The Wicked Witch of the North

by Cervantes Diderot

Fairer a tale could not have been written regarding that day when Robb Stark broke a maiden free of her chains. Though most tales are lies, and Shiera Seastar is no maiden needing rescue. She is a politician with a tongue like a knife, a sorceress with knowledge as dark as earth, and a talent for turning everything into a weapon. The Starks are mere pawns in her game of chess.

5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: The Red Rose of Winterfell.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

(Warning: Theon never wins.)

OOOO

It was not often that Sansa Stark visited her father's solar. Of all her siblings she always received the least attention from the Lord of Winterfell, even behind Jon Snow. More recently they had begun to butt heads with increasing frequency as Sansa continued to grow into her own. Still, despite their vast disconnect she still respected her father's power. How his incredible influence across Westeros, even from the North, protected their family. "My Lord," She did not dare call him 'father' for fear that it may leave her looking like a tyke, "I must request something of you. Something that no father would ever willingly agree to." Grey eyes peered questioningly into Tully-blue. "I implore you to allow me to stand alongside my brothers when Alliser Thorne is executed."

Anger flashed across his face at this appeal. "Do you think me a savage? Some wildling that would force his daughter to watch something so brutal?" Cool calm, even more terrifying than the rage appeared at that last remark. "Why would you dare to ask me for such a thing, Sansa?"

"I am no southron maiden," She recalled Lord Wull's harsh words, "It is time for the North, and our people to see that. My duty as a Stark is to execute the laws of our King, and our ancestors. Winter waits for no one, not even women. Allow me to learn your ways before it is too late father. Please."

He sat back in response to her concise plea, "Your mother would never forgive me if I said yes."

"Mother," Sansa bit back defiantly, "As much as we love her, is a Tully. I am a Stark of Winterfell. Long before the Targaryens arrived my great-grandmothers, the She-Wolves of the North, were carrying out executions themselves. If I honor their memories our most loyal bannermen will respect us all the more. From Bear Island to Skagos."

"All the same I cannot have you fainting at the merest drawing of blood," His easy dismissal prompted Sansa's own blood to burn. To boil so mightily that it felt as though her innards would be scorched into mutton. She recalled her mother telling her tales of how Hoster Tully had all-but raised her as his rightful heir. Remembered Shiera disclosing how Kings, bankers, and merchants had trusted her with the affairs of men. Why could she not be held to the same standards for once.

Standing abruptly, the girl knocked her heavy seat over in a flourish of plainly coloured wool. "I will bleed every moon soon enough. My children will tear my flesh one day causing me to bleed again. Every night I will worry that my sons shall be fated to die in some unfortunate battle. If I cannot blanche in the face of all that blood then I shall certainly not do so tomorrow." Realizing that she would no doubt now be punished Sansa tried to breathe deeply while bowing her head away from him. Looking down at the floor, and presumably making herself look very much like the child she actually was.

A chuckle started at first only to resonate into a chorus of vibrant snickers. Shocked, Sansa looked up in time to catch her father looking far more youthful than she had ever seen him before. The Lord of Winterfell was replaced by a dashing man, even more handsome than Benjen, for the briefest of moments. Then, a sadness seemed to settle back down on him with rigid force. Leaving nothing but an exhausted Lord Paramount in its wake. "I always believed that you were perfectly tempered, my girl. A perfect Lady like your mother. Though I can see now that you have that Wolf's Blood." Grey eyes glimmered warningly, "Even the barest touch of it must be taken seriously. Hidden deep inside for your own safety. Otherwise you will share the same fate as your uncle Brandon, and aunt Lyanna."

There was another surprising comparison to her aunt Lyanna. Though with all the pain caused by that woman's abduction Sansa could easily agree any similarities needed to be hidden. "You will stand alongside your brothers. Though I suppose that means Arya must be permitted to do so as well." He stared firmly at her, "It is your responsibility to prepare your sister for what is to come."

