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.

16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen: Ashes on the Wind.

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

OOOO

Sansa lost track of how long she spent in those dark, dank cells. Guards threatening to rape her, prisoners threatening to rape her, and visiting capital officials threatening the same. Basically everyone was threatening to steal her maidenhead as she wallowed in puddles of filth amongst rats with no light at all. In the beginning that dynamic held true. Then they took Jeyne away to whatever horrors the elite of King's Landing had in store for her. At being so alone with no idea of whether her siblings ever even escaped she lost any fucks to give. Sorcery was a tool for women who had no reputation, or other options. First she began warging the rats. No easy feat.

Her skinchanging talents had only ever been used on the Direwolves. Now she began to realize that those companions had been perfectly tailored to suit her needs. At first she spent long hours forcing her mind on the tiny creatures only to overwhelm them to death. That was fine in Sansa's books. Less rodents to bite her, and she had nothing else to do anyways but perfect an underutilized talent. Then came the frustration. Slowly Sansa, who never could handle failure well, began to change her tactics. Instead of ramming her mental force into the rats she instead coaxed gently. Placing part of her consciousness into the task. That discovery had been a game changer. Truly.

First she started to monitor guard movements. When they were away Sansa would conjure flame in the edge of her cell. The blackness so deep that none but her could see its flickering luminance. Oddly enough she felt replenished after her moments in the light. From there things grew even more fortuitous. Most prisoners did not have the benefit of knowing what their captors knew. Sansa did. Through the rats she spied on her enemies. Most importantly, nearly a month had passed. She learned that a full on war was raging in the Riverlands, her brother was about to march south from Winterfell after calling his banners, and her Uncle Brynden was fighting a civil war in the Vale with divided, Baratheon loyalists. To the east Stannis Baratheon had risen up in defiance of the crown. To the west his brother Renly was now, according to the Tyrells, a King with Margaery Tyrell as his Queen.

Three separate armies, but all planned on gutting Joffrey like a pig.

Then, most important to Sansa, had been the news that her siblings escaped in two possible ships. One for the North, another for Dorne as a distraction. Pirates hired by Littlefinger lost the one head North in a foul storm while the other party headed for Dorne lost all communication with the Iron Throne. This had all been discussed as Cersei lamented the loss of two valuable hostages in a ferocious temper tantrum. Upon returning to her body Sansa Stark had collapsed into unconsciousness with tears of joy staining her cheeks. For three more days she continued this practice of spying until the Spider visited her. "Lady Sansa," He said in his soft voice.

She wondered in a vain moment how awful her countenance must have been after a month in the Black Cells. "Lord Varys." Her greeting was simple. Here was a man who had served the Targaryens and survived a dangerous transition of dynasties. Sansa was not fool enough to willingly engage him in a sparrage of words. Not when he had decades more experience in politics, manipulation, and administration. Especially not after a month of isolation in the dungeons. Simply put, the Spider was the better woman. He entered the cell, frowning at the mess of moldy hay and shit. "Do not fret, Lord Varys," It turned out Sansa could not refrain from at least one barb, "I only defecated over there. You are not stepping in my shit."

He stared at her a long while. "You are a clever young woman. Much like your grandfather." He ignored the dried feces that crunched beneath his shoes. "I met Lord Rickard briefly before he was cooked in his own armour. Learn from his lesson, Lady Sansa. If a Stark is not obedient in this city they suffer terrible deaths." Her father should have killed every small council member in King's Landing when he had had the chance, Sansa thought wryly.

"The Stark name will live on without me. I have siblings who have escaped. A brother who marches south to assemble an army that can surpass that of the Tyrells almost twice." She cocked her ratted head of hair at him, "Why bother with trivialities when I would much rather cut Joffrey's throat as his whore mother watches? Do you realize I want Joffrey to lose me as collateral? For my brother to dismantle this corrupt fucking city like Cregan should have centuries ago, so Westeros may prosper again."

"How surprisingly selfless." Varys peered at her as though seeing the girl in a new light. That was funny, given that the Black Cells contained no such thing. "I imagined you simply took more after your Lady mother, or Shiera Seastar than you did your father." He clutched both hands in front of him, "It would be a waste for a girl with such admirable views to die before she fully reaches womanhood. Though I cannot advocate for the daughter of a traitor who merely spews more treason in court at any available moment."

"Good. I would rather rot in here than serve Joffrey a platter of niceties." She bit back sharply.

