King of Winter, King of Rivers; King of Ice and Snow

Chapter Seven. I'm running with the wolves tonight (I'm running with the)

"Broken and bloodied,

We track through the blizzard

To come back together

The wolves of the North.

The flames of our banner

Have forged new blades

Bigger and stronger

We're cubs no longer

We're wolves of the North.

And we rise with the King of the North.

And we Howl for our fallen

And we howl for our slain

To the Lions, we give warning

That we'll Howl on their graves.

And we howl for our family,

And we howl for our name

To the Lions, we are coming,

And we'll Howl on your graves."

Sansa's voice trails off, and is replaced with her sister and the wolves howling. Once the last cry is sounded, there is only silence. Oh, the wolves now circling the castle howl and the crows continue their cawing, but otherwise? The people say nothing. Arya watches them carefully, hand on Needle's hilt and waiting from her place on Nymeria's back.

Quietly and forcefully, Sandor whispers, what the fuck.

"Winter is coming," Sansa projects. "Let's go."

Jorelle races back around the corner of the inn leading a saddled Stranger and Honour. Sandor and Brienne pull themselves atop of their mounts, Brienne with a quiet thank you, Lady Jorelle, and then they are off down the street, Sansa and Arya at the lead atop of Grey Wind and Nymeria. Nymeria's pack of wolves keep pace around them, ready and waiting.

"There are thirty-five more Lannister men holding the castle," Sansa reports as they make their way up the main road, bold as brass. "Lady Blackwood and her children are captive in the dungeons, and many of the knights who had been left to guard the family by their lord are either dead or in the dungeons too. The castle folk are scared, but might be incited to help rescue their lords."

"How many guards on the wall?" Sandor asked, right as they hear a series of shrieks from the ravens, and the screams of men from the castle.

"One, now," Sansa says, wiping more blood from beneath her nose. "Sorry, now it's none. There are now twenty-eight Lannister men left in the castle."

"None on all of the walls?" Sandor demanded. Sansa hums in the affirmative, half here and half with her ravens.

"How shall we enter the castle, my lady?" Brienne asks. "The moat appears quite deep, and the walls rather tall."

"I could climb them," Arya offers.

"The drawbridge is down," Sandor grunts quietly from the back of the group as they finally come around the corner and see the base of the castle clearly. Arya's eyes flash warg-white and Nymeria's pack surge forward like a rolling wave, howling in triumph.

"Thank you, Hound," Arya says grimly, teeth bare in an almost-smile. The screams of men echo eerily from the castle, and Grey Wind and Nymeria pick up the pace.

The steps of the wolves are silent as they cross the drawbridge, but the shoes of the three horses clatter on the timber.

"Twenty-three Lannisters left," Arya says with relish, drawing Needle and crouching low on Nymeria's back.

Sansa has an arrow knocked, and is trying to process all of the information she is receiving from the birds.

"What do the wolves say, where is everyone?" Sansa asks, closing her mind off from the ravens for a moment while she breathes.

"There's two inside the first hall," Arya reports immediately, eyes going grey-white-grey-white-grey like a firefly. "Five down the left corridor, three down the right, another two down in the kitchens with maids. Three on the second floor - one in the right turret, two in the left -, two in the dungeons, the remaining six are on the third floor, with four in the right turret and two in the left."

"None near any of the windows," Sansa adds, opening her mind slowly so only a trickle of information can come in.

"The howling has them scared, some of the braver ones are going to come downstairs soon," Arya says. "The wolves are just waiting for an entrance they can enter."

"Then we had best accommodate them," Sansa smiles and Grey Wind moved towards the doors of the right-hand turret. "Arya, you and Lady Brienne had best take the left-hand side, I think."

Counting together, the sisters yank the doors open and allow the wolves to race in ahead of them. More screams bounce off of the stone walls, and the scent of fear is palpable. Howls ululate from the mouths of hundreds of wolves, and the ravens scream.

If she was asked later (and Talisa will ask, later, and Robb and Mother later still), Sansa would not be able to repeat exactly what happened in Raventree Hall. She knows she shot some of the Lannister men, for she has a memory of Sandor patting her on the shoulder at one point and telling her she has improved, and when they are back at the inn she will note that she is missing a dozen arrows, though she couldn't have told Arya (when she asks) how many had successfully hit their marks or even where they had ended up. She knows that one of her new ravens was struck by Lannisters, for she found she was clutching the dead bird to her breast when she came back to herself down in the dungeons.

She knows that she releases the Blackwoods, because she mostly remembers having that conversation.

