5-I

"Sansa, wake up!"

Sansa groans and stretches and wipes the crust from her eyes. She blinks and finds her sister already dressed in her riding breeches and tunic. "Is there some plan today, sister, that has you so excited?"

"The Trident. Rhaegar's rubies, stupid! Now come on, get your riding breeches on! No dresses unless you want to get them muddied. And no breakfast if you don't hurry! Jeyne's already up and making eyes at Falmer. I'm going to wake Tommen and Myrcella."

The Kingsroad had been equal parts amazing and torture for Sansa. Amazing because it was what she had always wanted - excitement and adventure and a chance to see the rest of the Kingdom. Torture because Joffrey kept trying to get her alone, and whenever he did get her alone, he kept trying to stick his tongue down her throat or run his hand up her dress. She would rebuff his advances with a smile and an appeal to propriety, but he was getting ever more persistent, going so far as to leave bruises.

Knowing Arya would be furious enough to do something stupid, she took especial care to hide the bruises from her sister, or to go on one of her dumb adventures to mask the bruises' origins. Which is why she agreed to go riding to the Trident to look for Prince Rhaegar's rubies. Three days before, Joffrey had pinned her quite roughly against an oak tree while they were on a "romantic'' sunset walk next to the Green Fork. She managed to extricate herself from the situation, but she noticed a purpling around her back and ribs a day later and keeping it from Arya had been difficult.

The thought of telling father had crossed her mind. If she did, however, he would most likely call the betrothal off and use it as an excuse to renege on the Handship. The Lannisters would see it as a slight, and with no one there to argue for the North, the King may come to see it that way as well. That was something Sansa would not allow to happen. Only when her father was firmly entrenched as Hand of the King could she work to break the betrothal. Until then, she would deal with the Crown Prince in her own way - with courtesy and propriety and, if need be, the growling of a large direwolf.

Everyone fights for the pack. Robb and Jon and little Rickon use swords (though not Bran, not anymore). Even Arya fancies herself a warrior. Sansa believes herself capable with her dagger, but she will never be dangerous like her sister or like Val, who is as good as most of the guards. So she will contribute with her mind and play the game that Wynafryd and Lord Wyman taught her when Theon invited them for a visit to White Harbor last year.

She raises her slip and looks at the large purple splotch on her back. Lady whines next to her and softly nudges the mark that Joffrey left. "I know, girl," she says, scratching the direwolf behind the ear. "The boys take bruises in the yard all the time. This is no different. Not really. And no true harm will come to me as long as I have you close by." She eyes a simple blue dress for a moment before taking Arya's advice and slipping on her riding breeches, boots, and a tunic that she made herself. Exiting the carriage, she finds Arya and Nymeria, Myrcella, Tommen, and half a dozen Lannister guards waiting on them, including The Hound.

"Come on," Arya says. "Don't worry about breakfast. Princess Myrcella has packed up a picnic lunch." She points to the large basket that one of the guards is holding.

"Jeyne?"

"She begged off, too busy swooning over Falmer, who's just as stupid. She'll be fine."

Climbing atop the courser that Arya picked out for her, she asks the Princess, "Will your brother be joining us, Princess? Is that why his fearsome shield is here?"

Myrcella blushes as they set their horses to a slow canter, "No, Lady Sansa. He was still abed when I last inquired. He, uh, apparently got back to camp late last night."

Early this morning, most like. She knew that he was at the brothel in Darry last night. Arya, in her Arya way, had ferreted out that information nearly as soon as the Prince had left with the King and Ser Boros and Ser Meryn. "And you, Master Clegane?" she asks the Hound, "how is it that you find yourself here with us?"

"Queen commanded it," he announces in his steel on stone voice. "Prince won't be waking up any time soon. Neither will Boros and Meryn."

Or the King, she thinks, but lets it lie. The day is beautiful, the company pleasant, and the Prince will not be harassing her. She decides that she will enjoy the respite.

And she does. Arya leads them through all sorts of trails, they race their horses on open ground, Myrcella proving to be nearly as good a rider as Arya herself, and they even get to see the direwolves take down a stag. The Hound butchers the animal quickly to Arya and Myrcella's fascination while Sansa comforts Tommen who is distraught with the entire thing. Later, they find the spot on the Trident where the King slew Rhaegar Targaryen. Unfortunately, despite a few hours of splashing and swimming about in the water, they find no rubies. Tommen discovers a couple of reddish stones that he thinks maybe could have once been part of the Dragon Prince's ensemble, but the Hound disabuses the Prince with a curt "no" both times The burnt man's visage softens, however, and the sweet, chubby, Prince just laughs at his gruffness and hugs him before running back to the water. The picnic is fine, the food delicious, including the venison, and the company grand. At sunset, they make their way back to the caravan, and Sansa gives silent thanks for the wonderful day and for Joffrey's absence.

