The Pack Survives

by WhigBiskey

First Timer. Title is terrible, I know. No Dragons, No Others. When he is fourteen, Robb gets lost on a ranging north of the Wall searching for the stolen daughter of a Wull. He is thought dead, but returns three years later. Events are pushed back three years because the canon ages don't work for me. Everything belongs to GRRM.

10. Chapter 10

10

A raven comes from Castle Black. Dark Wings, Dark Words, and none darker than this. It is in Ser Waymar's hand, and the details are sparse, but the message pierces Robb's heart. His friend, Mance, was slain. Standfast, which he had helped build and could have been his home, was sacked and burned.

"The only good news I have is that your goodsister and nephew survived, and that Lord Jon's swift longship bears them both to you and Lady Val. He told me that he intends to sail up the Little Knife and anchor at Bridgetown to expedite their travels, so it is possible he arrives before this missive. More detail of the attack can be provided by them."

He and Val hold each other close in their chambers as they weep and speak long into the night of friends now gone and the moments they shared with them. As it is for wildlings, the tears are gone in the morning for both of them - the past belongs to the comfort of the campfire. The dawn means a new day, and a new day means work if they are to survive. Even if they are in Winterfell now, that remains ever true to Robb.

Robb sends Alyn and a half dozen men to Bridgetown to await The Smalljon and Dalla. Two days later, a large party including one of Bridgetown's newly made wheelhouses is spotted coming up the Kingsroad. Ghost shoots through the gates of Winterfell like an arrow as soon as they are unbarred. Rickon, who had convinced Robb to let him ride out with him and the men, gives him a confused look. "Jon," Robb says with a smile, and then spurs his horse after the wolf, eager to see his mother and cousin again. Grey Wind moves quickly past him, catching up to his brother.

When the wolves reach the party, however, they run right past them, never breaking stride. Ghost continues southward while Grey Wind stops and turns and runs back to Robb and settles restlessly on his haunches as if waiting for instruction. A small pocket of dread forms in his chest, as his imagination conjures up images of Jon and his mother, injured or captured or dying, but he pushes the thoughts away. No time to think the worst - Jon and his mother could have only just arrived at White Harbor.

"Robb!" Rickon shouts from his horse, Ser Rodrik and the other guardsmen riding next to him., Shadow loping along next to him. "Why did Ghost run away?"

"He didn't run away, Rick. He's going to Jon. They have a bond, same as yours with Shadow."

"Was that Ghost that ran past us?" Alyn says, riding up from the foreign party.

"It was. We'll speak of it later," Robb says, eyeing the group before them. He spies a fierce looking knight in black armor, a greatsword with a moonstone pommel strapped to his back, sees some Essosi that he thinks are dressed in Braavosi garb, along with nearly two score of men-at-arms, merchant, and skilled laborer types. In the middle of all of them is a grand wheelhouse, not quite as extravagant as the one the queen used, but bigger, and more functional, it seems with thicker wheels and spokes. "Who has come to visit us, Alyn?"

The knight gives him a huge grin. "An old friend, Robb."

Robb lets out a sigh and claps Alyn on the arm. "Any word on Umber?"

Alyn's smile fades. "Not yet. Best you ask them," he nods toward the wheelhouse.

Robb feels another pang of dread, but ignores it and rides up to the caravan. "Hello there, friends!" He calls out to them. "I am Robb Stark of Winterfell."

"Friend," a voice says as the door to the carriage opens and a lithe young man with shoulder length hair and a neatly trimmed beard steps out. "I'm not certain that description fits here, Lord Stark. Three years you were dead, you come back to life, and all I get, for all our years of friendship and brotherhood, is a single letter with almost no details and obligatory well wishes."

Robb laughs and jumps off his horse and stalks over to the man. "I come back from the dead after three years, and you're still an ass, Greyjoy!" He bellows as he picks him up in a bear hug and lifts him off his feet.

"Gods, Robb," Theon gasps, patting him on the back. "Let me down, you big bastard, I can hardly breathe!"

Robb drops him and then brings him back in for another hug. He pulls away, grins, pats him on the cheek. "Admiral of the Northern Fleet and Lord of the Wolfs Den? You've done well for yourself, my friend."

"In many different ways, Robb," Theon says, holding out his hand to the open carriage door. A tall young lady with brown hair, a pregnant belly, and a face very similar to Wylla's steps outside and curtsies. "This is my wife, Lady Wynafryd Greyjoy nee Manderly of White Harbour."

"Of the Wolfs Den, my love," she says, with a caress of his cheek, and Robb sees love in his friend's eyes.

He bows before Wylla, takes her hand, and places a kiss on her knuckles. "Lady Wynafryd, it is a pleasure. Your sister is already with us and has been a delight."

"My little sister can certainly be a delight when she is not being a nuisance, but such is the way of sisters. We always love each other even when we do not like each other. I'm sure Sansa and Arya have taught you that."

"They certainly have, Lady Wynafryd," Robb says with a grin.

"Please, Lord Stark, you must call me 'Fryd. All in your family already do as we have been friends for quite some time now."

"Then I will, as well, 'Fryd, just as long as you call me Robb."

She curtsies again, and then Theon makes the other introductions. The Braavosi were named Galeo Gestares and Narbo Prestayn, representatives of The Iron Bank and most of the rest were their teams of assayers and guards.

"This imposing fellow," Theon says, gesturing to the knight, who dismounts, removes his helm, and approaches them, "is my cousin, Ser Harras Harlaw."

The man is tall and strongly built with an austere face, and walks like one who is no stranger to battle. Robb likes him almost immediately. "Ser Harras," he says, bowing. "Welcome to the North. Welcome to Winterfell."

The knight unsheathes his beautiful greatsword and drops to a knee. "My Uncle Rodrik Harlaw is a prudent man, but he is also a good man, an honorable man, and for far too long he and the rest of my House have served dishonorable lords. None moreso than now. I am his heir, but I cannot yet speak for House Harlaw. I can only speak as a knight. And as a knight, I pledge my sword and services to House Stark. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Robb looks to Theon, who nods. "And I swear that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that will bring you dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and the new." He holds out a hand. "Rise, my friend, and welcome to The North."

Ser Harras grips Robb's hand firmly and rises, a Knight of the North. "That is a beautiful blade you have, Ser Harras," he says.

"Thank you, my lord, it is called Nightfall, my House's ancestral blade" he replies, offering it to Robb for inspection, who takes it.

Robb spins it once. "The balance and weight of these Valyrian blades is amazing. They are half as heavy as any other steel greatsword, but feel even less because of the craftsmanship." He unsheathes Ice and tosses it to Ser Harras, who deftly snatches it from the air.

"This is Ice?"

"It is," Robb responds, still enamoured with Nightfall.

"It, too, is a beautiful weapon," The Knight says, testing the Stark ancestral blade.

"After we get everyone settled, I shall want to spar, Valyrian Blade against Valyrian Blade."

"As you say, Lord Stark," the Knight answers.

"Lord Robb," Ser Rodrik grunts, "Perhaps it is time to return to Winterfell."

"Of course, Ser Rodrik." He trades blades back with Ser Harras and then speaks to all of them. "Come, let us get our friends, both old and new, settled into the castle and fed. We have much to discuss and much to celebrate."

Celebrate, they do. Another feast is held that evening, but the sparring takes place before. Ser Harras is a brilliant fighter with a greatsword and bests Robb three bouts out of three, Nightfall against Ice. Ser Harras can tell that he is not as familiar with the longer blade and gives him advice on strategy and training. Alyn opts for a longsword and a shield against Ser Harras, who sheathes Nightfall and uses a common greatsword; Alyn fares even worse, hardly scoring a hit on the knight in all three contests. Robb stays with the Valyrian blades, but also does better in his second round, managing to score one victory before Ser Harras gets to three. After, a sweaty and bruised and laughing Robb tells Harlaw that the North has gained one of the best warriors in the kingdoms.

Ser Rodrik agrees with him and tells him that he will finally have a better blade to test himself against - something that he had been lacking since Walder rode South. Even better because Robb suspects that Walder held back on him despite the fact that he is now a man grown and a renowned fighter in his own right. It will be good to go against a mighty opponent that gives him no quarter. "I felt myself improving the most when The Hound beat me bloody, or when I sparred against The Smalljon," he tells Ser Rodrik.

"Not against Jon?"

Robb laughs. "For a time after I first returned, it felt like both of us were improving, but we plateaued soon enough. We know each other too well. Know the other's mind. To truly improve, we both need fresh opponents with different strengths and weaknesses."

At the feast, Robb toasts the Braavosi, who are well and truly drunk and preoccupied with the girls he brought in from the Wintertown brothels to Maester Luwin's dismay. For propriety's sake, Robb dresses them up as servant girls and lets everyone know what is happening, but the beet red blush on the Luwin's face gives away the old man's discomfort.

After the Braavosi, he toasts Theon and Wynafryd and their coming babe, toasts Val and the imminent Stark heir, toasts the friendships that have formed over the last months, toasts his brother for defying death and injury, toasts Tyrion Lannister last, for his grace and patience in a difficult situation.

The next day, after breaking their fast, they all gather in the Great Hall for an informal meeting. Everyone sits at the trestle tables, like the last one with the king. He and Val are present, as well as Maester Luwin, Alyn, and Ser Rodrik. From White Harbor are Theon, Wynafryd, and Wylla. The Braavosi are there, representing their interests, and the last to arrive are Tyrion Lannister and Samwell Tarly. Ser Harras is extended an invitation, as well, but he is content standing guard by the door with Grey Wind.

The lumber contract with Braavos is discussed first. Robb, Tyrion, Maester Luwin, and Samwell go over their plans for lumber mills along the rivers, expanding the ports, building towns around the new mills, and bringing in more skilled woodsmen, millers, and carpenters. The Braavosi are impressed with their ideas and Robb hints at further expansion of business and trade with them after the assay, so confident is he that they will find all manner of resources in hills and mountains, rills and forests. The Braavosi leave after that discussion, taken to the hot springs for relaxation with the "serving girls" they met the night before.

Robb dismisses Tyrion and Sam, as well. As they bow and move to the door, Wylla looks to him for half a moment. He gives her a small nod, and she gathers her dress and follows them out.

After they are gone, Robb takes Val's hand and asks Theon, "Now, my friend, what news of The Chainbreaker? Had anyone heard anything from them in White Harbor before you left?"

"Nothing, Robb," Theon says. "Small docks his ship up The Last River, close to Last Hearth, so his mission was not known. Still though, given the timing of Ser Waymar's letter from Castle Black, he is overdue and probably should have beaten us to Bridgetown."

Val gives Robb the hardened look she always wears when she is worried. "I grew up in The Frostfangs and The Haunted Forest. I know little and less of the sea, Theon. What…" She looks away for a moment, clears her throat, and then continues. "What, if anything, can be done?"

"Worry not, my lady," he responds with a warm smile. "I'll write my goodfather. We can send a dozen longships and the new galley up the coast and stretch farther out, cover the Bay of Seals all the way to Skagos."

Robb sighs and rubs his face in his hands. "I know you only just arrived, my friend, and I would love nothing better than to spend the next moon with you and your family, but this is my goodsister and nephew. I need you to oversee this personally, Theon."

"Understood," he replies.

"There are other considerations, of course."

"Politics," Theon says. "The Greatjon is one of your most powerful bannermen and a staunch ally; we need to do everything we can to see to his son's return."

"And we need him to see that," Wynafryd finishes the thought for him.

Robb nods in agreement. "Speaking personally, I like The Smalljon. He's not yet twenty-one and already one of our most fearsome fighters. One day he could rival Walder. Such men will be needed in the coming days."

"Indeed. Small is a good man and one of the doughtiest fighters I've ever seen." Theon glances at Harras. "War with my Uncle will be bad enough. Until we get clarity from Umber, we need to assume these marauders who attacked your wildling friends will also be coming after you."

"There is more, my friend, and it is worse." Robb starts with Jon Arryn's murder, Lady Lysa's letter, Bran getting thrown out of the Broken Tower, Falmer and Jeyne on the Kingsroad, Joffrey's behaviour, the cutthroat and the library tower, all of Tyrion's actions since he has been at the castle, and finally finishing with all the details they possessed of the sacking and burning of Standfast, the death of Mance Rayder, and the overdue Chainbreaker.

"Well," Theon says, a half grin on his face that does not touch his eyes. "That is a lot."

Robb chuckles and then spreads his hands to Ser Harras. "So you see, Ser Harras, you have pledged fealty to a House with enemies everywhere."

"I have pledged fealty to the right House for the future of the Harlaws and all the Iron Isles. Any enemies of yours are enemies of mine, and they will fall before us one by one or all at once."

Robb grins at the warrior. "Well said, my friend. They will indeed. But for right now, we need to decide on what to do about a myriad of problems. First thing, and easiest for me, is to send ships up through the Bay of Seals to Eastwatch. Find The Smalljon's ship, find him, find my goodsister and my nephew and bring them home."

"We can do that, Robb," Theon says. "I'll write to Lord Wyman. Ser Wendel can lead half a dozen up the coast and stretch out. The Lady Lyanna can lead another half dozen further out into the bay up to Skagos then follow the island coast. They'll find them."

"Very good. Thank you, Theon," he says, holding Val's hand.

"You will need to write The Greatjon, and let him know of the situation," Lady Wynafryd adds. "Word of his son's possible disappearance needs to come to him from you and no one else. Keep everything with him honest and transparent, and he will appreciate it even if…" She pauses and gives Val a sympathetic look, "even if the outcome is dark."

"Aye," Robb says, squeezing Val's hand. "The outcome, however, will not be dark. Umber is a fierce and competent leader, and Dalla and the babe are survivors. You will find them and bring them home to us, Theon."