"Oh, no, Lady Sansa. You will be returning up to the Red Keep. They will clad you in silk and finery. Parade you about for the people to see. Though if you ever make your views clear they will cut out your tongue." He smiled grimly at her, "Trust me. It is an unpleasant life being removed from important, pointy things." He stepped further towards Sansa, "Your value shall diminish as soon as the masses have calmed. If you are still bothersome even then they will gladly dispose of you." Sansa should have known that the people would go into an uproar at her imprisonment. She was simply shocked to learn that the riots she had seen briefly as a rat were for her and not because their new King was a bastard born of incest. "There is no choice but to serve his majesty to the best of your ability. If you deviate from my words of advice simply know that no one can protect you."

Courtesy was a woman's armour, Sansa remembered bleakly, and she realized then that her time in the pseudo-Baratheon court was nowhere near over. Joffrey would pretend for a time that she was still his betrothed while swaddling her in crimson-and-gold like the tasteless bastard he was. Then when the Smallfolk forgot the name Sansa Stark they would likely marry her off quietly to some old, Lannister uncle. "Do not pretend that you care for my safety, eunuch," So much bitterness pumped through her body as he began to step backwards with loud crunches of hardened shit echoing the whole while. "You may have no cock, but you have no cunt either. Keep to your corrupt, incessant plotting and remember real women know the true horrors of mankind far better."

"You will be playing those incessant games again soon, Lady Sansa. Steel yourself for it, or give in to the self-loathing." He retorted in that perpetually tranquil manner. The man had his back fully turned when suddenly his entire form stiffened. "Quite strange you should know of your sibling's having successfully evaded capture. That information has been strictly kept amongst members of the Small Council." Their eyes connected for a long moment as secrets kept them drawn towards one another like moths to flame. Finally, Lord Varys broke the connection. "Prepare yourself in the coming days. Enjoy isolation while it lasts."

Then he left her alone in the blackness.

OOOO

Robb did not have any time to sink into misery. His mother, father, and siblings all captives in the south. Little Rickon at Winterfell would be the last Stark if he died. A heavy, unforgivable burden to put on such a young boy. "My Lord," Wylis Manderly proclaimed, belly bulging, "Theon Greyjoy cannot be trusted alone in the North. He must be brought alo-."

"Theon has proven himself to me many times over. He is just as much a Northman as anyone in this tent. Winterfell is in safe hands." Robb ground out impatiently. The heir to Winterfell tired of arguing with his Bannermen over the same things in an endless rotation. Most had arrived at Winterfell though as they marched south newer Lords tended to reiterate the same concerns. At least the swelling number of men in their company always provided some comfort. Twenty-thousand Northmen, five-thousand Wildlings, thirty Skinchangers, and three Giants accompanied him. The Order of the North, and rotations throughout the Wall had done a good job of raising cavalry. Twelve-thousand foot, the rest mostly Northern cavalry, and several hundred Knights. All of his men had been bled as well which meant they were not marching to war with inexperienced greenboys.

"My Lord," Came the chilling voice of Roose Bolton. He had not been pleased with being summoned to a war in the south. There was to be no pretense, however, in Robb's mind. The Lord of the Dreadfort was naught more than a hostage meant to ensure stability remained whilst House Stark skirmished with the Lannisters. To reinforce that idea Rickard Karstark had also been summoned alongside all of his sons. "Can the Wildlings be trusted? They have been left alone beneath the charge of a Greyjoy. The same Greyjoys who have reaved our coasts without impudence for centuries." The cold-blooded arse was good at that sort of thing. Riling up Robb's men so that these meetings were never as productive as they could have been.

"Enough Bolton," Lord Umber roared. He had been incredibly stalwart ever since Grey Wind gnawed off three of his fingers at Winterfell. "The men in this tent, myself included, all hated the Skaggs only three years ago. Now my children are wedded into those lines with plenty of babes on the way. Lord Rickon has been betrothed to my granddaughter who is just as much a Skagg as an Umber." He pointed the nubs at Bolton with that ever-burning rage. "I have seen the Wildlings keep to their new lands since Lord Robb accepted them south. They are First Men just like us, and sent more than their fair share of men to answer the call. If those Wildlings bleed for us too they are as good as Northmen in my books."