With a curtsy, Sansa fled the solar without even bothering to stop and pick the heavy chair back up. "Summon my sister from her needlework lessons with Septa Mordane at once," She informed Andarra who waited outside with the Ladies of Sansa's court. "Lady Wylla, please find several handmaidens to assist you with the preparation of two baths. Lady Jonelle, and Lady Jeyne, I need the both of you finish the stitching on the gowns I began preparing last week." They rushed off leaving Sansa with the newest of her Ladies-in-Waiting. Likewise, the one who she most distrusted. "Lady Syggi," The Stark girl began to sweep forth while the pretty Skaggosson followed, "I need you to tell me what it is like to see a man die."

"Is that why you refused to tell me the purpose of your visit to Lord Stark?" The bold, warrior-woman asked while easily keeping pace. "You plan to attend the execution of Alliser Thorne tomorrow?"

"I plan to follow the old ways," Sansa responded firmly, "Focus on remembering that your family serves mine now. Do not question my motivations again, Syggi Magnar." A pause followed as the Stark girl gripped the much stronger, older woman by the shoulder. Mostly using what little weight she had claim to Sansa shoved her Lady-in-Waiting against the wall with an elbow pressed against her marblesque neck. Peering upwards into mildly resentful eyes she smiled wickedly, "I will call, you will answer. Respect this natural, hierarchical dynamic if you have any intelligence. I shall reward you in turn with a powerful, handsome, Southron husband who shall admire your prettiness and swathe you in lovely silks."

A frosty glare narrowed before Syggi Magnar nodded haughtily. "Seeing a man die reminds you how frail we all are. You watch the blade cut through the flesh and bone like it is butter. That head will roll while blood splatters over whatever pretty little dress you wear tomorrow." An easy smile rolled over her red lips, "Perhaps it will be a dreadful sight for such a delicate little Lady as yourself, but remember the crowd that will be watching. March forth despite the sickness, pick up that head by its greasy hair, and give it to your uncle with a poignant little speech. I will clean the blood that stains your gown as any faithful servant would. Waiting patiently for my powerful, Southron Lord, one execution at a time."

"Leave," Sansa stepped away while releasing Syggi from her weakening stranglehold. "Send your personal guards to Winter Town and beyond to draw as many Smallfolk to the execution as is possible. Have them visit every nearby inn to disseminate the word that the daughters of Ned Stark will be present." She found herself delighted to have finally found a use for Syggi Magnar's presence in her court. The young woman came with a band of fifteen, ferocious savages from Skagos. Advice regarding masculine matters women did not oft venture into, and a band of men not associated with her father or Shiera. Lady Jonelle would be wedded long before Sansa ever willingly gave up such a useful ally.

Fingers twisting in nervous wringing movements the eldest Stark daughter was relieved that a bath would soon be greeting her. Confronting Lord Paramounts and accosting Skagosson warrior-women was the definition of perspirant inducing work.

OOOO

Arya Stark hated dresses, and being forced to act at looking a pretty little Lady. She was no such thing. Though the North liked to pretend even as they scorned their Southron neighbours for the same. Fingers itching into fists Arya forced herself to relax them after recalling that Lady Seastar would notice from wherever she secretly watched the execution. The Great Bastard, no matter how kind, was just as keen at spotting even the smallest inelegances as Septa Mordane had been. In order of age she followed her siblings in organizing alongside the chopping block.

Normally executions took place privately well beyond the walls of Winterfell. This was no typical matter however. A Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had been murdered by his own brother. The Smallfolk drove out in thick crowds by the hundreds with bloodthirst written plainly across their faces. They did not matter quite so much as the Mormonts of Bear Island did, Sansa had reminded her during their baths the previous evening. It was a Stark's responsibility to protect the Lords and Ladies they called vassals. By making this affair public they would be enabled to remind every, last Northern House that such protection would indeed remain. 'Father will not live forever, sweet sister,' Sansa whispered with her beautiful voice sometimes. Arya could appreciate that now as they all stood on the stage together.

Robb, who looked ever so stalwartly chivalrous from his spot beside father, would one day take up the mantle of executioner. Bran and Rickon were both destined to make their own fortunes in, presumably, bloody ways. Sansa's fate would be bound tightly to that of her future husband. Arya had no idea what life would hold in store for a girl like her, but she recognized that Ned Stark would not always be able to shield her from it. So with a ramrod straight spine she watched as her father prepared himself to deliver the justice of Winterfell. Ignoring the throngs of maddened peasants who clamoured with spittle-covered gobs for blood to splatter across their faces.