"Of course, Robb," he answers with a nod of deference.

"We also will need to keep expanding the fleet. How many ships do we have now?"

"We've nearly got five true galleys now, all one hundred and fifty oars or more. The Sea Wolf is the jewel, but Ser Wendel's Mermaid's Song, Black Donnel Flint's Lady Lyanna, Ser Robar's Runeship Mourning are all strong and could be the flagship of any fleet in the world. And the boys just finished one for the Hornes of Ramsgate and are building one that your father commissioned for The Mormonts."

"Who are to be the captains?"

"Ramsgate? Dustin Horne, brother to the heir, Randyll. He sailed with me during the war before getting his own longship. The town has been growing at a fast pace since the end of the war. The contract with Braavos will bolster that. Soon it will be a proper city. They have men with good sea knowledge, most in The North apart from White Harbor and The Sisters."

"And the newest one for the Mormonts?"

"Dacey. The heir. She's a fine fighter and hell with that mace of hers, but she's also been first mate on Mermaid's Song and then with Black Donnel ever since the war. She's ready." He turns to Alyn. "My goodfather is busy filling out the portion of her crew that won't be Bear Islanders. There is talk of you taking the First Mate spot?"

Alyn looks to Robb. "My duties in Winterfell keep me busy for the moment…"

"Nonsense," Robb says, cutting him off. "We will need capable men on land and sea. If that is where your heart lies, Alyn, then that is where you should be."

The bearded man smiles for half a moment before quelling his obvious joy. "Very good, Lord Stark. I will think on it."

"Good man," Robb says. "So, six galleys. That's good, though we will want a few more."

"It can't be rushed. Good men need to be trained, and that is what truly slows the process. On the bright side, we do have over fifty longships and warships. About half are the ones we claimed off the pirates and then the reavers who tried to hit us. All the lords who live up rivers have one now except those on The Sunset Sea. A Western Fleet will have to wait until my Uncle's head has been freed from his body." He turns to Harlaw. "Or at least until we declare war?"

"The North will have another fifty longships as soon as our Uncle Rodrik and our allies are joined to us," The Knight says.

"After we raze Pyke to the ground, we will use The Islands as our shipyard and as the base for our Fleet of The Sunset Sea, of both warships and merchant carracks," Theon says.

Robb briefly imagines a future of three hundred warships protecting a thousand and more merchant ships bringing materials and goods from the North not just to every port in Westeros, but to every port in the world. Robb rises from his chair and walks over to his friend, who also stands. "That is a glorious vision, Theon, where the Direwolf and every other banner of the North will be seen and known in all parts of Westeros and Essos. But for this dream to come to pass, we will have to fight now to ensure it survives, so that our children and our children's children will know prosperity like never before." He extends his hand.

"Aye, Robb," Theon says, gripping his hand. "We will fight, we will win, we will prosper." His eyes are hard and focused, and Robb cannot reconcile the look with the boy he knew before he was lost. That is good. Theon is truly beyond that unserious, bitter, sulky ass that he had been before and has become a feared captain, a good husband, and a staunch and powerful vassal of Winterfell.

Robb pulls him in for a rough hug and then steps back, and looks at the rest of the room. "Tonight, we feast. Tomorrow, you leave for White Harbor. Find The Smalljon and my goodsister. Send them back to us, and then begin assembling the fleet."

"What of me, Lord Robb?" Harlaw asks. "Will I be returning to Ten Towers to inform my Uncle Rodrik of the plans for The Isles? Or should I assist Theon in the search for Lord Jon and your goodsister?"

"Neither," Robb replies, returning to his seat by Val's side. "We will get word to Lord Harlaw of our plans. You will go to Kings Landing, to speak with the King and my Father about Euron's treachery." He looks to Theon. "If we can stir the king to war with The Crow's Eye, it will give my father more time to uncover the Lannisters' deception, and it will take one of our enemies off the board before war with Casterly Rock becomes a reality." He shrugs. "If we cannot, or if events move too quickly, then the petition gives us pretense to call the banners and be ready to march and sail before our enemies."

A cough from Maester Luwin draws their attention to him. "Yet if it does work, a war with The Iron Isles would also give any conspirators a unique opportunity to assassinate the king without alarm or suspicion, which would put Joffrey on the throne."

"Assassination is a risk," Robb says, "but father will be wary of such things and have Ser Barristan and the white cloaks on their guard."

"Who is to say that he would be in any more danger than he is now?" Val asks. "If they control the capital, then they control the stories that fly out on ravens to the realm."

"Meaning what, my lady?" Asks Ser Rodrik.

"Meaning that The Queen could kill The King and all who would name her as killer before releasing any story she wished to tell."

"True," Lady Wynafryd agrees. "I have only been to the capital on two occasions, but I found it to be a den of corruption masked with false courtesy. And The Queen holds sway."

"We are agreed on that, Lady 'Fryd," the Knight says.

"You were in The Capital?" Theon asks.

"I was," Harlaw answered. "Before Lord Arryn died, for The Crown Prince's nameday tourney. It was a subterfuge. Our story was that I came to win glory for House Harlaw and then to sail to Essos for adventure. Which is true, in a sense. Initially, we were to sail for White Harbor before we learned that you were already voyaging to Braavos."

"You competed in the joust?"

"No," he admits. "There is not much jousting on The Isles, as you know, cousin. I was champion of the melee."

"You were?" Robb asks. "How much did you win?"

"Five thousand dragons."

Theon chuckles. "You have been carrying five thousand dragons on your person since you've been with me?"

"No. Only one thousand. I gave the rest to my crew. They are to spend the next few moons visiting the more famous ports of Essos to keep up the ruse. They were most eager to visit Lys when we departed."

"Understandable...for sailors," Wynafryd says with a smile.

Robb laughs. "Indeed. It also shows that our new Knight of the North is not only a fearsome warrior, but also a leader of men." He faces Harlaw. "Will you journey to Kings Landing and petition The King and my father on behalf of our purpose - for war against Euron Greyjoy?"

"I will go," Ser Harras says. "Theon and Lord Wyman have already had the Braavosi sign a parchment detailing the attack by ships sworn to Euron and Pyke upon vessels loyal to the realm. The seal and signature of White Harbor is on it, as well as The Wolf's Den, and my own hand. With Winterfell's seal and your signature, Lord Robb, and with the Braavosi as a third party, Euron's treachery will be confirmed before the realm."

"Is there another ship that can spirit him to the capital quickly?" Ser Rodrik asks.

"If we send a dozen north searching for Umber, it will have to be a merchant ship," Theon says. "Ser Robar and his Runeship Mourning sailed to Kings Landing for the tournament, and the rest are escorting cargo all along The Narrow Sea. Unless I take him on The Sea Wolf."

"No," Robb says. "I want you to search The Bay of Seals. Besides, seeing the Sea Wolf or any of our galleys in the harbor will only make our enemies in the capital more wary."

"Let him take the Kingsroad," Ser Rodrik suggests. "Send ravens ahead of him telling our allies to provide a fresh horse and supplies for him."

"That is what I was thinking, as well." Robb exclaims. "Jon's wolf ran south, meaning that there is a chance they are riding up the Kingsroad. I would like to send men down to meet them and escort them the rest of the way home if such is the case. Perhaps we could add a few men as escorts along the way to bolster Father's forces in the capital if it comes to a fight."

"My goodfather will send some men to meet him at Moat Cailin," Theon says.

"No, just horses. I'll want the Northern contingent to be smaller; the less northmen, the less suspicious. We'll send Ser Harras and ten riders as escort. Half Winterfell, half Cerwyn. Ser Wylis' men can provide fresh horses at the Moat. Ser Rodrik, do you think the Riverlanders would assist? A Seagard contingent would be good considering the parchment Ser Harras will carry."

"Perhaps, if they are not at the same tourney that Lord Theon mentioned. Write your grandfather and uncle and ask them to send a contingent of men to escort Ser Harras and to put themselves under Ned's command. You also have a famous granduncle at The Bloody Gate. Given Lady Lysa's secret letter, perhaps he could be prevailed upon to bring some Valeman down The High Road as well."

"Excuse me, Lord Stark," Maester Luwin says, "there is something that we seem to have forgotten."

"What is that, Maester?"

"We will need to convince Lord Tyrion to write his father at The Rock and his brother in the capital and let them know that he is our guest." Luwin emphasizes that last word. "No matter his standing with his family, his absence will soon be noticed. Either that, or we release him."

"He is free to go whenever he wishes."

The Maester lets out a frustrating sigh. "Lord Stark, you know that he believes that he will be killed if he leaves the castle."

"It is a dangerous land we live in, Maester, and it is a dangerous time. I am not responsible for his fears."

"Robb…" the Maester begins, but Robb cuts him off with a raised hand.

"He does not leave. Not until I have word from mother and Jon about their findings in the capital."

"Then he will need to write to his Lord Father. Or at least to his brother in the capital and let him know that he is here of his own volition."

"Maester Luwin is right, Robb," Theon says.

Wynafryd nods in agreement. "If it can be proven that Tyrion is being held against his will and without accusation or trial, the law will be on Lord Tywin's side. It could tie the King's hands."

Robb's eyebrows draw down in thought. "I am not so certain that he will be missed for some time. Or even at all. Everything he has told us, everything we witnessed during the King's visit reinforces that idea."

"His brother will miss him. His niece and nephew, as well," Val replies.

"Certainly, but he is a fantastically wealthy second son with no responsibilities, a curious mind, and a family that mostly prefers him out of sight. I think it is not unordinary that he should disappear for moons at a time."

The Maester lets out an exasperated sigh.

Robb stands, walks over and pats the old man's hand. "I will speak to Tyrion about the letter. For now, though, let us forget these troubles and celebrate once more." He fills his goblet and does the same for the rest. "To the North and its future heirs and future prosperity," he says, draining the glass.

10-II

The third ship is going to ram them. It wouldn't be a direct hit, but it would be enough to damage the hull, and close enough for their grappling hooks to bring them alongside to board them. After that, win or lose, it will delay them long enough for the other two to catch up to them.

"Get yourself and the little monster into the rowboat, Dalla," Umber says to the wildling woman.

She looks around them. "So we can die slowly on the sea? I'd rather we both end with you on the deck of the ship."

"Get in the boat," he says again. "We've got blankets and some food, flint and tinder packed in there. Fergus is a strong lad. He'll row you to Skagos. It's not as far as it looks, the fog bank obscures most of the island except the highest points. It will also hide you from the other ships."

"Jon, if you and your men die, they will be on me before we can make the fog."

"Those murdering bastards on that first ship won't kill us." He gives her his broadest smile. "And if they do, we've got the oil barrels. We'll all be ash on the water. Now go."

She says nothing, only runs back to her cabin to collect the babe. Their eyes meet as she is being lowered into the sea - there is no fear there, only the same weary determination she has worn since he first met her. "Protect them, Fergus," he tells the boy as the boat hits the water.

"Aye, m'lord," the young man responds.

As soon as they are away, the oars are back out, and they angle harder for the island, away from the mercenaries in front of them and the two behind.

Black hulls and black sails. Two of the longships appeared out of nowhere at dawn after they left Ser Waymar in Eastwatch. They were to their north and west, effectively cutting them off from the coast.

"Those are the ships," Dalla had told him, after he let her glass them with the Myrish lens.

"Must have been hiding in an inlet south of Eastwatch, waiting for us to pass and get out in open water," said Angus, his sailing master.

"But why?" Callum, one of his older warriors, asked. "Why would slavers be waiting for us?"

That was the question. Jon thinks he knows the answer. Rayder's flayed body had brought to mind the horror stories he was told of the Boltons when he was younger. They were dismissed quickly enough because the connection made no sense. Why would the Boltons or any Northern House send men or mercenaries through a frozen sea to a frozen land just to sack and burn a wildling village? There was no gold, no great store of goods, no profit to it.

Dalla's claim that their leader sounded like a Northman did give him pause, but that in itself proved nothing and barely suggested anything - there was no shortage of Westerosi who crossed the Narrow Sea with a sword looking for their fortune - a fact that held true both above and below the Neck. Indeed, the slavers would probably seek out a mercenary who knew the North for that particular mission.

After the two ships mysteriously appeared on their horizon, however, he realized his mistake. They were sellswords, but they were not financed by slavers looking for revenge or profit. They were backed by someone who attended the audience before The King. In Winterfell's Great Hall. Someone who knew where Standfast was located, someone who knew that the heir to House Umber would be there.

This was not an attack on the wildlings, this was an attack on Winterfell. With Robb wed to a wildling, the Dreadfort could possibly rally enough support for a rebellion. If he died here on the open sea, they could tell his father anything to sway Last Hearth to their cause. That could not be. They had to survive this, or else the North would be consumed by war.

"If we can outpace them," the Smalljon said to Dalla and his men, "draw them out in the open sea, we'll be able to turn back south and make Karstark shores, maybe even Sunrise."

"Is there a fort at Sunrise?" Fergus asked.

"No, but there's plenty of fighters in the town. Enough to give us an advantage."

"There were three ships, Jon," Dalla said. "Three ships that came up the Antler and burned us out."

She was right. There were three ships. The third one appeared not a day later to their southwest, cutting off any hope for Karstark lands, much less a fortified town like Sunrise, forcing them to angle hard northeast for Skagos and the fog bank.

They got close to the island, hopefully close enough for Dalla, but not enough for them. Jon looks to the grey sky, takes a deep breath of the salt air, and smiles. It is a good day. Dalla and the babe will live, so the story will live.

He finishes buckling on his heavy plate. He had brought it on a whim, never really thinking he'd need it, boiled leather and mail had always been enough. Now he is glad he has it. If they have archers, he'll draw their aim; just as he'll draw the eye of any who storm The Chainbreaker. No one is going to jump the rail in plate, at most they'll be wearing light armor. He drops his visor and pulls the battle axe that he has preferred ever since he took it off the reavers. He sees the ship approaching, sees them closing in, can see the whites in the eyes of his enemy. They'll come for him, and they'll die in droves.