"Aye," Ygritte, the red-haired warrioress, stood from her spot beside Tormund Giantsbane and Maege Mormont. "I will kill for these lands. For the Starks that gave me and mine shelter when the winds and Wall kept cutting us down. If a Stark could break eons of traditional slaughtering of Free Folks, then the rest of you all should be honourable enough to fight alongside them. Even if it means my people partake in hunting Lions." Tormund pounded his mug of ale down in agreement while the Warg representative did the same. "Now," She stared at him, "How many men does the army of the North face? What lands are we nearing? Us Free Folk do not know the rest of Westeros as well as you, Lord."

They often did that, almost forgetting to tack on the terms of courtesy after speaking. Robb did not care overtly much so long as they remained a deterrent towards Bolton's rebelliousness. "We will travel through Moat Cailin first. I plan to take two-thousand of their ten-thousand mounted force. That will round out our army to twelve-thousand foot, and fifteen-thousand cavalry."

"Why not take the rest of the Order with us as well as draw upon the Reeds," Asked the youngest Karstark, Torrhen, always challenging Stark authority wherever possible. He was a fool too. Most of the Lords rumbled with laughter, Lord Rickard blanched white with embarrassment.

Robb looked him straight in the eyes. "The North remained independent of the other Kingdoms for so many millenia only because the Neck was there to strangle any resistance. We will not risk losing such an important region as the one held by House Reed. They will keep all three-thousand of their men, though Lord Howland has already offered us half that number." He peered at all of the rest. "Our Order of the North was constructed to defend the North wherever necessary. Given that the Dustins, Ryswells, and Flints of Flint's Finger are dealing with any remaining, dangerous Wildlings Beyond-the-Wall, I would like to redirect the Order's focus. Their eight-thousand man are to ensure that the Neck remains stable. Marlon Manderly will also be tasked with responding to any pirate raids around the southerly stretches of our lands."

Marlon Manderly had ridden north to greet the Heir of Winterfell himself. His enthusiasm left Robb with the realization that the life of such a strong leader in the Order could not be risked during times of war. Sansa, Arya, and his mother combined had only just managed to put a pin in the defiance of Houses Ryswell and Dustin. To leave those Houses in charge of the Order would eradicate all of his hard work in that region. "I will serve the North to the best of my ability in your absence, Lord Stark," Marlon answered easily.

"I expected nothing less, Ser Marlon," He responded shortly. "Lady Ygritte," His finger pointed to their location on the spread map, "To answer your question, we are here. These regions are the Riverlands and the Vale. Overseen by different Lords, though ones whom I have close familial ties to. We will ride to the Riverlands to defend my mother's homelands from invasion first. Then our army will be reinforced by Rivermen and Valemen." He pointed to the various maps. "In that time I intend to support Stannis Baratheon as the rightful King to the throne."

What he did not say was that Bran would be betrothed to Shireen Baratheon in exchange. Given Stannis' notorious fertility woes the Starks would make up for lost ground by replacing Sansa's past prospects as consort with Bran. A Stark holding power in King's Landing would surely prevent anything like what had happened twice to their family from occurring again. Of course, some of the Lords argued. Renly, a few protested, and surely not Stannis. He quelled these complaints by reaffirming that it was what his father would have decided.

"Lord Stark," Came the gruff voice of a Skinchanger representative, "Us Skinchangers have been discussing amongst ourselves. We want to move further south. Our abilities give us a fair chance to spy on these Lions. When you reach these… Lands of Rivers we will have information aplenty for you."

"Aye," Robb agreed, "That is a fair idea. One third of your number will scout just beyond Harrenhal. Another third will do the same for Riverrun. A small group of our men shall accompany and direct you towards these strongholds." He stared at the border of the Westerlands on the map. "The final group is to begin pressing along the Westerland border. I do not know where the Imp took my Lady mother, but I will have her back in safety." They would liberate the Riverlands, he decided, before marching on whichever castle held the woman. Robb could not stomach worrying for the safety of his father, mother, and siblings. Hopefully rescuing his mother would ease his anxieties. Not much more could be planned until they were positioned in the Riverlands and the Wargs returned with game-changing information. Except for one thing. "Our Westerly Fleet is still mostly at the Wall with House Dustin's strength. I would like a raven sent to for it to be dispatched on patrol across the Northern coast. Lady Mormont, could Bear Island also aid in this mission with its long boats?"

"Aye, my Lord." She answered with a firm nod. Grizzled, white hair shaking every which way. Dacey Mormont, Lady Mormont's pretty, eldest daughter affirmed that a raven would be sent to Bear Island immediately after the meeting.