"Who are you?" Demands a young man of an age with Robb and Jon.

"Are you a witch?" A little girl pipes from the corner, no older than Bran.

"I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell." She tells them in a Court perfect voice, though she feels numb. "We have come to rescue you."

"What was all of that screaming?" A woman, the Lady Blackwood no doubt, demands. "The howling?"

Grey Wind peaks over Sansa's shoulder with a huff. In a very quiet sort of voice, Lady Blackwood stutters, "O-oh."

"Is that a Direwolf?!" Squeaks a little boy, maybe Rickon's age.

"This is Grey Wind," Sansa forces a believable, pretty smile at him. "He is the Direwolf partner of his grace King Robb Stark."

"Do you have a Direwolf?" The little girl demands.

"I did, once. Her name was Lady."

"What happened to her?"

"Cersei Lannister had her killed." This does nothing for the mood of the prisoners, so Sansa musters some wherewithal and chirps, "Would you like to come out?"

As well as the dead raven, Sansa is holding bloodstained keys. Deliberately ignoring how tacky her fingers are around the metal, Sansa unlocks the cells and releases the family, apologising for the state of the castle and offering to assist in tidying it up.

She remembers that four of Lord Tytos' six sons and a few of his nephews helped to strip the bodies of the Lannister soldiers, who were then feasted upon by Arya's wolves. She remembers salting the stone floors so that they wouldn't stain, and to soak up the blood. She remembers scrubbing and scrubbing with the other ladies of the castle, trying to get the blood out. And she remembers riding back to the inn where Talisa insisted on inspecting all of them for injuries. Sansa insists on going last, as she couldn't recall being injured and had felt no more than her usual twinges when cleaning the castle, and she had promised to sing at the inn besides.

Most of the townsfolk have gathered at the inn anyway, after Sansa's impromptu performance before they went to take the castle. The fact that Lady Blackwood, six of her seven children, her widowed aunts-by-law and a gaggle of nieces and nephews joined them encourages those few townsfolk that weren't at the inn to very quickly make an appearance.

Sandor and Brienne take it in turns being her guard in the taproom whilst everyone eats, bathes and changes out of their bloodstained clothes. When they made their way from the castle back to the inn, Sansa had expressed her desire to leave as soon as possible, which had been seconded by their whole company. Sansa says she'll sing to distract everyone while they pack and have everything ready so they can leave at the earliest possible hour.

While Talisa is looking everyone over, Sansa sings the songs she knows by rote - Florian and Jonquil, Six Maids in a Pool, Rat Cook, The Seasons of my Love, Brave Danny Flint, The Winter Maid, Iron Lances. She sings the Mother's hymn and Mother, Maiden, Crone, and when Talisa seems to have nearly finished checking everyone over, Sansa starts to sing Wolves of the North as her closing piece. When she sings the final And we'll howl on your graves! Grey Wind and Nymeria lift their heads and add their voices as if on cue.

There is a moment of silence across the inn, so Sansa smiles prettily and curtsies and thanks everyone for listening, and takes herself off to find her goodsister.

The rooms that Arya and Gendry had originally gotten for themselves is housing Arya and her boys and Jorelle, all of whom are presumably asleep. Talisa, Sansa, and Brienne are sharing a room, and Jaime and Sandor share another for propriety's sake.

"You're the last, Sansa," Talisa says smoothly when she lets herself and Brienne into the room.

"I hope everyone else is alright?"

"A few bruises and a couple split lips, but otherwise everyone has returned more or less healthy. Would you like to get out of that dress? I have a spare you can sleep in."

"Thank you, goodsister," Sansa smiles the pretty court smile she's worn all night, but Talisa frowns at her.

"Are you alright, Sansa?"

"Of course!" There is still a twist to the corner of Talisa's mouth and a concerned look now adorns Brienne's face while the Lady Knight removes her armour and readies for bed, but Sansa is honestly too tired to worry over it now. Talisa helps her out of her bloodstained dress – oh, that would explain the strange looks she had received from the townsfolk! – and when Sansa is down to her underthings, Talisa freezes and Brienne curses from her own cot. Talisa whispers something in what must be her native tongue, but…

"I'm sorry, goodsister, I do not speak that language."

Talisa turns her around, and murmurs, "I'll teach you, if you like, adelphḗ. Until then, would you tell me how you came by these injuries?"

"Oh, they're almost healed, you needn't worry!" Sansa reassures her quickly.

"Where did they come from." It's a question, but Talisa's tone brooks no arguments and no escape.