"Do you have any last words Alliser Thorne?" The Lord of Winterfell asked in his booming voice. "Before you are executed for the murder of Lord Commander Jeor Mormont? For betraying the Night's Watch you vowed to serve, the Realm you vowed to protect, and the man you vowed your loyalty?" A broken sob strangled from the man's throat as he clawed despairingly at his greasy face. Arya wondered if the hard-faced, sinewy man had gone insane. Perhaps what left in such a state was what had led to Jeor Mormont falling from the Great Keep.

"Then I, Eddard Stark, in the name of King Robert Baratheon, first of his name," A pause, "Sentence you to die." Ice flashed in a mighty arc as the Valyrian Steel flashed hungrily downwards upon treasonous blood. Head removed from body, cut as easily as one of the strings of thread in Septa Mordane's sewing lessons. Though blood never splattered so violently across the floors of the sewing room. Licking across the edges of the Ladies pretty gowns as it did now. Following in her siblings suits, even Sansa, Arya kept her grey eyes focused intently on the horrific aftermath. She felt powerful in that moment, as strong as any man at having successfully stomached such a gruesome sight.

"Father," Sansa interrupted suddenly with the demurity of a Southron Septa. Arya blinked confusedly before regaining the control of her features that Shiera always claimed could mean the difference between life and death. Her sister had mentioned nothing of plotting to steal the Smallfolk's attention from their father the prior evening. Draped in a heavy, black cloak the blossoming beauty stepped forth firmly. Abandoning effortless grace in favour of steely measure. Betraying her flair for the dramatic the girl reached upwards to untie the woolen cloak, allowing it to fall down behind her on the stage. "We allow ourselves to fall into silence," She did not bellow, but projected as a skilled orator would, "While a foul, treasonous spirit engulfs our unified company with its maliciousness." Murmurs of assent came from some of the crowd. Others still eyed her sister lustily as she radiated majestically in a shoulderless gown of silk. Woven from the colours of House Stark.

"Do not allow yourselves, or your stalwart honor, to waver underneath the lingering darkness of Alliser Thorne's treachery. Now is the time to cry out! To clamour for justice! To support House Stark in continuing the battle against those with wickedness in their hearts!" Cries started to spread like wildfire at her words as men began to chant the name, 'Stark', at the top of their lungs. Bending gracefully Sansa lifted the decapitated head into the air by its head. Stepping through the river of blood she paused before Uncle Benjen who stood on the other side of their father. A symbolic sign of his removal from the family due to the Night's Watch vows. "Place this head on a pike from atop the wall, Benjen Stark," She spoke in a resonating tone to the now beardless man, "So that all men on both sides of the Wall can see that Brandon the Builder's promise of protection will forever flourish beneath our family's parmountacy."

Winterfell shook from the sheer response to Sansa's righteous speech. Arya recalled in that moment that all of their guests, except the Skaggossons, had yet to depart. All of the Mountain Clans, Umbers, Manderlys, and their vassals in turn would hear of this. Word would certainly spread across the North, perhaps even to the Dustins and Ryswells by the time they stopped in to discipline during their journey south. Feeling the burning heat of a pair of eyes she glanced away from her sister's triumph to where Shiera stood on the walls of Winterfell. Looking down on them all as though she were some sort of puppetmaster. The Great Bastard's mismatched gaze was not directed at Sansa, however, but at Arya herself. A shiver ran through the girl at the message which was impossible to not comprehend.

Her turn was soon coming. To stand on a platform somewhat like this one, and put everything on the line like Sansa was now. The only question was whether she would sink or swim attempting such a thing. Trying to find some semblance of power when women were not allowed to do so in their world.

OOOO

"Trycharios finds the Court of Glass to be very droll," Johanna Rogare commented blythely as she lazed on her chaise. Unlike in Westeros, women in Lys were encouraged to seek the sun's kiss. Every so often a slave, the latest handsome man from the retinue Johanna took an interest in, slathered creams on her scantily clad body. Golden skin was desirable, but the ravages of the sun upon the aging process were not. She was as beautiful as her namesake the Black Swan, her many greats grandmother coincidentally, had been. Though in a different way entirely. Instead of raven black ringlets this Johanna sported hair of lovely silver with bright, violet eyes. Common by Lysene standards yet the sixteen-year-old would be wedded off easily enough.

