Chapter Five. Let's get down to business (to defeat, the (Lions))
Quick reminder that when GRRM made the Starklings, he made them OP as fuck. I don't make the rules mate, I'm just going with the material we got.
(haha, GoT? Get it? I think I'm funny. I have a new puppy, sleep is not a thing for me anymore. Send help pls. Check her out on Instagram at #havocthedalmatian)
He speaks with his siblings in his dreams.
The Wildlings are going to cross the Wall regardless, Bran offers. That's how Osha's here. Speak to the lords. Speak with Mother and your Mate. Try and find a way for us to get the Wildlings on our side, get Jon south of the Wall, and bring our pack back together again.
How can he sell this to his Lords, and still keep his head?
We need to convince them, Arya snaps. We need a way for you to be able to talk to Sansa, too, Robb, she's good at ideas now that she's not pretending to be an idiot. When we get there, Sansa and I will have to find a way to make it common knowledge, what we are and what we can do. Hopefully we can make them see that this is what we need to do!
If you're to be in Robb's Small Council, they may as well get used to it, says Bran.
Sansa is your Master of Whispers, little Rickon adds. And Arya your Master of Law.
Arya's impressions haunt him, those tangled, bloodied thoughts. The sweet little sisters he remembered are hidden under a veneer of war, now, Arya a Water Dancer and Sansa an archer, both of them wargs and both of them with men's blood on their hands.
They are girls. They're his sisters, and he loves them, knows that they are, truly, clever when they set their minds to it. But the virtue of their sex means that the idea they have cultivated will be shot down before Robb even has a chance to voice it.
In his head, Bran whispers They are Starks. Rickon's piping little voice says, They are wolves, and they are both of them correct. The voices of all his younger siblings ⎼ even Jon beyond the Wall, even Sansa who has no wolf to join their dreams ⎼ say together, You can't treat us like babies anymore – we aren't the same people who left Winterfell. We need to work together.
The Direwolves can help ⎼ if the Starks can continue to join their dreams together, it won't matter where they are, they will still be able to speak with each other. The hard part is Sansa.
Bran had told him that she wrote messages out for Jon and Arya. So Robb knows that she has excellent control over her ravens ⎼ but to write out entire messages would be slow going. Bran spoke true, when he suggested having a pre-written alphabet. It won't take much to have a slate and chalk handy ⎼ Talisa surely has fifty thousand of the things, every time he turns around the stacks in the corner of their quarters seem to grow by the dozen. And it should be easy enough to find a clear one and set it up ready for Sansa, a three-by-nine-squares table to showcase the letters of the alphabet and a full stop. And maybe another slate, squares numbered one to twenty, and then with a hundred, thousand and ten thousand, in case she can find out troop numbers for him. She can have Mirth tap on each relevant square ⎼ it will still be slow going, but certainly faster than if she had to write everything out herself.
Well, he won't be getting any sleep tonight anyway. May as well hook in.
When Mirth calls to him in the grey predawn, he has three slates drawn up for her ⎼ the alphabet; numbers; and miscellaneous images such as food items, weaponry, and major House sigils. He's left blank squares on the third slate, in case there is anything Sansa thinks he needs to add for her messages.
He looks up to the bird that is, now, his sister, and gives her a wan smile. "Spymaster," he greets, voice as croaky as Mirth's from disuse.
rrrrOOOOObbbbb. SSssoooooorryy.
"For the shit?"
Aaaayyee.
"Well, I'm sure you thought I deserved it." He bends backwards in his chair, his back making a satisfying crack-cra-cra-cra-cra-craCK! "Arya has certainly been vocal in your defence, as have the little boys. Bran says he speaks to you?"
Aaayyee.
"But we can't, can we?"
The raven cocks its head to one side and looks at him, and after a moment, sags and shakes its head.
Robb nods, having expected as much. "Will this work, in the meantime?"
Mirth hops forward, taking in the three slates.
wwwWWhaa-tuh?
"Arya says that you drew things in the dirt for her when you warged Sorrow, and Bran shared a memory of yours with Jon where you had Ding draw in the snow. This will save us time ⎼ see, letters are here with a full stop and a question mark, numbers are here, and weapons, houses and goods are here. So when you want to tell me something, you can. Have I missed anything?"