When she and Arya make their way back to the carriage, smiling and content from a full day, they find their father waiting for them.

His stern face lets her know that something is wrong, perhaps terribly so, and her first thoughts go to her brother. "Bran?" she blurts out just as Arya asks "What happened?"

"Girls, sit down, please."

"Is it Bran?" Sansa asks again.

"It is not. He remains unchanged as far as I know. Now please," he says, gesturing to the bed.

Sansa sits a second before Arya and waits for her father to deliver whatever ill news he has and wonders if life is nothing but darkness with only pockets of light.

"Girls, I'm sorry," her father begins, "but Jeyne Poole is dead."

5-II

"Tyrion Lannister is due to return just outside a moon's turn, is he not?" Val asks the men gathered in Bran's room.

"Thereabouts, my lady," Ser Rodrik says. "Perhaps later depending on the weather."

"The question remains, however," Robb replies, looking about the room. He gives her a smile before his eyes settle on Bran. "What do we do with him?"

"I don't think Lord Tyrion had anything to do with my...my fall. Or with the cutthroat." The boy had woken up not three days after Jon and Catelyn left for King's Landing, and Robb immediately filled him in on everything. "He is a Stark, and Winter is Coming," was all Robb said when Ser Rodrik asked if the boy should be privy to their council. Bran, hollow-eyed, emaciated Bran, never looked more fierce to Val than he did at that moment. And despite his youth and the reality of his injury, his voice had proven to be useful despite not being able to recall the particulars of his accident.

"Why would you say that, Bran?" Robb asks.

"Because he's not like the others. The Lannisters, I mean. He made friends with Jon when no one else from the King's party bothered to even speak to him. Not even Myrcella or Tom, really."

"That had more to do with their mother, I believe," Val puts in. When the men look at her, she says, "The girl made eyes at Jon nearly the entire trip."

Bran smiles a bit at that. "Tyrion is like Tom and Myrcella. Not the Queen or the Kingslayer or Joffrey. I don't think he'd harm me."

"Unless he had to," Robb replies. "I would like to believe that I'd never harm Tom or Myrcella, but if it was their life or yours, brother, I do not know what I would do."

"What are you saying, my lord?" Ser Rodrik asks.

"I'm saying that whatever Bran stumbled upon in that tower is a secret great enough to threaten the lives of the Prince and the Princess." He walks over to Val and places a hand on her belly. "A man does not know what he is capable of until his children are in danger."

"Tyrion has no children," Val responds, covering his rough hands with her own.

"True enough, but he loves Tom and Myrcella."

"That love does not extend to Joffrey," Maester Luwin says, finally adding his voice to the mix. "My lord, we know that Lord Tyrion was not at the castle the day of Brandon's fall. We know that he and his sister are not friendly with one another…"

"But he and his brother are friendly. More than. There is love between them, just as there is between my own brothers."

"True, my love," Val says, "but the Kingslayer cares more for his sister."

"Indeed," Luwin says, picking up on her thought. "Let's say Bran overhears brother and sister speaking some treason, of their culpability in the death of Lord Arryn."

"Or a plot to assassinate the king," says Ser Rodrik.

Robb's eyes meet Bran's as he says, "Bran never falls. He gets caught and the Kingslayer tosses him from the window." The boy's face is a study in concentration, but he says nothing.

"Yet he lives," Val says with a smile for her goodbrother when he looks at her. She runs her hand through his hair. "He is of the North and cannot be killed so easily."

"Right," Luwin continues. "He does not die. So they must see to it that Bran does not wake to keep their plot hidden. And what is the endgame of their plot?"

"To kill Robert…" Ser Rodrik says.

"And put Joffrey on the throne," Bran adds.

"Exactly," finishes Luwin.

"Exactly," echoes Robb. He sighs. "The Imp would fare better with Tommen on the throne. Joffrey despises him."

"A paid cutthroat armed with a dagger worth a thousand golden dragons is not a very good plan," says Val.

"Another reason to believe Lord Tyrion has no knowledge of what his sister and brother are planning," Maester Luwin agrees.

"There is a war coming," Robb says. "He'd still make a valuable hostage."

"Yet we cannot start that war by taking him prisoner," Luwin argues back. "Especially with your father and sisters vulnerable in the capital."

"Not a prisoner," Val interjects, "but a guest."

"Semantics, my lady," Ser Rodrik says. "Tywin Lannister would care not what we called his son while he was confined to Winterfell."

