Author's Note: Got some pretty long notes both up here and downstairs folks if you'll bear with me. Two things first, one, this chapter kicked my ass. Editing can suck a poop from a butt. Two, I would like to thank helrio uzugaku for bringing to my attention to a few instances where I intended for west to be written instead of east which led to some confusion last chapter.

Starting with this chapter, we are being posted on both and AO3. If any of you see a version of this fic on any site or service and my username is not associated with it, please let me know. Plagiarism for whatever reason seems to have picked up in recent months and I would rather not be a victim.

So last time I said that this Westerosi arc would be two or three chapters. That number is a confirmed three. Posting schedule is as follows: following when this chapter goes live, an update will occur every week until the entire arc is completed. With any luck, by then the following arc should be nearing completion or done entirely. I would not count on that though. My uploading history is sporadic at best, but I can dream. In any event, I think that is how the rest of uploads are going to be. I will finish the arc and then post weekly until done.

I haven't addressed it yet, but the violence, sexual acts (consensual or otherwise), and other various acts of depravity are on par with the novels. ASoIaF is not for the faint of heart, so if that turns you away, my question is why you are here in the first place.

Anyway, we have some special appearances from the Narutoverse in this arc, so it is not strictly speaking pure ASoIaF. Lastly, I watched the Lord of the Rings again recently (extended versions obviously). That fact wouldn't be relevant if a certain funny thought had not come to my head as I was watching the credits for Return of the King run by. That funny thought has since been included. In any event, on with the chapter!

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Chapter 6: The Trials of Sansa Stark

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Sansa didn't like Last Hearth. She was a child of the North, but even she felt it was just too cold here. When she brought this up to her father, he said that this was the northern most castle in the whole of the North not controlled by the Night's Watch. He concluded with saying eventually she would adapt.

"It was hard for me too sweet daughter."

"It was?"

"Indeed. Remember, I spent much of my youth in the Eyrie. Winter there was cold in the mountains, but it was nothing like home. After so much time away, returning to Winterfell was startling. Can you imagine it Sansa? "The Lord of Winterfell cold in his own home." Imagine what the banner men would say if that knowledge got out. I was raised in the south, so I needed to earn the respect of House Stark's vassals."

"Then how did you adapt father?"

"It is fairly simple. I just ignored it. It was hard in the beginning. I had chicken skin for a moon, but after enough effort, I did not feel the cold. It is a waiting game."

"I do not enjoy waiting."

"You and me both sweetling. Just between you and me, you are the best at it. Take heart daughter, you have the blood of the Kings of Winter in your veins. The discomfort will pass in time."

Sansa giggled quietly and buried her face in her father's fur cloak with a hug. Ned returned her affection.

The two Starks were guests at Last Hearth because of reports of wildling raiders in Umber lands. Ned believed that this would be a good experience for his eldest daughter so she could learn from Lord Umber's wife about the realities of conflict from the safety of the castle and a lady's duties during it. Catelyn took some convincing, but eventually agreed.

Wildlings were getting past the Wall in record numbers over the last few years. Typically, they were in groups of no more than twenty. One group would climb the Wall and cause a ruckus for the Watch drawing any black brothers they could to their location. This allowed the rest to get over where the Watch recently vacated in large numbers of these small groups.

This latest breach was different. Over three hundred in one group climbed over the wall and was wreaking havoc in Umber lands. That many raiders were not enough to truly threaten a castle, but it was more than enough to pillage and rape what little the small folk had this far north.

The Greatjon had mustered some of his levies to hunt down the raiders, but it wasn't enough for total supremacy in a battle. Eddard had brought an additional five hundred men with him to tip the scales in their favor.

Umber scouts reported to Lords Umber and Stark the wildlings were camped with their spoils on the east bank of the Last River ten miles into the Wolfswood.

Both men had left three days ago to make battle leaving Sansa and Lady Ahna Umber with the second Umber son, Baen in charge of the castle. The experience was illuminating for the young Stark. This was her first experience with conflict, and its intricacies were vastly simplified in the songs and stories.

"I would like for us to go over the new projections for this upcoming harvest," Lady Umber said.

"How do you mean my lady?" asked Sansa.