Mirth makes a warbling noise, and then sketches out a heart. Robb dutifully adds it to his 'Misc.' slate, and watches as his little sister taps the new symbol twice. His own heart in his throat, Robb chokes out, "I love you too ⎼ all of you."
Drawing in a shaky breath, Rob pulls up the Kings Face he has been favouring these last few months, and asks again, "What do you have for me, my Master of Whispers?"
Sansa/Mirth perks up, flitting from one slate to another whilst Robb hurries to write down all that she has to say ⎼ and seven hells, does she have information! Troop numbers, betrothals, troop placement ⎼ and then, of course, there's the information from Beyond the Wall. He adds a rough sketch of a Sept to the third slate to save time, since most of the scrolls that Sansa intercepts are about weddings. He gets sick of watching her tap out house names, too, and just straight up drags the map of Westeros over as well.
Finally, once they have exhausted the information gleaned from the scrolls, Sansa hops across the Riverlands until she is firmly planted on the Twins. Twice she taps the castle, and then she hops over to the West and taps Casterly Rock. She goes back to the first slate, and taps out, BEWARE. BETRAYAL PLOT.
He'd like to say he is surprised. He is not.
"Do you know what the plot is?" A headshake. "You're working towards it?"
aaaaayyyyeeee.
"Let me know when you know, then … Arya said that you had the Kingslayer in captivity. Will you bring him here with your party so that Lord Karstark can have his vengeance?"
She hesitates. Over the hours that they have been doing this, she has not once hesitated. Slowly she waddles to the Wall on the map, tapping twice. He raises his eyebrows at that ⎼ a chance for forgiveness? The Kingslayer? ⎼ and gives her a 'go on' motion with one hand.
At the first slate, Sansa taps out NIGHT KING. DANGER. NEED NUMBERS.
"We'll be the ones in danger if we let Wildlings through and deny the Karstarks their due!" Sansa hisses at that ⎼ at the facts, he thinks, rather than his person ⎼ and then huddles into herself, clearly thinking. He takes the chance to crack his knuckles and shake out his fingers, rub the bridge of his nose, and wish that he could have had someone to take turns scribing with, but the only other people he could trust this sort of thing to are Mother (who is still not sleeping well, plagued with nightmares of Father, or losing her children) and Talisa (who is, hopefully, nearly to the girls).
There are too many issues; too many fronts to this war, too many demands from his men, too many lives lost and too many rules that should never have been made. Too many whispers, even here in his uncle's castle, and all Robb wants to do is go home. He wants his siblings together again, wants to show Talisa Winterfell, wants to raise a litter of hellion children with her. And he is so, so sick of fighting.
Sansa straightens, ruffles Mirth's feathers again, and then taps out a tentative, WARG. Robb frowns, confused, but waits for Sansa to flesh out her thoughts. KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. SOUTHERNERS FEAR WARGS. WATER WOLF TAKE HOME W PACK & MOUNTAIN CLANS. RED CROW KNOW THINGS THRU MAGIC. EXAGGERATE.
"You didn't want to be Red Wolf?"
DEFLECTION
"They still won't take it well."
BOLTON MEN OWE ARYA.
"Owe her?"
She hops over to Harrenhal, and taps the castle twice. Robb feels his eyes widen in shock, as he remembers the tale of the short-haired girl who had freed their men from The Mountain with hot soup and a lot of gumption.
"Harrenhal. The Weasel Soup, that was her?"
aaayyeee.
"A hundred men and a lord owe a little girl ⎼ that's hardly going to convince them, Sansa! We need more! The Night's King is a fairy tale that most of these men heard at their grandmother's knee, they aren't going to believe us without proof."
Slowly, she taps out, LOGIC. MAKE THEM THINK. DESERTERS MORE WILDLINGS WHY? WINTER IS COMING CANNOT STILL BE AT WAR.
Again he rubs his face, and wishes that they had more to give the Lords. This might work, if he says everything correctly, but it is a might that could turn to either success or failure on a pinhead.
"Will you come to council with me?"
COURT?