He clangs axe and shield together and bellows, "Alright, lads. Here they come. Angle away now!" The oars on one side dip and hold, the others give one last mighty heave. Some of the oars pull in, some aren't quick enough and they snap as the sellswords' ship ploughs through them and slams into the side of the Chainbreaker. Not a direct hit, but hard enough to make Jon nearly fall if not for an arm around the mainmast.

The grapples are out, and the sellswords are over, and Jon wades into them. They are lightly armored, and they try to swarm him, but he is too strong, his axe too sharp, his armor too thick. He keeps moving to make it harder for them to target a gap or joint. A big one tries to tackle him. Jon is bigger. He slams the edge of his shield into his ribs, hears him gasp, and when the man falls, Jon slams his foot into his neck just before he takes off half of another mercenary's face with his axe. A clang as a sword glances off his pauldron, his downswing severs the arm holding it. Another blade bounces off his breastplate, his backswing splits open the man's belly just before he smashes another man's jaw with his shield.

"That's it, lads," he bellows, "Gut these murdering bastards!" His men do as they're told and follow his lead as he hacks and smashes the mercenaries until his arms are numb and the deck is covered in blood and bodies, until the last dozen of the poxy shits are jumping back over to their ship in their desperation to escape his wrath. His boys are right on their asses, though, and they cut them down swiftly. Jon lifts his axe and shield in the air and screams, "Last Hearth!" and his men shout with him.

He looks to the west. One ship is close enough for Jon to see the sellswords scrambling on their deck, minutes away from bowshot. The other to their south-southwest, is just as near.

"Angus, how's the hull?" he shouts, lifting his visor up

"Cracked, m'lord," the White Harbor man says. "She's taking on water, but we can seal her up with pitch."

"Do it quickly," he tells the man. "Tom!" He yells for his factor. Tom appears next to him, the bookish man's face and sword splattered with blood.

"Aye, Lord Umber?"

"Losses?"

"A dozen at least. A score if we count the injured who are out of the fight."

"M'lord!" It's Malcolm, bastard son of Last Hearth's steward, and his friend since he was a child. He is standing on the sellswords' ship, the hold is open, and a child is next to him.

The children they took. Gods, no. "How many?" He asks.

"A lot, m'lord," Malcolm responds, shifting his look from the hold to the ships bearing down on them.

"Close to two score, I'd say, Lord Umber," the hoary old soldier named Callum adds, climbing up from the mercenary's hold. "Some babes barely walking, some old enough to fight."

"Angus!" Umber yells. His sailing master comes running up from the hold. "Forget the pitch. Get over there and sail that ship into the fog. They most likely want me, which should give you time. I'll try and get both of them with the oil. Tom, you go with them."

"Aye, m'lord," the men say and then jump the rail to the other ship.

Before Jon can cut the grapples, arrows rain down around them. They all bounce off his heavy plate, but several of his men aren't so lucky. Angus is among them, having caught an arrow through his eye socket. No one knows the wind and tides better than him, no one would have a chance to captain a skeleton crew fast enough to get to the fog. "Get down to the holds or into the cabins!" Jon yells as another volley approaches.

The men who can take cover in the holds or the cabins do so. The ones who can't, roll dead men on top of them to absorb the arrows. For Jon, shield and armor was enough. He breaks the shafts on his shield with his axe and looks to both steer board side and port. The enemy's ships are turning to ram them. Steer board side will most likely crack open The Chainbreaker's hull, port side will split open the mercenary ship they have tethered to them - and spill all the children into the freezing waters.

"Callum! Tom! Get those children over to The Chainbreaker now!" he bellows.

"Lads!" He yells to the rest. "Get some oil barrels up here, five or six, and get them on that ship! We'll set those bastards on fire when they ram it!" He looks to the steer board ship. "We'll have to fight that one, we might have to take it. Helmsman! Don't let him ram us direct. If he splits our hull, we're all in the water!"

Most likely they end up in the water no matter how this goes. Jon unbuckles his armor as quickly as he can, keeping an eye on the ships as he does. Both have made their turns, both are angled for them. "Quickly now," he says, as the children are being brought aboard, the young ones being tossed from ship to ship by one burly northman to another to speed up the process. "Babes to the cabins! Older ones, grab a weapon from the dead. If you can fight, then fight! If not, stay with the little ones!"

Free from his armor, he grabs an oil barrel from two of the men, heaves it up on his shoulder. "Follow me with the rest," he says to the others. He jumps onto the other ship, and runs the barrel down the port side railing and sets it down there. The other mercenary ship is bearing down on them quickly, Jon can see that red armored bastard standing at the prow. There's not much time before the ram splits the ship in half, and the children are still coming up out of the hold. "Callum! How many more?!"

"Almost there, m'lord," the man says, ushering the children through the hold's door.

Jon runs back to where his men are offloading the other barrels. He takes one from them, heaving it up on his shoulder. "Bring the rest to the port side, cut all the ropes bracing the mainmast, and then help with the children," he says before walking the barrel to the base of the mainmast. He sets it down, unslings his battle axe, and begins chopping away furiously at the mast. His axe is sharp, his blows powerful, but the mast is thick. He doesn't know how much time he has when he feels the air split behind him and then hears a thunk and a thud. One of the last children has taken an arrow through the back of his head. Another child, a young girl, drops to the deck to clutch at the dead boy, but Callum grabs her and jumps over the rail back onto The Chainbreaker.

Jon looks and sees the red armored bastard holding a bow. His visor is up and the pale, blotchy, pig-faced cunt is laughing and nocking another arrow. Jon sidesteps, using the mast as cover while he tries to bring it down. He hacks and hacks at the wood as another arrow flies by. Then another, and he looks; they will be on him in seconds. He pushes against the mast with all his great strength, and he feels it start to budge, hears the wood crack and splinter, and when the ram crashes into the ship and knocks him to the deck, there's another loud crack as the mast falls perfectly upon the red bastard's ship. The man himself is nowhere to be seen. Jon holds out hope that the bastard's fancy red armor is dragging him to the bottom of the bay. He scrambles to his feet, splits open the oil barrel, kicks it over, and yells, "Torches now!"

He runs to the railing as torches fly over his head and when he jumps back onto The Chainbreaker, he can feel the heat on his back as he jumps. "Cut away!" he yells, but Callum and Malcolm are ahead of him. Still, though, the prow of The Chainbreaker is angling toward the burning ship, and he realizes that the helmsman is doing it on purpose. He turns to see why, just as the steer board side mercenaries ram them. Not a direct hit, thanks to the helmsman, but it is enough to push them back toward the flaming ship. Jon grabs an oar and runs to that side. "We must push away before the barrels ignite!" He yells and braces the oar against the burning ship and pushes as his men do the same, never mind that the other mercenary ship has thrown grapples and are climbing over the rails. Then there is a crack, and a roar, and liquid fire is raining down on them. He drops the oar, reaches for his axe, realizes that he lost it, picks up the nearest sword and loses it immediately in the guts of one sellsword, sidesteps the thrust of another, grabs his sword arm, swings a heavy fist into his ribs, feels them break, wrenches the bastard's sword from him, and then splits him from balls to neck with a furious upswing. "Murder these shits!" he screams. "We have to get the children on that ship!"

Another man comes for him, but Jon catches him full in the chest with a massive boot, sending him crashing over the rail. Three others rush him, but before their blades fall, a reindeer, half on fire, crashes into them, gouging and ripping flesh with its antlers before its panic sends it splashing into the freezing bay.

Someone released the reindeer? Someone did. They are all over the deck, bucking and braying and jumping onto the mercenary ship tethered to them, and Jon would laugh at such an image if not for the children. There are ones as young as five it seems to him, screaming and dying and killing and crying in turns as they fight alongside his men. And there are fires everywhere, the port side and the prow are ablaze, and it is dangerously close to the hold and the rest of the oil barrels, and Jon realizes that they are all about to die if they don't get to the mercenaries' ship and cut away.

"BOARD THEM NOW!" He bellows, grabbing an axe that he spies on the deck, and cutting through any sellswords in his way. "FOLLOW ME!" Umber yells, unsure if anyone is following him, but he can't look back now. The only way is forward. He jumps the railing and lays into the sellswords who are trying to cut the grapples, trying to push away from the burning Chainbreaker, trying to kill the flaming reindeer that is spreading fire to their ropes and sails.

The Smalljon Umber laughs now, laughs at the absurdity, laughs at his life, laughs at his death. Laughs at theirs. Time has slowed, there is only the enemy in front of him and the inferno behind. He lays into them with the ferocity of his House's sigil, a true giant, implacable, covered in brine and blood and ash, and they flee before him, their eyes white with terror. Then there is an eruption and a furious roar, and then heat, and he wonders if the gods claimed him with lightning, and he has the briefest belief that he is flying before he crashes headlong into the cold darkness of the abyss…

...and then his head is above water and he is gasping and someone has a vice grip on his hair and is yelling at him. Fergus. No, Dalla is yelling at him, the little monster, amazingly enough, asleep in her arms. Fergus is the one pulling him up by the hair.

"Get in Jon, before you freeze to death," Dalla says. He climbs up with Fergus' help, but stops the man when he grabs the oars and starts rowing for land.

"N-n-n-o. Ch-ch-children," he stammers out as he strips off his wet clothes. "O-on the sh-ship."

He sees her look over his shoulder. Her eyes go wide and she whispers, "Oh gods, no. Fergus, we have to save them."

The boy nods and reverses stroke, sending them back toward the burning ships. Once Jon is stripped down and wrapped in a blanket, he takes the aft oars and helps Fergus. The only way he will warm up is to move, so he rows them quickly over to the mess of bodies in the Bay of Seals. The mercenaries they come across are left to drown or freeze to death. Any of their men or any of the children are hauled in. The first few they reach are still paddling and soon stripped of wet clothes and wrapped in warm blankets. His man Callum is one, and Tom another. Soon they reach their capacity, the gentle waves of the Bay of Seals threatening to spill into the boat with every swell, but there are more children out there, floating on debris, still struggling in the water.

Jon looks to Skagos, the fog bank has lifted, and he can see the shore. "I will swim. Save as many as you can."

"Jon, you'll freeze," Dalla says.

"I'll make the shore," Jon replies. "Just grab as many of the children as you can and get back with those blankets as quickly as you can. I'll try and build a fire."

"Well," Callum adds, "I suppose I should go, too. You can't build a fire for shit, m'lord."

"Neither can you," says Tom in a bit of a wheeze. "I'll come, as well."

He wants to tell his friends to stay, but he would not wish to shame their sacrifice. Instead, he stands, naked as his nameday, and dives into the water. The cold bites him harder this time. Perhaps because he is expecting it, or maybe because his blood isn't as hot as it was when he went in the first time. Don't think about it, Umber. Swim. Swim for your life.

So he does. He loses feeling in his hands and feet, but he keeps on kicking. Then the numb creeps up his legs, and he is not certain if he is still kicking or not. So he concentrates on his arms instead, his massive arms, cleaving their way through foam and surf, through the numbness and through the cold, through the small warm feeling in his chest, the one that is beginning to grow, the one that will kill him if he cannot keep it at bay. He breathes deep and he cries out, a booming, thunderous roar, defying the cold and the death that is reaching for him, willing him to stop moving, dragging him beneath the waves. But then he feels his hands find purchase in shale and sand. He scrambles to his feet, nearly falls over when a wave crashes into him, but he forces his legs to move forward until he is out of the Bay, and only then does he fall to his knees.

Umber looks back, but he cannot see Callum or Tom, only the rowboat, filled with children, and coming back in. He forces himself to his feet and starts walking. He has to keep his blood up. Past the beachhead he goes, and on to the treeline and what looks like a grove of massive weirwoods. He gathers sticks and twigs and dead branches and piles them high, and grabs handfuls of fallen leaves, and pulls peat from the grove floor, and he stuffs them between the branches.

Why am I so tired? The warm feeling is still there, and seems larger now, and he wants to reach for it. Perhaps I'll just lie down here for a moment.

So he does, but there are people talking, and he can hear a scrape and then there is a bright light, and the talking becomes more clear. It's a woman's voice.

"Children, hold one another close. Share your blankets, get close to the fire. Fergus, fetch more wood then huddle with the children. They'll need your warmth."

He feels a shape press against his naked flesh and then an arm around him. "Don't die, Umber," is the last thing he hears before he drifts off into the black.

10-III

They are not yet two days out to sea when the pirates take them. It happened at night, while he was sleeping. He answers the rapid succession of thuds on his door to find the panicked first mate practically yelling that a pirate ship is right on them and for him to arm himself. No time for mail or armor. He puts on his boiled leather, grabs his sword, and makes his way to his Lady Aunt's room.

"What is it, Jon?" She asks as she opens the door for him.

"Pirates. So the crew believes."

"The Lannisters could have discovered us, could have sent someone after us. We're not even past Dragonstone. Pirate attacks in Blackwater Bay are unheard of."

"Aye," Jon says. Could Baelish have betrayed them? Or is the little man not as clever as he believes? "Stay here, my lady. Bar your door. Open for none but me."

"Jon," she says before he can go. "Do not throw your life away. If it is pirates or Lannisters, they will need us alive. For gold or leverage."