When Robb turned to Marlon Manderly he found himself addressed before a word left his lips. "My Lord," He withdrew a letter from his doublet and passed it across the table to the Heir of Winterfell. The Stark lad wasted no time reading its contents. "My brother has already been forced to man White Harbor for a potential attack. With the Order of the Weirwood predominantly stationed at the Stepstones we are trying to build more ships. That is why so few men were sent to supplement your ranks."

"What news are we not privy to, Lord Stark?" Bolton asked cautiously.

"Since I summoned my banners at Winterfell a host of pirates have amassed on the Bite." Robb answered, more tension building behind his eyelids. "Clearly they sense weakness given the coming war. I imagine they wish to retaliate after all the ground we have taken on the Stepstones." He nodded at Ser Marlon. "The Order of the North will aid White Harbor as needed. I only ask that House Manderly neutralize this situation as quickly as possible. If we are to have any hope of taking King's Landing I will need the easterly fleet to land in the Crownlands."

"Yes, my Lord," Ser Marlon said, "We will handle this situation. Ravens have already been sent to the Vale seeking assistance."

Robb wasted no time ending the meeting. Only pausing to determine what quantities of food would be retrieved from the centralized storage systems to feed his growing army. Leaving hurriedly he entered his large tent with a sigh of relief. "Milord," A small peasant boy sat down by the brazier squeaked. Turning, Robb stared at him in shock. "I apologize my Lord, but the Targaryen Princess bid me to give you a message." He looked overwhelmed and nervous, "She said that tonight is the night. That you must meet her at a nearby Weirwood. Something about dressing finely, and bringing two of your most loyal Lords."

He was shocked, to say the least. Could it truly be time for them to wed? To unite as man and wife? Things that should have been truly joyous had an odd way of occuring during the bleakest of moments. The small boy, Gydeon, helped him to dress well. Then as Robb waited the child scurried about fetching Roger Ryswell and Dacey Mormont. Both were capable riders, and given his lack of prior interaction with them he hoped the intimacy of such a ceremony might change that. Telling the guard to feed the boy and give him a safe place to rest the three began to ride quickly west with a small company of guards. Leaving strict orders behind that the rest of the camp should march after them at first dawn.

OOOO

Bran woke in a surprising amount of comfort, though he still jumped. That proved to be a wrong move, for a wound on his abdomen screamed in protest. Hissing at the pain, the lad leant back down against the pillows. Memories flitted through his head. Taking a ship separate of Arya, Myrcella, and Cynthea. Sansa and Jeyne sacrificing themselves as diversions. Pirates attacking his ship on its way to Dorne. Being stabbed in the gut. Storms. Then there were more flashes. A withered Maester treating his wounds. A maiden who while comely was certainly no beauty feeding him broth. That same maiden lying in bed beside him as bare as the day she had been born.

He wondered if these were dreams, or truly happened. If so, the lad could not imagine the ramifications of having lost his virginity while unwell. As these troublesome thoughts consumed him Bran heard the door open. Standing there was the same young woman from the hazy memories. "You are awake, my love." She smiled at him, arms laden with materials. He felt his throat tighten in a most unpleasant way. "Do not worry. You are safe from the Lannisters here at Griffin's Roost, Brandon Stark." A hand went to rest on his sweaty forehead.

"This-," Bran choked, "Is not app-appropriate, my Lady?" He worried at her un-Ladylike way of addressing a stranger as 'love.' Carefully Bran thought back to his lessons with Luwin. Griffin's Roost? The seat of the Conningtons. Lords who had fought for the Targaryens and lost much of their former power in the elevation of House Baratheon to the monarchy. No longer Lords, and far less wealthy Bran recalled. That was all he could remember for such a weakly House did not figure prominently in lessons regarding the southern political system.

"Call me Alynne, Brandon," The comely lass smiled softly, "I have told you so many times. I am Alynne to you. Soon enough we shall wed, and you will call me wife. My brothers will be proud of me for having tied myself to a Stark. You are far better than any match they could have arranged otherwise." Bran felt terror in his stomach. For the moment he was beneath her repugnant control. Without answers regarding what had happened since he had left King's Landing. Then there was the threat of marriage which had pooled from her own lips. Would her brothers murder and blame him for the defilement of their sister? He felt physically ill at the thought of wedding such a conniving young woman. One who would prey on a barely conscious Lord and blatantly speak of her plans to use him as a tool for better prospects.