Slowly, Sansa lists each of the slow-healing injuries of Kings Landing – the cuts on the backs of her thighs from Ser Meryn's blade, the almost-gone bruises on her back and belly from the Kings Guards' fists, the faded scars of cuts and scratches on her legs and thighs from when she fell in the streets after Myrcella sailed for Dorne, the scabbed skin on the inside of her bow-arm from before she started to wear a guard, and the insides of her thighs that had chafed raw from all of the heavy riding whilst wearing skirts.

"I thought you were a political prisoner?" Talisa asks quietly.

"Joffery is mad," Sansa shrugged. "He did what he wanted and when as it pleased him, and if you were able to control even a smidgeon of the outcome of his rage, you kept it to yourself and stayed quiet."

"What else did he do to you?" Talisa's tone is a hair away from demanding, but Sansa answers her anyway. Tells her everything, the beatings and the strippings, the shooting that Lord Tyrion was able to disrupt, the daily visits to the wall to watch Father's head rot, the lack of support or handmaidens or assistance of any sort. Sansa holds onto her composure by a thread, keeps her voice calm by sheer force of will, but when she finishes Talisa drags her into a tight hug, whispering senseless nothings in Valyrian and running her hand in soothing circles on Sansa's back. It is then that Sansa allows herself to break, and sobs into her goodsister's shoulder, shaking.

Eventually she quiets and stills, but still Talisa rubs soothing circles on her back still.

"He won't touch you again," Talisa says, fierce as the tigress she names herself. "Robb will make sure of it."

The memory comes back to her, and Sansa huffs a tiny laugh. "Maybe he'll give me his head instead," she whispers to herself with a small smile.

Robb felt like his head was going to explode. Mirth has been providing information on and off throughout the morning for ten to twenty minutes every hour, and none of his siblings had joined the warg call in the night – Nymeria and Grey Wind had flashed impressions of hunt-blood-win, so he had assumed that meant the girls were fighting. The little boys had given him nothing – Bran had flashed to him quickly when he called to say that Rickon was sulking after setting Sansa off earlier in the day, but hadn't said what over and had left as soon as he could so Robb couldn't find out.

He rubs a tired hand over his face, shuffling the papers of new information Sansa has provided for him, and looks at Mirth. The most recent info drop of the day had included an update on Rickon, after all, and now he knows what Bran had wished to hide from him.

"Did he really say that?" Robb groaned. Mirth nods sadly. "He's seven, he shouldn't be worried about all of this. ... Personally, I'd rather he marry Nel Snow if he feels he has to betrothe himself, but that's only because the Mountains are wild enough to handle him and Shaggy. Politically, we really do need the support when it comes to the Karstarks – I'll mention the idea of a betrothal to Lord Rickard later today. He'll want something big, so maybe if I say that Rickon and Sara will live at Winterfell until a partial reconstruction of Moat Cailin is completed, it'll settle him."

Sansa gives a bird shrug and a croak, then preens at Mirth's wings. He sighs.

"I'll talk about it with Mother first, yes. Any news from Jon?"

nnaAAAAyyy

Another sigh, and a scruffle through his beard. "Damn. Anything else to report?"

Mirth hops over to the collection of feathers that they have been using to subtly mark the progress of her and Arya's group, picks the feathers up, and shifts them considerably closer than what Robb was expecting.

He straightens immediately. "You'll be here tomorrow?" He asks, excited. Sansa shakes her head, and he demands immediately, "Sooner?"

AAAAYYYeeee

"Sansa, that's amazing! Do you have a rough idea when?"

She nods, and taps at the top of her pocket alphabet. cOOOOuurttuh

"In time for council?" He demands. At her nod, he runs a gentle finger down Mirth's back. "Do you want me to announce you?" She caws immediately, shaking her head. "Alright, I won't. Mother?" A sway of her head that eventually was another, if hesitant, negative. "You want a grand entrance?" He asks with a shocked laugh. Mirth gives him a single, determined nod. The movement is firmer than anything he would normally have expected – but of course, that was from the Sansa of old. This Whisperwoman was not she, and Robb had to stop expecting the same reactions. "Alright, Spymaster, as you wish. Then, I'd better make sure that we are ready for you! Would you like me to save you a lemon cake?" There was a happy ruffle of feathers, and he laughed with his sister.

It looked like things were finally looking up for House Stark.

