King of Winter, King of Rivers; King of Ice and Snow
Chapter Eight: Meet me on the Battlefield (even on the Darkest Night)
Thank you all so, so much for the kind reviews last chapter everyone! My Dad had really bad sepsis, which in typical bush fashion he did nothing about until Mum made him go to hospital (a month after he'd gotten crook -_-). He almost died in our local hospital, and after most of the afternoon trying to stabilize him, he was flown 1000km away to our nearest city, where he has now recovered, more or less. Very scary, and I took time off of work to run the station for Mum and Dad while they were away, but all good now!
Quick reminder that I take CONSTRUCTIVE criticism. This is particularly for those on fanficdotnet, as you're on thin fucking ice. Be kind, and remember: don't like don't read, fam. It's that easy.
Roose Bolton freezes in his seat, before turning his ghostly eyes upon Sansa. She meets his eyes squarely, and thinks You are not Joffrey, and I am a prisoner no longer. You cannot frighten me.
"I beg your pardon, princess?" He questions finally. "I fear you are mistaken."
Sansa smiles prettily at him, and Mirth chirps on her shoulder, before dropping to the table and starts to pull certain scrolls out of the pile.
"Am I? Is this not your baseborn son, Lord Bolton? My ravens have shown me his face at Winterfell, and have shown me the destruction that has been wrought upon my home by his hand and that of the Greyjoys." Mirth plops the scroll with Sansa's best rendition of Ramsay Snow's likeness down in front of the Leech Lord – and Sansa was quite impressed with herself, she had really caught the similarity between Roose and Ramsay, about the eyes. She hadn't drawn for pleasure since Winterfell, so she had practiced over and over with sticks in the dirt so that she wouldn't waste precious parchment getting everything ready for today.
"Theon Greyjoy took and sacked Winterfell."
"Oh, he did! But he holds it no longer. My ravens have shown me what is left of him, down in the dungeons, and they have shared his screams." Sansa picks up another scroll, reading as if quoting – for she is quoting, though it is from memory instead of the scroll, as the sentence now haunts her nightmares. "'Strip off their skins, for a naked man has few secrets, but a flayed man's got none'... yes?"
"If my bastard has somehow managed to do such a thing, it is with no backing of mine." Roose states plainly. Sorrow laughs, handing Sansa another scroll and taking the first one to Robb to peruse.
"'Power tastes best when sweetened by courtesy – do not be so foolish as to be caught because of your treacherous nature, as you were at Hornwood. If you wish to take the castle, let no rumours of you escape and blame those that do all upon the Kraken.' Did you not write this, my Lord? Is this not your hand? It's certainly your seal." Mirth tugs an empty mug towards her, while two of the Raventree Hall birds that had followed them ganged up with one of the Riverrun birds to tug a pot of tea towards her. It took every hard-won Court skill she possessed not to react to the birds, and keep the polite, pretty mask of the Northern Whisperwoman on her face. "Well, if this doesn't sound like yourself, I have multiple communications between yourself, Lord Walder, Lady Genna Lannister and Lord Tywin. Which would you like to see first? We can go in chronological order, or we can start with the actual plans for this Red Wedding."
The pot of tea is by her right hand, so while Sorrow flits after more cups for their company and Mirth ferries the scrolls to Robb, one by one, Sansa pours tea into the cups as they come to her, and passes them around – to Talisa first, and then Arya, and then in order: Lady Jorelle, Sandor, and a very awkward Gendry. Once her companions have been provided for, Sansa takes a sip of her own tea. She had put a splash of milk into it before she started doctoring Talisa's cup, and one of the Hall birds had somehow figured out the sugar cubes. Whilst Sansa's preference was for honey in her tea, she certainly appreciated the kindness shown her by these birds.
"I have written no such letters." Lord Bolton insists, watching her with those cruel, nothingness eyes.
"Are you sure?" Sansa asks again, taking a dainty sip. It is not the best tea she has ever had, but it is certainly the first cup since perhaps a week before the Blackwater, so she appreciates it all the same. "The handwriting is identical to those of the letters addressed to Ramsay Snow."