"No," He protested weakly, "This is wrong. W-Why wou-."

A cold look filtered into her blue eyes at this protestation. She began to fiddle with the objects in her hands. "You are still so unwell. More milk of the poppy, I reckon." He remembered glimpses then. How she drugged him whenever he put up an argument. Bran was stronger now, he tried to struggle against it, but in the end she won. The Stark lad slipping into darkness as the ambitious, older girl stared at him covetously.

OOOO

Arya stared out at the water for a long moment. Everything was grey, roiling, and windy. The whores often told her how blue Pentos was in the summer. Yet apparently in autumn storms rocked the Narrow Sea. Then, before the madam could grow too upset with her absent mindedness, the Stark girl returned to her sums. Since her boat was forced to dock in Pentos she had taken any work possible. Though her reputation and marriageability would be ruined if anyone knew Arya was working in a brothel, she could hardly care. Food, housing, and saving for a bribe was the only thing keeping her from going mad. Worrying constantly over what happened to her family in Westeros while she found herself stranded. "You have done good work this month, Arra," The thickly accented voice of her employer sounded suddenly.

She turned to glance upon the woman. Lella was the daughter of a powerful Magister, and oversaw the brothels owned by her family. The Stark girl had often wondered about how such women could manage to thrive in an industry which catered to men's pleasures. Her mistress had proven many misconceptions on Arya's part wrong within that month alone. Whores could capture secrets during orgasm if they were good enough. Could poison powerful men at their most vulnerable during the throes of passion. Not to mention that they would always be in demand like wine, or food. Though that was where the danger came into play. Except for a rare few, most prostitutes could be replaced easily given the high supply of destitute young women and potential slaves in Essos. Already one girl had been mutilated by Lella and turned onto the streets for rising above her station. A small drawstring purse of coins was settled at the girl's elbow as her mistress took the now balanced book of accounts. "Thank you," Arya nodded stiffly, reaching to grab her wages. Lella's soft hand slapped down atop the girl's. Holding it tightly in place.

"You are beautiful and clever. If you chose to stay here, in Pentos, I could use you as a spy. Men would gladly trade their heads for a single taste of a cunt like yours. To say that they fucked a beautiful woman from a place so exotic as the North." Those eyes were hungry, another finger traced towards Arya's doublet. "Just let me take a look at your wares. So I can see what I have to work with."

"No thank you, Madam Lella," Her voice was firm, and she stood to both feet. "I plan to leave by the time another ship North passes through. Apparently this storm will be over within the next two months."

A sly smile spread across Lella's lips. Arya had the horrible feeling that she played into a trap. "Sweetling," The older woman purred, "You are so deliciously innocent. Braavos has spies all throughout Pentos and controls every ship. If a pretty, little Northern Lady were to try to leave, with war all but declared, what do you think would happen? They will happily capture you and whore you out for their own profit. Or torture you until the name of your House slips from those rosy lips. Besides. They have blocked off all trade with the Riverlands, North, and Vale. Stay here, beneath my protection. Let the men fight their wars while you enjoy yourself here." Painted lips crept close to the young woman's ear. "Let me show you how much fun you can have bouncing on a nice, big, thick-."

"Thank you for your information, Madam Lella," Arya cut her off with a falsely genuine smile. "I will try to make plans that do not involve Braavosi or Pentoshi ships once the storm ends." They both knew that would not be possible. A full on war was being waged between Lys, her families' fleets, and pirates. Tensions were growing amongst the Free Cities as a result which meant that the Disputed Lands were rife with violent sellswords. Adding to the fact that she personally knew how unsafe it was to travel the Narrow Sea with pirates being pushed out of the Stepstones. Now Braavos was no longer an option either. Not to mention the whispers she had begun to hear that the Braavosi Fleet was already sailing south to take the Stepstones for the Iron Bank. Settling the matter once and for all.

"Regardless, we both know you will be staying longer than planned." Those eyes suddenly became cruel, "I cannot have an accountant who dresses like a man. It unsettles the clients. Dira will find you suitable clothing. See her before you go." With that, Lella left.

Sighing at the setback, Arya did as bidden. Stepping into Dira's supply rooms. "Disrobe," The old crone ordered. Unhappily, the Stark girl stripped so that the beady-eyed bitch could take measurements. "For the meantime," Dira croaked out, handing over some spare, silky gowns and shifts. "I shall have more clothing for you by the end of next week."