"The levies have been marshaled and much of our northern most farm land has been pillaged. I would like to hear how you think this will impact the harvest," Lady Umber clarified.

"Do you want numbers?" Sansa asked nervously. She wasn't good with numbers and didn't want anyone to know.

"No, just a basic idea. We can get into the details later this evening."

Sansa scrunched her face in thought. The ideas came to her quickly, but she couldn't help but wonder if there was some implied question that had evaded her notice. She didn't want to keep Lady Ahna waiting however, so she started presenting her ideas.

"Well, with the raids, the harvest will be smaller. Those farms were far north so there were fewer crops and the impact will not be as severe as if they were southern farms. The levies being raised means that those who are still working on the farms have much more to do. The work will be of a lower quality which will reduce the number of crops able to be harvested."

Lady Ahna nodded, "Acceptable."

Sansa felt a small weight lift from her shoulders. Lady Ahna continued.

"You are correct, but there is more I will add. With crops from the harvest being scarcer, the price jumps up. Small folk with less money means that they cannot afford to upgrade their tools, buy new farm animals, care for injuries and so on. This begins to perpetuate an economic cycle where the harvests get worse and worse for a few years until it all returns to normal."

"That is terrible!" Sansa exclaimed clutching her dress.

"It is reality sadly. Fortunately for us, this is a small conflict. The Umber coffers will be used to compensate the smallfolk for the lost harvest. Larger wars do not have that luxury. War is glorified in tales and songs by wealthy lords seeking little more than personal glory. War is the opposite of chivalry. It is the poor and the weak who suffer the most. Men like your father understand this and the small folk love him for it. Unfortunately, he is among the minority in the seven kingdoms for not only knowing this truth, but speaking it."

"But, but, chivalry… it emerged in the south, it cannot be all like that. Surely there are more good lords and knights than you claim!" Sansa protested, "Am I not right?"

"I fear child that you will find it is a, well I suppose cultural is the correct word. A cultural divide which is responsible for such common behaviors down south. Here in the North, winter is coming. Those are the Stark words, and they are not there for show. Winter forces every last man, woman, and child into the same position. The cold takes us all. Most northern houses know this, but I think Lord Bolton could use a reminder," Lady Ahna took a sip of her drink, "If the small folk suffer disproportionately compared to the nobility, that could very easily turn into a low born rebellion; a rebellion I add that the nobility could lose. A weak North in that situation would be exceptionally vulnerable to Ironborn raiders and ambitious southern lords."

Sansa remained quiet.

"You are familiar with Queen Alysanne's laws and King Aegon V's reforms regarding the smallfolk I assume? Although many of those reforms have been rescinded by then Hand of the King Tywin Lannister, the Queen and the King are both still regarded by the smallfolk fondly for them. First night? Abolished, no matter how much Lord Bolton insists it is performed in the shadows. Innocence until guilt is proven? Instituted, then abolished. Reasonable limits on taxation? Instituted, then abolished. Limitations on unnecessarily cruel and unusual punishments? Instituted, then abolished. Many of Aegon's reforms may no longer be law, but Lord Rickard made it clear that they would remain honored."

"He did?"

"He did. Lord Rickard knew the risks of angering his banner men, but as I am told, he was very persuasive. Your father honored his father by continuing the tradition, and with luck so will your brother," Lady Ahna finished her small lecture.

Sansa sniffled, her mind stuck on the idea that someone would remove laws meant to help others, "Kings, nobles, knights even; how can so many people be so cruel?"

"If there is anything you take away from this Lady Sansa, it is that the world needs happy ditch diggers. When the people at the bottom rung of the ladder are happy, everyone else is happier. Fear and hatred infiltrates societies completely. Happiness does so even better. To be good, evil, or anything in between is to be human. What we do with the gift of life is what determines who we are. "

Sansa said nothing, her mood clearly down after Lady Ahna's lesson had rambled on to things she was not wholly comfortable with. The Greatjon's wife knew that the young Stark would not look at her precious stories and songs the same way again. She decided that the child needed some positivity to round out the day.