"Aye, whatever words you want to call it. I'd like you to be there so that you know what comes of today. At least if anything drastic happens, you can tell the others. If all goes well, I'll share the scenes with them tonight."
MOTHER
"She'll be there. You can talk to her after, if you like."
Sansa is still hovering over the slates, so he doesn't collect them just yet, simply grabbing the information that Sansa had gathered for him to take before the Lords.
VALE. NEED MORE MEN. WILL GO W SC & SPEAK W AUNT LYSA. ASK MOTHER ABOUT AUNT. PETYR BAELISH. VALE. EVERYTHING IMPORTANT.
Robb nods, gathers up the slates, and moves towards the door. "You can ask her after the council, Sansa, promise. Coming?"
With a croak, Sansa/Mirth flew to his shoulder, and they left his chambers.
It was going to be a long day.
Sansa had said that their goodsister was pretty. She had said she was clever, and a healer, and a foreigner. She did not say that Talisa Maegyr had a wicked sense of humour and a sharper tongue, or that she was as comfortable around Grey Wind as Arya had once been with Nymeria, or Sansa with Lady. Jorelle Mormont she knew from Harvest Festivals in the past, but it was nice that her goodsister wasn't quite so intimidating as she had feared she might be.
She didn't tease Arya for staying by Gendry's side whilst Talisa stitched him up. She didn't tell her she couldn't climb into the cot with Gendry afterwards, once he was all bandaged and soundly sleeping, instead of in a dead faint. She did giggle when Grey Wind settled by the bedside with a whumpf of displaced air, but if Arya wasn't so tired herself, she would have laughed at him too.
Talisa and Jorelle take care of everything ⎼ once she had finished with Gendry, Talisa moved on to the innkeeper's daughter ⎼ including the bodies. Jory had stripped Polliver and his men of anything of value, taken them out the back and buried them where the innkeep had told her to. All of the coin from Polliver's company was handed over as "recompense", with Talisa adding an extra dragon to cover the costs of the beds that they would fill, and the stable space for her and Jory's horses, and to turn a blind eye to the man-sized Grey Wind. Talisa spoke to Arya as she worked on Gendry and after, and Arya hardly reacted except for shakes or nods to answer questions, a half-smile-half-grimace at each of her jokes, and a single choked out laugh at some comment about Robb's sleeping habits.
"We'll talk more in the morning," Talisa tells her softly, after she's been let to bed. "I don't know if it will work, with Grey here instead of with Robb, but if you can, could you tell him that I'm with you, and that I love him? Please."
Arya gives her a single nod, and croaks out a tiny Thank you before falling fast asleep, one hand in Grey Wind's ruff, and the other around Needle's hilt.
Her baby brothers are gathered and waiting for her, and there is a brief moment where they see her image tucked tightly into Nymeria's side before both start crying out questions, "rushing" forward to embrace her image with their own thoughts, love and worry. Summer and Shaggy bracketed her too, and by the time Grey Wind drags Robb in, she is sobbing.
What's wrong, what's happened?! Robb's shock and worry are almost a physical ache. He joins their cuddle pile without question, his presence soothing despite how his emotions ricochet around their shared mental space.
Arya releases her memories, the Goldcloaks and Lommy and Polliver and maybe I'll pick my teeth with it and the rats and Harrenhal and Raventree Hall and Gendry and Talisa and Jorelle Mormont and I really thought we were going to die this time.
Robb gathers them closer to his image, tucks a boy under each arm and pulls Arya tight to his front, patting her hair like he had when she was smaller than Rickon.
You're alright now, you're alright, he breathes. You're nearly there. As soon as Nymeria joins you, you and Sansa come straight to Riverrun, do you hear me?
You'll be safe, and then when you're ready, I want you to go through with your mad plan. Take Brienne and the Kingslayer North, take the Mountain Clans and Nymeria's pack, and then you and Rickon will free our home. Hold Winterfell for me, organise the North as you both see fit. Bran will go Beyond the Wall, join with Jon and follow up Sansa's ploy to treat with Mance Rayder. If – when that succeeds, the Wildlings will help free us from the Ironborn. When the North is ours again, I'll send Mother to Winterfell to help Rickon hold the castle, and then you can join me in the South, if you still want to fight. Sansa will go to the Vale, and see if she can't work a miracle on Aunt Lysa.