"Unsurprising," Drazenko, third of his name, Rogare smiled painfully tight, "Given what a fool our young brother is. How long will it take him to realize that the fun is in playing the game?" The handsome man read through correspondences of his own. Yes, the Court of Glass was very important to the Bank of Rogare's continued survival in Lys, though he had loftier ambitions. He wanted to not only survive, but drink the blood of the Braavosi scum that had viciously stamped out the Rogare influence so long ago. So hungry to correct the past wrongs of his ancestors that he plotted in Westeros behind his uncle's back.

"Leave us, slave," Johanna purred commandingly so that they were left in secure silence. "Zenko," She sighed in a much softer tone whilst standing to both feet, "Why must you drag our family back towards Westeros? Back into that cesspit of doom?" Her billowy gown of white, Myrish silk was laced tightly back in place before she turned to face him. "Uncle Medore cannot be fooled twice, brother," The Rogare beauty snarled suddenly, "If I noticed that the entire host from your trip to 'Quarth' was privately executed then he certainly did too. He is just as intelligent as you are."

"Yes," Drazenko agreed easily, "Yet operates with the ambition of a pickled cod."

"How can you say that?" She was growing angry, and betraying her greatest weakness in the process. His sister was still so young, and Drazenko debated internally if he could truly accomplish what needed to be done with only two children at his side. Trycharios could not manage House Rogare's affairs alone whilst balancing his vows to Court of Glass at the same time. Strained, inexperience would surely weaken their House's position while he visited Riverrun. Then there was the matter of Johanna. Older than their thirteen-year-old brother though still far from the historical Rogare Queen, the Lyra Rogare that he required. "Uncle Medore took charge of this family at our weakest. When mother and father died! When the bank's coffers dried up! He saved us from ruin. Saved me from a life spent sucking the cocks of arrogant, righteous Magisters."

Johanna was clever enough to comprehend the general direction of his machinations. However, he was disappointed their normally close bond had failed to work its way into her mind. That the siblingship which connected them could be so easily defeated by distrust. "He did, sister," Drazenko stared disappointedly in her direction, lilac eyes flashing tiredly. "I will never forget the role our uncle played in revitalizing this House. Unfortunately that role is finished." A pause as he gnashed his pearly-white teeth. Was she ready to be thrown into adulthood? To learn the true extent of the threats which faced them? "Read this, Hanna," He proffered a letter that was only a month old in her direction.

With a breathy scowl she ripped the parchment into her grasp. Golden-kissed skin grew progressively whiter with each rereading of the terrifying news. "Why can they not leave us be?" She cried suddenly, throwing the paper at him prior to spinning towards the sun. "The arrested us, executed us, exiled us, desecrated our wealth, and now they wish to…."

"Annihilate us." He stood to turn her back around by the elbow. "Hanna," Drazenko's heart wrenched at the sight of those now paranoid eyes flickering wildly about. Johanna was close enough to the adult he required the assistance of, but at what cost? "The Iron Bank have plotted against us for decades. Even the marginal growth created by Uncle Medore is enough to raise the flames of their ire. We must act now to become unreachable. To grow faster than our ancestors did so we might be safe from the reach of those Faceless dogs."

"Does our Uncle know? Have you shown him this… Death warrant?" She spat viciously.

"No," Drazenko shook his head of raven-black locks. "You recognize as well as I that he would force us to flee. To give up what little our family has left. Then we would be absolutely powerless to fight off a foe so mighty. Of little better station than our Targaryen cousins who cower in Pentos."

"What do you have planned?" Johanna's face crumpled to an expression of defeated resolve.

"I will have our uncle sent far away for his own safety. Perhaps one of our estates in Oldtown will prove sufficient with a sizeable, household guard." A pause, "That will signal my intentions to Braavos though which means that you and Trycharios must also be involved. He will be given Shiera Targaryen's vote on the Council of Magistrates to oversee. She also charged me with setting her estate to rights while she remains in Westeros."