They leave before the dawn, taking full advantage of the late rising moon, the good conditions of the road and the eyes of their wolves. With the Kingslayer's arm heavily padded and bound, they have him ride on the same horse as Brienne again, the pair swapping mounts every hour to alleviate the weight each beast would have to hold. The rest of them are cantering for thirty minutes, trotting for twenty, and walking for ten, swapping beasts as they need to. Every two hours they stop for ten minutes to make water, nibble on food, for Talisa to check on Gendry or Jaime, and for Sansa to go through new raven scrolls. Wolves range around them, and ravens fly overhead; nothing and no one is sneaking up on them today.

They have been on the road for six hours, the sun up for four, when the "vanguard" reports more bandits on the road.

"The wolves alone could handle them," Arya says confidently.

The Hound is shaking his head, and she feels her figurative hackles raise. "You keep using your wolves, you run the risk of gossip and bad rumours," he grunted. "Smallfolk might think you'll mean to take their stock from them, and start baiting and trapping."

"Wolves aren't so common in the Riverlands," Jorelle speaks softly, but with a grim kind of confidence. "They'd need to source and hire a trapper."

The Hound waves a hand in Jorelle's direction. "They'll get a professional."

"How many, Princess?" Jorelle asks with a very obvious eyeroll.

"Five – no, six," Arya snaps.

"Well armed?"

"Not particularly," Sansa answers for her. Wolves find it harder to distinguish weapons than the ravens do. "Most of them have mail, three have spears, two have swords and one has a club, though he looks like he could be half giant."

Jorelle nods, hefts her axe, and says in a no-nonsense tone of voice, "How far ahead?"

"Perhaps a league," the sisters answer together, and Arya sticks her tongue out at her sister.

"Well, alright then. Lady Brienne, with me if you would. We should be able to take them ourselves."

"We can all go together," Sansa scolds her, fixing the wax on the last of the scrolls for this stop. "There's enough of a gap in the trees that if I sneak ahead on Grey Wind, I can take most of them out with my bow." She loosens Mercy's girth strap enough that the horse will have an easier time running without a person atop of her, and then swings herself atop of the waiting Direwolf.

"Princess, the point of having guards is so that you do not have to fight," Jorelle scolds lightly.

"And the point of the fighting is that we distribute the Kings' justice and practice our handle of our weaponry," Sansa returns. "Lady Jorelle, you have had the fortune to train with arms and armour your whole life – we have not, and we need every available practice opportunity we can get, if we wish to survive this war."

Arya draws a sharp breath at that. Kings Justice – that was her title, now. Well, bandits and brigands usually had an appointment with the nearest Lord's sword or a long drop with a short stop, for their actions against the people and the crown. Loosening Wolverine's girth strap and swinging herself atop of Nymeria, Arya looks at her older sister with a cocked eyebrow.

"Let's go, then. We'll sneak ahead on the wolves so we're silent, and the rest can catch up."

Talisa, examining the Kingslayer's stump, sighs in frustration at the both of them. "Or, as was said before, we can all go together."

"If the wolf girl is so bloodthirsty, let her go ahead!" the Kingslayer slurred. "Let her wet her teeth!"

Arya bares her teeth at him. "I am a wolf, thank you, and done with wooden teeth!" Nymeria moves wraith-like through the trees at that, and Grey Wind follows immediately, wolves and ravens flanking them above and below.

"You shouldn't let him antagonize you so," Sansa scolds quietly. "Either of them."

Arya scoffs, bending low on Nymeria's neck so that her face was hidden in Nan's ruff. "So I should just be a perfect little doll like you, and not-react to everything? You scared Talisa last night, smiling like that and covered in blood."

"My ability to not act is the only reason I'm alive," Sansa snaps at her in a hard voice. "Had I reacted to Joffery in any way not to his liking, I would have been up on the parapets beside Father and Jory and everyone else, and he made sure that I knew it."

The wolves give warning rumbles, and the sisters quiet immediately, Grey Wind moving to the left and Sansa knocking her bow whilst Nymeria goes right and Arya readies Needle in one hand and her stolen Lannister blade in the other.

Nymeria pauses, and sends a sliver of thought to Arya. Arya draws her breath, sheaths her blades, swings a leg over back Nan's back and slips to the ground, stalking forward and calling to the gathered brigands, "What's all this? Who are you?"

"Aw, a little girl just for us!" The one with the club coos, voice surprisingly high-pitched.

"Who do you serve?" Arya asks them again, giving them a chance.

"Serve? Dumb bitch, we don't serve no one!" One of the sword-wielders spits.

"Very well." She says firmly, "I, Arya Stark, in the name of his grace Robb of House Stark, King of Winter and King of the Trident and the first of his name, sentence you for your crimes against the people and the crown."

