding him forward through the dark.

Ned was slow moving, much slower than when he was first put in the cell, and needed constant support. This was usually provided by the wall, but, at times, Filly herself had to brace his weight against her shoulder and struggle to keep him mostly upright.

As the young girl led him onward, Ned not only fought against his heavy and nearly useless legs, but also his weary mind.

The fight started going against him when Filly had him stop walking. "I need ta find the right stone." she explained, though what she meant by that... Ned couldn't currently discern.

Eventually, as Ned struggled to ignore Benjen's dark and somber face, and his words of warning about the Weeper's gathering army, Filly let out a small triumphant noise. A noise that was quickly followed by the slight sound on stone scraping only slightly against another of its kind.

It was a familiar sound, poking at something deep in his mid and distracting him for the moment he took to get back to walking with the wall.

Where was it...

He realised it quite suddenly, that the last time he heard it was in the Vale. He and Robert were dragging some stone blocks, the source of which his friend had never divulged to him, as part of the set up for a prank on the Eyrie's Maester. Or was it one of the man's acolytes?

That particular practical jest was the first of its kind between him and Robert, the pulling off of which truly sparked their friendship, with the following shared punishment cementing it.

Ned let a sigh escape him, those days seemed so far away for so long. When was the last time he'd thought of that memory, moons or years? He didn't rightly know.

Filly, after the scratching stone started and stopped again, supported him as she prodded him into shuffling forward. He did as the young lady bid, putting one foot ahead of the other and doing his utmost to not trip over his own feet.

Ned didn't know how long they went like that, nor did he know how fast they went or how much distance they covered. Perhaps they weren't going anywhere at all, and were trapped in the darkness.

Suddenly, Ned realised he could see. It was a slight thing, but after so long in such deep shadow, broken only by the dim light of a candle when the boy would visit him, it was startling. The ground below him wasn't the cut reddish stone of the Red Keep or the cells beneath, but the smooth and worn grey rock of a cave or a mine shaft. The walls to his left and right were much the same, and devoid of any supporting beams or sconces.

As they continued, and the light slowly grew in strength, Ned could finally see Filly clearly for the first time. The fact that she was a small thing was the first of the traits he noticed, his little saviour couldn't have been older than twelve namedays, and yet she held surprising strength in her diminutive frame. Enough to assist in supporting the weight of a full-grown man, diminished though it must be. Truly, he towered over her much like he did Sansa, even though his daughter was tall for her age.

Next was the determined look etched into her heart-shaped face, and the steely look in her brown eyes. Something that firmly set her apart from his eldest girl, and brought her closer in appearance to Arya, even with the difference in look and colouring.

The faraway sound of waves crashing upon rocks pulled him from his musings, pulling his remaining eye to look into the distant reaches of the tunnel he found himself in.

Slowly, yet surely as the rising sun, the light grew brighter. Enough so that it started to hurt his eye, though he cared little for the deepening ache. For the sight that cleared before him dashed any attempt to look away from its splendor.

Grey skies and dark waters had never seemed as beautiful to Ned as they did in that moment, nor was the taste of salt so sweet. And without its usual bitterness.

The small circle, his window to that beauty, grew as he went along over the stones. Getting bigger and bigger, until, finally, he could no longer see the walls of the cave surrounding it.

Before him stretched the endless ocean, and the infinite sky above.

He stood there for a moment, on the threshold between the dark cells behind and the wonderful light before. He soaked it in, that feeling of standing right on the precipice, like he had each time he felt it before. Each and every time was different, but also the same. The first was the first step he took onto that boat in White Harbor, the carrack that would bring him to Gulltown. He was terrified then.

This time it was a different, but just as real fear. No matter how wonderous the promise was... it could all be a dream. Thrust upon his by his desperate body and mind.

Eventually, he decided, and took his first step over the edge.

And fell off the cliff.

_Cut_

He came to his senses in darkness once for, and for a moment he panicked. Before he realised that he could see, if only a little. Not only that, but the floor under him swayed and bucked like an unbroken horse.

Groggily, Ned reached up to touch his throbbing head, and felt bandages. The strange thing was, however, that he didn't feel the typical wetness that came from bound headwounds.

"Eddard?" he heard a young voice ask hesitantly.

"Sansa?" he said, his head spinning. Boats had never agreed his Ned, even in the calmest of waters.

"No, it's Filly. Remember?"

"Aye... Filly, daughter of Corly and Emma." he said, showing that he did, indeed, remember her. She was just so damned quiet.

Ned, ignoring the young girl's objections, felt around the wooden planks under him, until he found what must have been a wall a bit to his left. As quickly as he could, which as actually quite slow, Ned crawled his way to it and sat in front of the wall with his back leaning heavily against it. He found that sitting upright could help ease him when at sea. The pain also served to sharpen his mind.

Once properly situated, Ned sighed, and rested his hands in his lap. Then finally asked Filly what had happened.

"Well..." she started, conjuring the image of a girl worriedly fiddling with her hands in his mind, "You were just standin' there, after we reached the shore. Then when you started movin' again... I tripped... and we fell over." she then added the last of it quickly, "You didn' hit your head though! When I got up you were sound asleep is all."

"Then these bandages?" he asked, weakly gesturing towards them.

"Captain Aurane said that they are ta hide your face, and the eye..." Filly answered gently, as though he were made of poorly constructed glass and her words might be a hammer.