"You misunderstand me, Ser Rodrik," Val replies. "What if he truly chose to be here?"

"What would keep him here, my lady?" the gruff old knight asks.

Maester Luwin arched an eyebrow at her. "I believe the lady is on to something. An appeal to his intellect could probably gainsay him another moon's turn. More perhaps, if we can convince him to tour the entire North."

"Perhaps Maester Luwin, but I believe my wife has something else in mind." Robb is eyeing her as he does in the bedroom. She feels a quick flush, but pushes it away. Time enough for that later. She meets his gaze and says only one word. "Love."

"Love?" Ser Rodrik replies, near sputtering. "The dwarf is a famed whoremonger."

"The dwarf," she answers, pausing for a moment before continuing, "does not believe that he can be loved. Truly loved. Whores chase him for his gold. Any daughter thrust upon him would be the same." She rises and pours herself a cup of water. No wine or mead or beer with the baby so near. Even honeyed milk riles the little one up. "He loves his niece and nephew because they accept him for who he is. He loves his brother because his brother shows him the slightest bit of affection. If we can show the dwarf love, he will remain for as long as we wish."

"Who did you have in mind?" Robb asks.

"Lady Catelyn mentioned before she left that I should have northern handmaidens attend me. Who do you suggest?" she asks the room.

"Gwyn Whitehill, perhaps?" Maester Luwin says. "Nineteen, blonde, pretty, and a bit...compromised for an affair with Lord Forrester's second son."

"Compromised enough to settle for the imp?" Ser Rodrik asks.

"That is my thinking. Most of these lords would not wish to see their daughters wed to...one such as Lord Tyrion. Lady Gwyn's situation makes any pursuit of Lord Tyrion believable."

"Clever, but that is not love," Val says. "Though she could play a nice contrast for another girl."

"Perhaps we can let her father know that Tyrion Lannister will be our guest," Maester Luwin suggests.

"Perhaps," Val says, catching on immediately. Her father will push her to pursue the dwarf, which could make her a perfect foil for the right girl. Whoever that will be.

"What of Meera Reed?" Robb says.

"A Crannog girl? I doubt she could much entice the Lannister…"

"It's more for my benefit, Rodrik. I'd like to establish contact again with Greywater Watch and with its lord. Meera and perhaps Howland's son could foster here. A new friend for Bran and myself and a new line of communication for Winterfell and The Neck."

"So we have a girl for the Maester and a girl for Robb. Anyone else?" Val asks.

"Wylla Manderly," Bran says, blushing when they all look at him. "She's unbetrothed, sixteen, and...and smart. She's the best cyvasse player. She can beat Sansa and 'Fryd three out of five nearly every time. Jon says she even sits on her grandfather's council with her father and uncle and sister."

"Is she pretty, Bran?" Robb asks, his grin widening as his brother turns another shade. He musses his brother's hair and says, "No need to speak. The color in your cheek is answer enough. We'll send for Wylla, Gwyn, and the Reeds and perhaps one or two more. Pretty, unbetrothed girls who might could catch a dwarf's fancy."

"Find me one or two who can fight, as well," Val adds.

5-III

(Warning: Some graphic details regarding Jeyne's death in this section)

"Tell me everything," Sansa whispers, her eyes red from grief and exhaustion.

"Are you sure?" Arya asks. "It's...it's bad, Sansa."

Her sister takes a deep breath and says, "I am sure."

"Right," Arya replies, takes her own deep breath, and then begins. "Falmer died first. Harwin says there were three attackers, judging by the bootprints. His blade was bloodied, so he acquitted himself well." She feels that it's important to add that detail. Falmer wasn't much older than Jon, still a boy, really, but he was also a Northman, and no matter how stupid and moonheaded he'd gotten over Jeyne, he still honored himself and Winterfell right to the end. "They hamstrung him, broke his shield arm, cut his sword hand off. Then they took his head."

"How do they know the blood on Falmer's blade was not his own?"

"His hand was still gripping the hilt."

Sansa nods. "He was a good man. I know Jon thought highly of him, else he would never have entrusted Jeyne's safety to him. We will pray for him and his mother. In both sept and godswood."

She fell silent then, but Arya can still hear the question anyway. And Jeyne? Jeyne, who had been mean to her for most of her life. Jeyne, who had always been a vapid girl, no matter that she was two years older. Jeyne, who had been Sansa's best friend and shadow, who had grown up to be the very definition of pretty, who had told Arya just three moons ago that she was sorry for teasing her when they were little and that she was becoming such a beautiful woman. Jeyne, who should have died at eighty, surrounded by her grandchildren's children.