"Then they are a forgery."
"Oh, no, that's what I sent in place of these letters!" Sansa tells him even more cheerfully. "Though, I did do my best to try and copy your handwriting in the forgeries I sent on in place of these – Lady Genna even comments upon your use of a scribe in one of her replies, I had to doctor that letter very carefully!"
"What sort of a conspiracy did you concoct with these traitorous lords?" Robb asks Bolton directly.
"I did no such thing."
"You planned on the seemingly inevitable collapse of the Northern forces," Sansa corrects, still smiling. "You planned that when we could deny the need for numbers no longer, and reached out to Lord Walder to express reparations, then he would demand the hand of our uncle, Edmure Tully, in marriage to one of the spurned daughters of the Twins. After the marriage was solidified, Lord Tywin had laid out the plan of attacking the Northern host during the celebrations and massacring everyone that they could." Sansa sips her tea, still smiling pleasantly. She knows that it is a great strain on the mind of one on the receiving end, to hear terrible news from someone smiling so sweetly. Or at least, it had certainly terrified her whenever Joffrey did it.
"A bold claim, from someone who has spent the last two years in Kings Landing, and comes in here with a Lannister man at her back." Roose rebuts immediately.
"Certainly he was previously," Sansa bites back, cuttingly polite and standing taller in a vague attempt to protect Sandor from scrutiny. "And yet he managed to get me out, which nobody else achieved! These last three weeks on the road have been the longest I have gone without a beating since my father lost his head."
The room stills at that, and at her side, Robb vibrates with palpable rage.
"You were a political prisoner!" He snarls. The Greatjon makes to rise from his seat, fury on his face, but Sansa holds up a hand in his direction.
"I was," Sansa nods to Robb. "And so was Father. I just never let Joffrey know when I had information that could damage him or his reputation. I seemingly never stood up to him, or at least not in any way that he could recognise. But that is not what I wished to bring before the council." Her eyes swing back to Bolton. "My Lord. I have signed letters of correspondence bearing your hand and your plans. What have you to say?"
"You admitted to forgery."
"I admitted to forging the letters that I forwarded on," Sansa corrects immediately. "These are the originals, I would swear it before the Old Gods and the New."
"Do you have proof against Sansa's claims?" Arya demanded from her right elbow. "She's laid her proof before the council, what do you have to contradict it?"
"I have no need of contradicting lies," Bolton spat.
"I'm not lying," Sansa says calmly. "I have my proof, my evidence. And now, either you must disprove it, or else you must live with the doubt of every person in this room. It is quite simple, Lord Bolton. You stand accused of treason, and attempted regicide. How do you answer these charges?"
"You seem to have mistaken your place, girl," Bolton said frostily.
"Princess Sansa has taken on the position of Master of Whispers," Talisa answers immediately. "She has taken on this position after teaching herself your strange Northern magicks, and creating an information network that will, eventually, be on par with that of the Spider. Her network has turned up this information, my lord, and your lack of rebuttal is equally damning."
"I don't know how politics work in your country –" Bolton began, only for Arya to snap.
"You're awfully defensive," Arya said in the syrupy sweet tone of a little sister who smelt blood in the water. Nymeria stood to her full height behind her, jaws open and drooling. "Surely you have proof against my sister's claims?"
"I do not need proof against lies and forgeries!" Bolton finally snarled.
"No," Maege Mormont said shrewdly. "But the princesses have a point. Princess Sansa does not seem like the type to fake such claims, and is quite well-prepared to combat arguments – if you had any, of course."
"You believe this drivel?" Bolton demanded.
"Lady Mormont is correct, in that such a serious claim is not something my sisters would make in jest," Robb said firmly. "Sansa is also correct in that this is your handwriting, my Lord."
"What reason have I to turn against you?" Bolton demanded.
"Because you think it foolish, that Stark Kings made you stop your public flayings," Arya answered, one hand balanced on Needle's hilt. "Because you hate that you must be discreet when you practice the First Night, which is how you beget Ramsay. Because you wanted Harrenhal for yourself, only for Tywin to throw you back out again. Because after Stannis' defeat at the Blackwater, you didn't believe Robb had a chance against Tywin." Arya flashes a toothy grin that eerily matched Nymeria's. "My lord."