And then we can all go home? Rickon begged. We can all be together again?
The pack will be together again soon, I promise, Robb said, holding them all tighter for a moment. With their tears spent, they simply bask in each other's presence, glad to be close to each other, even if it is only in their minds.
How did the council go? Bran asked eventually.
Good – better than I thought. Thank the gods for Maege Mormont, though, it was close for a while there. He brings the memories forward, shows them Sansa's new notary system, the Council, Mother and Sansa afterwards. Mother had cried, once Robb had fully explained what had happened and that Sansa could be the bird Mirth, and cried even harder when Robb had told her of the shared mental space that the wolves allowed. Once she and Sansa had both calmed down some, Robb left them to their intelligence, and gone on to his other duties as King. The healers had tried to talk to him at one point before lunch, but he had been so confused that he had asked if it couldn't wait until Talisa's return, and then tried to get the healer to make sense again when the man insisted that the matter could not. This, finally, made his siblings laugh. Arya responded with a memory of her own, Talisa's terrible jokes offered whilst she stitched up Gendry, and the comment about how much Robb claimed the bed in his sleep.
She found you! Robb breaths, delighted and reassured that his wife is fine, after all. Tell her I love her too, please. And can you ask her whatever-it-is in the morning for me too? Everything went to hell in a handbasket once she left, my army isn't as smooth without my Master Healer.
I'll try. Can you tell Mother I love her, please?
Of course! I'll tell her you all said so, I promise.
They are quiet again for a while, before Bran asks, Weren't you supposed to marry a Frey girl?
To his credit, he doesn't try to excuse himself, only show them the instant connection that had lit through him when first he had met Talisa, the bond that had grown with every interaction no matter what he tried, offers them the presence, the awareness, that always existed in the back of his head now. The four direwolves all howl together, pushing forward the sense of mate.
A hesitation, before Robb says, Arya, you – Mother promised you to Elmar Frey, as well.
RAGEpanicFURY
I can't refuse them, not after you did!
I know, I –
Don't you fucking dare betroth Sansa until she gets the chance to speak for herself! Arya's projection is back to a furious vibration, emotions howling about their shared space. Nymeria's projection tips back her head and h o wl s, the voices of her pack echoing oddly along to her girl's not-grief. Ragged, Arya snaps out, I get Harrenhal – me, not the Frey! Gendry and Hot Pie stay with me, and the Wildlings and Giants share my halls.
Aye, Robb says. That's fair.
I get to keep Needle, I'm still your Master of Laws, and you make it so that the firstborn inherits whether they're a boy or a girl.
… Deal. But you get to bring it all up in Council.
I'm not wearing a dress to do it.
That you can take up with Mother.
Just change the type of dress, Rickon finally pipes up, fading sleepily about the edges. Osha fights in a dress. Sansa can make you something, right?
I'll ask her, Arya grumbles, hackles slowly lowering. Robb, send Grey Wind to her to bring them to Raventree Hall. I don't want to move Gendry until I have to, and the Hall is closer for Nymeria's pack anyway. Her image brushed a hand through both Bran and Rickon's hair, and levelled a punch at Robb's arm. It wasn't as hard as he knew it could be, so whilst it was obvious that she was still mad, it was just as obvious that she wasn't going to hold this against him (much). I'll see you soon.
Arya and Nymeria's images were gone, and it was only the three boys left.
You haven't betrothed either of us, have you? Rickon asks warily.
Not yet. I didn't want to betroth any of you without your knowledge, before this war.
Please keep it that way, Bran begged. Or at least tell us if we need to consider offering another marriage. We'll talk more in the morning. Be safe, Robb. Love you.
And I you. Be safe, both of you, and look after one another.
When Sansa awakens that morning, it is not because of the dawn – it is because of the moist, doggy breath of a Direwolf in her face.
"Grey Wind!" She doesn't care if she wakes the others, she does not care how much Sandor and Ser Jaime will complain, for there is a Direwolf before her, bigger than anything she could have dreamt of when Lady still lived. She had never seen her pup's mother, but surely Grey Wind is nearly as big now as his dam had once been.