He nodded his understanding, the motion reminding him just how tired he was.

Perhaps, perhaps he could take a small nap for himself. Then he would ask after their destination. Yes, that sounded like an excellent idea.

Then, all at once, Ned let himself drift away.

POV Ramsay, 23rd day, 1st moon

Ramsay stopped, and looked around the small clearing. It was free of snow, the only evidence that the summer snows even came last night being the dusting of white on the lower tree branches. The loamy ground was covered in soft green moss, and was as clear of twigs as could be. It was as good a spot as the last time he'd gone on a hunt, which was good. He'd rather not reuse the same starting ground, that just made things too easy.

With a nod, he turned back to his boys. "Put the doe down against the tree over there." he commanded, and they quickly followed.

The one carrying the shivering creature was Luton, and he carefully dumbed the doe to the ground. Where it struggled for a moment before the man grabbed it by the shoulders and pressed it tightly against the tree. Ramsay had to click his tongue, this one was hardly like the last. Now she had plenty of fight in her, forcing him to bring more of his boys to keep her from outright attacking him with a tree branch. What a woman, had to be at least half a wildling, almost a shame to kill her. Almost.

The creature he was stuck with now, however, was pathetic. He was almost convinced to simply slit its throat in the castle, but that wouldn't be sporting. Now would it. It might even surprise him, though he doubted it.

Besides, it looked much like he was told the Stark's Umber bitch did, so he was appeased slightly by that thought. Last he heard she was big with at least one babe, he hoped it was a guardsman's. Maybe even the Maester's! Now that'd be a laugh.

He banished the thoughts, he could think on that later. Now, now he had a family tradition to upkeep.

Ramsay approached the doe, Luton shifting out of his way while still keeping it pinned to the trunk. He grabbed its chin and forced it to look into his eyes, over with Ben Bones his girls' growling quieted, "Yaiore of the Quiet Village, I am Ramsay of House Bolton." he started calmly, as the ancient family texts instructed, "You have been chosen as this half-moon's offering. Should you go uncaught by my men or myself for a day and night you are free to go, and I shall have to give a part of myself for my failure. Should we catch you before then you shall be given to the gods." he finished.

There, he had explained the rules of this game, just as a true scion of House Bolton must. Ramsay had even used the formal wording the text supplied him with.

Now for the start of the fun part, "Strip her."

Luton silently followed the command, tearing the ragged clothes from the doe as it screamed into the gag. Once it was good and nude, with only its hair and binds covering its pale skin, it was tossed to the mossy dirt front first.

There Luton straddled the back legs of his prey, and cut its wrists free of the rope, next to go were those around the doe's ankles.

Not a second after Luton rose to his feet the prey sprang up and rushed off into the woods, as it crossed the treeline the traditional head start commenced.

Slowly, almost painfully so, time trickled by as Ramsay felt his impatience grow. He had to keep reminding himself why the head start was put in place at all. Not fairness, nor honour. No, it was to make the chase all the more exhilarating. At first, he didn't understand why, but Reek had shown him. How running after prey could set your veins aflame, and how just barely missing them over and over again, then finally catch them, could make your hands shake in ecstasy.

Finally, when the time neared its end, Luton gathered up the doe's rags and handed them to Ben Bones.

The wiry old man brought the former clothes up to each of the three hounds, all of whom excitedly sniffed at the old torn wool with their tails wagging up a storm. Dogs were strange creature, often continuing to look upon you with affection right up until you slit their throats. Ramsay had taken to killing them when he was younger, but quickly outgrew the practise. The appeal having drained with each kill after the first.

Then he'd discovered hunting women instead, and still each hunt gave him a similar yet different sense of life.

He watched as Ben Bones threw the rags aside, into some scraggily bushes, and goad the three bitches into searching for the doe's scent trail.

Suddenly, the oldest bitch, Elinor, caught the scent with a deep bark. One that Bones once told him was one of triumph.

Elinor quickly sprinted off, with the other two swiftly following her lead with small and sharp barks. Ramsay and his boys did the same, the young man in the lead, right behind the dog's tails, with the old man and middle-aged swordsmen at his heels.

The dogs led him through underbrush filled with snapped branches, and over snow drifts smashed over before they arrived. The three Bolton Hounds were relentless in their chase of the doe, even as they panted and their tongues lolled out of their maws. Ramsay's breaths were deep and even, however, and his pace just as stubborn.

Eventually, there was a sharp turn in where the dogs lead them, and they came upon a small river. The hounds stalked up and down the bank, sniffing and barking across the water. On the other side, Ramsay saw nothing to mark anything's passing.

He had to wonder if his prey's previous weakness was an act to throw him off her trail, it must have been.

Ramsay smiled, his lips twisting into a toothy and cruel thing, and he quickly searched up and down the river. Once he found the right spot, he sprinted for it.

Then jumped the river, shouting for his boys to follow, and easily reached the opposite bank.

Landing with a roll, he only spared the rest a glance, and saw that Bones had got the dogs to start swimming after him. While Luton jumped near the same place Ramsay did.

Impatient, he passed his gaze over everything he could, and managed to spy his prey's tracks pressed into weak dirt between two slightly exposed roots. With his blood lust rising, Ramsay took off in the direction the three prints led.

Although he was the first to rush along the trail, he was soon overtaken by streaks of black fur and his boys caught up with him. They ran after his prey just as they did in the beginning, but this time the tracks in the ground were a precious few in hard to spot places, and there was nothing broken to speak of. Not twigs, branches, nor snow.