"None of the Magistrates will be pleased to hear that the Rogares have a vote on the council again." Johanna gasped surprisedly. "They would sooner execute and exile us from Lys once more than allow that to happen. Trycharios is far from ready to triumph over such political resistance."

"That is why you will be in charge of poisoning the Head Magister within the fortnight. Besides all of the chaos, a headless council will be unable to effectively organize against us. Nothing negative will happen until we have returned from Westeros." He had an answer for every one of her questions, especially the next one.

"We?" She queried cautiously.

"Yes, sister," Drazenko nodded firmly. "We will travel to Riverrun together. I shall broker an advantageous agreement with the Tullys and Arryns. You shall focus on attempting to wed Edmure Tully."

"Edmure Tully?" She looked dangerously close to punching him. "I am a Rogare! I could have my pick of the most influential, handsomest Magistrates on the council."

A shrug was all Johanna received in response. "Lose this undeserved pride, sister. Our name is dilapidated, ruinous, undesirable. If you can broker a better match in Westeros then you may attempt to do so. Though accept now that you will not be wedding anyone from Essos. We must look beyond the reach of Braavos if our security is ever to be regained." The letters were stuffed into his tunic pocket again as he linked his arm with her own. "Edmure Tully is a drunk, a whoremonger, and from what I hear, a fool. You will make a perfect compliment to his weakness in every way. This match will draw us into an unbreakable alliance with the Riverlands. Hoster Tully is aging poorly according to the spy I placed in Riverrun. If I convince him of House Rogare's return to prominence he will only be all too agreeable to this proposed betrothal."

"I suppose if it saves us all from assassination at the hands of Braavos I will do it," She sighed acquiescently. High praise of his matchmaking abilities indeed.

OOOO

Theon Greyjoy did not understand what was causing him to grow so dizzy. To lose himself to the darkness of oblivion for days at a time. He was trapped in his own mind though no one in Winterfell seemed to notice. Eddard Stark had even praised him one week earlier for a recent implementation of proposals to improve the living conditions of the poor. Something Theon could not recall having occurred. This happened often, the periods of mental absence growing longer and longer. Yet he could not confide in anyone without sounding absolutely berserk. A trip to Maester Luwin would certainly lead to him being under the careful watch of a guard for the remainder of his imprisonment at Winterfell.

Unable to do anything to fight this disquieting disconnect between body and mind he only grew cruder. Subconsciously the Greyjoy heir attempted to erase the good his alter ego was performing by committing vile acts in those rare moments when his mind was actually clear. That morning he took advantage of Alliser Thorne's execution, and Sansa Stark's preoccupation with the matter, to dally about with Wylla Manderly in the darkest corners of the stables. Afterwards he travelled to Winter Town, kicking a beggar in the face from atop his horse prior to losing all sense of self in a drunken orgy at the brothel. Now he leant against the door to his humble chambers. Grinning lecherously in the candlelight at a serving maid who scrubbed the floors of Winterfell.

She was new, fresh, delectable. He had not stuck his cock in this one, nor was she one of the Stark bitch's prudish servants who knew to steer well clear of him. Golden hair, a rare trait in the North, was pinned tightly in a bun on the back of her head. The restrictive nature of the household uniform did little to hide a delectably curvaceous form. "What could a lovely thing like you do to wind up scrubbing floors so late at night?" He strutted forth predatorily.

Pretty brown eyes peered upwards at him without any suspicion. Definitely new to Winterfell. "I accidentally splashed a bucket of water on Lady Poole's skirts this morning, milord," She sputtered out nervously. He wondered if she was intimidated by his handsomeness, or by his Noble blood, or even both.

"These floors look clean enough to me…" He paused cunningly, practically able to smell the stench of innocence on the serving wench. "My chambers though, now those floors could do with a good scrubbing."

"Milord," The pretty wench's red lips twisted into a frown, "That would be improper at this hour. I can return in the morning with another maid to complete the task, though."