"Brilliant, the monster is back," Ser Jaime slurs from his spot on the ground, eyes at half-mast. Lady Brienne swats at him, snaps behave!, and Sansa pulls a note free from the leather thong that tied it to Grey Wind's neck.
Lady,
Bull injured, Nymeria fine. They have a set of rooms, and myself and the baby bear have camped with them for the interim. Will you and your party join us?
Tigress
"Gendry has been injured," Sansa tells them, keeping her voice soft so that the panic isn't as obvious. "My goodsister is treating him at Raventree Hall, and requests that we join them. How quickly can we be gone?"
"Within the hour," Sandor rumbles, starting to throw everything together.
Hot Pie comes to Sansa, eyes wide and worried. "Will he be alright, Lady Sansa?"
"My goodsister is a healer, I'm sure she's doing everything she can," She soothes, patting his arm reassuringly. "Here, let me help – what needs doing?"
Together Sansa and Hot Pie pack up the food, leaving out the bread and cheese for everyone to break their fast in the saddle, and roll their bedding. Brienne and Sandor work to saddle all of the mounts and the equipment that they had intended to have Arya and Gendry sell in other small villages or hamlets. The Kingslayer stays in his new bedroll until the last moment, and when Sansa checks on him when they are readying to go, it is to find him hot with fever.
"Lady Brienne, would you ride behind him today, please?" Sansa asked quietly. "I don't want to have to slow down if he falls."
"Of course, my lady." The lady knight lifts the Kingslayer atop of the steed she had saddled for herself effortlessly (Sansa is impressed and jealous in equal measure), and stoically ignores the drivel that the Kingslayer starts to spout, swinging up behind him.
Sansa casts her eye critically around what had been their home these past few days, and nods at seeing everything packed away. Her shield is grimacing though, and she does not know why. "Sandor? What is it?"
"'S obvious that we've been here. See?" Their firepit had been filled and covered over, any excess logs or coals distributed under the brush as Sandor had taught her to in their initial flight from the capitol. Leaves had been scattered across the clearing and dirt scuffed clear of tracks where necessary, the horse droppings scattered throughout the forest each day that they had been here. She looked, but still could not see what he did.
"No, what is it?"
"The grass is tramped down wherever we picketed the horses, and obviously grazed. It's enough for whoever is on our heels to know to look closer."
"Whomever," She corrects absently, casting her eyes about and seeing now what he did. "Can we do anything about it?"
"No," Sandor growled.
"Then we shall have to do without and put it from our minds for now. We had best move quickly to the Hall, and then on to Riverrun. Sorrow, fly ahead please?" Her first raven takes to the air quickly with a cheeky tail-flick, and Sansa turns to the people and horses gathered about them and urges everyone into a steady lope.
They have a lot of ground to cover, after all.
They're nearing the cave that Ygritte had been so keen to reach, where she had initially intended to bed him, when Ding lands in front of Jon in a flurry of feathers and snow.
jjjOOOOOOONnnnn! Sansa caws, crow body jumping and jittering.
"Sansa, what's wrong?" He demands, sinking to his knees with terror licking up his spine – what could have possibly happened now?! Robb betrayed, the little boys attacked, Sansa and Arya discovered and abused?
In the snow, Ding carves out M-A-N-C-E.
"You want to meet him?" Ygritte asks over his shoulder, when he reads it aloud. At Ding's nod, she demands, "Why?"
D-E-A-L
"You have a deal for him? Or your King brother?"
A shake to the first, a nod to the second.
"What about?"
L-A-N-D
T-R-U-C-E
"Robb's going to let them through the Wall?" Jon breaths, leaning backwards. Again, his sister nods. "What – is this because of what I told you before?"
aaaaYYYYYeeee, she croaks.
"Are you serious?" Ygritte demands, voice loud enough that it grabs Tormund's and Orrel's attention and they move towards them. At the following nod, she turns to the two other Free Folk and snaps out, "The Stark King wants to offer us safe passage through the Wall, get Mance!" Tormund pushes Orrel, who takes off running.