Suddenly, the bitch with premature grey in her black fur, Yisela, shot into another direction, the young bitch likely choosing to follow another scent, but if the doe had found a way to split her scent trail? Pulling out hair and tying it to a rabbit or somesuch, it was unlikely, but Ramsay would take no chances. Not with how cunning this one was proving to be.

"Follow her Luton!" he shouted, and he and Ben Bones followed the two remaining bitches. The old man managing to keep pace with him.

Ramsay raced after the pair, Bones next to him shouting encouragement and promises to the dogs, for whatever reason, which spurred them on. Somehow.

As they all ran, the dogs not so much as stopping once, unlike with each and every other one of his hunts. Even as they forded streams and passed by churned up puddles of mud. The pair was hot on the trail like never before. He wondered if they particularly liked this one's scent, it was nothing special to him when he checked.

Suddenly, he heard the snapping of branches and a muffled cry up ahead, the obvious source yet hidden by the greenery. Clearly hearing it as well, the dogs doubled their speed and rushed off a head of them, into the underbrush and around trees. Going until he couldn't see them anymore.

Ramsay slowed his pace as another muffled scream sounded out from where the dogs raced to.

Then panicked yips and whimpers cut through the air, and Bones broke into a sprint at the sounds. Ramsay weighted the options. The bitches had only made such noises with the half-wildling, but had still caught her in their crushing jaws. So, rushing at their cries of pain seemed rather unnecessary. Then again, this one has been surprising so far. So, he made his choice, and ran after the old man.

Finally, after pushing through thick bushes and slinking between the trucks of a thick grove of sentinels, he and Bones found the bitches at the truck of a tree, sniffing around its roots and pawing at the bark.

"Gods, girls. Ye gave me a scare there." Bones said, right before a sharp crack sounded from his direction.

Ramsay quickly spun around to see the doe, no, girl standing above the dog trainer with a sharply broken tree branch in her hands. Her gag was still in place, and soaked through his spittle, sweat, and some blood near the corners of her mouth.

He smiled, and threw his bow aside to pull his falchion from its sheath on his belt. One of the bitches growled, but a swift kick reminded it of its place.

"You gave me a good chase, girl." he said, "For that you win a prize." that of a swift death. Only after he'd taken his dues from her flesh, of course. As was his right.

She slowly backed away from him, as he slowly advanced, stick in hand with the pointed end trembling in his direction.

Ramsay lifted his falchion above his head and charged, ready to cut off one of the hands holding the stick and rendering her properly defenceless, as she should be. As all should be before a Bolton.

He closed in one his prey, then her grey eyes went white, and pain violently stabbed into the meat of his lower leg. Ramsay swallowed the cry that nearly escaped him, and quickly swiped down at whatever dared injure him.

Only for an all to similar, but somehow completely different pain to erupt from his other leg.

This time a guttural groan pushed its way from his lips, and it was all he could do to keep standing without his blade slipping from his grasp.

Then the woman fell to her knees, as if her legs' hamstrings were cut, with the stick slipping from limp fingers, the fear of both him and whatever demon had attacked him clearly too much for her. Soon after he heard a growl from behind, and a weight slammed into his back with dozens of fiery daggers ripping into his shoulder. Ramsay, though dropping his sword, defiantly stood for a moment longer, before finally falling backward at the sharp tug of one of the pain makers.

As he fell, the weight sprung off of his back, and the beasts tearing at his legs receded. Ramsay barely noticed the sky, especially when he saw what exactly attacked him. The hounds, all of their eyes the same white as his collapsed prey, but that hardly mattered.

"Fucking traitors!" he painfully shouted, "I'll be sure to skin you slowly when I get out of this, whimper and bark all you li-"

Yisela teeth then sunk into his neck, and violently pulled.

As warm lifeblood gushed from the wound, and painted his face, all he could do was shudder in shock. Shudder and look up at the sky, at the slash of crimson blood torn into its painfully blue expanse.

POV Karra, 28th day, 1st moon

Karra couldn't sleep, no matter how comfortable the bed was, nor how cozy the little room in the inn felt. If one were to ask her why she'd have no answer, which was strange. It was like something was directly prodding at her mind, and not in the way she was accustomed to. Perhaps it was the blood red comet that hung heavy in the sky overhead. Visible even in the now black night sky.

Neither she, nor Lara, were ever trained in prophesy or reading signs with any sort of depth. Both practises Crennegan considered to be a load of horseshit made up to control the masses and justify later atrocities. Regardless of the man's thoughts, however, people put stock into it. And elves gave it more respect than most other species. Each and every child being taught the basics of sign reading and interpretation.

So, when she first noticed the red comet, Karra felt a great foreboding deep within her. For what could a bloody slash in the clear sky mean other than terrible things ahead. The clash of colours, the deep blood red against the gentle blue, and in the sky itself. Lasting for five days now. A sign with that kind of grandeur to it? Something horrific was surely on its way, to strike down with crushing force.

But Karra couldn't help but wonder who those potential horrors would befall. Was it any one specific person, one of import? Or was it the tragedy of a single group? Perhaps even the fall of a Kingdom.

Or was that only an excuse, to cover for her own worry over how all this was going to go, the war and everything else was developing in both good and bad ways. For one thing, two other claimants to the Kingdom's throne rising up, yet both seemed to do nothing. Karra knew what they were doing, however. They were gathering their power, and letting Jon's family bleed both the Lannister's and their own forces for them.