"My husband for example, he has recently acquired a taste for Arbor Gold. He is using the gift of life to get deep into his cups. Hardly noble behavior, but at least he is a happy drunk. He will claim that his clothes restrain his natural artistic abilities. In spite of everything, I do truly enjoy when he starts singing. You wouldn't think it, but his voice is… beautiful."

Lady Ahna looked at Sansa's face wrinkle in confusion. Doubtless Lord Stark's daughter was trying to imagine the singing of a drunk and possibly nude Greatjon. Sansa's face morphed into one of childlike glee and she started giggling. Ahna joined her in the laughter. Nothing ever quite compared to Greatjon Umber making a total ass out of himself.

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"What did you see Dan?" Greatjon Umber asked of his third son.

"The wildlings are mostly asleep, but they do have a few keeping watch. They have "liberated" a great many casks of ale and wine that they have been guzzling down for the last few days. I can't tell if they're just cocky little shits used to paranoid black brothers or if this is a trap. I couldn't stick around. One of them came uncomfortably close to finding me," the shortest Umber reported.

Dan Umber was a quiet man which already made him quite different from his brothers. Like his brothers, he sought to protect Last Hearth with all that he could muster. Where they would charge fiercely into battle, Dan would rather scout out his enemies, and then hunt them down one by one. That is not to say that he could do nothing in a stand up fight, but as the smallest of Greatjon Umber's children, he was generally outclassed and instead opted to support his brothers in areas where they lacked knowledge. All of this meant that Dan was one of the best scouts, hunters, and trackers in Umber lands.

"What is the river like where they are camped? How wide and deep?" Lord Stark asked.

"I'd wager about ninety feet across and sixteen or so deep. This section of river runs rather fast though, so it doesn't really matter though Lord Stark. Anyone who tries to cross will be swept away."

"Is there a crossing further up or down river?"

"There is a small village called Fish Oil that has a bridge. It's near a small lake where the yearly salmon migration ends. Got a lovely tavern that has the best fried fish this side of the Wall," Dan said nostalgic.

"Focus lad," the Greatjon said giving Dan a light tap on the head.

Smalljon gazed east wistfully. He too loved Fish Oil Tavern's offerings. A small line of drool escaped his slightly agape mouth.

Ned's thoughts drifted to dinner as well, but he shook his head and ridded himself of those thoughts. A battle plan came to him.

"Lord Umber, if we rallied most of our archers to the other side of the river, we could loose several volleys of arrows and force the wildlings into a trap."

"Have the rest of our boys hiding in the forest ready to ambush the fuckers?"

"Yes."

"Let's do it!"

It was a simple plan, and in its simplicity was its beauty. Had the wildlings been a proper army, they would not have put themselves in such a vulnerable position. Unless they had a sleeping giant among them, there wasn't much that could go wrong.

The two hundred archers and their escorting spearmen led by Dan Umber crossed Fish Oil Bridge at around midnight and made it to their position about two hours later. The thirteen hundred remaining men slowly made their way closer to the wildling encampment taking care to remain as quiet as possible. Their final position was a semi-circular formation that fully encircled the wildlings with the edges of the formation meeting the river on both ends roughly a half mile away from the camp.

"Our archers are in position Lord Stark, Lord Umber," a runner reported to the leaders of the army.

"Then let us commit to action," Ned said, "Return to Lord Dan, tell him to engage."

"Yes milord!"

As the runner returned to Dan, the final elements of the northern army made their way to their positions.

From then on, it was a waiting game. All that they needed to do was listen for the screams before tightening the noose.

This area of the Wolfswood was rather bereft of wolves. The calls of owls and loons in the distance of the night kept the men on edge. Under normal circumstances, a standard army of levies would be making an alarming amount of noise as they waited, but the northmen's hatred of the wildlings meant they were motivated. The stillness of the night was made wholly unnatural by their presence. A logical wildling could identify that something was amiss. On this night, there would be few logical wildlings.

A lone scream echoed in the forest. The man was joined by another and another after him. In seconds, the forest south of the northern army was filled with the sounds of terrified raiders and dying wildlings. The screams died down somewhat in favor of shouts and the aggressive noises of people running and tripping through the forest in the dark. Closer and closer the noises came. Cries of pain and grunts of exertion began to crescendo in glorious fashion as the wildlings continued to flee into the gaping maw of the direwolf and the tensed arms of the giant.