"Will the Northern Lords allow it?" Jon demands of Sansa, and is met with a nod to each question. "Are you and Robb and everyone safe? This is real?"
"Seems I owe you one helluva bow, Sansa Stark," Ygritte breaths, eyes as bright as those of the crow before them.
"There's wargs south o' the Wall?" Tormund demands.
"My siblings and myself," Jon answers him. "They whisper the same of Lady Maege Mormont, too, but I don't know how true that is." Sansa only shrugs Ding's shoulders when he looks to her for her input.
There's a shout, and they can see Orrel and Mance racing for them. Ygritte takes the opportunity to turn back to Sansa and ask quickly, "You try what I told ya too, Sansa Stark? Did it work?"
aaaaaYYYYeeee. sssssssAAAAAAANNNNNNxxxssssss
"No thanks needed," Ygritte answers brightly. "Showin' your Southern lordlings how a Northern woman shoots is good enough for me."
"Why is my sister a Northerner, but you still call me a Southerner?" Jon demanded, offended. "Sansa doesn't even have the Stark look!"
"Oh no," Ygritte grinned toothily. "She's still a Southerner, same as you! But she'll shoot like one o' us by th' time I'm done with her."
There is a confused trill from Sansa, and then Orrel is back far sooner than they had expected with Mance. Still bemused by Ygritte's logic, Jon looks down to his sister only to see her gimlet stare. He starts, stutters, then hisses to his sister that they are Beyond the Wall and all its Southern Court intricacies. She does not budge, so he turns resignedly to Mance and says, with much embarrassment,
"Lady Sansa of the House Stark, I present you to Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall; his general Tormund Giantsbane, Mead-king of Ruddy Hall; and his warg, Orell."
Ding sketches a gracious bird bow; Mance barks a laugh and Tormund booms out his wild bellylaugh, and both bob their heads in return.
"A proper little Southern kneeler, aren't you, girl?" Mance asks.
"A kneeler who has spoken to the King of Winter on your behalf," Jon said softly, "and offers you and yours safe passage across the Wall."
Silence.
"The fuck – !" Tormund begins, choking off whatever else he was going to say.
"What brings this on? Southerners have been killing Free Folk for thousands of years, what made your brother change his mind?" Mance demands.
"Sansa came to me the other night asking why the Free Folk have increased their raids in recent years. I told her of the Walking Dead, and she has spoken with Robb."
"And what terms does the generous Winter King offer?"
Laboriously, Sansa/Ding scribes out LAND FOR FIGHTERS. SAFE WINTER FOR WINTERFELL.
"What happened to Winterfell?" Jon begs of her when he realises what she's writing. "Are the little boys alright?!"
She nods at that, croaks out hissssssAAAAAAAfyyyyyuh.
"Free Folk ways are not Kneeler ways," Mance interrupts them. "You have too many rules! What happens when one is broken?"
III RULES. SAME CONSEQUENCES. NO RAPE NO STEALING NO MURDER.
Mance is shaking his head. "Stealin' women is our way of life. What you call yours and what we call anyones, that's far too different. And what do you call murder? If it's simply loss off life, then what do you do about fights to settle a squabble?"
Sansa hisses, and Jon speaks. "Murder is cold-blooded death – if a man dies in a tavern, in a fight, that's an accident. But a man who kills another for the sake of it, that's what we call murder. Rape is when a man forces himself upon a woman, or another man. If there is ever a person unwilling between the sheets, that is rape. What is for you and yours will be sectioned out, and Sansa and Robb will sort out the finer points of boundaries, so that there is no confusion over what crops or stock belong to whom. Is that agreeable to you, your grace?"
"Temper, temper," Mance tutts. A smirk ticks up the side of his mouth. "Don't cause trouble with your little sister watching, bastard."
Sansa hisses at that, flitting onto Jon's shoulder. She caws at Mance reproachfully, tucking up against Jon's cheek.
"We'll have to hold a council of the clans, see what everyone has to say on the matter. Don't go too far now, Snow. Else you might miss the excitement!" With that, the King Beyond the Wall swaggered away, calling out to different clanheads and elders as he went; Orrel sneered, and trotted after him.