"Understood, Aunt Catelyn," he says before closing the door and rushing to the deck. The pirates are already over the rail and engaged. Jon jumps into the fray. He cuts down one, then a second, and another in quick succession, but it does not seem to matter. It seems two more appear for every one that he kills, and soon he is swarmed and backing up as he can only defend against the bevy of blades slashing and stabbing at him. Then he is running aft, toward the quarterdeck, hoping the high ground can keep him alive a bit longer. It seems all of the merchants are either dead or have surrendered, but it does not appear likely that the mob of pirates chasing him will give him the latter option. So he fights, blocking, slashing, running, seeing an opening and then taking it, catching the closest in the throat with a quick stab before running again, trying to put any kind of distance between them to keep from getting overrun.

"Hold!" A voice bellows out over the din of the fight, and the pirates all stop, though they are still glaring murderously at him. Jon holds as well and quickly looks about. The battle is over. Perhaps it has been for longer than he realized. Some of the pirates are dead, more of the merchants. The ones who are living are all on their knees, their weapons on the ground. The captain foremost among them.

Jon looks at the one standing over the captain, a slim man, older, with tan, weathered skin and wispy white hair. He is smiling at him, a friendly, avuncular thing that touches his eyes, but makes Jon even more wary. Friendly, avuncular types do not become captains of sellsails and pirates. Jon throws his sword to the deck. "I surrender."

The man walks over to Jon, turns back and whistles sharply. His men drag the captain to his feet and bring him over.

The man gestures to the captain. "He says that you are his cargo. You and a certain noble lady, bound for White Harbor."

"It has been arranged for him to take us to White Harbor."

"Where is this noble lady?"

"Are The Lannisters your employers?"

The man whistles again, and another pirate rushes over and, ridiculously enough, hands the man a flamboyantly green cap stuffed with peacock feathers that he immediately fits upon his head.

"I will be engaged with the captain here for the next, let's say, quarter of an hour. After which, I will be relaxing in his cabin for as long as it takes me to finish his best bottle of wine." He turns to the captain. "What is your best wine?"

"Strongwine, from Lord Runceford's personal stock."

"Very good!" the man exclaims. "And good for you," he says to Jon. "I'll want to take my time with that heady vintage. Which gives you and this noble lady more time to present yourselves before me. Do that, and I'll allow you to ask your questions after I have asked mine. Do not, and I will take the lady and throw you in chains. I might even let the friends of the men you gutted be your gaolers. Are my terms clear?"

"They are," Jon says, and a quarter hour later, they are knocking on the door of the captain's cabin.

The man lets them in and is immediately enamored with Lady Catelyn. He takes her hand, kisses her knuckles. "My lady," he says, "my name is Salladhor Saan."

"A Pirate," Catelyn says.

"The Pirate, my lady. Prince of the Narrow Sea. The captain tells me while you are not royal like me, you are noble. So may I have your names, please?"

Jon looks to his aunt. She nods and speaks. "I am Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell. And this is my adopted son, Ser Jon Stark."

His face is practically beaming with happiness. "Lady Stark. And Lord Eddard's bastard son. Come, come, be seated, enjoy some of this wonderful strongwine." He pours them two cups and then himself a third.

"This is one of Baelish's ships. Given his position as Master of Coin and given his nature, his ships always make for ripe targets for those of us in the profession. Of course, only the best know which ships are which."

"Why are you telling us this?" Lady Catelyn asks.

Saan tsks. "I will ask the questions for now, my lady."

Another pirate walks in on them carrying a parchment. Saan takes it from him and scans the page. "Is this all?"

"Up to this point," the man replies. "Nestorio is working the captain and first mate over, but I think he's spilled all his secrets."

"Very well, Rik, you may leave." When the man is gone, Saan places the page on the table. "The captain had gold and silver in his secondary holds - where smugglers hide the goods they do not want customs to find. It was all apportioned and segregated, so I assume they were bribes meant for Braavos or Pentos or perhaps White Harbor. It was a decent haul, but not up to the standard of a usual Baelish ship. Which brings me to you two." He finishes his wine and pours himself another. "What is the going rate for the Lady of the North and a Lord Paramount's Bastard?"

"My son will ransom us," Lady Catelyn says. "Whatever the cost."

"Whatever the cost," Saan repeats. "Why your son and not your husband? He is the new Hand of the King is he not?" He wags a finger at her. "You have a secret, my lady."

"One that does not concern you," she throws back at him.

"But one that does concern The Lannisters." He turns to Jon. "Thank you for that bit of information, young man." He pivots back to Lady Catelyn. "So you see, the term 'whatever it costs' could be more than your husband...or your son, if you prefer, could afford."

Jon curses himself for his stupidity. His loose tongue gave the pirate even more leverage over them. He has a brief thought of killing the man or taking him hostage, but pushes it away quickly enough. It would gain them no advantage except to get him killed and put his Aunt in more danger. And while wine was not bread and salt, it was close enough for Jon.

His aunt tries a different tactic. "Or we could just wait for one of the King's galleys to split this ship in half and rescue us. We are not even past Dragonstone, Prince of the Narrow Sea. You are still in the King's Waters."

He smiles like the cat that just licked the cream. "My lady, I am here by specific invitation from the Prince of Dragonstone himself. Who is also the King's Master of Ships, I believe. We passed unmolested through nearly the entirety of the royal fleet not even three days ago."

Jon and Catelyn trade looks. "Why would Stannis invite a...famous pirate to Dragonstone?"

"Why would any brother of the King invite a famous pirate with a fleet of ships to his base of power?"

"He is readying for war," Jon answers. Saan spreads his hands.

"Then we demand to be brought before Lord Stannis immediately," Lady Catelyn says. "He will wish to hear what we have to say."

He shrugs. "Eh. That is possible, I suppose. If it is to do with The Lannisters, then I am certain it is true. But since I do not know what you have to say, I do not know if letting Stannis hear it will benefit me." He grins again. "I am a pirate, after all, and we all have a reputation to uphold. So why don't you tell me your story, and after, I will tell you your fate. Be it your son, be it Stannis, or be it The Queen and her ilk."

10-IV

Umber wakes to a warm bed with a warm blanket over him and a nice roaring fire - as well as a raw throat, a rumbling belly, and a dull ache in his left foot. He slowly peels the blanket off him, slowly sits up. There is half a chicken and a flagon of something next to his bed. He takes a drink. Water. He wishes it was wine or beer for half a moment before gladly drinking it down and then tearing into the chicken. His courage up and his belly full, he checks his foot. Where the small toe should be is a dressing. Blood seeped through, but it is long dry now. Thoughts of his other extremities has him checking his fingers, his cock, and then the toes of his other foot. Everything else seems to be in place and healthy.

He chuckles to himself. A small toe, a small price to pay when it should have been his life. It still could be, he thinks, looking about the room. It is unfamiliar, but it is not strange. It looks like any room in any other holdfast in the north. He stands, realizes that he is naked, looks about and finds clothes that seem to be his size next to the fire. He pulls them on carefully, each movement flaring up another ache or pain in his body. Dressed, he opens the door and steps out into a decent sized hall - two large hearths on either end, four trestle tables, a dozen sconces for torches at night, and animal hides on the floor, and stuffed animal heads mounted on the walls, and five other doors that Jon assumes leads to rooms like the one he stepped out from, and double doors that most likely lead outside. No dais, though, and no throne or high chair. Not a Lord's Hall, maybe not a Masterly Hall, either.

He hears a giggle, and in the corner, sees two girls huddled together and whispering to each other while stealing glances at him.

He gives them a bow and a smile. "Hello. Do you know Dalla?"

They giggle again, and then run off through the double doors, letting in a cascade of daylight that forces him to squint and half turn away before following the two outside. He brings a hand up to shade his eyes until they adjust to the noon sun. Once they do, he takes in his surroundings. It is a village. Small, but still a proper community. A well and an adjacent stream for freshwater, a large pen full of sheep and goats, a garden with what looks like potatoes, carrots, and greens, and half a dozen other buildings, not including a blacksmith's shop. The faint sound of crashing waves tells him that they are still close to the sea and all of its bounty.

The older children in the village are doing the chores, tending the sheep, milking the goats, weeding the garden, while the younger ones play. Chasing one another around the buildings. They all stop to stare at him for a moment before resuming their activities. He sees no adults or even anyone he'd guess is past the age of twelve.

One little boy grabs his hand and points to a field on the other side of a thin line of trees. Jon looks to the field as the boy tugs his hand and then runs off, waving for him. Jon follows, his long strides catching up to the boy easily enough. He swoops him up off his feet and plants him on his shoulders. The boy giggles, but still says nothing.

When they break the tree line, he takes the boy down off his shoulders, and gives him a pat on the rear, sending him back to the village. There are at least two dozen biers built. There are men on a few of them, some that he recognizes through the bloat and the corruption, like Callum and Malcolm and Tom. On each of the others is a child. A child, Jon knows, who was taken from their home by bandits, placed in chains, and then given to the freezing sea. A child that he could not save, that he failed.

Two score paces away from the biers is a large pit, and in the middle is a strong, young man piling the bodies of bandits.

"Fergus," Jon says from the edge of the pit.

The lad turns around, half startled and wiping at his eyes. "M'lord! You're up! Dalla said your fever broke last night."

"I suppose it did," he answers. "You've done good work here, Fergus."

He shrugs. "I needed to do somethin', m'lord. They don't bury them here, they burn the bodies. Seemed wrong to me at first, but Lady Dalla explained it to me. And I like building things. Even funeral biers, I guess."

"Where is Lady Dalla?" Jon asks.

"In the weirwood grove. The one you found when you first came up." He nods to the South. "Just inside the treeline."

Jon climbs down into the pit and squeezes the boy's shoulder. "Thank you, Fergus. For saving my life."

The boy blushes. "Weren't nothin', m'lord. Lady Dalla's idea to row back out to you when the fog started to clear and we seen the tide had brought the ships close enough to shore."

A thought strikes him. "Did all the ships burn? All of the sellswords' ships?"

He shakes his head. "I know two of them did. Not sure about the third. The one that the mast fell on. Looked like the sails caught and maybe some rigging, but it looked like they were able to back row away before I lost sight of them. If the fire didn't sink them, they'd be crippled for sure."

Jon nods, climbs out of the pit, and makes for the weirwood grove.

Before he gets too far away, Fergus calls after him. "Dalla's got the prisoners there, m'lord. Her and the other widows from the village."

Other widows? "What prisoners?"

"The bandits that washed up."

Jon nods and makes his way quickly to the grove. Two men are already dead, stripped naked, their skin a light blue hue from the elements, their feet and hands blackened from frostbite. The cold was killing them, no doubt, but it was Dalla who ended them. Was it also she who cut them open and hung their guts on the branches of the tree as a sacrifice to the old gods? Blood on the knife in her hand tells Jon that she cut them open. Blood on the hands of the other women tells him they hung the entrails. The eviscerated bodies lying on the roots of The Heart Tree, and the blood dripping on and trickling down the white trunk of the tree and pooling in and around its stoic face tells him that the sacrifice is well received.

The last man is healthier than his compatriots. Only two of his fingers are black, only two of his toes. He could yet live. But he will not. The dead children on the biers a quarter mile away guarantee the man's fate. As does Mance Rayder's blood on the heart tree in Standfast, and the burnt and mutilated bodies of Dalla's friends and family.

She holds a knife to his chest. His arms and legs are tied to the weirwood. He is crying, begging, first in some Essosi language, and then again in the common. A dozen other women surround them. Their ages vary, one looks to be a crone, another is as young as Fergus, if Jon had to guess. The others are all ages in between. And they are all chanting softly. Jon can't understand them, but he recognizes the Old Tongue. Dalla is softly chanting, as well. And then stops, and turns, and looks at him.

"Umber," she says, her normally soft grey eyes dark as a thundercloud.

Umber...Umber...Umber. The old gods. It's a susurrus, and it comes from the leaves, from the roots, from the stoic face carved into the tree next to the man, who shakes and weeps and calls out in his native language once again. He'd heard such things before from a Heart Tree. His father taught him how to listen to them.

The Smalljon was only six at the time and the face in Last Hearth's Heart Tree terrified him. He confessed to his father that he wished that they would not notice him at all. His father looked at him sternly and said, "Then you will do no great deeds, have no great adventures, find no great love. You will only ever be a shadow of a man, son, and live a shadow of a life." Jon remembers crying, remembers his father putting his huge arms around him. "Never bow down to fear, son. The old gods are terrifying, but so is life. Face it. Face them. And deal with whatever comes."

Jon walks through the circle of women (Other Widows), holds out his hand. Dalla places the knife in his palm. He says nothing, only stares in her stormy eyes, and sees the truth. The old gods claimed this man long before he ever washed ashore. She continues chanting, and the women join her.

Turning to the bandit, he asks. "Who is the man in the red armor?"

The man stares at him, wide-eyed and grateful. Jon understands. This is the first word of The Common Tongue he has heard since he was taken. He believes Jon is rational, believes he has something to bargain with. Believes that he will not be given as some heathen sacrifice. So he answers. "We call him the Bloody Prince, but I heard our factor name him Ramsay. A-and some of the older men always call him Lord Snow when they are in their cups...and out of his hearing."

Ramsay Snow. "What was your mission?"

"Sack the village, burn it to the ground. Slaughter all the villagers. It was our factor's idea to take the children instead of killing them. Extra coin for us." He looks to the women, still chanting. "Make them stop that, please. I can't, I can't think when they do that."

"What was your mission?" Jon asks again.

He looks to Jon, to the knife, back to the women, to Dalla, who is beside Jon's right hand, his knife hand. "We were to kill you, but we got there before you did. So the Prince had us wait for you south of Eastwatch. Said you'd stop there because of the crow."

Jon looks to Dalla, and she raises her voice, and the other widows follow.

The man wails, a pitiful thing, and then screams, "Shut up! Shut up, you Skagosi cunts!" Snot and tears and dirt mingle in his beard.

Jon only leans forward, cups the man's cheek in his massive hand and says softly. "What was your mission?"