Perhaps it was the rumours and the telling silence from King's Landing over Lord Robb's demands for proof of his father's life, the first rider the only one fortunate to even return from the enemy camps. The later pair having gone and never returned, just as all their outriders had. That could be it, the blindness of their army being the source of her concern. And the other half of that was just where the Lannister army has disappeared to.

Thankfully, not all of recent events were poor. They had received two ravens along their march, how that worked she knew little other than the feat's notorious difficulty, telling them of two things that brought the morale to a sudden high.

The first told them of something they already expected, that the Vale forces were finally making their way out of the Mountains of the Moon, and that they should now be only days away from joining them. The second was more of a surprise, Serena was a little over two moons with child. Something which pulled Robb out of the mood he'd been in, one that thankfully only showed in private. Karra had strongly suggested he tell the rest of the Lords the good news. Which he did with little convincing.

All together the current situation was slightly in their favour, but nothing she thought off could disperse this gnawing feeling she had.

Suddenly, the shrill cry of trumpets and booming war cries ripped her from her contemplations. Sounds of fighting and men shouting filled the air, even coming from below her very feet.

The elf quickly threw off her blankets and swung her way to her feet, then rushed herself to the window. After throwing it open, the light of fire just enough for her eyes to pierce the darkness, she saw just who was attacking them.

Seeing levies in dull red with what seemed to be their sergeants wearing golden helms storming over the small fortifications in droves allowed for a swift assessment. Finally spotting a lion banner far to the rear killed any lingering doubts.

Karran quickly surveyed the camp, taking in all she could. Most of their camp was now in disarray, with torch bearing Lannister soldiers throwing their flaming loads into tents before being slaughtered by the tents' neighbours, groups of men in gilded steel plate cutting their way to the larger tents, and what Northmen that were awake doing their all the kill their enemies.

Things then developed into a bigger mess when the half armoured and until recently asleep Northern army roused itself to combat the Lannister men.

Soon after it all fell into one massive melee, with few organised pockets of either side's forces. Some were bigger, like Lord Umber's and Lady Mormont's, others smaller, such as Lord Greyjoy's, and all but one were going in the same direction.

Within the burning chaos of what used to be their fortified camp, in the center of the largest pocket of order and the goal of all the others, stood Robb Stark, killing his way to the inn. She could almost hear his rallying shouts from there, with the flames adding a glow to his auburn hair and shinning sword he was a beacon for the soldiers along with the knights. It also let the enemy know of his location.

There he goes, painting a target on his back.

Karra then pushed herself away from the window just as she saw the young man cut down some poorly armoured knight who made it through the growing ring of men around the Lord. In her small room, Karra calmly, but with a healthy sense of urgency, threw on her trousers and her gambeson, making sure to cover the red with a short grey cloak she'd been given.

She left her weighted-chain-and-dagger on its peg, instead snatching the ironwood spear Bran had insisted she bring south with her.

After gently opening the door to the hall, Karra strode down the wooden floors quickly. As she went, she ordered for the Stark-sworn swordsmen at Lady Stark's door to keep the woman inside and remain where they were. As determined as the noblewoman could be, she wasn't anything near a fighter, and thus a liability here.

The elf then walked down the stairs, expecting the fighting to have breached the inn by now, only to find the common room deserted. Quick glances let her know that the windows were still tightly boarded up, and that near all the furnishing toppled.

Karra, the relatively quiet inn now dropped from her thoughts, burst open the front door and was thrust into the heart of a battlefield.

Only a dozen feet in front of her was a line of Northmen two bodies deep, fighting ferociously against men with boars on their surcoats. They were holding strong, but she could see that the bodies on the ground were those of more Stark levies than that the boars, Crakehalls perchance, and Lannister. Not only that, but the enemy had already mirrored their own line, facing both the Northmen in front of the inn's door and any others that might strike from behind. Should nothing be done to tilt the scales in their favour the Lannister men would break into the inn, killing Lady Stark, or worse, taking her hostage.

Steeling herself, Karra stripped a large heater shield and a visored barbute style helm from a nearby dead Western knight, then pushed into the line with a shout.

"Men of the North!" she started, just barely getting the ears of the front liners, and a glance for those in the second, "Lord Stark is out there, fighting his way to us! Let us ease his burden, and slaughter the bastards in his way!"

She wasn't the type for speeches, but the men that could roared in response and all those at the front threw themselves into the fight with renewed vigor. Karra herself was given a spot in the second rank, where she was both moderately defended by the smaller man before her and able to thrust her spear at the enemy from over his shoulder.

With the buoyed morale of the Northmen, the Crakehall levies buckled, but were quickly supported by the men behind them. Men who attack the disjointedly armoured Stark men any way they could.

A move which left their rear more sparsely defended, yet still it wasn't enough.

"Is that all you have!" she cried, ramming her spear into a man's eye, "Are you not Northmen?!"

The men all roared louder this time, the second row thrusting or slicing best they could over their fellows, the front line smashing their shields against those of the enemy all the harder. Some even dropping their weapons to put more force into it.

Finally, every last one of the boar and lion men before them turned to face the determined Northmen.

It was then that war cries sounded from behind their foes, and an unseen group slammed into them. Each and every man in the line charged forward at that, pressing their enemy against the Northern reinforcements.