"I won't have anything that exposes my cunt or tits, Dira. Remember that." The Stark girl proclaimed boldly. Her duties were as an accountant. The customers did not need to amble drunkenly in mistaking her for the wares. The woman shot her perpetually foul eyes in Arya's direction before spending the next hour marking suitability of colours and measurements. All-in-all the fabrics were nowhere near as nice as the gowns she had been forced to abandon back in King's Landing. Though still she mused it would be nice to have pretty-ish clothing once more. Especially to distract merchants as she argued prices in the Pentoshi markets on Warrior's Days.

Dressing in a forest green, silky dress the girl forced the other, cheaply stitched articles of clothing in a sack, then fled for freedom. She ignored the squeals, whispers, and pants of whores as they all practiced their craft better than any whore in Westeros ever could. The dying light struck her face as she swept down the streets. Arya could avoid catching the attentions of most men when she dressed in trousers with her dark hair pulled back. Intimidation had a way of thinning out the herd of prospective suitors. Though now, in a flowing dress, she was subjected to much attention. Pentos was even worse than King's Landing. Men had at least recognized that the daughter of a High Lord was off limits. Now Arya knew what it meant to be without the protection of armies or titles. So she bore the whistles, japes, and attempted gropings while remembering it all could be worse. At least the girl could wield weapons effectively, unlike the majority of her gender.

"Jocasta," Her exhausted voice greeted the beautiful Princess. They all had agreed it would be best not to use their names. Especially so for Myrcella. Nothing good would come of three young women trapped in Pentos being discovered as daughters of powerful lineages. Given that they only had a, very, large bag of Dragons Arya always kept hidden on her person for emergencies it also meant they needed to work. The first week had been spent scouring Pentos for decent employment. Due to her looks and education Myrcella was plucked up as an assistant for a fabric peddler. To Arya's surprise the older girl apparently had the makings of a vicious merchant. Only the other day she had arrived as her friend was swindling a man into purchasing large bulks of cheap material.

"Lucinda," Myrcella greeted with equal amounts of tiredness. Her stand had already been locked up which was no doubt due to how long Arya was forced to stay behind for measurements. They were almost back home along the slummy side of the waterfront, prime positioning to look for friendly, Northern ships, that seemingly did not exist in Pentos, when a passing hand drew Arya's ire. Groping was simply a fact of life in the blastedly lecherous city though Myrcella was gripped by the hair while another pox-scarred man wasted no time cupping her cunt through the thin dress. The Baratheon Princess handled it expertly despite having trained for so little time. With a sharp move she rammed her elbow into the face behind causing the offender to stumble back in surprise.

Arya closely followed that up by removing a dagger hidden on her person. The molester was rapidly backed into a stand behind him as she unwaveringly levelled the weapon at his throat. "Well done," Came an overbearing voice. Full of charisma, inarguably so, yet also rife with that repulsive hunger all men seemed to have. The daughter of Ned Stark could already tell that the spectator was a whoremongering drunkard from some remote region of the world. Kicking her hostage in the knee, prompting a sickening crack to resound, she turned to find a man sitting in the shade beneath a tree. Heavily muscled arms were propped behind his head as he rested with both boots propped on the table. "You have done me a splendid favour there."

"How so?" Arya asked with a shocking amount of calm. Essosi lotharios like this one preyed on women with easily inspired passions. A cold, glacial demeanor was the best way to avoid waking up in bed with an older man who reeked of Dornish Red and musk.

"Men who can be stopped even as they slobber in pursuit of two comely, sweet cunts are not fit to serve in the Second Sons." He answered with bravado. Arya wanted to punch the stupid fucker's grin clear off of his face. Though she knew such urges were unwise. The Second Sons were notoriously effective and some Starks had even served within the ranks. The scars which criss-crossed this warrior's body indicated that she herself would be marred in the process of defeating him.

"I thought Pentos was barred from hiring any Sellswords after they sued for peace with Braavos?" Myrcella asked with a surprised tone.

The man eyed her rudely. "We are recruiting. Though I do not stoop to fill my ranks with western maidens." A pause hung thick in the air, "We are always willing to welcome more bed warmers. I do not normally hunger for yellow heads, but you can feel free to ask for me before we leave Pentos." This was directed at Arya. "It is always fun to break in the wild ones…"

"What is your name?" Arya asked the next question.