"You have no proof of any of that," Bolton snapped.
Arya smiled, and combed her hair back over her face, taking a handful of ash from a bag on her belt and smearing it quickly across her cheeks.
"Do you not recognise me, my lord? I was your cupbearer briefly," Arya uses the syrupy sweet tone again, "when I used the names Nan and Weasel. I did ask you to take me with you, when you left Harrenhal. Lord Glover can confirm that I was there, since I helped him escape the dungeons."
Whatever blood had been in Bolton's face drains away.
"Lord Bolton," Robb growls, hand resting atop of the hilt of his sword. "You stand accused of treason. You stand accused of attempted regicide. How do you answer these charges?" While he speaks and no one is paying attention to her, Sansa eases her bow back over her head, allowing it to instead be slung over her left shoulder, left hand now wrapped around the grip and the fletching of an arrow in a delicate hold in the right.
Bolton stands and spits on the table in front of Robb. Sansa whips her bow up and an arrow to the string, knocking and drawing in a heartbeat and letting her arrow fly. It takes Bolton's cloak and slams him backwards, arrow digging into a loose bit of mortar between the bricks. Sansa already has a second arrow on the string while half of the gathered Lords are still drawing their blades.
"Oh dear," Sansa says softly, looking down the shaft of her freshly drawn arrow. "I'm sorry about the brickwork, Uncle. I'll fix it before I leave for the Eyrie, I promise."
Pandemonium.
Catelyn has spent much of the day stalking up and down the walls of her room, trying desperately not to call attention to herself or her children. Robb had told her earlier that the girls would arrive today, and that they planned to make a grand entrance to today's council meeting! Oh, she wished that she could have been there to see it!
Talisa enters her chambers, smiling brilliantly and bedecked in a Northern style dress in dusky orange, Grey Wind beautifully picked out on the breast with a tiger shadowed in dark oranges and greys behind him. "My lady, it is good to see you again!" The Volantene woman cheers, looking absolutely delighted. "And may I say, your daughters are incredible!" And the woman laughs, as though Catelyn isn't nearly jittering from how desperately she wants to clutch her girls to her chest!
"Where are they?" She begs. There had been an uproar outside, she knows, down in the Godswood – she thought that she'd heard the thunk! of metal striking into wood, but she hadn't been sure – and she hadn't known what to make of it at all! Had Robb beheaded someone? Why?!
"They're finishing up in the Godswood, we volunteered to come and fetch you." Talisa answers promptly, and Catelyn notices that young Jorelle Mormont is hovering by the doorway, her older sister Lyra just behind her. "My lady, you should have seen them! They commandeered that meeting!"
"I'm not sure if my favourite part was when Princess Sansa accused the Leech Lord of treason, or when she shot him for spitting at His Grace," Jorelle added cheerfully. "Or perhaps when Princess Arya asked if it was safe for her wolves to feast on the corpse or if Bolton might poison the poor things!"
"Oh no, it was when the Greatjon had to listen to Sansa explain that she had won an army of Free Folk thousands strong and Giants because she threw some other Warg out of one of her birds!" Talisa cackled. "Oh! When Arya Underfoot said that she was taking the Kingslayer to the Wall as a training instructor for the Nights Watch!"
"Ooh, no," Lyra teased, "When Princess Arya tried to arrange a marriage pact with Arnolf Karstark's youngest granddaughter and Prince Rickon, but she looked like someone had shoved week-old fish under her nose the whole time!"
Catelyn is gobsmacked. While, yes, she can quite easily imagine Arya doing the things that they say she did and said, it is another thing to hear that Sansa accused someone of treason and shot them!
"They're alright?" She demands of them, clutching at Talisa's elbow.
"Yes, my lady, they are hale and hearty," her gooddaughter answers promptly. "I have been checking them over myself. Arya does have a split lip from retaking Raventree Hall, and Sansa has some old injuries from Kings Landing that are still healing, but both girls will be fine within the next moonturn or two."