The brigands cackle, but Sansa looses an arrow that takes the giant through the throat, and Arya shoots forward with Needle in her left hand and the Lannister sword in her right.

(she really should name the second blade, at this point)

If she wants to survive against opponents that a larger and stronger than her, Arya must rely on her speed. If she wants to get the same or more number of brigands as her sister, she has to be quick as a snake. So she is; Sansa might practice her draws and shots every single day, but Arya has practiced running beside the horses and the wolves, has practiced jumping from saddle to ground and back again, building her muscles and her stamina each and every day. Fast as a deer Arya rushes for the brigands, Needle piercing into the belly of one of the spearmen without mail or armour, and the Lannister blade… and Stitch slicing across the throat of the second swordsman.

A spray of blood catches Arya above the eye as she ducks and whirls to shoot Needle up into the throat of the first swordsman whilst Stitch slices at the throat of the now kneeling spearman form before. Sansa's arrows take out the two other spearman, but Arya is happy enough with a draw and the justice that has been served.

Sansa and Grey slink from the treeline, and Arya raises her head and howls for Nymeria's wolves, so that they know they may come and feast.

"You gave them a chance?" Sansa asks, tone hinting at pride.

Arya shrugs. "I'm the Master of Laws, aren't I? I need to be fair." She wipes Stitch and Needle off on one of the brigand's clothes, and runs an assessing eye over their weaponry. "The club and the spears we can leave behind, they're useless. The swords we can bring for Gendry, but he probably won't thank us, they're in shit condition."

"They had no horses, thankfully," Sansa notes, looking around the camp and retrieving her three arrows. "We have rather too many still left over from the Bolton men!"

Arya's - Nymeria's wolves begin to feast, and the sister's swing themselves back atop of the Direwolves and leave them to it, the two swords wrapped and strapped to Arya's back. They don't have very far to go before their party joins them again, a worried Talisa at the fore.

"We'll stay on the wolves until it's time to stop again," Sansa calls, thighs tight about Grey's middle while she cleans the heads of the retrieved arrows and puts them back in her quiver. "We have a council meeting to attend, after all."

Ygritte pops her head up. "That thing you did with your mouth – is that wha' Lords do to their Ladies in the South?"

Jon groans as he rolls over and tucks her under his arm. "If I'm to die, can I not rest?"

She nips him on the chin. "Rest when you're dead. Well, is it?"

"I don't know. I just wanted to kiss you there is all. You seemed to like it." She kisses him on the nose, making him chuckle.

"I liked it some. Who taught you that?"

"There's been no one else. Only you."

Joy lights up her comely face, making her eyes sparkle. "A maid," she smiles mischievously, and puffs a laugh. "You were a maid!"

"I was a man of the Nights Watch," he says solemnly. "How 'bout you – were you a maid?"

"And what do you think?"

Wolfsblood stirred under his skin, and he holds in a growl. "Who was he?"

"Just a boy," Ygritte says, coy. "'E came trading wit' his brothers. He had red hair like me; kissed by fire. But he was weak – not like you." She kisses him, but with her usual blunt honestly says, "that was the first one. Then there was this Thenn boy, spoke no common but gods he was built like a mountain –"

He clears his throat deliberately and thanks her. He brushes fiery curls out of her face gently, but sobers quickly. "Should we go back? They'll be looking for us soon."

"So eager to die?" She asks archly, rising and settling herself on his lap. "I'm not done with you yet."

"I don't particularly want my little sister to find us like this," he says wryly, hands settling on her hips. A wicked smirk came over her face.

Innocently, she said, "What, we're just going to be sharing a bath!" She tugs him upright, and jumps into the heated pool. He joins her, leaning in for another kiss, when he hears a raven chirp from the mouth of the cave. Pushing Ygritte back in a panic and making sure she is submerged to her chin, he calls back, "Sansa, not now! I don't have anything new for you! I'm bathing!"

eeeeeeeeeeGGGGGGrrriiiitttt?

"She's not out there?" Jon calls, hoping to all seven hells and any listening gods that the panic he can hear in his voice, his sister can't. Ygritte has a wicked smirk on her face again, and he shakes his head at her desperately.

Apparently, it's for naught. There's a flutter of wings, and then Ding is by the pool; in a fit of panic, Jon shoves Ygritte's head under the water. Ding squarks and Ygritte kicks Jon low in the belly, and when he doubles over groaning she launches herself back above the waters and smacks him on the head.

"Hello, Sansa Stark," Ygritte drawls, vicious smile on her face. "Got any news for us?"