"I told you my mission! I told you!" He screams. Jon brings the knife up. "Wait! Wait!" He says. "Wait. I just recalled. A small company of our boys broke off from us. Before we sailed. We were throwing dice, and they said they get to kill a Lordling, a Stark. The heir, the heir!"

Jon gives him a nod. "For the crimes of slavery and murder, in the name of Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and The First Men, I, Lord Jon Umber, heir to Last Hearth, sentence you to die."

"No, no, please, it wants my blood, I can hear it sp…"

Jon passes the blade beneath his throat, and the man's words end in a gurgle, the blood running quickly down his chest and legs to mingle with his sellword brothers in the roots of the massive heart tree.

Dalla touches his cheek. He turns to her. She takes him by the hand, leads him out of the grove and past the biers and back through the village, leads him back to the Hall and into a different room that he understands has become hers. She methodically removes his tunic, his boots, his breeches, and then unclasps the hooks on her dress and lets it fall to the floor at her feet. She pushes him onto the bed, climbs in with him.

When they are done, when she has exhausted herself on him, she rests her head on his chest and weeps. Loud, wracking sobs full of anger and hate and grief and love. He wraps his arms around her and strokes her hair, but says nothing. When the sun sets, she stands, puts on her dress, and right before leaving the room, she says the first words to him since the grove. "Come, Umber. We must see to your friends...and to the children."

He dresses and walks to the biers. Dalla is already there, the little monster in her arms. She says words over each of the children, speaking their names and telling a story unique to each of them before setting the bier alight. When it comes to his crew, she defers to Jon.

He does the same. He tells stories of Callum's gruff humor and ferocity in battle, of Malcolm's quiet kindness, of Tom and his bookish nature. He weeps over his friends and then lights the biers and hopes the wind carries them to green lands of food and wine and peace.

Afterward, they feast and drink and dance in memory of loved ones gone. He sees the young widow with her arms around Fergus and smiles as she leads him away from the fire. He drinks to the boy and to any joy he may find before joining the children in dance and song. He plays no instrument, but has been told that his voice is not so horrible, so he regales them with mainland songs. An older widow with a lute is able to find his key and rhythm and pluck out the melody to each song he sings. He makes them laugh with The Bear and The Maiden Fair and has them enraptured with Jenny of Oldstones.

After all but the widows have retired for the night, Dalla takes him into her bed once more, and there is nothing between them this time, no grief or guilt or anger, no need other than desire, and after, Jon falls asleep content in her arms.

The next morning, he and Fergus begin to build a skiff to take them back across the Bay. The boy has a talent for carpentry, but the work is slow as neither of them know much about the building of ships, and Jon would rather not attempt to sail across freezing waters in something likely to capsize at the first large swell. Their first attempt ends with the craft dashed on the rocks and them freezing their balls off in the water. The second sees them past the break, but the mast cracks when the wind fully catches the hemp sail Dalla and the widows wove for them.

His nights bring no relief to his frustrations as Dalla decides this commune of widows and orphans of Skagos is where she belongs.

"I cannot leave you here," he says. "Skagosi are known to eat the dead during Winter. You will not be safe here among only women and children."

"This place is considered sacred to them, Jon. One of many like it around the island. Wherever there is a weirwood grove, there is a small village like ours. A place of the gods, protected by The Skagosi themselves."

"But you are not Skagosi, Dalla."

"I am a widow, and they have accepted my vows."

"Vows? What vows?" Jon asks, genuinely confused.

"We dedicate each day to the gods, to the land, and to the children. We do this until we are ready to move on with our life. Some, like young Greta over there with Fergus, are only here for a year or two. Others" she says, nodding to the old crone, "have been here much longer."

"But yesterday...and last night. I thought that…" Jon says, feeling the heat of embarrassment fill his face.

She gives him a grateful smile. "I needed that Jon, and I thank you for it, but Mance is still in my heart, and there is no room for another. This is my place. For now."

Jon sighs, understanding. When she was asleep in his arms, he had fanciful thoughts of taking her as wife, as Robb did with Dalla's sister. Nestor Royce ended up turning down his father's offer for one from an old man with a richer house than Last Hearth, so why not wed beyond the wall and strengthen that bond even more? But he knows that is folly, the insipid thoughts of a boy. Robb is a Stark of Winterfell, and it was the remarkable circumstance of his survival that led to him marrying Val, both of which are the only reasons that the union was even half-tolerable to his father. If he were to bring a wildling girl home as wife, the Lord Umber would kill him. Or die of shame. Jon lets out a soft chuckle. No, he has no future with Dalla, beautiful and fierce and free-spirited and...Northern as she is.

"What then shall I tell your sister?"

"Tell her the truth. Tell her when I am ready, I will come to her with my son."

"Aye, my lady," he says then grins as he scratches his head. "Though I won't be telling her anything if we can't get this skiff to sail us farther than one hundred yards past the shore."

"Persevere, Umber," she advises. "That's what The Free Folk do."

Persevere they do, and nearly a moon's turn since he swam to Skagos, their skiff makes it past the breaks and the rocks, and the mast and sail hold firm. It is a sturdy vessel, and it handles the swells of the bay and the heavy Northern winds without issue. A late summer storm would probably wreck them, but there is no other option but to put his life in the hands of the gods. They have delayed too long, and Robb must know that his life is in danger.

Just as they turn back to Skagos to gather the supplies for their journey, Fergus spies a ship to their Southeast. The hull is not black but the deep brown of ironwood, and the sails white as the clouds in the crisp, late summer sky. Even better are the colors they are flying. The boy's eyes are sharp as an eagle, and after he cries out that it is The Direwolf Banner above the Cracked Stone of The Flints, Jon gives Fergus a rough hug and a clap on the back. The Lady Lyanna sails next to them, and he sees Black Donnel himself smiling and shaking his head, and when the man calls out, "That is the ugliest bit of flotsam I've ever seen," all Jon can do is bellow with laughter.

10-V

The flamboyant pirate Saan transferred them to Ser Davos at the docks of Dragonstone and concluded their brief acquaintance with a bow to Jon, a wink to his Lady Aunt, and an expectation of future reward from Stannis to be "added to his tally" for the infamous Onion Knight.

"Apologies, my lady, Ser Jon, but Lord Stannis and Lady Selyse are elsewhere at the moment. Would you be amenable to being the guests of the Princess Shireen until such time as the Prince of Dragonstone returns?"

"Of course, Ser Davos," his aunt says. "Though we are overdue in Winterfell. Would access to the rookery be allowed to send a message to my son in the North?"

"I am sorry, my lady, but Lord Stannis has been overly cautious as of late, for reasons that are not mine to explain. All ravens and messages have to be approved by him."

"Very well," she responds politely. "When can we expect Lord Stannis to return?"

"Not for a spell, my lady. No earlier than the next moon, I believe."

They walk in silence for a time before Jon decides to break it. "My father told us the story of how you broke the Redwyne's blockade and brought food to Lord Stannis and Lord Renly during the Rebellion," Jon told the small man as they made their way to the fortress. "It was always one of my favorite tales from the war when I was a child."

"Really?" The small man asks, looking genuinely curious. "I never assumed that my brief footnote would ever rate high in the imaginations of young boys." He chuckles. "Even my sons seemed more interested in the king's or your own father's doings rather than mine."

"Our children often have trouble separating us from stories of our youth. Your actions were both heroic and righteous, Ser Davos," Lady Catelyn tells him.

"Perhaps," the man replies, "But they were also selfish."

"Selfish?" Jon asks.

"Indeed, Ser Jon. I'd be lying if I said the opportunity to rise above my station was not a consideration when I sailed past the Redwynes."

Jon frowns. "In war, there are many ways for a man to rise above his station, most of those ways are immoral or dishonorable. You chose to feed starving people. That is why I admired your story, Ser. You proved that a man can rise based on his merit and not his birth, and you did it with honor and compassion."

Davos clears his throat and shrugs, obviously uncomfortable with the praise. "Well. It was a task fit to my abilities."

"And your rise in station befits your humility, Ser Davos," Lady Catelyn says.

"You are kind to say so, my lady," the Onion Knight responds as they cross into the ancient Targryen fortress.

"Davos!" A young girl shouts as she runs up to them, a large fool covered in motley prancing about in her wake.

"Ah," the small man says with a warm smile. "Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, Ser Jon Stark of Winterfell, may I introduce you to The Princess Shireen Baratheon of Dragonstone."

The girl curtsies, though she angles her face away to better obscure the scars on the right side of her face. Her eyes, however, remain on them. Jon had heard the story, of course, of the young Baratheon babe afflicted with greyscale. Jon bows, making sure to keep his eyes on the girl's own and offers her a smile and a wink. She smiles back at him, a shy and tentative thing that endears her to Jon immediately.

Lady Catelyn curtseys deeply in respect, and then begins looking about the antechamber. "I have always wanted to see Dragonstone, ever since I was a young girl." She holds out a hand. "Princess, would you be willing to give my...my son and I a tour of the castle?"

She brightens and faces them fully. "I can," she exclaims eagerly, taking hold of Lady Catelyn's hand.

The fool begins to excitedly dance around them and sing. "A dragon's come to Dragonstone, a dragon's come to Dragonstone, a dragon's come to Dragonstone, I know, I know, I know!"

Jon exchanges a glance with his aunt and sees the same confusion and alarm on her face that must be on his own.

The Princess picks up on their discomfort. "Don't worry about Patches. He's just being silly." She turns to the fool. "Patches, go get something to eat from the kitchens and leave our guests be."

The admonished fool does not lose his unnerving grin as he flips onto his hands and begins to shuffle away, still singing the same refrain.

"Come," the Princess says excitedly tugging on Lady Catelyn's hand. His aunt laughs and goes along with the girl, Jon and Ser Davos following closely.

The girl is a splendid guide with a keen mind, as she knows all the castle's nooks and crannies and explains the detailed history of each. Jon is fascinated by the tour and eagerly takes in all the information he can about his father's family as he is led around the old Valyrian stronghold that once belonged to his ancestors. He found the war room especially engaging, finding the map of Westeros to be beautiful in both craftsmanship as well as functionality. He imagines The Conqueror himself leaning over the table, moving pieces to and fro before he and his sisters unleashed their dragons on The Seven Kingdoms three hundred years before. He notices the ships denoting the Royal Fleet mostly at Dragonstone, as well as newly crafted pieces next to them that he assumes belong to Saan. In the North, there are pieces, as well, grey Direwolf heads that underestimate both the size of their fleet and their army, both of which have grown significantly in the last three years.

Afterward, they are brought to their rooms where they are given baths and fresh clothing before dinner with The Princess, as well as Ser Davos and his family, and Maester Cressen, who was the King and his brothers' Maester when they were boys at Storms End. Talk at the table revolves mostly around the Maester's tales about Stannis and Renly as children or Ser Davos's own family or Princess Shireen's adventures around the island. She makes Jon promise to go with her and Devan Seaworth to the beaches and the caves the following day. No talk of their business in Kings Landing or Stannis's plans with the Royal Fleet are brought up.

So goes the next three weeks. Jon spends his days with Shireen and Devan exploring the island's caverns, looking for dragon eggs when he is not training with Davos's older boys in the yard under the tutelage of the Florent Master-at-Arms. Lady Catelyn occupies her time with the other ladies of the castle or with Maester Cressen. And the dinners are always nice and the company warm, but no clarification of their situation is ever given and no message to Robb is allowed.

Until Stannis Baratheon steps off King Rob's Hammer onto the Dragonstone docks. He sends for them immediately, and they are rushed to his solar. Ser Davos is with him and offers a friendly smile. Another man is there, as well. A self-serious looking fellow with large ears and a bald head.

Stannis rises, bows. "Lady Stark, Ser Jon. Be seated."

They return the courtesy and then find their seats. Stannis is as opposite from his brother as could be possible. Both are tall, but this man is thin, hard, with a close cropped beard, thinning hair, and a square jaw magnified by clenched teeth.

"You believe The Lannisters killed Jon Arryn and twice attempted to murder your son."

"We do," Lady Catelyn returns. The story they gave Saan was free of details, but it contained the crux of their mission. As such, they had already determined among themselves to tell Stannis the entirety of their tale. They were trying to protect Robert, after all, and the younger sibling had been a confidante of sorts of Jon Arryn's, according to Ned.

"Tell me your story. Spare no details."

They do as they are obliged. Jon can hear the faint sound of Baratheon grinding his teeth through clenched jaw as they speak, but his eyes never leave whoever is speaking. He hears them without interruption, and at the end offers only, "You have been foolish to put your trust in Baelish."

"He is one of my oldest friends, Lord Stannis."

"He is a snake motivated by his own interests. If he proves true, it will only be so because toppling The Lannisters provides him with the greater advantage. Given that family's wealth, I doubt that he proves true."

Jon looks to his Aunt. "Lady Catelyn, perhaps it would be wise to be cautious. Let me return to the capital, warn father of the possibility of treachery."

"No," Stannis says with a tone of finality.

"You just said that Baelish could not be trusted."

"I know what I said, and I know it to be true, but I will not allow you to return to the capital. You are a bastard, but all accounts of your character claim that you are honorable. Much like your father. Be that as it may, however, if you are put under duress, you could reveal my intentions regarding the Queen's family."

"I would never…"

"No one knows what they would do until they are close to death, Ser Jon. I will not take the risk."

"Would you send your own messenger?"

"I will not. Lady Stark, what you and your adopted son fail to grasp is that Lord Eddard is most likely already dead and your daughters are most likely already hostages."

"I think you underestimate my husband," she throws back at him defiantly.

"I do not," he responds evenly. "I think I gauge him correctly."

There is a moment of tense silence until Ser Davos breaks it. "Perhaps, my lord, your guests would be interested to know the truth that you uncovered with Lord Arryn."