It takes everything Catelyn possesses not to sag against either her gooddaughter or the wall, but somehow she manages. They walk quickly to the Godswood, Talisa and the Mormont girls going back and forth sharing their favourite parts of the council and seemingly trying to one-up each other with the sheer ridiculousness of what her daughters have supposedly done. By the time they reach the trees, Catelyn is half expecting to find women grown instead of two teenagers.
And, oh, they are a sight for sore eyes, and never have either of them looked more beautiful to Catelyn!
Arya leans half against a tree and half against a boy who looks strikingly like Renly Baratheon. She's dressed in Stark grey, an amalgamation of padded menswear and a dress (though the skirt is split up the side nearly to her waist), Sansa's familiar stitch work evident in the grey and yellow Direwolf picked out on the breast with the actual animal lolling beside Arya on the ground, surrounded by several other, smaller wolves. Sansa herself is dressed in a beautiful dark grey gown with a ghostly Lady picked out in silvers and whites, a mantle of raven feathers making her Tully-red locks pop.
There is a bow over Sansa's shoulders and a dagger at her waist opposite her quiver, and Arya sports two swords and a dagger, and Catelyn wants to care but she won't because her daughters are alive and here and before she can think to compose herself she is flinging herself across the Godswood and wrapping them both in her arms, heedless of their weaponry or the giant of a man who was standing at Sansa's back, drawing her daughters to her breast and sobbing.
They're alive. They're alive and here and she can touch them again, as she hasn't been able to in years!
Both girls exclaim, latching on to her with equal desperation.
Robb and Talisa chuckle in the background, and Jorelle asks the two men-at-arms to watch over the Starks while she goes to find her mother and other sisters to continue her own family reunion.
Catelyn couldn't say how long she and her girls clung to each other, Arya babbling away a mile a minute and Sansa sobbing and Catelyn kissing them both all over their heads and all three of them clinging. By the time Arya has finally drawn quiet and their tears had all mostly stopped, she just needed a moment to look at her girls, and see how they had grown.
"Did you really shoot someone?" Catelyn asked Sansa, staring. Sansa blushes bright from hairline to collarbone and Arya, Robb and Talisa cackle.
When they join the wolfcall that night, Bran is fidgeting so much that it's a wonder he hasn't thrown himself out of Summer on accident, he is so nervous! Sansa had flashed to them earlier in the day to let Bran know that she and Arya were about to join their first council meeting as Robb's Master of Whispers and Master of Law, and he had been on tenterhooks all day. He'd tried to explain how important it was to Rickon, but his little brother didn't really seem to care, instead throwing himself into spear lessons with Osha, mathematics with Meera, and history with Jojen.
Grey Wind and Nymeria appear at their sides, and from them comes Robb and Arya's voices, fairly singing with joy.
We did it, it worked! Arya cheered. Sansa's mad plan worked!
She planned all of that? Robb asked, impressed.
Oh, Gods no, we didn't think we'd even make it past Bolton's piece, Arya says, all bravado. But it's nice that we were wrong!
What happened, what happened?! Bran demands, back to nervous vibrations.
Lord Bolton has been accused of treason and attempted regicide by the Master of Whispers of the Northern sovereignty, Robb says with relish, and the Northern host has found him guilty. I took his head myself, and then we held the rest of our council in the Godswood.
The lords' faces every time Sansa had to contradict them! Arya hooted. All of those blasted birds paid off!
Your face when you tried to organise the marriage pact! Robb said back.
Did it work? Rickon asks at that, Will Karstark be happy with me and stop being angry at you?
It looks like it so far, Robb nods. I think he was shocked, honestly – Lady Sara is six, and is the youngest grandchild of Lord Arnolf, not Lord Rickard. She has three older sisters and an older brother, and a multitude of older cousins, many of whom are still unwed. A marriage to the son of the Lord Paramount would have never been in the cards for her, and certainly not a marriage to a Prince! I don't think he was impressed with the idea of the Moat for a castle, but that you would be at Winterfell until it is ready or until your majority, whichever comes first, appeased him somewhat. If you have sons though, Rickon, you had best name them Torrhen and Eddard and Rickard. He wasn't happy that Arya still planned to take the Kingslayer North and deny him his vengeance.