Ding is ruffling his feathers over and over again, and Jon never wanted to make his sister uncomfortable and he never wanted his sister to learn about his sex life!

There seemed to be some kind of struggle – either between Sansa and Ding, or just within Sansa herself, he wasn't sure – but Sansa finally croaked, mmAAAAAAARRRRyyy'd?

Jon chokes and sinks further into the water, while Ygritte cackles.

"Are we married?" She hums then, playing at contemplative. "Well, aye, I s'pose! I stole him, and he was a maid afore me, and I am his as he is mine, so I s'pose that means we are, Sansa Stark!"

Sansa sketches a courtly bird bow, then flits over and preens at the loose hair around Ygritte's ear croaking a low, ssssssIIIIIIIsssssttterrrrr. Jon is sure his own ears are as red as either girls' hair, and sinks even further into the waters.

"We, uh, we should head back," he finally mumbles. Ygritte huffs, offers her wrist to Sansa and transfers her from Ygritte's shoulders to Jon's, before promptly pulling herself out of the water with no sense of shame at all. Sansa squawks and tucks her face into Jon's curls. Ygritte laughs at them both raucously, tugging her furs back on after giving herself a quick rub down with a strip of cloth that she had brought for this exact purpose. Once she is fully dressed, she calls Sansa to her so that Jon can dry and dress without Sansa having to look or see, which both siblings appreciate.

When Jon is dressed and slightly less red in the face, he offers a hand to his sister and then they leave the cave, Jon sheathing Longclaw at his waist as they go.

"Your brother thinks he's gonna die today," Ygritte tells Sansa with relish, only to be met with Sansa's panic. "He's not, there's only a slim chance that the Clans won't want to take your King brother's deal, you Starks. We're going South o'cross the Wall, and we'll be safe."

"Are you sure?" Jon begged. "How do you know?!"

"We won't know for sure till we meet with 'em, but we're not gonna get an offer this good again. We'd be mad not to take it."

Sansa chittered anxiously on Jon's shoulder, and then there was a shout and they were being summoned over by Tormund.

"Ah, your sister with ya already? Good, good, let's go." The wild ginger boomed at them, gesturing them ahead of him.

"If it's not good," Jon said suddenly. "If they want my head, Sansa, you go, alright?"

Instantly his sister is crying out in his ear and tugging on curls of hair.

"No, Sansa," he says firmly. "You're my little sister, and it's my job to protect you. If I had listened to Uncle Benjen and never joined the Watch, I'd be in the Riverlands with Robb and all of you, and this wouldn't even be happening. I won't allow you to get hurt because of me."

Sansa flutters about his head, desperation clear in her movements.

"You're not going to die today, Jon Snow," Ygritte snarls. "Sansa Stark, calm down. The Clans are ahead."

Instantly, Sansa is landing on Jon's shoulder and tucking herself close to his neck, claws digging into his cloak and furs, and making herself small. Jon raises a hand and rubs soothing fingers down the ruffled feathers of her back reassuringly.

"Jon Snow, Sansa Stark," Mance calls when they're close enough, gesturing for them to move to his side. "Does your King brother stand by his promise to let us through the Wall?"

Jon and Sansa both nod firmly, Jon pulling himself up as straight and tall as he can manage. "He does," Jon answers verbally.

"And can he confirm that the Watch will let us through?"

"Ravens have been sent to the Lord Commander already," Jon nods. "And even if no response comes in time, Robb has asked me to guide you through the unmanned towers of the Wall."

"And what rules has the King of Winter drawn up for us?"

"No rape, no theft, no murder. Land has been drawn up, and our sister Arya will help make sure everyone is comfortable when she meets us on the other side of the Wall. Until then, our brothers Bran and Rickon move to meet us on the other side of the Wall, and will stay with us until Arya arrives."

Mance turns to the gathered Clans, and booms, "Does that satisfy everyone? Any other questions?"

"What of women?" A tall spearwife from one of the seaside Clans called out, her own wife hanging off her shoulder.

"Amongst yourselves, your business and customs are your own," Jon called back. "Where Northern brides are concerned, inquiries to their parents, their village head or Lord are preferred, so that there is evidence that you are serious about the woman in question. Any disputes, such as willing brides and unwilling parents, are to be taken before Arya and Rickon. Any wolf of Arya's pack or any raven of Sansa's can be used as an intermediary if the distance to one of the Starks is too far, so long as you gain their attention first."

There was a scoff from Orrel. "No warg would be without their companion long enough for someone to flag the creature down."