Quick work was made of the levies, their corpses or trembling injured bodies lying prone at their feet, and the Lord of Stark, along with his forces, were revealed to her. Robb was wearing more armour than she first saw from the window, now wearing mismatching vambraces and gauntlets with his northern brigandine and steel pauldrons. Two White Harbor knights had joined his group, which then had only consisted of men-at-arms and levies. Each and every man was injured in some way, but all still seemed to retain all their faculties.

Once her assessment was complete, Karra approached the young, and slightly twitchy, lord. "Lord Stark, we've been expecting you." the elf said, knocking up her bloodied visor.

"Ah, Lady Karra, how is the inn?" Robb asked, his true question clear.

"All is well and secured, Lord Stark." she easily answered.

Then, just as he went to say more, an arrow shaft sprouted from his helmless face. Right in his cheek.

His eyes wide with shock, Robb swayed on his feet amidst the shouts of the men around them, before reaching up and weakly grasping the arrow. He gave it a testing tug, and then ripped the bodkin headed arrow right out of his face with a low grunt.

Karra, in a rare moment of numbness, watched as he touched around the hole in his face. Then reached down to the corpse under his feet, stripped it of its greathelm, and secured it to his own head.

"Excellent." he said, as if nothing had occurred, "Then all we must do now is force the Lannisters to retreat."

He turned away from her then, and addressed the stunned soldiers around them, "Brothers! Let us join the rest of our Northern brethren, and crush these Southerners!" he roared, and immediately pushing his way into the nearest group of foes to defend the inn. Greywind tore an opening into their defense with both his teeth and the sheer terror he brought, one which the young lord used to full advantage.

As Lord Robb cut his way into the Lannister levies, she took command of a select part of the force. Arounder her, she commanded men with arms similar to her own to band together to form a proper shield wall with spears poking through all the gaps. Each end against the walls of the inn, with the center curving outward to create a space where the men following Lord Stark outside the wall could return to rest behind them between excursions.

Karra herself was in the center, ignoring how the ground squelched under her feet and trusting her spear through the small gaps they had left for them.

She almost lost herself to simply attacking blindly many times, she was embarrassed to say. Were it not for Lara's numerous well-timed warnings she'd have stabbed one of their own by now. At times the wall would swiftly open up, allowing small groups of tired Northmen behind their ranks. The groups would vary in size, however, the space inside was getting tighter and tighter.

Suddenly, the wall opened to her left and allowed a blood drenched Lord Stark, with similarly soaked Greywind slinking behind him, into the resting space behind them. The spearmen rammed their weapons into the small boarsman who tried to follow him through.

He then quickly made his way to her, "I know that Jon is capable of some magic, are you the same?" he asked, without a trace of hesitation. Nor care for the men around them hearing.

"In a limited fashion." she answered, not letting her irritation show. She'd rather not the people of this sphere know of her mystical side, from what she's read magic users in this world had poor reputations, at best, in this world. Though often for good reason it seemed.

"Is there anything you can do that can act as a signal, to draw our men here to join us all the faster?" he asked, eyes wanting yet sharp and ready for a no.

"There is a small light conjuration I could perform, though it will take a moment to cast, and someone must take my place as I do so." she said and, before Robb could respond, a young man with a kite shield and a short spear came up from the ground behind them, where other men were resting between shifts on the line.

"I can do that, milady." he offered eagerly.

All Karra could do then was bow slightly in thanks, and move out of her place. The boy quickly took it, and Lord Stark gestured for her to get started.

She moved deeper into the small space and placed herself in as large and empty area as she could, before preparing her spell. Forming her hand into a claw, and pointing it to the sky, the elf reached into her reserves of chaos. Karra hadn't used any magic since Ciri brought them to Jon's home sphere, so she wasn't as acclimated as would be best for reaching outward for power. Although, even without attempting it, something felt off about the chaos in this sphere. Like it was divided from itself, and somehow alive.

After she had finally tapped into her bountiful reserves, Karra slowly coursed it from her chest and up her arm, weaving it into the correct patterns as it went. Then, a shining white light, with flickers of grey, started building in her hand.

It quickly reached the required power for the simple spell, but Karra kept pushing. Forcing the chaos to build higher and tighter within the sphere of light, making it brighter and more volatile by the second.

Finally, when she felt her control slipping, Karra let the light loose from her grasp. The head-sized sphere zipped into the night sky, getting higher and higher, flying further and further away from her.

Then, when it at last left her range, the shining and overstuffed signal flare burst apart.

And turned night into day.

For that single moment, the bright grey and white light, her best attempt at following the Stark colours, stopped all the fighting. Then it faded away, and she heard one great war cry from thousands of voices, "STARK!" they roared into the night, and the sounds of fighting and death resumed.

Once she had shaken off her concentration, and her reserves had settled themselves, Karra moved to returned to the line. But Lord Stark stopped her, "Wait for an opening." he instructed, in the proper way she'd taught him back in Winterfell, "There may be a better place for you within moments." he'd even added the consolation of potential later glory. Perhaps he'd taken to the lessons too well.

The two of them stood there, Robb subtly catching his breath amongst the men as Karra waited. She would never admit it, but Karra nearly started tapping her foot.

Finally, the first sign that the spell had truly done anything other than momentarily boost morale came in the form of a familiar roar. It slowly got closer and closer, the man's shouts eventually gaining separate words. Then it was just beyond the wall, "Let us through, ye shits! Rodrik! Don't you recognise me!" the voice of Jon Umber, Greatjon, not the younger one, demanded with his usual brutish charm.