"Engage!" shouted Lord Stark.

The army burst into motion and clashed with the panicked wildlings.

It was a slaughter; there was no way around that fact. The few weapons held by the fleeing wildlings were met with northern axes, swords, and spears in the hands of vengeful Umber and Stark levies.

Ned swung Ice in an overhead strike embedding the Valyrian Steel sword in the clavicle of a startled spearwife. Ripping the sword from the corpse, he effortlessly deflected the thrust of a stone spear and stabbed the man who held it after a few forward steps.

Greatjon and Smalljon were a flurry of swords. The giant men carved their way through a group of wildlings that had found their senses and were making a real mess of things in the already chaotic melee. Arms and heads flew through the air. Blood spouted like geysers from the bodies they vacated landing with muffled thuds on the forest floor.

Resistance among the wildlings failed entirely. They were outnumbered over six to one after the surprise attack by the archers, and the sheer weight of northern numbers continued to hit the survivors hard.

In twenty minutes, it was done. The two hundred raiders who lived through the hail of arrows lay dead or dying among the fallen leaves and needles on the forest floor. Green that once was visible in the light of the moon was now red and black. Total victory.

It was not without its costs. Over fifty men of the north would not return home that night. Many more had been injured, and of those infections would ravage them if they did not receive care from the healers soon. Still, the atmosphere was filled with joy as the men celebrated.

It was time to return to Last Hearth.

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"Victory cannot be achieved without sacrifice," Lord Stark announced in the Great Hearth of Last Hearth, "And we men of the North have achieved victory."

The hall was silent as a crypt. Hands were clasped together behind the denizen's backs as they bowed their heads in respect and silent mourning.

"Tonight, we honor those seventy three men who passed the torch onto those of us who remain."

Silent tears emerged in the eyes of those who lost family and friends. Still, nobody said a word.

"On behalf of House Stark, and of House Umber, they have ennobled all of us and they shall not be forgotten."

Movement was heard as Greatjon picked up a goblet and raised it to the heavens.

"Hail the victorious dead!" the lord of Last Hearth bellowed.

Cups and goblets met the Greatjon's in the warm air.

"Hail!"

Short, sweet, and to the point. There were no flowery words or long drawn speeches after this northern victory. The dead were honored and mourned. Now it was time to celebrate the living.

Sansa sipped daintily at her watered down wine. It was a special occasion which meant Lord Stark allowed his daughter an equally special treat.

Cheers echoed through the hall as the men hollered and boasted of their achievements, many of whom hoped to seduce a willing maiden with their greatly exaggerated drunken tales.

Food was brought out on heaping platters piled high to replace those that rapidly emptied as hungry soldiers gorged themselves rather akin to a school of piranhas.

Among the delicacies, a few foods stood out to Sansa: buttered and fried venison; roasted salmon seasoned with salt, garlic, and pepper and served with slices of lemon; purple snozzberry jam filled sweet rolls; hard-boiled eggs sliced in half with their yolks removed and mixed with gournay cheese, a dish the cooks called "deviled eggs"; and most notable, Sansa's ever favored lemon cakes drizzled with honey. Gods she felt fat. At least it was a happy fat.

When Sansa had her fill, she leaned back in her chair and listened to the bards as they waxed their poetics to those few who deigned to listen. They were playing all of the classics: The Bear and the Maiden Fair; The Winter Maid; The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, The King Took Off His Crown; and The Dornishman's Wife.

Sansa loved songs and singing in general, but after hearing all the same songs all the time, she desired something a bit different. When the bards were finished with their latest performance, she expressed such a desire to them.

The song they chose was Into the West. It was a beautiful melody that had originated in the hills of Andalos in Essos. The bittersweet song allegedly spoke of the laments of those Andals who stayed behind during the Andal Migration, but ultimately was full of hope as they prayed for their people to reach better lands. Some maesters claim that it was inspired by those who died too young to live life to the fullest. Most people believe that it was a combination of the two theories. Nevertheless, the tune was popular enough to be accepted by all Westerosi cultures, but it was almost never the first song most bards decided to perform.