Jon blinks at him. "… Ding is here. Ding has been here for days, but Sansa is in the Riverlands. Arya's pack has prowled most of the Riverlands already, and are only now joining her in person. Most wargs may not be able to manage it, but I assure you that my sisters can and do."

"Lies," an old Mountain clan woman snarls. "There's been no wargs like that in centuries, not since Starks killed the Warg King!"

"The Stark King at the time may have killed the Warg King, but he wed the Warg Kings daughters to his sons." Jon says firmly. "There have been no Direwolves in Winterfell since, until my siblings and I. Believe us or no, we're not lying."

"That bird is just well trained," sneered a Thenn man. "That's no warg partner!" His eyes rolled white in the back of his head and Ding jerks, before jumping down from Jon's shoulders to stalk forward with wings outspread and feathers bristling, hissing like the bird is possessed. The Thenn man jerks back in his own body, eyes wide and white about the edges with fear and a drop of blood beneath his nose. He croaks what Jon recognises as a common curse in the Thenn dialect in a very fervent tone, stumbling away from Ding.

"Sansa?" Jon calls softly, and with a final hiss she turns and flits back to his shoulders.

"Your sister is kissed by fire, Snow?" The Thenn calls, which causes Jon and a number of the others to start in surprise.

"She is," Jon says slowly. "Red, quite a few shades darker than Tormund or Ygritte's."

"And blue-eyed, like Tormund?"

Jon blinks some more. "Uh, yes."

The Thenn nods, then looks Ding straight in the eye. "I wronged you, Sansa Stark. You are a warg, and fierce, even if you're young." He swallows, then calls, "You a single woman, Sansa Stark? Your babes would be strong."

Sansa sniffs at him, and she turns to look elsewhere, the dismissal clear. Jon didn't know whether he was supposed to laugh or not, but many of the gathered Heads did, so he hoped this was something he might be able to look back on later when his heart wasn't about to pound out of his chest.

"Is that proof enough for those other doubters?" Mance called. "You agree, Sansa Stark is warging this bird?" Though there were grumbles and mumbles throughout the crowd, eventually they all nodded. "Alright then. We'll move once more – who wants to take the Winter King up on his deal?"

Many of the gathered Heads raise their hands, but one of the Giants grunts, and then says something in a dialect Jon doesn't recognise. Behind his shoulder, Ygritte whispers the translations.

"What of we who are tall? Will there be space big enough for us past the Wall?"

AAAAAyyyyyyyeeee, Sansa croaked. aaaarrEEEEENNNNN'aaaaallllllll.

"Harrenhall, in the Riverlands?" Jon confirms for her. She nods, and he turns to Mance and projects as well. "Harrenhall has towers big enough to host Giants, though it will be further south than everyone else by a few hundred leagues."

The giants watch him closely, then say two words in the Common Tongue: Stark, and Snow.

"You're throwing your lot in with them?" Orrel demands, gesturing at Jon and Ding. The Giants nod.

"Who doesn't want to take the deal?" Mance asks.

There are a few who raise their hands, and others still who do not wish to pick, so Mance calls to them and asks that again they give their grievance. Most agree that they do not wish to give up their freedom, and would rather die free in the True North than live kept in their South.

"If you die here, then you just join the Night Kings army!" Jon exploded finally. "Robb's deal is for the War and for Winter, you can go back North again once they are over! What's a few years landlocked compared to the decades Beyond the Wall you have already lived, and will have the chance to live again when this is finished?!" Sansa ruffles her feathers on his shoulder, shuffling over so she is braced on the ball of his shoulder instead of tucked up against his ear as she had been. "I understand that we are asking a lot of you, but do you not realise the danger our brother is putting himself in for you?! The Lords are angry enough as it is, and now the people that they have fought and hated their whole lives are being allowed past the Wall? If there isn't a coup over this than that will be a miracle! The three rules that Robb asks you to follow are just basic human decency, and it is a compromise to minimise the damage that could come from this alliance!"

The wolfsblood burns in his veins, and all he can think of is his siblings as he last saw them: Robb, seventeen with snow in his curls; Sansa, thirteen, and Arya, eleven, in the wagon and so excited for their new adventures; Bran, still and asleep and almost-dead in a bed at nine; Rickon, six and crying in the corridors. He wants to keep them safe, wants to gather them all together and keep them at his back and have himself and his blade between them and the world and safe.

This is the dream of a child, which he is no longer. So he brushes the dream to the corner of his heart and concentrates on the here and now, and what he can do.

Mance hums at his outburst, and turns to look at the gathered Heads. "Well said, Jon Snow. Well? What say ye now?!"