The men in the shield wall quickly followed his commands, and in came the helmless Giant of Umber with his son and their men on his heels. Those of them with shields, and still mostly able, joined the wall. Bolstering its size and expanding past the place it had been holding since Robb reached the inn.

Lord Umber turned to them, visibly noticed Robb, and burst into booming laughter. "Knew I'd see ye alive in this, Lord Stark!" the giant man shouted with a fearsome grin, before turning it towards her, "That was some light show, my lady, ye've been holdin' out on us."

"The battle, Lord Umber." Lord Stark reminded, "You may beg Lady Karra for lessons in magic once we've driven the Lannisters from the field."

At that, the giant nodded with an "Aye, Lord Stark." and threw himself through a hastily made opening in the shield wall. His son and their tired men following behind.

The leaders of the next pocket that made it to the growing wall were Lady Mormont and her daughter Dacey. Both of whom seemed just as glad as Lord Umber to see Lord Robb alive, though comparatively quieter in their expression of it.

"Serena's still yet to be a widow then? Good." the Lady Mormont said gruffly, many of the men who followed the Mormont ladies entering and collapsing in the resting space.

"Mother means well, Lord Stark, I am glad to see you're whole as well." her daughter added tactfully.

Lord Robb thanked the pair politely, and stretched his limbs out best he could in his armour. Then he turned towards the men who followed him through the ongoing melee, "Have all of you rested enough?" he loudly demanded, jestingly enough that a few chuckled as they rose and yelled their affirmatives.

Then through the shield wall they went, disappearing into the mass of men, wood, and steel. Nothing of them to be seen, safe the occasional chance spotting of Greywind savaging a man. There were, thankfully, no horses. The trenches and stakes around the camp keeping cavalry out, not that they could do much once their momentum broke.

She didn't see Robb for a long while after that, but time never went by properly in a melee. Its passing ebbed and flowed in erratic patterns, sometimes minutes were hours and minutes mere seconds. All she did was encourage the spearmen, and thrust at whatever foes came her way.

The Mormont women eventually left the safety of the space before the inn and ventured after the Lord of Stark. Shortly after that the crowed thinned, a subtle thing, but she noticed it.

Then cheers erupted only a few dozen feet away under a small lion banner, and trumpets sounded for the second time that night.

As the red levies and knights fled, battle-crazed and bloodthirsty Northmen striking at their backs as they ran, Karra noticed something. A Lannister banner, not a large one, but still the golden lion on crimson, had fallen.

Deeming it safe enough, the elf stretched to her full height to gaze over most of the men, and saw that after escaping the camps fortifications the soldiers were quickly taken in by others and formed into orderly ranks. Formations that were fully prepared for any charge.

A warning came on her tongue just as the men broke after the fleeing Westerlanders, but a shout rose above the noise before she could say anything. "HALT! Let them run!" Lord Stark commanded, the Lords present repeating the order to those near them. Quieter though they were.

Karra quickly turned away from the fleeing men to glance to where he heard Robb shout. There she saw him, his helm once again off of his head. Somehow, blood had leaked through the seams of the great helm's crown, and gave Robb a circlet of blood that matted down his hair. It was quite the sight, especially with his direwolf right by his side in a similar state and corpses piled around the both of them.

The Westerlanders waited just beyond the camps fortifications, then, just as Robb moved forward, most likely to get what archers that could still pull their strings to start loosing at them, the Lannister chose to sound the full retreat.

Karra had the men abandon the shield wall, some of the tired soldiers falling to their knees as others barely kept themselves standing. All around them men were doing the same, though Robb merely stood there. Still as a statue as he watched the Westerlanders' orderly retreat.

Then, after what felt like a hundred nights had gone by, Karra saw a great slash of pink glow into life on the eastern horizon. The endless night was finally over, it seemed. She could hear the men nearby sight in relief.

In the quiet, she managed to hear Lady Mormont ask Lord Stark what they were to do now, with their forces attacked as they were. How they were to move forward.

"Lord and Ladies of the North! Brothers and sisters!" Lord Umber suddenly cried, by the look on his face he was clearly overtaken by his emotions, feelings she could see clearly. Even though his mighty voice was greatly weakened from the night long battle, it easily carried over the field of corpses. "Long and hard we've fought and argued over which of the southern kings to pledge ourselves to, on the march down from The Moat." Karra could see tears glimmering in his eyes, "Long ago we kneeled to dragons, who flew and spewed fire. Now the dragons have been dead for centuries, and these southerners still think to rule us. Let us cast off the yoke of the south! Let the North rule the North again! Let the other's take Renly, Stannis, and all the rest, for there I see the only King I'll ever kneel to!" he proclaimed, pointing his sword to Robb, "King Theon born again! The King in the North!" the giant of a man shouted, planting his sword in the ground as he knelt.

There was silence, then "The King of Winter!" a greybeard in Stark livery cried, doing the same as the great Lord.

"The King in the North!" dozens were now kneeling over the bodies, "The King in the North!"

Soon, they were all on their knees. Even her. All of the chanting the same title, as Robb stood there upon the mound of the fallen.

"The King in the North!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

_The Next Morning_

"What do we know of our losses?" L- King Stark asked, toying with one of the map figures, an Arryn eagle, in his unbandaged hand.