Bran's anxieties buzz again, so Arya takes pity upon him and shows them the meeting highlights: Sansa and Roose Bolton, herself and Lord Rickard, her own demands of Robb that he make it that the first born inherits rather than the first son, her declaration that she would still honour the marriage pact with Elmar Frey so long as she received Harrenhal for her troubles, Sansa's report on Jon and the King Beyond the Wall (Sansa's marriage proposal from a Warg, whom she turned down)(Sansa's and Arya's subsequent marriage proposals from Lord Blackwood on behalf of three of his sons, as a thank you for freeing his family and their castle), Arya's meeting with the Brotherhood without Banners and a missive from Lady Brienne regarding Northern deserters, rapists, and pillagers. Robb adds a memory there, shows them Arya's face with a splatter of dried blood at her temple and collar and himself making sure the Northern Lords new that she was taking her new position just as seriously as Sansa was hers.
On that note, Bran, Rickon, we might need you to go to Castle Black and make sure that the Nights Watch have been made aware of our dealings, Robb says. I haven't received any replies yet from the Lord Commander, and I do not want to be made a liar to the Free Folk. Bran, if you can call to Sansa, she will share her speech ideas with you. I think it best if we leave the politics to her, he adds wryly.
If we meet with Jon at Castle Black, then we all get to see each other before I go North and Rickon goes back to Winterfell, Bran says excitedly.
Oh, when you speak with him, show him this, Robb adds, sharing with them a memory of his pocket alphabet again. It's so much easier to communicate with Sansa this way, honestly. Bran, you should have one ready for when you go Beyond as well, just in case Sansa can't speak to you mind-to-mind, or if she needs to talk with whoever goes with you and you're busy.
Both of the Reeds are coming with me, Bran confirms. We spoke about it today, when they were trying to distract me from tonight. Hodor will come as well, so it's just Rickon and Osha going back to Winterfell.
My friend Hot Pie will eventually come to Winterfell, Arya says immediately. He'll stay with Rickon as well, until it's safe to come back to Harrenhal with me.
Bran allows confusion to bleed across the connection. Winterfell is for Robb and for Rickon until he's bigger, and then Moat Cailin is Rickon's. Harrenhal is Arya's, and Jon's probably going back to the Nights' Watch once this is done – but what about me and Sansa?
Aren't you going to Greywater Watch with Meera? Arya teased. Bran is so glad that they are not physically with each other, for he is sure that his embarrassed flush has his whole face as red as his hair.
Sansa has right of conquest to the Dreadfort, Robb says, amused. If she wants it. They say that Ramsay Snow married himself to Lady Hornwood and had her write him into her Will to receive Hornwood lands as well, but her original husband had a bastard too, so pending what young Lawrence Snow is like, I'll legitimise him and have him run Castle Hornwood. Lord Hornwood has a sister, but she has two sons and no daughters that we might marry to Snow to solidify his claim, so hopefully if we go back down the line far enough, we might find someone.
Boys, see if you can't get armour from Castle Black, or the Last Hearth, Arya muses. Bran, you especially. Gendry and I will have armour for Rickon when we return North, but you'll be gone before we get there.
It's not as if I can fight, Bran grumbles. I'm crippled.
So? Arya asks him. Practice your archery, as Sansa has, and shoot from Summer's back. He's got to be big enough for you to ride, if Sansa and I can ride Grey Wind and Nymeria.
I don't have control of my legs, I can't hold myself atop of him! Bran snapped at her, his heart hurting at the hope that had risen within him at the thought of being able to join his siblings in battle.
Do you remember the saddle Lord Tyrion had designed for you? Robb asked haltingly. If you could replicate that, maybe you could have something that would keep you atop of Summer in place of your legs.