"She was raped, Sansa. Fat Tom kept saying "unspeakable" when he described it, but I know what he meant. Maybe Falmer was still alive when they did it, maybe not. They-they slit her throat afterwards."

Tears were falling down her sister's cheeks, but her eyes were wide and her face seemed...harder, somehow. Determined. Arya understood. She had no tears to shed. It seemed like all of hers had been used for Robb and Bran. She was a wolf, and not for the first time, she guessed her sister was one, as well.

"Three men," Sansa says.

"Aye. Three. Most like."

"One took a wound."

"Aye."

"Father said that she lied to them. That she told Vayon that they were going to meet up with us, but instead went on their own picnic."

"She was smitten with him."

"She was," Sansa replies with a smile. "He was handsome and strong and had long, sandy hair, and she would tell me of running her fingers through it as he lay with his head in her lap." She wipes her tears away and then waves her hand dismissively. "She knew that she could not marry a farmer's son, but she dreamed anyway of him earning a knighthood, and when I would admonish her for being too fanciful, she would only laugh and say that youth without fancy isn't youth."

Arya smiles and looks at Needle at her hip. Youth without fancy? What is life without dreams?

"What time did they go on their picnic? Did father say?" Sansa asks.

"Around noon. He said that Jeyne came to them right after his meeting with Lord Renly and Ser Barristan, who did not get into camp until the eleventh hour."

"Noon," she replies, eyes unfocused.

"Why? What are you thinking?"

She shook from her reverie. "Nothing. Just dark thoughts, each darker than the last."

Arya took her sister's hand between hers. "I understand."

A faint trumpet blast sounds in the distance and then a chorus of commotion breaks the moment between them, and Arya looks to Sansa and says, "They've caught the villains."

They, as it turns out, is the Crown Prince himself, flanked by Ser Meryn and Ser Boros and The Hound, whose ruined face is covered by his snarling helm. Arya wishes it was not so she could gauge his reactions. The Prince, who she thought the least likely to find the killers, appears as smug and vain as ever. Meryn and Boros are both smirking, basking in a moment of rare glory for them. Boros, she notices, is cradling his arm, and she can see the dark stain between the joints of his armor at his elbow. He took a wound, but it had long dried.

She feels Sansa grasp her hand as Joffrey spots them and trots over. "My lady," he says to Sansa. "It is my honor to present to you the outlaws who took your friend's virtue and her life. I even bent to Northern custom, taking their heads myself after they thought to give us battle. Ser Meryn." With that, the burly knight upends a sack he was carrying and three heads fall out. One bounces close, slinging blood on her boots. Arya kicks it away, causing Joffrey to laugh.

Sansa, for her part, does not move. She only looks to Joffrey, curtsies, dragging Arya down with her, and says, "Your heroic deeds have done my family and I a great service, my prince, for Jeyne was dear to me. As dear as a sister, if truth be told, and both Arya and I will rest easy knowing that her...defilers...have been brought the King's Justice."

Joffrey's smile gleams in the firelight, and Arya can see the lust burning in his eyes as he looks both of them over, but his words, as ever, remain courteous. "Shall I regale you with the tale of their undoing, my lady? Perhaps over a late meal?"

Sansa walks forward and grasps his hand and kisses it. "Perhaps over breakfast, my prince, for grief still has purchase in my heart this night, and both Arya and I promised our father we would wait for his return by our wheelhouse."

Arya sees a brief...something pass over the Prince's face. Anger? No. Disappointment? No, not that. More like...incredulity. As if he could not believe that he was denied. It was there only for a piece of a moment, but she saw it before his mask of calm courtesy replaced it. "Very well, my lady," he says, bringing her hand to his lips. I will see you on the morrow," before turning his horse and riding for the Queen's carriage. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros trail him. The Hound and the heads are left behind.

The huge man rides up next to them and dismounts. He lifts his visor, and grabbing the sack from the ground, says, "You girls had better get back to your wagon now."

"Will you bury them?" Sansa asks him as he begins stuffing their heads into the bag.

"No. The prince wants the heads and heraldry for pikes to show his father."

"Heraldry?" Sansa asks. "They were knights?"

"A hedge knight and squires. His sons by the look of them."

"What was his sigil?" Arya asks.

He's silent for a moment as he shares a look with Sansa. "Something best forgotten, wolf girl. Now go back to your wagon and wait on your father."

She is about to reply when Sansa grabs her hand, spinning her away from Clegane. "Come, Arya. He is right."

She looks back, but the big man has gathered up all the heads and is already on his black courser and riding in the Prince's direction.