"You have already angered Jeyne Poole, can you really afford to disappoint another resident of Winterfell so soon?" He queried rhetorically. This girl would lose her maidenhead to him, free of charge. By the month's end Theon reckoned she would likely be a whore in Winter Town working for pennies a cock. Guiding her along he entered his chambers with all the cocky arrogance of a peacock. The Greyjoy heir lit candles while the girl knelt instantly to begin working. Pausing to drink from the jug of wine which had been refilled in his absence the handsome Lord slipped to his bed. With a loud yawn he kicked off his heavy boots. She was watching now, he noticed, too demure to reprimand him for undressing and interested in the male form as well.

Soon enough he only remained in his leather breeches. "Bring me another cup of wine before you leave, please," His voice was honeyed. A girl with a little more experience might have questioned his motives, but this pretty thing did not. Theon was truly fortuitous to have found a flower Jory Cassel and the other guards had not plucked quite yet. Glugging down the cup of wine proffered to him he peered up at that pretty face. Cock straining against his leather breeches he reached upwards to unlace her bodice until both hands were slapped away. "All I want is a peek," He smiled with deceptive kindness, "We can both see each other nude. Then you may leave." A taunting grin preceded his winning remark, "I reckon you have never seen a man's cock before?"

Curious eyes reluctantly allowed him to continue undressing her shaking form. Now nude she continued to tremble as he stood to drop his breeches. Erection now free he grabbed her by that quivering bottom. Hands pressed against him as he rubbed his hands without invitation across the pretty thing's body. He seized violently midway towards his destination, however. "Milord?" The naked serving girl asked worriedly as he collapsed backwards onto the bed. Still, she slipped backwards instead of forwards to his assistance. Reasonably worried that this was only another trick.

"He will be fine," That voice was familiar some moments later, Theon could still hear in his paralysis. "You shall leave us here, alert no one to the events of tonight or my mistress will send you away to whore for Wildlings Beyond-the-Wall." He recognized the Lyseni accent as belonging to Andarra. Theon Greyjoy was now the one to shudder with nervousness as he recalled why exactly he avoided Sansa Stark's beautiful handmaiden. Every time they fucked he found himself soon lost in the darkness. He was a betting man, and Theon now found himself mentally wagering his meager allowance from the Starks that Shiera Seastar was behind it all. "For future reference little serving wench," Andarra spoke in a sarcastic tenor, "Should you wish to keep your maidenhead intact I would advise staying as far from cocks as you can. Curiosity killed the cat after all."

Then the cuckolding ended with a gentle click of his chamber door. "You have been steering clear of me lately." The Lysene woman tsked, "I almost thought my task was nearly completed until I overheard the Manderly girl telling Jonelle Cerwyn of your tryst this afternoon. So naughty of you, when I would have been more than capable of giving you what you needed." The silver-haired courtesan raked her fingers possessively over his naked, paralyzed body. "It takes an evil man to force himself unto a girl like the one I just rescued. She is lucky I was hiding behind the curtains as you molested her. That I had the foresight to poison the wine before you returned."

"You. Whore." Theon gurgled out, hardly able to move his tongue, let alone his jaw.

"I am no whore. You claimed my maidenhead, remember that exquisite evening Lord Greyjoy?" She was taunting him, and he hated feeling so powerless. "Drazenko Rogare did not buy me for a small sum. I was one of the most coveted courtesans this season from amongst any of the pillow houses. Now it is almost time for you to pay the price as well. To purchase me from Sansa Stark and Lady Seastar." A popping noise bounced across the air before a vial was pressed to his lips. The sweet substance trickled with a sickening thickness down his throat. A second vial followed closely after. As movement slowly returned to his body the young Lord was twisted face down onto the bed only to be bound tightly to all four bedposts. "Before you pay the price," She whispered debaucherously in his ear, "There must come a punishment. The Smallfolk were not born for you to spit upon, women were not born for you to force your cock upon." Clapping loudly she signalled for the door to open again.

Standing there was the young beggar whom Theon had knocked over earlier in the day. Bathed and dressed in fine furs. Now able to turn his neck again the Lord watched as Andarra pulled him closer and closer to the bed. Pausing briefly she whispered something in a seductive manner into the brutish-looking peasant's ear. In response he stripped himself of his clothing to reveal a wiry, scarred form. Still confused Theon watched the scene nervously. "In Essos," Andarra purred against his face, "Handsome young men are purchased with nearly as much enthusiasm as comely young women. The virginity of an attractive, arrogant little pirate like yourself would have raked in a small fortune."