Longing pulsed in Bran's chest, and he wanted that image, he and his siblings all abreast atop of their Direwolves and racing across the battlefield together; Robb and Grey Wind with Ice to hand, Jon on Ghost with the Valyrian steel sword Sansa had said he now possessed, Arya on Nymeria with Needle in one hand and the newly-named Stitch in the other, regular wolves running about her, Bran himself atop of Summer with his bow at full draw, Rickon on Shaggy with his spear, and Sansa ahorse behind them atop of a hill, her long hair a banner in the breeze and bow at the ready, ravens swooping behind her.
Oh, Robb whispered at the image. Want blazed clearly from his gathered siblings.
Show that to Sansa when you see her next, Arya adds. I can explain it, but she needs to see it!
Ask Jon to find her a direwolf Beyond the Wall, Robb joked softly.
She already has too many warg companions, Bran scolded, she doesn't need a 'wolf too, she'd go mad!
It's unfair that she's the only one without, Rickon whispered. It's not her fault Lady isn't –
It's Cersei Lannister's fault, Arya snarled immediately. And stupid Joffrey!
Sansa will take their heads! Rickon adds immediately. Won't she?
So long as I don't get to him first, Robb growls, and shares a memory of Talisa speaking on Sansa's injuries, still healing even after weeks on the road, of Sansa's admittance in council. But I think she said something about a wedding? She's going back to Kings Landing after the Eyrie, I think. Arya, her wolves, Lady Brienne and the Kingslayer, the Mountains, and Uncle's Edmure and Brynden will go to the Twins by the end of the week to try and make peace. If they are successful, then between Arya's forces and the Freys, we should be able to retake Winterfell within the next few months.
I'll ask the Reeds for directions through the Neck, Bran says immediately. If you can avoid patrols and sneak up on them, no one will be the wiser. The closer you get to Winterfell before you are spotted, the greater your chances at success.
Thank you, Arya sends, and Robb continues.
Sansa moves for the Eyrie the day after tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, she wasn't sure. She just wants it to be her, Clegane and her birds, but Lady Maege and I are trying to convince her to take one of the Mormont girls – Dacey has sworn herself to my guard for now and Jorelle to Talisa2, but either Alysane or Lyra are free.
I'm trying to convince her to take a few wolves with her, too, Arya grumbled. She insists that a smaller party could move faster, which is true! But it's also less safe, and she's had long enough of that.
Hopefully Mother will succeed where we cannot, Robb consoles. Once Arya moves North, I'm taking my forces ranging into the Westerlands again. We move on the Rock, eventually, as that's bound to grab Tywin's attentions.
You'll have to be quick, Arya advises. Sansa says that Joffrey's to marry some Tyrell girl. Highgarden's army is large and fresh.
I'm aware, thank you, Robb says dryly.
What should I do, then? Rickon asks. We go to Last Hearth for armour, then Castle Black for Jon, and then Jon and the Free Folk will go south to rescue Winterfell – do I go with Jon?
It would be safer if you stay at the Last Hearth, Arya says immediately. Little Ned Umber is about your age, you would have someone to train with.
Or, you could stay in the Gift with the Wild – sorry, the Free Folk's non-combatants, adds Robb. See if you can't learn a trade with them, while you're there? Sansa says Jon's wife – and can you believe that – has promised her a bow, you could learn to make weapons too.
But I want to fight! Rickon says.
I thought the reason you were so hellbent on a marriage pack was so that you could do something because we weren't letting you fight, Bran growls at him. Rickon snaps and snarls, but can't exactly argue against his own logic.
(well. he's six. he certainly can, could, and has in the past. he doesn't draw attention to it now, though.)
On the subject of Jon's wife, Arya says, excitement and mischief popping off of her impression like sparks from a fire. Did Sansa tell you how she found out about their marriage?
No, how? Robb asked, tone implying her wasn't sure he was going to like the answer.
Sansa caught them bathing together!
Robb sighs and runs a hand over his face, while Bran and Rickon gag and make disgusted noises. Anyway. That's our plans as of whenever we went to bed. Do you two have anything else you'd like to say, or anything you want us to pass on, before we leave?
Someone's in a hurry to get to bed, Arya teases.