He looks at the Onion Knight, but the small man holds his stare. It should be an absurd sight; royalty, the brother of a king, and his common-born servant holding one another as equals, even if only for a moment, but Jon sees the truth behind their relationship. Davos is Stannis's only true friend.

"Very well," the Prince of Dragonstone says finally and turns to them. "The King's children are not his children. They are products of incest with The Kingslayer."

Jon's mouth drops open as Lady Catelyn gasps and covers hers. "She would not dare," his aunt whispers through her fingers.

"She would. She did."

At Winterfell, Jon observed many glances and touches between the two that mirrored his own father's with Lady Catelyn's, but he attributed it to their close relationship as identical twins. Never did he suspect cuckoldry or incest.

"Then what Bran saw, what he stumbled upon…" His aunt begins.

"Was in all likelihood the unholy union between The Queen and her brother," Stannis finishes for her.

"What proof do you have?" Jon asks. "It makes sense now that I think about how they act with one another, but you will need more than just suspicious glances and touches to convince a tribunal."

"The children themselves," Stannis says. "They are all blonde of hair and green of eye. None carry anything of Robert in them."

Lady Catelyn shakes her head. "That in itself proves nothing. I have five children with Ned, and only one bears the Stark coloring. The rest are red of hair and blue of eye."

"But Robb's facial structure and build is very similar to Uncle Brandon's, if the paintings and the crypts are accurate," Jon puts in.

"They are," she answers.

Jon nods. "Same for Rickon, who looks likely to grow into a twin to Robb, only taller. And Bran has the long face of father and Uncle Benjen. Sansa is almost all Tully, but she has...Aunt Lyanna's cheekbones. But the royal children? They are all Lannister. Joffrey could be The Kingslayer's younger brother."

Stannis nods in approval at Jon's analysis, but Lady Catelyn is unconvinced. "But will that be enough evidence?"

"That is not all the evidence. There is a book of genealogies of the Great Houses. In every instance of a Baratheon and Lannister union, the babe was black of hair and blue of eye. In truth, in nearly all Baratheon unions, our seed proved out."

"The seed is strong," Jon whispers.

"Yes, those were Lord Arryn's last words, but Robert could not grasp their meaning."

"Then why did you not tell him their import?" Lady Catelyn asks.

"Because the king does not love me and would see such a claim as a means to usurp the throne from his son. That is why it had to come from Lord Arryn."

"But he died," Jon says. "Now it must come from my father."

Stannis shakes his head. "There was only one chance, and that chance is gone. The Lannisters know that I am aware of their secret. They know that Lord Stark is seeking the same knowledge. If he discovers it, he is a dead man. If he is still Hand when they finally kill my brother, he is a dead man. In a city of corruption, the richest house wins. I removed myself from their reach, or else I would be on a stone bier in The Great Sept."

"Return with us to Kings Landing. Tomorrow. We will all go to Ned in force, and with him, we will go to the King."

"They would kill Robert as soon as my ship was spotted in the harbor, and then we would all be arrested once we made port. I will not engage in stupidity, Lady Stark. I will designate a ship to take you to White Harbor and your son. My advice is to call your banners and prepare for war. And to let go of your husband and daughters."

"What of Riverrun?" Jon asks. "Would you take us to Riverrun?"

Lady Catelyn gives him a knowing look. Riverrun could send men to the capital to help Ned faster than anyone.

Stannis considers both of them for a moment. "I will take you to Saltpans. From there, you may do as you wish."

"Thank you, my lord," Catelyn says, rising and curtseying. "It is most appreciated."

"And may we also send a raven to my brother in Winterfell?" Jon asks.

"You may," Stannis says, rising as well. "But no details. Only that you are guests of mine and are now departing."

"Again, we thank you, Lord Stannis," Lady Catelyn says.

Stannis gives her a curt nod. "When my brother dies, I will expect support and pledges of loyalty from both The North and The Riverlands."

"If your brother dies, my lord. Let us pray it does not come to that."

10-VI

Young Brandon urges his horse into a gallop goes off the path to Lord Stark's obvious dismay, and then jumps a fallen tree and lands cleanly to the raucous applause of the group. His wolf runs beside the boy as he eases the horse to a stop, turns him around, and then trots back toward them. "Well done, Bran!" Wylla shouts.

The boy stops again, this time in front of his brothers. The youngest reaches over and pats him on the shoulder while Robb pulls Bran close and gives him a kiss on the forehead. The boy pulls away, embarrassed by the affection, but his smile is bright and genuine, and it is the first time that the boy looks like he could truly live a long and full life.

"Thank you for this, Lord Tyrion," he says. "This is wonderful!"

"You are most welcome, Lord Brandon," Tyrion replies, acutely aware of the eyes on him. "But the saddle is only a tool. A properly designed tool, of course, but nothing without the skill of the man wielding it. The lion's share of the credit, I believe, belongs to you."

The boy blushes, and Robb Stark gives him a bow from atop his own horse. "Well said, Tyrion."

"I spoke only the truth, Robb," Tyrion says, deciding to use the familiar if Stark insists.

"It is." He looks back at his brother. "What do you say, Bran? The day grows late. Do you want to use that skill to lead us back to Winterfell?"

The boy nods, and his brother extends an arm, inviting him to go first down the path through The Wolfswood. With a flick of the reins, the horse begins a steady gait, and the rest of them fall in behind.

"Well done, Tyrion," Wylla says, reaching out and touching his arm. "Truly. This is the happiest I've seen Bran since I've been here." She pauses for a moment. "The first time I can say that I've seen him happy at all, really."

With Bran's input, the saddle only took Tyrion and Maester Luwin a few days to design. Elbert, Winterfell's new Master-of-Horse and the Wintertown Saddler added their own practical modifications and had one ready a week after that. He told them that the saddle was going to be the easy part, and that it would be the training of the young filly that would take the most time.

Tyrion showed Bran how he maneuvered his own horse with touch and sound and feel, ready with words of encouragement when the boy faced setbacks. Yet he never had to use them. What took Tyrion months with his horse took young Brandon only days; before the saddle was even finished, the filly was following the crippled boy's commands nearly as well as his wolf, and like the wolf, it was as if the horse's mind and the boy's were one and the same.

He mentioned the strangeness of the lord's progress with his horse to Roland, the saddler - mostly to feel him out. They had developed a bit of a rapport while designing and crafting the saddle, and Tyrion, desperate for a Northern ally, hoped to find one in him. The conversation was a short one. As soon as he mentioned the boy's odd talent with animals, the big man eyed him hard before walking to him, horse whip in hand. The man loomed over him, blocking his path to the stable's door. "The saddle is right clever, Lord Tyrion. You're a smart man, maybe even a good man, but I won't hear another word about Lord Brandon from Lannister lips."

Such were most of his encounters with those in the castle since the subterfuge was dropped. At best it was an unsettling awkwardness, at worst a cold indifference from nearly all who came in contact with Tyrion and his party - somewhat friendlier than most gaolers and their prisoners, he guessed, but they were still gaolers and he was still a prisoner.

Young Lord Stark believed in his bones that Lannisters crippled and then tried to murder his brother, and that belief seemed to undergird everything about him now. He was charming and cordial and charismatic, laughed and joked, but there was a palpable rage just beneath all of that. Tyrion saw it in the way he hammered his sparring partners in the yard, or the way he planned the North's burgeoning future, as a general overseeing his armies, or even in the way he stalked about the castle, relentlessly moving from task to task. Tyrion saw it in his eyes, like his wolf's eyes if only a different color; he was a predator, coiled and tensed and ready for all violent possibilities. Perhaps craving them. He saw it sometimes when Stark looked at him or his men. He could almost see the desire to gut them standing written on his face.

He learned long ago from his father that a castle takes on the personality of its lord. Robb Stark was intense, and that bled over into all who lived within Winterfell's walls. Understandable. They laughed and loved and feasted with all that was within them. And they hated in much the same manner. So while Stark would jest with him over roast lamb or converse with him on Armydon's Engines of War, Tyrion would smile and laugh and debate, but always, he felt terror in his gut, the same, he presumed, that a rabbit would feel if caged with a wolf.

Not all were like that, of course. The Maester was remarkably level-headed about all of this and even apologized for detaining him. Stark's wildling wife, the pregnant beauty Val, always put him at ease, mostly because she always put Stark at ease. The Braavosi's arrival gave him hope, but it seemed he was conveniently denied every opportunity for private conversation with any of them before they were sent on their tour of the North with a score of Stark guardsmen.

He would have fallen into despair if not for Wylla, no matter that she was an admitted conspirator against him. Whenever his mind began to take darker turns, it seemed that she was always there to turn it back - with games like cyvasse or projects like Bran's saddle or thought experiments like building up the land and economy of the North. Or through simple conversation as they walked through the godswood or the abandoned First Keep. She would tell him stories of the North, of her family, and her hopes. She invited Sam with them at first, until the lad revealed the depth of his mind, and then Robb Stark began to monopolize his squire's time with personal training in the yard or projects similar to what he had Tyrion working on.

Her greatest gift, though, was her small gestures of protection - dancing with Sam when the other boys would tease him after supper, walking with both of them through the training yard when they wished to go to the library, and even subtly inserting herself between him and Lord Stark on two occasions. The first was when the young lord was in his cups and just a bit too animated during a discussion about the Young Dragon. The second was after the brief arrival and departure of Theon Greyjoy and The Braavosi.

Stark had planted himself on the chair next to Tyrion during the dancing, pulled out his hunting knife and began to slowly peel an apple. "Wylla told me that you respond to the truth." Before Tyrion could answer, he continued. "The cutthroat was lowborn, but he used a Valyrian steel dagger with a dragonbone hilt. Probably worth a thousand dragons." He finished peeling the apple, and shouted, "Rickon!" to his little brother, then tossed the treat to the boy who caught it with one hand. He pressed the point of the dagger into the table and then pushed until the blade was firmly entrenched. "That is why I do not think you had anything to do with it. Because you aren't stupid."

"My sister is not that stupid. Nor my brother."

"Your nephew might be." He pulled the knife free, pressed the point on the table again, a few inches closer to Tyrion this time, and then pressed down again.

Tyrion reached for his wine cup, but Wylla was there first, grabbing the cup and quickly swallowing all of its contents. "Dancing is thirsty work," she said, breathless. "Come, Tyrion, let's get a fresh goblet for both of us." Stark's hard stare shifted to her, but she acted as if she did not see it. When they had their drinks, she made sure to steer them away from Robb.

"He means you no harm, Tyrion," Wylla said to him afterward during a late game of cyvasse.

Tyrion scoffed. "Setting aside the less than subtle display with the knife, the reality of my situation is that I am a prisoner, and it is increasingly likely that the North and the West will be at war." He poured himself a cup of wine and took a long swallow. "My father will not ransom me, my sister won't, my nephew would like to kill me himself. My life cheapens with each passing day."

She reached over and took his hand. "Not to me it doesn't." It was a sweet gesture. One that he wanted to believe.

Three nights after, Stark himself came to his door. "I'm not going to kill you, Tyrion," he said with the same rage in his eyes that said otherwise.

"You would. If you felt you had to."

He was silent for a moment. "I would," he said finally. "I do not wish it, though."

"Then we have something in common."

"We have many things in common, Tyrion. Loyalty to our family being one," he replied as he turned to go.

He took four steps before Tyrion asked, "Why are you so angry, Robb?" Tyrion nodded at Stark's balled up fist. "I understand that you want justice for your brother, your people, but this is beyond that, I think."

Stark looked down, flexed his hand open, balled it up again, released it. Tyrion could see the blood returning where he squeezed it white. "My family gave me up for dead. I've been angry for the last four years."

Tyrion smirked and nodded. "Twenty-Six years for me."

Robb smiled. "I knew we had more in common." He turned to leave, stopped, pivoted back. "You are the first person to ask me that since I've returned home." He bowed slightly. "Good night, Tyrion," he said before leaving.

Bran's first ride was the next day. It was only a short jaunt around the yard with Robb leading him, but it seemed all of Winterfell let out a collective breath that it didn't know it was holding. With every uneasy smile from the boy, every tentative laugh, tensions dissipated, and by the end, they were all laughing and shouting encouragement together, and Tyrion received not a few claps on the backs. From Robb, it was a squeeze of the shoulder and a hoarse "Thank you" as he knelt in front of him. His eyes, red from unfallen tears, bore no trace of the rage or violent intent that had been so prevalent before.

They drank that night, as they did every night after as Bran rode longer and longer every day, and on the fifth night, at a feast for all the newcomers who had arrived the day before, Robb stood atop the trestle tables and declared loudly, "My brother will go riding in the Wolfswood tomorrow! Do our new friends dare accompany such a noble lad on this adventure?" The cheers and the cups in the air signaled a resounding yes.

It was then that one of the newcomers approached him. Young Jojen Reed, who had caused a bit of a stir in Winterfell's Great Hall with the strange oath that he and his sister pledged to House Stark. And equally strange was the reply Stark had given them:

"By Earth and Water, from my heart you will have mercy, By Bronze and Iron, from my hands you will have help, By Ice and Fire, from my steel you will have justice. By these oaths, our bonds of friendship are forged anew. May they persevere until The Last Night comes."

Tyrion had shivered at the words, and judging by the mood in the Hall, he was not the only one. It carried over to the feast, as it appeared most had avoided speaking to the strange crannogs even though Stark sat them in places of high honor. Lady Val was the exception, as was Wylla, but the other guests seemed fine with being relieved of the burden of having to interact with them. The duo, for their part, seemed oblivious to any snubbery, as comfortable in silence as in conversation. Several times, Tyrion caught the boy staring at him and thought he was about to say something. He never did, not until the tables cleared and the dancing began.