"No," He shook his head violently as the beggar prompted the bed to creak beneath the uninvited weight. Naked body writhing violently, muscles bulging against the restraints, sculpted buttocks tensing beneath the candlelight.

Fingers tangling into his locks of wild hair Andarra pulled Theon's head upwards. "You will learn what it feels like to be a victim. Only then can I stand to be with you as Shiera Seastar intends." She snapped her fingers prompting the beggar to move into position.

"NOOOOO-ooooooo," The Ironborn's wail of despair cut off into a muted whisper as he himself learned what it was like to be sternly taken by a lecher.

OOOO

"They are calling you the Red Rose," Shiera smiled slyly as she slipped elegantly through the Crypts of Winterfell. "In honor of your Aunt Lyanna. There is a myth that the very same day she came into her own all of the blue roses of Winterfell bloomed." Sansa wondered how the woman could look so at ease amongst the treacherous burial tombs. Even she, a Stark, could glean little comfort from being surrounded by her dead ancestors.

"I have not yet bled and already they call me a woman?" Sansa asked in response, somewhat retaliatorily. She tired of being inside of these damp catacombs while her Ladies-in-Waiting for their departure the next morning in warmth.

"Men will believe what they want to believe, it is merely to your advantage to perpetuate it." Shiera allowed her finger to caress the dusty face of a glaring Stark statue as they continued further into the darkness. For what seemed like hours, and probably was too, they stumbled towards the depths. Deeper than Sansa believed her Lord father would ever have allowed either of them to go had he been privy to this excursion. She wondered how far down she was willing to go if Shiera asked. Perhaps through even the collapsed portions? Or maybe even to the Seven Hells?

"My aunt was barely even a woman either when they called her the Blue Rose of Winterfell," The girl stubbornly refused to let the new title get to her head. "She allowed everyone to think of her as such, and Rhaegar abducted her. Do women ever truly gain power through manipulation, or are we merely misled into believing so?"

They came to a stop at this question. "I was imprisoned in these Crypts for nearly a century, Sansa," Shiera responded. She turned to stare between two statues. "My fate stolen from me by two men who had once entrusted so much trust in my talents. Complacency is what truly leads to the downfall of those rare women who can consider themselves powerful. We must always be preparing for even the unforeseen. Learn from my mistakes, remember to trust no one but the woman who pushed you into this world and yourself." A mischievous glimmer flashed through those mismatched eyes, "Give me your hand."

Hesitantly, Sansa placed her pale limb upon Shiera's well-manicured grip. Sweeping forth the buxom, Targaryen beauty pulled her pupil between two statues of Stark ancestors almost as ancient as Winterfell. Peering beneath the torchlight, which Shiera held, Sansa noted something incredibly odd. Within a manse of cobwebs appeared the distinct image of a door. "You are the blood of Brandon the Builder," The Great Bastard stared firmly at her, "Only a true Stark can open the secrets within." A flashy, silver dirk was removed from its hiding spot on Shiera's calve at that announcement.

Tentatively Sansa contemplated the weapon with gingerly movements while her companion waved the torch through the cobwebs. Angry creatures scurried free as a result, both the ones which had lived in the Crypts for millennia and those that had recently been evicted from the First Keep. "Magic is not real, Lady Seastar," Sansa spoke with the frostiness her father had utilized at the execution that very day.

"I stand before you, of flesh and blood," Shiera did not waver, nor did she smile, "Yet I was born a century ago." Those eyes flickered dangerously, their disorderly nature revealing a hellish glint. "Perhaps now you cannot be convinced that sorcery exists, but you should be capable of recognizing that these Crypts are a strange place indeed."

Hissing as she slit her hand, totally unable to argue with Shiera's solid logic, Sansa Stark pressed the bloody palm against the freshly uncovered door. It was carved from bronze. Smattered with various ruins from long forgotten dialects of the old tongue. Rubbing the blood firmly against the foreign etchings she listened as a terrifying noise ensued. Metal screamed against metal from deep within the walls as the bronze door sunk down into the stone beneath it. Stepping nervously inside, with Shiera's go-ahead of course, the girl looked about the dank hidey hole.