The song finished its first performance. As the bards prepared to repeat it, Sansa unconsciously began to sing.

Lay down
Your sweet and weary head
Night is falling
You have come to journeys end

Sansa had not expected Lady Ahna's story about her husband to be true. But it was. Oh gods was it true. For whatever reason, the near seven foot tall Lord of Last Hearth interjected his voice into Sansa's unconscious solo rather loudly.

Sleep now and dream
Of the ones who came before
They are calling
From across the distant shore

Sansa pushed back her chair and stood up. The hall's attention was on the Greatjon as he flawlessly belted out the words. She briefly pondered if he was mocking her, but that was likely a question she wouldn't get an answer to. Instead she inserted herself before he reached the third verse stealing the attention of the hall.

Why do you weep?
What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see
All of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms
You're only sleeping

The Greatjon's face was red. If that was the result of his Arbor Gold or embarrassment, nobody knew. What they did know was that he viewed Sansa as a challenge. The man responded by casting off his cloak and ridding himself of his breaches and shirt leaving only his small clothes protecting the hall from the peak of masculine glory that was the Lord of Last Hearth.

What can you see on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea a pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home

Sansa admitted to herself that Lord Umber's falsetto was beautiful. She also admitted that he was a handsome man. But she refused to be beaten in a competition of voices by the man. She poured everything she could into the next verse.

And all will turn to silver glass
A light on the water
All souls pass

Ned looked between his daughter and nearly nude Lord Umber. The hall was silent save for the unlikely duo dueling it out by trading verses of the song. The Lord of Winterfell slowly palmed his face with a resigned smile hidden on his face as he shook his head. For the headache he knew he would get from Cat when she heard of this, he was far too amused to actually stop the two singers.

Hope fades
Into the world of night
Through shadows falling
Out of memory and time

Sansa was really feeling the competition now. Perhaps something a bit more physical was in order? Slowly, she began a solo dance on the floor while her eyes never left the Greatjon. His face somehow flushed even more. The man's face broke into a smile as he countered.

Don't say
We have come now to the end
White shores are calling
You and I will meet again
And you'll be here in my arms
Just sleeping

Do not laugh, Sansa thought to herself as she watched the Greatjon spun and twirled on the table in a frenzied yet controlled set of movements. His movements were strangely mesmerizing as he flicked off his boots in smooth motions. The footwear landed on empty platters on one of the serving tables kicking up discarded bones and splashing crumbs everywhere. Jory Cassel who was waiting for more venison looked annoyed as he brushed off crumbs from his leather jerkin.

What can you see on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea a pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home

They didn't know it, but Sansa and the Greatjon's thoughts were exactly the same as the song came to its conclusion. I. Will. Not. Lose! Sansa ignored the improvised rules of the competition and joined Lord Umber in the final verse.

And all will turn to silver glass
A light on the water
Grey ships pass into the west

The competing singers ended with a flurry of motion. Greatjon Umber flourished drunkenly on the table while Sansa curtsied on the floor. The hall exploded into cheers and clapping. Both singers suddenly became very self-aware of what had just happened. Where Lord Umber relished in the attention be it genuine or mocking, Sansa suddenly flushed hard and eeped as she returned to her seat in the most dignified manner that she could. Before she made it, her father brought her into a warm and long hug. The night suddenly became a lot less embarrassing, and Sansa was happy.

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It was later that night Sansa experienced what she would later describe as a significant emotional event.

The victory feast had calmed down considerably after the impromptu duet, and not long after, Sansa went to her chambers to sleep. They were warm enough. A small hearth with an equally small fire sat in the northern corner of the cozy room.

The night could have been quiet, but some celebration continued into the night. The full moon was high in the night sky, and it cast a brilliant glow on the fur covered wood floor of the chamber. Small flames and smoldering embers colored a soft orange clashed with the white light.

The young Stark was in that strange half-awake state one entered as they were about to fall asleep. Her eyelids were as heavy as the covers that draped across her delicate frame. An odd scraping noise was barely perceptible over the last lingering moments of revelry which emanated from the Great Hearth of Last Hearth's main keep. The girl paid it no mind in her lethargic state.