"We still have the large majority of our horses, their separation from the greater camp due to Greywind proved to be an unexpected boon. They hadn't been targeted by the attackers, and only few ran off during the fighting." she said, starting with some favourable things, before getting to what would sting, "Of the, roughly, ten thousand men who were in the main camp, where the fighting was the worst out of all our camps, there are four thousand casualties."

"What are their proportions?" the new king asked, voice showing nothing.

"Seven hundred dead and another eight who are almost certainly on the way to joining them. One thousand with middling injuries, lost fingers, eyes and toes along with some dozen fractured bones. The last of our losses should be fully recovered within the next moon." she said, not even having to check her parchment to know the numbers. It was staggering to her, the sheer number. All of it was much higher than any other sphere she and the others ventured to.

"Better than I expected." he said quietly, almost too low for her to hear, "The other camps are similar then?"

Silently approving the near casualness of him, she shook her head, "Proportionally, the other camps have lost less that this one." but still, what she'd been told by other camps' administrators was shockingly high.

"And who have we lost amongst the Lords?"

"Lord Cerwyn was killed just outside of his tent, at the beginning of the fighting, and his second Ser Kyle Condon has lost an eye. Lord Eddard Karstark died rescuing his eldest brother, who lost a hand. The only other deaths amongst the Lords are Helman Tallheart and Ser Donnel Locke. Jon Umber, the younger, has lost three fingers on his left hand. Daryn Hornwood had three arrows in one leg, and thus may stand a chance of losing it. Ser Wylis Manderly has a crossbow bolt in his forearm, a smith had to cut the vambrace off of him. Robett Glover has lost an eye and an ear..." she quickly checked her parchment for more, but Robb stopped her from continuing.

He sighed, "I shall go over the rest of that list myself later." he said, opening a hand for the paper.

She handed it over easily, then silence fell over the two of them. As it often had when Robb was before a map with tactics in mind.

Karra merely looked at him, trying to imagine the young man in a crown. The Crown of Winter itself was simple, she'd read many descriptions of it. She could even tell you what the runic inscription meant, 'Let he who wears this crown see no foe unbroken' not a perfect translation, but close enough considering the slightly limited nature of runes.

The difficult part was seeing it perched on Robb's head. She didn't know why, all the Lords not at the battle in the main camp had later sworn themselves to him easily enough, and the soldiers told of "The Bloodstained King" in the rebuilding camps. Perhaps it was his age, the beard couldn't hide it from her after all.

"Karra, as an advisor, what would you suggest we tell the Vale Lords regarding the recent... development in our stance against the Iron Throne?" the King suddenly asked, his eyes going from distant to impressively sharp in an instant. It rather reminded her of Jon's stare, despite the difference in colour.

"Were the Arryns not Kings in their own right, before young Ronnel flew with Queen Visenya?" she asked, a small smile playing at her lips. It was a suggestion taken right out of Lara's book, so to speak. Simple answers for complex problems, she once told her.

POV Mace

Mayhaps a canal would be in order. Lord Tyrell could see it now, a great and mighty stretch of water running from where Blackwater Rush flowed outside King's Landing, through the city, and then into the bay. That would simply eradicate the stench, just as the many flowing rivers in Oldtown kept the air fresh.

He hummed happily, yes that would be House Tyrell's lasting gift to the Baratheon Dynasty, one that would outlast any military and logistical aid. It also helped that such a thing would make his darling daughter's queenship all the better for her.

But was a simple canal enough? Mayhaps not, for transforming the old and decrepit Dragonpit into a wonderful garden sounded grand. Sadly, it would never measure up to Highgarden's splendor, but it would offer Margery some semblance of home. He could even have his high gardener graft a branch clipping of one of Highgarden's weirwoods to an oak sapling, that would do wonders to ease the loss of their crown for the North. Finally having one of their holy trees in the capitol.

Mace could even have two ordered! One for his daughter's dragonpit garden and another for the Red Keep's Godswood. Yes, yes indeed, that was an excellent addition to his plans.

His mother's sharp fingers jabbing into his thigh cut through his musings, and brought his attention back to the men talking around the polished ironwood table. "All will go smoothly, I assure you, Ser Garlan." his recently crowned good-son said, his hands going through a placating gesture. Mace found that his dark hair matched wonderfully with the Tyrell Green tapestries behind him, perhaps some jade in his crown would be suitable? "The speed of our march, while slow, is necessary to maintain high morale amongst the levies and men-at-arms alike." Renly continued, a winning smile on his face.

"I understand that, Your Grace." his son said, "But King's Landing lies nearly undefended, wouldn't a swift march to take them by surprise be more suitable?"

The King stopped Loras from standing with a gentle hand on his forearm. "If we, as you say, march quickly and strike the city then we will wear ourselves out against its defenses. However, should we wait the Lannisters and the rebel kings will bleed each other dry, while Stannis stews and struggles to buy sell swords." Renly's smile remained fixed on his face, as he popped a grape in his mouth, "Once that happens there will be none but the Martells to stand against us, and they hardly care about what happens north of the Red Mountains."

"Worry not, Garlan." Mace interjected, before his son could say anymore, "With the strength of numbers our host possess our victory inevitable. The smallfolk in the city may even so away with young Joffrey before we arrive." he assured. While it hurt him to go against Garlan, Renly was correct. Besides, it would be quite undue to go against the King, now wouldn't it?