Piles of dusty weapons lay in neat stacks one after the other. "Obsidian," Shiera stroked at one of the assortments of weapons contemplatively. They stumbled through the cluttered space until reaching the room's end. No more obsidian rested here, and instead there were various objects scattered about in no particular order. "The crown of King Torrhen Stark," Shiera lifted a circular object with nine spikes from its resting place on a disintegrating, velvet pillow.

"But that was melted down and placed inside of the Iron Throne!" Sansa snatched it from her governess's grip with incredulity shining in those Tully-blue eyes. To think that four-hundred years prior her great-grandfather hid this object from the Targaryens. That she now stood with the last true Targaryen left in Westeros, crown of her proud forefathers in hand, yet still bound beneath the might of another pretender to the Northern throne. Uncertain of the treachery towards House Baratheon which suddenly welled in her mind Sansa moved to set the precious item back down. Very carefully so. The Great Bastard slunk over to something else while the girl felt her foot kick against a round object hidden on the mildly damp floor. Moving quickly she bent to pick up the, surprisingly light, ball of metal. Blowing on the surface revealed that the object was composed of spinning dials set side-by-side with random runes carved all across.

A loud bang interrupted Sansa's observations as she spun around to face her instructor. The woman stood before a now shut trunk with a victorious smile plastered across her face. "Swear to me, Sansa, on your honor as a Stark and Tully that you will not visit this room again until it is necessary, or speak of what you are about to hear." There was an unyielding strength unlike anything Sansa had ever heard in Shiera's voice before. This was the woman who had turned King's Landing into the booming metropolis it was today. Not the seductive, sensual, witty creature that spent her time ceaselessly manipulating behind the scenes. "I have done much for you and your family, child," A ferocious growl rumbled across the air, "Pay me this favour at the very least."

"I swear it, Lady Shiera," She stumbled forth, hoping desperately to see what was hidden in the rather small, crumbling trunk.

"I dreamt long ago," Shiera Seastar stepped in front of the vessel, blocking it from her pupil's gaze, "Of the Bleeding Star. Through tribulation and triumph she shall discover her faith. Sacrifice will become her sword. You must tell her of this room nineteen years from today. Encourage her to embrace its secrets. No matter how terrified she is of the truths within. Relay to this young woman everything I have taught you. Remind her that what hides inside this trunk is her birthright."

Uncertain of what to say to that all, Sansa nodded while hiding the strangled noises of confusion in her dry throat. Forgetting she still clutched the metal ball they slipped from the little room. "There are many others like this," Shiera announced, "Long hidden. Waiting for a Stark to find them. But this one in particular…" Those mismatched eyes glimmered firmly in Sansa's direction, "You must never forget where this one lies."

OOOO

Shiera Seastar did not often glance into her prized mirror. To do so was to risk allowing vengeful spirits into the safety provided her by Winterfell. Though the desire for revenge inflamed her like little else could. Unafraid of any of her pawns visiting with sudden requests for assistance she stripped from her dusty clothing. "Guese haogan lineye rougal," The Great Bastard gasped out. Flashing from the smoky depths of the mirror appeared an image of great tragedy. Lying on a bed was none other than Jojen Reed.

Screaming from the depths of Greywater Watch as the blood of the Marsh Kings boiled with poison. His family cloistered nearby though they were of little import. Incapable of understanding that their son was merely being removed from an invisible war. One which he never should have been involved with in the first place. Soon enough he would lose his ability to dream. To be manipulated by the skeleton Beyond-the-Wall, and turned into a soldier against Shiera's ambitions.

With the flick of her wrist the image flickered away to a chamber close by her own within Winterfell. Reaching forth for her familiar, turquoise poultice Shiera Seastar began to slather it onto her body. "Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell," The naked beauty whispered whilst observing the young man's immediate response. Sending him spiralling into a vortex of erotic dreams for what seemed to be, and likely was, the thousandth time.

OOOO

Next Chapter: The Trojan Horse.