Minutes passed as the scraping grew louder. Sansa's eyes creaked open unenthusiastically. As she shook herself awake due to the unwelcome noise, a grunt of exertion creeped softly into the window. Wait a moment, the window was not supposed to be open.

A filthy gnarled hand could be seen grasping at the window frame illuminated by the white of the moon and the orange of the embers.

Sansa was jolted awake violently at the sight. Terror clutched her very being with a ruinous pressure. She could scarcely breathe. Cold sweat began to drench her. Violent shivers took over her body. Not a sound emerged from her mouth even as she watched the hand slowly slide the window up and out of the way. Distant yelps of surprise and alarm from Stark and Umber guards could be heard outside. The figure was very clearly not alone breaching Last Hearth.

A bare blood encrusted leg swung in with an alarming grace. The figure was wearing a crudely cut fur cloak, clearly stolen leather boots, and nothing else. The wildling woman could have been pretty had she not been smiling like the mad king Aerys, wild brown eyes sparkling with malice, and clutching a crude iron dirk. The open gnarled hand slowly closed the window, her eyes never leaving Sansa's.

"What 'ave we 'ere? Kissed by fire you are. A lil' Starkling perhaps?" the wildling whispered.

Sansa could do nothing. Her fear completely shut down whatever response would have normally emerged.

Quiet steps heralded the woman as she approached the bed. She removed the cloak leaving only blood encrusted skin visible. She knelt on the bed and her mouth came to Sansa's ear.

"You're a young one. I like them young. Such soft skin."

Sansa soiled herself. An almost imperceptible whimper escaped her lips.

"Afraid of lil' old me are you lil' babe? Don't be. You're jus' so small. Oh so small."

Sansa closed her eyes. Tears began to stream down her face. This had to be a dream. A terrible, terrible dream.

"Even weepin' like a babe. Makes me wanna be a mother again. My babe were always cryin'. An' one day, I held him so tight. My babe accepted my love an' he never wept again," the wildling was silent for a moment before growling, "He shoulda' been a girl."

Sansa's eyes screwed even tighter than she thought possible. By the gods, she slew her own babe. This couldn't be happening. This vile creature was going to kill her. She would die if she couldn't muster the courage to make a sound. Hot moist flesh made unwelcome contact with her eyes, lapping up tears at the source and along her cheeks.

"No," Sansa whimpered.

The tongue left her face. A cold hand grasped harshly at Sansa's night clothes and pulled her to blood covered teats. A hard presence made itself known as it pressed sharply into her cheek.

"Don't fear yer mother little one," the woman whispered harshly, "You won't like it. I may go afta' your father whose name is Stark. Kneeler's blood just tastes like the nectar o' the gods."

Sansa opened her eyes against every instinct in her body. She regretted it immediately as she made eye contact with the wildling. Her eyes were filled with madness and something else. She recognized the look from guards and servants in Winterfell who sought the company of the Wintertown whores. It was lust. Sansa clutched at the bedsheets in absolute terror. Not for herself, but for her father.

"Just so small. That won't do. You need mother's milk. Then you can be big!"

The teat was forced into Sansa's mouth with a foul iron taste as the dirk was brought to the young Stark's neck.

"Latch," the wildling ordered.

Sansa learned something then. It was one thing to threaten to kill her, but threatening her pack was something that could not be tolerated. Fangs of the direwolf bit through the nub on the wildling's teat and the taste of iron exploded in her mouth.

"Argh!" the woman screeched as she lurched back and impacted the floor violently spilling the contents of the chamber pot and having dropped the dirk.

Sansa spat out the filth in her mouth and finally bolted from the bed. The door to the chamber opened as a guard, Bruce, walked in.

"Milady, are you alright?"

Sansa pointed wordlessly to the bleeding wildling on the floor clutching her breast. The young Stark rushed past the guard and made her way into the passage before looking back.

"Intruders! For the Starks!" Bruce hollered. The Stark guard drew his short sword and charged at the wildling.

The woman launched herself forward to grab the dirk. Her arm was separated from her body with an overhead slash from the guard. She screamed something fierce, but was cut short as the short sword plunged into her belly three separate times.