Tormund offered him a somewhat grim smile. "For what it's worth, boy, I like you and your sister. I like this idea, but – we are not made for kneeling. We will have to see what comes of this, now." He tips his head at Sansa, and strides off in the opposite direction to Mance and Orrel, calling out in the First Tongue as he went.
"What the fuck," Ygritte hisses at them. "They'll kill the three o' us for this, if it isn't accepted!"
Grimly, Jon says, "Then we better be prepared. Sansa, you're good with words – got a fancy speech for me to save our arses?"
AAAAAYYYYYEEEE, croaked the raven.
"Bran?" Rickon asks in the morning, during a break from Osha training him in how to use a staff. "Isn't it bad, that Robb and Sansa and Arya aren't marrying Northerners?"
Bran, Meera and Jojen all freeze.
"Um."
"And it's really bad that Robb didn't marry that other woman, right?"
"Well, yes, but – "
"Are there any Northerners my age? Will that help?"
"You're too young for marrying, little lord!" Osha snapped. "If you've got time to be stupid, you got time to practice!"
Rickon swings at her. "I could help!"
"You're seven!"
"I'm a Stark!" He howls, and Shaggy echoes him. "I'm a Stark, and we're losing this war, and the Lords are angry and we're plotically in danger! This will help!"
"You mean, politically," Meera corrects gently.
Rickon stamps his feet again. "I don't care! Just tell me who I can marry!"
The Reeds look to Bran, who shrugs awkwardly. "There's Erena Glover, but, she's only four."
"Sara Karstark is six," Jojen adds. "One of Arnolf Karstark's granddaughters."
"The Wull's niece, Theona, is eight." Said Meera. "And the Flint's heir has twin seven-year-olds, Danny and Grey."
"One of the Knott's has a three-year-old?" Bran said. "Hyl something? I only remember because they were so excited at the Harvest Festival that year, she was the first girl born to the line in decades."
"The Harclay's heir is currently a six-year-old," Jojen offered last, after a quiet moment. "Nel Snow. Her Father took the Black before he knew of her, and her uncle and his wife have had only stillborn and miscarriages."
Rickon nods seriously, kicks his feet, and then starts to move in one of Osha's pattern dances. "Bran, tell me about their Houses?"
"The Glovers are loyal Bannermen, and live to the East in Deepwood Mott. Lady Erena has an older brother, and her Father is castellan while his older brother is at War. If you married her, then when you are both older, you would become a cadet branch of House Stark in a new keep somewhere, sworn to Robb.
"The Karstarks are a cadet branch already. Lady Sara is the oldest child of Arnolf Karstark's fourth son – they all live at the Karhold together. So you would probably stay at Winterfell with Robb, if you married her.
"Everyone else is from the Mountain Clans – they're Northerns, but you mightn't save us much face if you married there instead of taking a, uh, 'higher' bride. Otherwise … Father's mother's mother was from the Flints herself, so there is blood with them too. Any of the Mountain you take to wed, you would probably stay in the Mountains. Danny and Grey are both their father's current heir, so if you married one of them, and gave up the Stark name, then one day you would be the Lord of House Flint. If you marry Theona, you would be lords in service to House Wull, and would probably become one of the main commanders of their men. And as for Nel Snow, if you had Robb legitimise her, and took her name upon marriage, then if her uncle still has no children, you would be the Lords of House Harclay, and will either be loved for it or hated."
"Why?"
"… People are funny about bastards, sometimes. You know what Mother is like, with Jon."
Rickon twirls his staff, repeats the pattern dance again and again. "Can you ask Sansa what she thinks, when she comes back? And we can ask Robb tonight what he thinks, too."
"And until then, you can work on your form," Osha grumbled, swatting out with her own pike. "Your footwork is terrible."
"And while they're doing that," Bran murmurs in an aside to the Reeds, "We can get back to tactics on how they can take back Winterfell!"
I know I took forever to update, and I'm sorry. 1, I'm slow, 2, I kept working all through lockdown (why is 'rural maillady' not a more popular job trope?), and THEN I got a puppy and met my now boyfriend. He lives 500km away and we visit eachother every weekend. I might be dead.