Those who had already agreed roared, those who had been hesitant finally agreed, and those that had been recalcitrant finally nodded and hummed and grumbled agreement.

Mance turns back to Jon and gives them a single nod. "Well then, Sansa Stark, you had best get back to his grace and let him know we'll take his deal. Jon Snow, you'll live another day. Let's talk business: which tower will we head for, and how are we getting in?"

Robb had thought long and hard about having Mother attend this meeting, too – on the one hand, she should have the chance to see her daughters before the council does. On the other hand, Mother has been worried sick over the lack of information on Arya these last two years, and it was her worry and love for her daughters that had led to her releasing of Ser Jaime.

In the end, he had made the decision to tell Mother in private that the girls would arrive sometime during the council, and that she could meet with them after, once they had cleared everything with the Lords. She had wept, but agreed with his ruling in the end.

"Lord Blackwood," Robb called out at the start of the meeting. "You will be pleased to know that your castle has been freed, and your wife and children reinstated."

"Your Grace, how?" The Lord exclaimed.

"My sisters and their company gutted the Lannister soldiers who were keeping the castle. Apparently, Arya was most happy to assist you, as one of the soldiers in charge had taken her sword when she had been a prisoner at Harrenhal." A murmur went around the room at that titbit.

"How large is their company?" Maege Mormont asked, leaning forward in her seat.

Robb looks at Sansa, who bobs Mirth's head. Robb ran a hand through his hair, and tried not to sound too embarrassed when he answered.

"I believe the company that took the castle was comprised of both of my sisters, Sandor Clegane, Lady Brienne, the entirety of the Hall's ravens, two Direwolves and some five hundred regular wolves."

A number of Lords, including the Blackfish, the Greatjon and Lord Bracken, had all been taking a drink when Robb revealed this; at least five lords choked on their drinks and did a marvelous spit take for their troubles. The Blackfish roared with laughter, once he had the breath for it, and choked out something that sounded like atta girl!.

The side door that the servants had been using to sneak in and out with food and drink eased open, and Mirth's feathers ruffled.

"Marvelous!" The Greatjon finally called, laughing himself. "When can we expect your sisters to arrive, so that we might congratulate them on their efforts ourselves?"

"Thank you, my lord," Sansa said prettily, voice projecting around the room effortlessly. She, Arya and Talisa are gathered at the side door. All three are dressed in what he presumes are the new clothes Arya said Sansa had been working on – Talisa's dress was in a Northern style in a rusty orange, a dancing Grey Wind stitched on her breast in beautiful white and grey, her hair pulled back in a more Northern-styled braid and tied with black ribbon. Arya was dressed in what looked like the combination of Robb's own attire and a dress in padded grey and rabbit fur, Nymeria stitched in a series of different shades of greys on her breast and her hair cut choppily short. Sansa was dressed in a dark, dark grey dress with seemingly delicate leather vambraces, a ghostly Lady stitched on her breast in white and pale yellow, and a mantle of black raven feathers about her shoulders. The Direwolves themselves stand at their backs, tongues out and tails thumping the floor lazily.

"Apologies for our tardiness, your grace, my lords," Sansa called again, drawn straight as the arrows at her waist – and now he was looking, Robb could see the dagger at her belt and the bow over her shoulder, the dagger and spare sword and Needle at Arya's hips, can see their shields over their shoulders, Sandor Clegane for Sansa and Jorelle for Talisa and and a tall boy with black hair and blue eyes behind Arya (strange, he'd expected Brienne).

"There were bandits on the road," Arya says, and there is a splatter of blood at her temple and on her collar, he sees upon further inspection.

Robb steps back a pace from the table, and the three women move towards him. Talisa he gives a quick, chaste kiss to, before sweeping both of his sisters into his arms for a tight hug, careful of their weaponry.

"Sisters, I understand you had proposals for the council?" Robb asks them leadingly. Sansa smiles winningly, Arya bloodthirsty, and Arya pulls scrolls from up her sleeves. Sansa pulls a series of tiny raven scrolls from the bag on her hip.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Sansa begins, curtsying to the gathered council and then spreading her papers out, Sorrow and a handful of other ravens flying in through the window to land on her head and shoulders. "Before I can begin, I just had one question – Lord Bolton, is there a reason your son has sacked and taken Winterfell? And, perhaps, would there be a reason that you have been conspiring with Walder Frey and Tywin Lannister about the deposition and death of his grace King Robb?"

Please be kind with reviews this chapter fam – I'm back at the property for the next little bit while my dad is in the hospital, and it's not looking good.