Renly glanced his way with a smile, "Your Lord Father is quite right, Ser Garlan. Besides, Stannis is the only one who can threaten King's Landing directly, and he won't attack. He has too few men for tha-"

Suddenly, a page burst into the room, panting as they weakly rushed to Mace's side. "An... urgent mess- message m- my lord." he forced out, wheezing and gasping between words.

He, before his mother could reach across him, quickly took the presented parchment from the young boy. "Go on boy, rest and drink." he commanded gallantly, standing from his seat to lead the dutiful young one to a softly cushioned bench, and snapping his fingers for a female servant to bring the child a glass of lemon water.

Once he had it, and the page stopped panting, Mace returned to the long table. Where his mother was suitably annoyed

Mace went back to his seat, but kept himself from sitting to read the letter more ostentatiously, "Lord Tyrell, it is to my severe displeasure to tell you that Lord Stannis has sailed his fleet from Dragonstone, with the intent of assaulting King's Landing..."

As his words faded away, Mace glanced at his mother. Only to see her staring at Renly with the same look that often cowed him as a child.

Then his mother spoke, "Read the rest, Mace."

"...with the intent of assaulting King's Landing. Regards, Varys, servant of the realm." he finished, before his mother snatched it from his hands.

There was a heavy silence hanging over the room as she read the Spider's missive, one that went unbroken until Loras asked the question, "What are we to do then?"

Renly was swift to answer, "We do as Ser Garlan has been suggesting." he said, standing from his fine chair, "We march for King's Landing, with haste."

_Only a few days short of a Moon later_

The sun was scorching, and Mace's steel plate hardly helped. He'd argued against donning it, but both his mother and daughter rallied against him. He lost, as a matter of course, but he wasn't wholly sour about it. For as long as it set their hearts at ease, he would suffer the indomitable heat in silence. Even though they both, along with the rest of the womenfolk, had remained at Bitterbridge with a sizable force, he would continue to wear it on the march. He was a man of his word, after all.

Besides, Garlan tells him that they were making good time with an army the size of theirs, and soon he would once again be free of his lordly trappings of war, handsome though wife found them, Mace himself found them distasteful. Why make war when you could grow instead, his father always said.

Kicking his steed to a quicker trot, the Lord of Highgarden rode up to where his good-son and thirdborn son rode side by side.

Before the pair noticed him, Mace couldn't help but admire their own panoply, saddening as the need of them may be, they were well crafted. Renly's suit was of the finest steel ever crafted in the Reach and, while not to the level of Qhohoric craftsmanship, was far superior to most other sets to be found in the entire world. It was enameled in a deep green, the same shade as the jade that set his crown, with golden adornments. Which included the great golden antlers, crafted after those of the helm his brother Robert wore in both wars the dead king had fought in.

At his side, Loras was no less resplendent. With his silver plates and mail, all under the rainbow cloak of Renly's new order of King's guards, his son looked the image of the perfect Warrior's Son.

"Ah, my Lord Hand." King Renly said, finally spotting him through his conversation with Loras, "How do you fare?"

"Quite well, Your Grace, and yourselves?"

"Excellent, my Lord, although I feel we should stop to build camp soon." Renly said, looking off into the distance, at the slowly sinking sun. Loras's answer was similar, agreeing with their young King.

Suddenly, his good-son's horse slowed, and Mace noticed that his gaze was now fixed onto the horizon.

He followed those bright blue eyes, and saw what had stolen Renly's attention so completely.

In the distance, in the direction of the capitol, a black pillar of smoke rose.

---

After notes:

Explanations:

So, we all know that the Faith of the Seven is supposed to be the Roman Catholic Church of Planetos. It is also strange that Arya is so bad at sewing in canon, with so many years of practice she should be at least competent. So, to make it make sense in my own head, I think that something both organisations have something in common: hating the use of the left hand. For whatever reason. So, while Arya uses her left hand for everything, since she's left-handed, Septa Mordane (in canon) made her use her right to sew. In this fic Cat does the same.

The next Jon POV is coming! It'll be in the chapter after the next, and have much fightin!

With Sansa's sudden change in attitude, only look to this saying: "Cynics are only Romantics who've been crushed by the world." it's what I've based her current outlook on.

I did change it up a bit, but I just love the "They have my son!" scene from the show, I just had to have some of it.

Alright, the warg woman I've left purposefully vague, but I want to give you all a little something about her. She wasn't a skinchanger when Ramsay captured her and brought her to the Dreadfort.

In this battle Karra has been much less involved, yes, but she was only a semi active part of a shield wall for most of it. At first, when I was planning this battle (While still giving myself room for sudden inspiration) I had her cutting her way through men with a bunch of big northern dudes. But then I said to myself, "But I want her to see shit." and its tougher to do that and write an involved fight scene. So much that I'm not confident with it. So, she was mostly a spectator.

To those that knew of what was originally planned, I cut Gary's POV. Mostly cause I couldn't really see the use it had in the chapter, and it wasn't hitting my "Tune".

Alright, before you start asking or wondering, the Mace POV does not happen on the same day as Karra's, nor does it happen anywhere. near the twenty-eight of the first moon. I it without dates to give myself a little leeway. This is because, after the next chapter (Where we take a break from Westeros and see Essos), we will be getting more into the nitty gritty of the war. That's mostly going to be following Jon with his outriders, and the Northern + Riverlander clearing of the Riverlands.