"Your dreams are loud, Lord Tyrion," the strange boy said, and Tyrion noticed for the first time that his eyes were the color of moss.

"Oh?" he asked, already well in his cups. "Well, I do apologize, Young Master Reed. I will try my very best to quiet them." He poured himself another goblet of wine.

Wylla giggled a bit at Tyrion before turning to the Reeds. "What do you mean, Jojen?"

"I dream of what is to come. Most others dream of what has passed. The loudest are the most painful."

"Mystery solved, Lord Jojen. I was painfully drunk last night."

"I saw a peasant girl with dark hair and kind, blue eyes…"

"Jojen!" It was his sister, Meera. "What did father say about this? No one needs to be reminded of what haunts them." She turned to them. "Apologies, my lord. My brother's dreams are green, but his mouth is what brings him the most trouble."

"No apology necessary, Lady Meera," Tyrion replied, but he had gone cold. A peasant girl with dark hair and kind, blue eyes...in a cottage by The Sunset Sea.

"Crannogs are a peculiar lot," Wylla said after the siblings left them. "I think I like them though - at the very least, they are not boring. My Uncle Wendel told me that Greywater Watch is a floating castle. Can you imagine that?" She placed a hand on his arm, startling him out of his thoughts. Her brows drew down in concern. "Is aught amiss, Tyrion?"

Yes. A Crannog boy saw my dream. "No, no. Just the wine. I'm fine now."

She did not believe him. He could read her face very well, and apparently, she could read his.. Thankfully, she did not press, but smiled and took his hand. "Come, let us make the rounds and speak to the other guests."

Arthur and Elaena Glenmore were from the Rills, lovely and tall and courteous as most young nobles and just as uninteresting. Ethan, Talia, and Ryon Forrester were from Ironrath, younger than the Glenmores but also friendly and also boring. Lady Dacey Mormont from Bear Island, however, was as much a curiosity as The Reed children. The lady came to Winterfell dressed in mail and boiled leather, much to Lady Val's delight, but come feast time, the tall intimidating warrior who rode alone into Winterfell was transformed into a tall, lovely woman in a modest blue dress who moved just as gracefully on the dance floor as she did in the yard. Ser Alyn partnered with her several times in both settings, and Tyrion guessed that they had a previous relationship, most likely from the War for The Sisters.

At Robb's raucous invitation, they all accompanied the Stark brothers on this ride, bannermen eager to build relationships with their future lord. Tyrion tried to beg off, citing a hangover though truly, he was still rattled by young Jojen Reed. Stark, however, insisted he watch his saddle work in a natural environment in case modifications were needed.

"At least Sam got to stay back at Winterfell," Tyrion says. "What does Stark have my squire working on?" My squire. Seems like Sam has been stolen from me given how much time Stark has him now.

"He's building small trebuchets, testing out ironwood and weirwood as arms."

"Weirwood would be better, I would think. The elasticity that makes it third only to goldenwood and dragonbone for bows would also give it the advantage here. I would guess a weirwood arm would add another twenty paces in distance."

"That was Sam's belief, as well. He also thinks those same properties would make the wood ideal for a wheel and axle system on wagons."

Smart. "Better able to absorb the bumps and bruises of the roads," Tyrion says, shifting a bit in his seat. "Would that I had weirwood wheels now. I can feel the beginnings of a chapped ass."

Wylla laughs. "You do not fool me, Lannister. You are happy to be here and to see Bran riding so well."

"Of course. His well-being seems to be directly tied to my survival."

She shakes her head. "Back on this again, are you? Robb likes you, Tyrion. As does Val. Bran thinks you are a worker of wonders. House Stark would be your friend if you let them."

"House Stark holds me and my squire and my men captive. Illegally, mind you."

"There is a conspiracy against them and the crown that you admit is true."

"But one in which I play no part."

"You do, Tyrion. Your family made certain of that when they hired a cutthroat to kill Bran knowing that you would pass back through Winterfell."

There is certainly nothing he could say against that. So he remains silent as they trot slowly through the ancient and striking Wolfswood. "And you, Lady Wylla?" He finally asks.

"And me what?" "

Do you believe that I work wonders?"

She laughs. "You are an arrogant dwarf, aren't you?"

"If I am, I may be the only one in the world."

"True," she says after a moment. "There is only one of you, I think."

"I hope," he replies with a laugh. "The thought of another me carousing about repulses even me. I think my father would drop dead from sheer disappointment. Or embarrassment."

"Your father may be many things, but he is also a blind fool if he cannot see your worth." She says, her tone sincere.

His jaw drops in feigned surprise. "You do think I'm a worker of wonders!"

"I do," she says immediately. "Your mind is a miracle."

He feels half a blush creep into his face. "Sweet words, my lady. Still trying to win me over?"

"Always," she says with a mischievous looking grin. "Though that does not mean I do not speak the truth."

"Hold!" Robb says loudly, halting their conversation. The group stops and waits as he rides ahead a few lengths. He reins his horse in, looks up at the sky for a few moments, and then returns. "Come," he says, leading them off the path and into the forest about twenty paces until they come into a nice clearing. A brook is close by. Tyrion can hear the slow passing of water over stone just behind the brush.

"Are we going to water the horses, Robb?" Lord Rickon asks.

He looks up at the sky for another moment, then turns to his brothers and says, "No. We are being hunted."

Tyrion hears gasps of alarm from some of the ladies. Dacey Mormont, however, slowly draws her mace as Meera Reed pulls free her trident. Jaspar and Cliven give him a look, and draw their swords, as well.

"How do you know?" Brandon asks. "The wolves aren't acting skittish."

Maddeningly, Robb Stark smiles at his little brother as if they are still boys playing in the yard. "Tell me, Bran, why wouldn't the wolves be acting skittish?"

The other boy thinks for a moment, looks up at the slight rustle of the leaves in the breeze, and then answers, his eyes wide. "We...The Wolves are upwind...from the enemy."

"Correct," Robb replies with an even bigger smile, and reaches over to muss the boy's hair.

"But Grey Wind is here with us. So how do you know there is someone out there, Robb?" the youngest Stark asks.

"The wolf is not your only companion," Jojen Reed says.

Stark eyes the boy closely for a few heartbeats before nodding at him. "Aye, Jojen. That is correct." He turns back to his youngest brother. "I have bonded with another animal, Rickon. Perhaps we will all sit down and share our secrets when we get back to Winterfell." Another glance to the Reed boy.

Tyrion is as fascinated by this conversation as he is confused by it, but it is his pressing need for immediate answers that rules his thoughts. He canters up to the Starks and asks Robb himself, "Lord Stark, forgive my naivety, but given, as you say, that we are being hunted, can we expect to return to Winterfell?" The lad faces him, and Tyrion gasps. His eyes are completely white. He holds up a hand, closes his eyelids, and when they reopen, they are back to Tully blue.

"We may be in a bit of danger, Lord Tyrion," he says, his voice hoarse, his visage stern. "A dozen and a half men dressed as wildlings are a quarter mile to our northwest. Setting up an ambush along the path back to the Castle."

"Dressed as wildlings?"

"Aye. Furs, horned helms, but they've got castle mail beneath. And they have crossbows. Expensive ones." He climbs down from his horse and slings the Stark Valyrian sword onto his back before pulling his beautifully carved weirwood bow and shadowskin quiver from his saddle, as well. "But I suspect we will all be safely within the walls of the castle by sundown. Dacey, Alyn, Arthur, you're with me. They're probably going to scatter once we get into them. They may come south. Meera, Ethan I'll need you to shield my siblings and yours."

"I would be of better use if I go with you, Lord Stark," the crannog girl answers, pulling a long, thin tube from her quiver. Opening a small pouch at her waist with her other hand, she reaches in and produces a long needle with what looks like thistle on one end "My darts can kill silent, and there's not a forest or bog that I can't move through without a sound."

Tyrion swears that Stark's eyes are shining at the new weapon that the Reed girl produces. "Aye, Meera. Dacey, will you shield my brothers?"

The lady smiles. "I can, Robb. Just try to send a few our way."

Tyrion almost groans. "Lord Stark...Robb. There are eighteen bandits waiting for us?"

"Give or take," he replies.

"Would it not be more prudent to ride around the ambush?" Tyrion asks.

"We could, but that means riding off the path. They catch wind and give chase, I don't want to risk Bran or Rickon getting thrown because their horse stepped in a gopher hole and snapped its leg." His eyes move from Tyrion to the rest of them. "This is the plan. We have the advantage of surprise, and we have three Direwolves. We four will kill as many as we can as silently as we can until it's time to unleash the wolves. The rest of you will stay here and defend the women and children," he says to his remaining guards before looking back to Tyrion. "I am counting on you and your men to do the same."

"We'll do our part," Tyrion replies.

"Good man," he says and begins unbuckling Bran from his saddle. He pulls him down and carries him to the south side of the clearing, farthest from the bandits. He lays him down at the base of an ancient weirwood - not a heart tree, but it's thick, twisting limbs and sprawling roots give it the same haunting, ethereal quality. Rickon sits with him and pulls his newfound friend Ryon Forrester down next to him. Ethan Forrester and the other ladies join them. Wylla gives him a look before dismounting and walking over with the others.

Tyrion climbs down from his saddle and gestures for his men to do the same. The girls surround the two little lords, Ethan has his bow out, Wylla her dagger. Weaponless, Tyrion asks Cliven for a dagger, but Stark forestalls him. He pulls a short-hafted axe from his belt.

"If it comes to a fight, use your stature to your advantage. Behind the knee, above the heel. Cripple them, get them on the ground, take their throat."

With a deft flip, he grips the blade and hands it to Tyrion haft first. It's a small axe and despite being castle forged, looks like a wildling weapon, with animal fur wrapped around the haft - he'd seen Stark throwing it with ease into a post in Winterfell's yard several times. The balance is fine and it fits Tyrion's hand well. "My thanks, Robb."

He gives him a pat on his shoulder before turning to his brothers. "Bran, Rickon, have your wolves follow me. Attack on my signal."

"Yes, Robb," they both say, and then their eyes go white just as Robb's did, and when Tyrion looks and sees the familiar Tully blue in their wolves, he stumbles back a bit.

The gasps from Elaena Glenmore and the Forresters tell him that he was not the only one to notice. He turns to them, and they are sharing a concerning look between them. Wylla is staring at the boys and seems visibly shaken.

Ryon Forrester shakes Rickon a bit until Jojen Reed lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Rickon and Bran are fine. They are protecting us."

"How?" Little Forrester asks.

"Magic of the old gods," the Reed boy whispers.

"Warg," he hears Talia Forrester say.

Warg? The ability to possess the bodies of animals. Magic. Stark and their wolves.

He glances toward him, but Stark, Reed, Glenmore, and Ser Alyn disappear into the brush of the wolfswood, heading north. The wolves dart after them, massive Grey and Tawny and Black blurs.

For what seems an eternity, there is silence but for the nearby brook and the faint rustle of the leaves in the wind. Then they hear the first scream, and the second and third only heartbeats after. Jaspar and Cliven close ranks in front of him. He steps in front of Wylla and the other girls, and then feels her hand on his shoulder. She is shaking. He looks up and sees her wide eyes and quivering lip, and can hear her erratic breathing. In her other hand is her dagger, but her hold on it is limp. He understands - it feels like he might piss his breeches at any moment, or perhaps shit them, he cannot really tell, but despite that, he manages to pull one hand off the axe and grasp hers. He gives it a gentle squeeze and says, "Breathe, Wylla. Slow, steady breaths." It was something he remembered Jaime telling him about being in battle. "You lose a fight before it begins if you can't control your breath." She looks at him and nods and starts to take slow, deep breaths. He nods and then for reasons beyond his immediate ken, brings her hand up and kisses her knuckles as tenderly as he can manage.

Another scream, closer this time, and then a piercing howl that seems to make all of them jump. Another howl and then a third, and Tyrion shivers down to his bones and feels almost frightened for the wildlings or bandits or whoever they are. Or maybe he only feels frightened for himself, for being a prisoner here in this foreign land where apparently men and boys can see other's dreams or command mythical predators to do their bidding. Wylla is squeezing his hand white, but he believes he is giving back just as well. Another howl and they both jump again. He can hear the quick breathing of his men and see the slight tremble in the nocked arrows from the Forrester boy. Only the Stark men and Dacey Mormont are still and calm, eyes ahead, awaiting violence. The song of steel rings out, and he hears Robb shout, "To me, Alyn!", and then there are more growls and screams, and a series of twangs that he assumes are from the crossbows.

A loud, rustling sound drowns out the other noises, and half a dozen men stumble through the brush into the clearing, wild eyed and breathing heavily. Tyrion sees small quivers with bolts in them, but no crossbows. They must have dropped them in their dash to get away from Stark and his wolves. Unfortunately, they did not drop their short swords, axes, and daggers.

Both parties are surprised at seeing the other, both spend a few heartbeats sizing the other one up. Dacey Mormont breaks the spell. "Mormont!" she screams, and brings her mace down in a savage arc. The biggest of the bandits is barely able to deflect the blow, but he can do nothing about the second, and it catches him full in the face, caving half of it in and spraying blood all over his compatriots. After that, it is chaos. The highwaymen attack, fighting like madmen fleeing horror, but the Stark guards are old hands and disciplined and they lock shields and push three of them back. The Mormont beauty is driving another one to the edge, and the last is desperately fighting off Jaspar and Cliven, and Tyrion feels good about their chances when he hears a thrum, a rustle, and a thud and then Cliven falls dead with a bolt through his eye. The bandit seizes the opportunity and drives Jaspar back.