The corpse oozed blood and entrails onto the floor as Sansa watched stunned. Guards poured into the corridor and several took her to the waiting arms of Lord Stark. As guards received orders from the sober Lord Baen Umber to secure the castle and to search the immediate area for wildling survivors hoping to exact vengeance, then, and only then did Sansa explode.

The father said nothing as the daughter heaved and wailed long into the night.

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Petyr Baelish gazed into the blue eyes of Lysa Arryn as they separated from a brief embrace. It was a small corridor in the Red Keep where they stood alone. Today was the day. Soon, the idiotic Hand of the King would be gone from their lives. Lysa would soon gain the ability to wed her lover in the open, and Petyr would be able manipulate the chaos of Jon Arryn's death for his own benefit.

"Do you have it Petyr?"

"I do."

"Quickly then, we do not have much time."

The Master of Coin passed a small brown glass vial into Lysa's waiting hand. Tears of Lys were contained within. Slipping the vial into her dress, Lysa patted herself down quickly and strode off to attend supper with her husband and Petyr as a guest.

The guards let the pair in the dining hall of the Tower of the Hand.

"Good evening my Lord," Lysa curtsied.

"Lord Hand," Petyr drawled.

"Welcome my lady wife, Lord Baelish. Come and take a seat," Jon Arryn beckoned.

The spread was fairly simple: platters adorned with fruits of the Reach; boiled eggs; fried bacon; wheels of Vale cheeses including Gulltown Goat Gouda, Petyr's favorite; a buttered turkey; and an herbed pumpkin dish that Petyr could not immediately identify.

Lysa took up residence on Lord Arryn's right while Petyr flanked to the left. Petyr was to engage the Hand of the King in conversation so Lysa could slip the poison into his wine.

Petyr was regaling Lord Arryn with a tale of how difficult it was to acquire the funds needed to pay for the latest payment to the Iron Bank. With Jon's eyes respectfully locked with Petyr's, Lysa made her move.

The Vale lord's wife quickly but discreetly reached into her gown and pulled out the vial of poison. Pulling out the cork, she poured its contents into the Dornish Red being drunk by her husband after affirming no one was looking at her. The cork was replaced and returned to her gown. As Lysa's eyes met Petyr's, she saw them sparkle with delight.

It was now a waiting game.

Or, it would have been had Jon Arryn not gotten fat fingers and spilled his wine after trying to grasp the goblet.

"Oh dear," he commented. Lysa and Petyr both flinched, though nobody paid it any mind.

Jon leaned over and picked up the goblet placing it on the table before he beckoned over his squire and had him replace it with a fresh goblet with more wine.

The meal continued without any further drama, though Jon was rather exasperated by the current state of the kingdom's debt. In the end, he bid the pair farewell when Lysa claimed to be getting rather tired.

The pair retreated to a small room that never saw much use which they commonly used for unfaithful escapades.

"He fucking spilled it the fool!" Lysa hissed.

"Calm yourself love. This is a setback yes, but nothing that we cannot overcome," Petyr soothed.

"A setback? A setback! You monologue about just how difficult it is to acquire the poison! Tears of Lys you said costs two million dragons for a single vial when pre-made! That if you made such an expensive transaction it would be nigh impossible to cover up! So you would arrange for it to be made here you said! That was no small feat either you claimed! That when it is made locally it will go stale in days!"

"I am aware."

"How many years must I suffer that old man before we can be together? How long must we wait for another chance!" Lysa wailed quietly.

Lysa continued sobbing, seething, and raging as quietly as she could. Petyr in an extremely rare display of genuine affection embraced her rubbing her back as he let her vent.

"There will be another time love," Petyr said, "There will be another time."

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Author's Note: I emphasize again, posting in the future will follow this format: the arc in question will be completely written and edited. Chapters will be uploaded weekly until the arc is completed at which point the following hiatus of variable length will follow.

Greatjon Umber is apparently a very good singer. The more you know. Into the West obviously was the "funny thing" I mentioned above. Does that make this a songfic now? The wildling woman is someone with a mommy kink turned absolutely psychotic. Oh, and Jon Arryn lives! How exciting!

New chapter coming next week. Take care folks!