Someone has a very beautiful wife that they have been without for the last week, Robb corrects cheekily. Some of us aren't so much going to sleep as going to bed, thank you, little sister. And before all of that, I have more catching up to do; you never asked her whatever-it-was that the other healers were worried about, and it turns out it was a supply problem? So Sansa's got to show her ravens whatever particular herb it is and see if they can't find it growing wild, and Talisa is going to the loom houses in search of more bandages and… something, I don't know anymore.
Bran, Rickon and Arya all make appropriately disgusted noises at Robb's ready admission to wanting to bed Talisa, and then all roar with laughter at his lack of medical understanding. They leave the wolfcall happy, and buoyed up on their current success.
" – so if we go past Crastor's Keep, we can see what information they have on the Lord Commander's whereabouts, and see if we can't rescue his wives and daughters." Jon concludes. "The overall goal is to prevent as many people from joining the Nights King's army as possible."
Mance hums, looking over the map Jon had had in his pocket and pulled out for the meeting.
"Hmm. Well, if that's happening, we may as well send envoys to those few Clans who have not joined with us yet."
"Are there many?" Jon asks, worried.
"A few bands, but not many, no. Most of us have recognised the threat posed by the Army of the Dead and reacted accordingly. It's just stubborn old shits like Crastor that are left."
Jon nods, and then there is a caw and Ding flits to his shoulder.
"Are you well?" Jon asks her, running a careful finger down her back. She croaks fondly at him and nods, and he asks his follow up question, "Are you with Robb?"
AAAAaayyye!
Whipping his head around to look at her, he demanded, "Really?! Are you both with him?" She nodded again, puffing up proudly.
Ygritte, from Jon's other shoulder, asked excitedly, "Did you shoot anyone?"
Jon turns to scold her, but Sansa gives a bird laugh and croaks, AAAAaaaye!
"You did?!" Jon demands. When her feathers fluff up in agitation, he immediately holds his hands up and says, "I am not doubting your abilities, sister, I am just – it's outside of your character?"
Sansa quirks Ding's head from side to side acknowledging. TTTeeeRRRRAAAAIItttoooorr.
"There was a traitor?! Northerners are loyal, who was it?!"
Ding flips Jon's map about until it unfolded a little bit more, showing the northern most of the Northern Castles. Right on the edge of the map is Winterfell, but she doesn't go that far – she stops and pecks at the Dreadfort.
"Oh," Jon whispers. He knew the old stories as well as his siblings – Old Nan had loved to tell the scary stories, and Robb and Jon had always loved tales from the Age of Heroes.
"Who was it?" Ygritte demands.
"House Bolton," Mance answers shrewdly, having watched the byplay. "There's bad blood between your houses, isn't there? What will happen to the castle, without anyone of that House left?"
Sansa puffs up proudly again, and flutters Ding's wings a little bit.
"Oh, right of conquest? Well done, Sansa!" Jon tells her proudly, turning to Mance to say, "It goes to Sansa."
Sansa turns and bows to the King, and it takes a moment but then Jon understands. "Free Folk will be welcome in my sister's halls, Your Grace." Sansa nods at him, looking over Ding's shoulder. "Arya must be in a fit, that you have a castle and she doesn't!"
Sansa gives a bird laugh, then tries to croak out aaaarrEEEEENNNNN'aaaaallllllll again.
"Arya has Harrenhal?! How did that happen?!" Sansa huffs at him, and he gives her an awkward apology. "I'll ask her when I see her next then."
Sansa turns to the map, taps it twice and then looks up at Jon. "We're discussing logistics. Most of the Free Folk ride with Mance, but there are some who don't. We need to get them all on the other side of the Wall, before the Others take them. Any ideas?"
Sansa stares at the map, then picks up a quill and drops it a few times.
"… Writing?" Jon tries eventually. Sansa nods. "Mance, is there a common written language amongst your peoples?"
"Some of the Mountains use a runic system, but only the oldies really know it any more. You want to send notes for us, Sansa Stark?" another nod. "Well, it's a nice thought. Honestly though, you try and send a warg after those sticklers you're just as likely to lose the bird."
Sansa ruffles and unruffes Ding's feathers, and hops around the map with a gimlet eye glued to the ratty paper.