Tyrion looks past the trees and brush and sees the man, busy reloading his weapon. "There!" He yells and points. Ethan Forrester lets his arrow fly. It is off the mark, but it makes the man raise his head. The Forrester boy nocks and lets loose another, and this one nearly hits the crossbowman but for a hanging branch that deflects his arrow. The man ducks and disappears behind the brush. Tyrion turns to Wylla, whose eyes are wide and filling with tears. He thumbs them away quickly and says, "My lady, I'll be back. Stay behind with the other girls. If you come near a bandit's back or ribs, put your dagger through it." She looks at him, breathes, and then nods. He glances at the Stark boys, but their eyes are still milky from whatever magic they are conjuring with their wolves.

"Go. They will be fine," Jojen Reed says.

To Ethan he says, "Keep firing at that bastard. Keep him pinned down. If you see a clear shot at one of the other bandits, take it."

Tyrion picks his way through the chaos and crashes into the brush. He hears another thrum, hears another thud, and hopes that if it was one of theirs, it was not fatal.

Another thrum, and then a shout. "Gaah, bastard boy!" The bandit cries. There you are, he thinks as he crashes through the underbrush and finds himself ten paces from the man, who is trying to reload his crossbow despite the Forrester boy's arrow in his shoulder. They exchange looks, and he quickens his pace as Tyrion rushes him. He can hear a scream, but it isn't from the man, who brings the crossbow up just as Tyrion buries the axe in the side of the man's knee. Tyrion yanks it free, and the man screams as he falls, his crossbow clattering to the ground. Tyrion raises the axe to finish the job, but the man grabs him behind the leg and yanks him to the ground. He tries to scramble away, but the man's grip on him is too tight, and he pulls him back and puts his full weight on his chest. The bandit's good arm is pinning his hand and the axe to the ground, and he wrangles his bad arm over Tyrion's throat and presses.

The bandit is laughing and screaming at him, but Tyrion hears nothing. He cannot breathe, he cannot move, and panic has him. He can feel the edges begin to fade when Jaime's voice is once again in his ear - "In a fight, losing your head is the best way to lose your head."

"What does that mean, Jaime?"

His brother laughs and musses his hair. "It means that keeping your wits about you is the best way to stay alive."

Tyrion bucks his hips, wiggles and twists, freeing himself enough to take a breath before the man is on him again. Axe arm is still pinned, but his left is free. He spies the broken shaft protruding from the man's shoulder, grabs it and twists and jerks. Tyrion hears his screams this time, and he twists harder. The arm is off his throat, and then his right hand is free as the bandit tries to bring a forearm down across Tyrion's nose. He lets go of the shaft and manages to partially block the blow with his left, and swings the axe with his right as hard as he can into the back of the man's head. He feels the body go rigid for a moment and then go limp on top of him. Panic begins to creep in once again as it seems to take an eternity to wriggle free from beneath the man's crushing weight. Once free, he scrambles to his feet, and is gulping down air. He forces himself to slow down and take deep, steady, measured breaths and is soon able to calm his mind. Until he hears shouts and steel from the clearing and thinks of Wylla. He wrenches the axe from the man's head and tucks it into his belt before picking up the loaded crossbow and running back to the fight.

The bandits are down, all but one, who is holding little Lady Cassel by the waist, his dagger at her throat. Dacey Mormont is talking to him, trying to get him to drop the knife. His eyes go to Wylla, who is holding Talia Forrester. Both are on their knees and shaking and Elaena Glenmore has her arms wrapped around both of them. Two of Stark's men have him flanked, and Ethan Forrester has his bow nocked, but it isn't drawn, and the boy's panicked eyes dart back and forth between the bandit and Lady Mormont. The man's back is to him, but Tyrion can see the mail beneath his furs. A bolt to the back might not punch far enough to kill him, endangering the girl's life. His head, however, is completely exposed.

"Take the shot, Tyrion," comes Robb Stark's whisper behind him. "Breathe, exhale, and take the shot."

"I can poison him with a dart, Lord Stark" he hears the crannog girl say softly.

"No. Tyrion can do this. Aim, breathe, exhale, loose."

Tyrion aims the crossbow, takes a deep breath, and exhales slowly. At the end, he pulls the trigger...and the bolt punches through the back of the man's head, collapsing him instantly. Little Beth twists from his grip, and falls into Lady Dacey's arms.

Tyrion turns and sees his audience. Robb Stark, Ser Alyn, the Glenmore boy and the Reed girl, and three fearsome direwolves, all of them bloody except for the girl. Between them, two men dressed as wildlings are on their knees, beaten and bound and at the mercy of the wolves.

"Well done, my friend," Stark says with a smile, still utterly charming despite looking like a nightmare.

"Friend," Tyrion mutters under his breath. He gives Stark a nod and drops the crossbow and walks into the clearing just in time to drop to his knees and vomit in front of everyone. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and wonders why there is blood all over it for a moment before raising his eyes back up. Cliven remains where he fell. Jaspar lies at the far edge, a broken short sword through his gullet. One of Stark's men, Wendel, Tyrion thinks, is propped up against a tree, head back, eyes unseeing, a bolt through the base of his neck. Wylla, composed now, is cutting strips of cloth from her dress. For bandages, he reasons.

Stark moves past him, kneels in front of Beth Cassel, who assures him that she is fine. Bloody as he is, he gives her a pinch on the chin, and the girl, cheeks still wet from the tears and the terror of only a few moments before, giggles at him. He stands up and goes to his brothers. "You controlled your wolves, you executed the plan, and you both got out when I gave the command." He gathers them in a hug. "Well done, boys." When they are finished, he turns to Arthur and Meera. "Some of the horses bolted during the fight it seems. Gather them up for me, would you?"

"Aye, Robb," Arthur says immediately. Lady Reed only nods, but joins the Glenmore lad as he moves out of the clearing.

"Guy, are you hurt?" Stark asks his guardsman.

"No, m'lord," the man replies.

"Go with them. You know these woods better than most."

"Aye, m'lord," Guy replies before rushing off after the other two.

"We carry the dead back with us. Full honors and a burial in the lichyard, where the fallen friends of Winterfell find their rest."

"And if I had died instead of my men, Robb?" Tyrion asks. "Would I be given a plot in the lichyhard as a friend to Winterfell?"

"No," he says. "You'd be taken back to your father in Casterly Rock, to be buried with Lann the Clever and all the rest of The Kings of the Rock." He squats before him and whispers. "You are my friend, though. You've crafted Bran a saddle that lets him ride. You saved Beth's life, even partnered with me in a company that will help make the North more prosperous." He puts a hand on his shoulder. "You are a good man, Tyrion. A better one than most in your life give you credit for being, I think."

Tyrion realizes that he is too tired to react to the compliment. "No need for flowery words, Lord Stark. I'm utterly at your mercy."

A tired look passes over his face, perhaps the twin to the one on Tyrion's. "You know that someone in your family tried to kill my brother. Twice," he says softly. "Tell me what Bran stumbled upon before being cast off that tower. Tell me what they plan, and I will personally escort you to wherever in the world you wish to go."

Tyrion looks Robb directly in his Tully blue eyes and lies. "I do not know, Robb. My father hates me. My sister hates me. My repulsive nephew, our Crown Prince, hates me. My brother loves me, and I him, but he isn't exactly a planner, and if the choice for him is between Cersei and me, well, let's say I never need to know the answer to that."

Stark's hand drops from Tyrion's shoulder, but his gaze never wavers. Neither does Tyrion's. "You are telling the truth. You do not know. But you have a guess, I think."

"I'm the one paying the price for their idiocy. Of course, I have a guess."

"What is your guess?"

Tyrion spreads his hands wide. "Any number of obvious plots, Robb. Cersei hates Robert and craves power. Jaime does whatever she wishes. My guess is that Robert doesn't see next Winter. But the manner in which that happens? Take your pick. Assassin, poison, or maybe they just encourage Robert to keep eating and drinking himself into an ever earlier grave."

Robb looks away for a moment. When he locks eyes with Tyrion again, he asks, "And your father?"

"What of him?"

"Would he be involved in these plots?"

"No," Tyrion says immediately.

"Why not?" Stark asks, eyes boring into him.

"My father is patient and in excellent health. He will be Joffrey's Hand when Robert dies. He knows this and can wait."

Stark's brows draw down in thought for a moment before he nods. "Thank you for your honesty, Tyrion. I…" he begins, flexing his sword hand and then bringing it back into a fist, "I have not been honorable with you. Before I was lost, I would never have treated you in such a way. I do not think it would have even occurred to me. My experiences have made me much more practical. I am not my father. More's the pity." He takes a deep breath, exhales. "I consider The Starks at war with The Lannisters, begun when Brandon was thrown from The Broken Tower. You are my hostage. You will remain so. But I will not kill you. I judge you innocent of your family's plots and deeds."

Tyrion does not know if he is relieved or terrified to hear Stark spell out his predicament in plain language. "If you will not kill me, then my leverage as a hostage is forfeit."

"I am not interested in keeping you as leverage. I am keeping you in Winterfell for two reasons. The first being that I do not want your mind opposing our cause. Your family is weaker without you."

"I think we are beyond flattery at this point, Robb."

"No flattery, Tyrion. That is the truth."

The boy's eyes are as intense as they were in the battle just minutes before. He is being sincere. "And the second?"

Stark's eyes go white and there is a hoot from the trees behind him. Tyrion looks and sees a massive horned owl sitting on a low branch. The owl hoots again before flying away. He turns back to Robb and sees that his eyes are back to blue. "You know my secret," Stark says. "My family's secret. I revealed it now because rumors of dark magic among my enemies can be advantageous. Let them think me some bogeyman. If I let you go, however…" He finishes with a shrug.

"My knowledge could mitigate that advantage."

"Aye."

Tyrion nods. "Well. Now that we have hashed out the truth of this situation, may I finally be free to visit the Wintertown?"

Robb smiles. "Wylla no longer claiming your attention?"

Tyrion looks over at the girl, busy wrapping linen from her dress around a cut on Dacey Mormont's arm. "It has been a pleasant fantasy, Robb, but I think we can all agree that it is only a fantasy, and given my current predicament, I prefer the harsh reality of a woman willing to exchange her bed for coin." His voice softens as he watches Wylla laugh at something Dacey says. "It is too easy to get lost in a fantasy."

Stark raises an eyebrow, looks over to Wylla. "It began as a ruse. That we can agree on. Now? I'm not so certain. She cares for you, I know. Perhaps deeply." He looks back to Tyrion. "But you will be allowed free access to The Castle and The Wintertown. With an escort when you go to town, of course. Whoever these men work for might find you a tempting target."

Tyrion actually had not thought of that; he was too busy fighting and nearly dying and emptying his guts in front of everyone to really think about it, but looking at the dead bandits, the reality was easy enough to conjure. "Capture me and send me to Casterly Rock with my tale? Or most likely kill me and frame Winterfell. My father would be marching up The Neck inside of a month." Or perhaps I could make my own arrangements with the benefactor of these sellswords. He rubs his throat, thinking of the dead crossbowman. Or perhaps not.

"Your father would do that for you?"

Tyrion scoffs. "Not for me, I assure you. For his pride." He puts on his best impression of his father, one that he had never done for anyone for fear of it reaching the mighty Tywin Lannister's ears. "If the lowliest Lannister can be slain without recompense then so too could any Lannister. Which makes us weak," Tyrion finishes with a flourish. Returning to his own voice, he says, "And that he cannot abide."

Stark's mind seems lost in thought for half a moment before his eyes return to Tyrion. "You will be given access to the rookery, as well."

"You'd trust me with quill and parchment and raven?"

"I would. Write what you wish just as long as it does not divulge any military intelligence."

"Does my status as hostage fall under the category of military intelligence?"

Robb shakes his head and smiles. "No. You may inform him of your status. If I can get Tywin to march his army up the neck, this war will be over in a fortnight."

"What if he appeals to The Master of Law and The King? What if he attacks The Riverlands?"

"Then this war begins in earnest, and my father divulges to his oldest friend everything he knows about Jon Arryn's death and the assassination attempts on my brother and lays it at the feet of The Queen and Joffrey." He reaches into his pocket and pulls a missive and hands it to Tyrion.

"Robb, the betrothal between Sansa and The Crown Prince has been broken. The Prince acted dishonorably. Robert agreed. There is a split now in the court with our family and The King on one side, The Queen and Joffrey on the other. Tensions are high, but I am hopeful we can quell them as Robert has reminded me more and more of the boy I grew up with. Give my love to Catelyn and the children. Your Father, Eddard Stark."

Fear and anxiety and sadness bubble up inside him. "War."

"War," Robb repeats.

"I will write Jaime and tell him that I am engaged in the process of The North's burgeoning economy and will be otherwise occupied in Winterfell for some time."

"Or," Robb responds, "you could wait for them to write and inquire about you. To this point, we have received no raven from your family questioning your whereabouts."

Tyrion barks a laugh. "Do you enjoy rubbing salt in that wound?"

Robb's face is deadly serious. "They are your family, and you love them, I know. And some of them may love you. But they do not value you."

When Tyrion says nothing, Stark finally stands, no longer eye level with him. "Are you hurt, Tyrion?"

Yes. He looks to the blood on his coat. "No, this is from a bandit's skull."

"I'll send Wylla over to check on you to be certain. You are much too valuable to risk."

Before Tyrion can answer, he hears the sound of a rider in the distance. He quickly pulls his axe from his belt. The others have heard it, as well, and have their hands on their swords.

Stark is looking at the sky for a moment, then turns his head just as his eyes go from white to blue. "No need to fear. It's Hal Mollen."

The Winterfell guardsman gallops into the clearing only a few moments later. "Lord Robb, I saw the bodies, were you attacked?"

"We were," Stark answers, "but they are dead or captured. What brings you here in such a hurry, Hal?"

"It's your wife, Lord Robb. Lady Val. The birthing has begun."