"If you come up with a solution, Princess, let us know," Mance says dryly, reaching for the map. "Otherwise, scoot. Ygritte, Snow, go find Tormund and have him gather the Northern half of the group and start making your way to Crastor's, I'll take the Southern group and meet you there in a few days. Snow, I'm keeping your map." And before Jon could say anything to the contrary, Mance was gone.
Ygritte snickers at him, but takes his hand and leads him from the tent in search of the other loud ginger. Sansa gives a bird laugh and flits to his shoulder again, and starts to comb at his curls.
"So, what's this right of conquest thing?" Ygritte asks as they walk, swinging his arm a little. It's adorable, and he has to fight the blush that wants to break out on his cheeks.
"Lord Bolton's trueborn son Domeric died shortly before I went to the Wall, and I've heard nothing good about his bastard," Jon begins. "If Sansa was the one to find that he was planning treason, and Robb followed through and had him executed – Lord Bolton had no sisters, and I don't think he had any aunts or great-aunts or anything like that, no extended family, which means that as the person responsible for his death, the properties now fall to Sansa."
Sansa chirps and ruffles her feathers proudly.
Ygritte hums, and asks, "Where will we go, once we pass through the Wall?"
"The Gift?" Jon asks Sansa, and at her nod says, "Those who won't be fighting will stay in the Gifts, and those who will be will move on Winterfell and take it back. If Arya has Harrenhall and is welcoming the Giants, then I suppose that those who wish to travel may, between Robb's two kingdoms."
"And after the fighting?"
"Preparing for the Long Night and Winter, I'd imagine, and then settling and riding out the storm. After a such a long Summer, Winter is likely to be long and difficult."
"And where will we go?" She stresses, stopping and tightening her grip on his hand. Sansa shuffles down his shoulder so that she is pressed against his ear.
"I don't hold you," Jon says softly, "You've made that clear enough. Wherever you wish to go, you can – Sansa will welcome you at the Dreadfort if you do not wish to stay in the Gifts, Arya would surely have you at Harrenhal if you wanted to see the Riverlands, and my brothers would have you at Winterfell or wherever they end up – if the girls' both have castles, I'd bet Bran won't be far behind."
"And where will you be?" Ygritte asks him, just as soft.
"If I'm not executed as a traitor to the Watch?" Jon sighs. "Who knows."
"But you're loyal!" Ygritte hisses, tugging him by the front of his furs so that they are nose-to-nose. "You started here as a spy, and now you're diplodocussing for your King brother!"
"Diplo – do you mean, being a diplomat?"
"I don't care what words you call it, Jon Snow!" Ygritte snaps. "I care that you live! All men must die, it's true, but before you die you have to live!"
"And I'd like to, but if one of the Black Brothers sees me dressed like this, it won't matter!"
Sansa makes a mournful noise on his shoulder, and he raises a hand to running comfortingly down her back, closing his eyes and looking away from the furious ginger in front of him.
"We can hide you, amongst some of the Dogsled Clans," Ygritte says finally. "They have fur caps, big hoods and high collars that hide everything, no one will recognise you!"
"We need me at the front to confirm Robb's extended invitation to house refugees from Beyond the Wall," Jon says lowly, tone formal. "Ygritte, we need to get these people over the Wall, and if that costs one man's head, it's worth it."
Sansa makes wounded noises in his ear, and Ygritte stares at him, eyes hard and wet.
"Sansa Stark," she snarls finally. "You had better find some way to make this idiot live past the Wall!" And with that, she turns on her heels and stalks away, shouting for Tormund as she goes.
Sansa makes another sad sound, and he whispers, "I know. I just don't know how to fix it, yet." He tries to quirk a smile at her, and asks, "Any ideas?"
In the last chapter I think I may have written that Sara Karstark (OC) was Rickard Karstark's granddaughter, when actually she's his grandniece, one of many unnamed characters that I'm taking advantage of (thank you, A Wiki of Ice and Fire!).
In Chapter Three, I had Arya sulking with Needle, which she didn't get back until the following chapter, and I'm not going to redo the chapter to fix it. So if you read that and were confused why Needle was there, sorry! I'm human