He smiled as if a victory had just been won. "Mero, but I am also called the Titan's Bastard." Each syllable was filled with a lusty edge. Like he was stroking the air with his cock. Her dagger was soon wobbling in the trunk of the tree just above his head. In shock the man slipped backwards onto his stupid arse.

"I will remember your name, Mero. When I hear of your failed campaign in the Disputed Lands that name will bring me great joy. Remember as you die that Lucinda Snow would have been a splendid warrior, but that you made the mistake of thinking her a camp follower." With that Arya guided her new friend by the elbow as they melted into the crowds.

Both of the young women were quiet as they grew nearer to their home. Doubtlessly making sure that no more gropers lay in wait, or that the Titan's Bastard was not trailing behind. Finally the two came to a stop in the stone slums which were often filled with passing merchants. Increasingly, Braavosi soldiers had been flowing into the widely vacant apartments. Rotating out as more of the Iron Fleet docked in the Bay of Pentos. Sighing, Arya noted that Cynthea was still at work. The girl had become a shoe shiner and jack-of-all-trades. Spending so much time under the sun that she was darker than both of her tanned companions combined. Her part time job fishing on the bay had left the Frey girl with sunkissed, golden hair. Arya imagined that if they returned to Westeros anytime soon it would have been far easier to marry off her, increasingly pretty, friend than before.

Upon entering the communal courtyard of their dismal, squallorful abode the pair noted that Cynthea was wrapped around an older Bravo. Finally, as they peered from the shadows, he left the Lady to pack up her shining kit. "If I were not working in a brothel I would lecture you about protecting your maidenhead," Arya intoned mockingly as she slipped into the light. Cynthea, to her benefit, did not startle. Simply tossing the rag over one shoulder. A loud bang sounded as an old crone emptied her laundry tub nearby. Filthy water running out onto the cobbles. The woman stared at them with an uncomfortable intensity.

All three of the girls quickly moved upwards to their shared apartment. A sparse, scummy area with one large room. It was not wise for three attractive, Westerosi Ladies to strut about Pentos together in the open. That was the sort of thing which tended to draw negative attention. In a quick move Cynthea dumped a bag of pennies on the table. "I only got this much today, but the Bravo taught me some nifty sword fighting tricks today…"

Arya settled a box on the table after having retrieved it from the hiding place. Myrcella gracefully tossed the Pentoshi equivalent of a Stag on the table. The Stark girl outdid the Princess with a Dragon's worth of coins. "We have enough to feed ourselves again, but we need to dig into my savings to make all the rest," Arya sighed forlornly.

"That means we are back to tumbling," Myrcella hissed out. In Pentos the wealthy merchants lived easy lives. Though the poor often had to go into acting, tumbling, prostitution, or other areas of entertainment. Now that the three of them were poor in Pentos it seemed they too would need to join one of the local tumbling companies. "We can filter through on our days off. There is a man I met whilst selling fabrics this week. Our looks will give us a foot in, but it will be hard work from here on out."

"I might wind up tumbling full time," Cynthea responded, 'Shoe shining will never be enough." They tucked away the meager savings before the Frey girl settled the supper she had scrounged up that day on the table. Arya decided then to share with her companions what she had learned from Madam Lella that day.

"We suspected it would be the case, Lucinda," Myrcella said. "This port is full of spies for Braavos. No ship other than pirates would stop here. Even the merchant tells me that lumber trade has halted from the North. Riverlands crops are being boycotted. The Vale is just across the Narrow Sea and we have yet to say any of their ships here."

"We will need to move through the Disputed Lands," Arya nodded in agreement. "Though if a war between Braavos, Lys, and any other Free Cities breaks out it means we need to be prepared for fighting. I say we stay another fortnight at least, while you continue practicing with your war hammer, Jocasta." All of them went silent for a long while after that bleak announcement.

All of them feeling more miserable than ever before.

OOOO

Myranda Royce was no fool. Brash too. So it would have been unsurprising to the other Ladies-in-Waiting that when they arrived at Harrenhal during war she took charge immediately. Most had been too cowed by her personality when she claimed to have been given total command by Lady Sansa. Any others like Jocelyn Dustin soon recognized that Harrenhal needed a strong figurehead. Much unlike the somewhat inept Butterwell or Wode heads did not seem up to the task.

The first order of business had been ordering the peasants to bring all of their crops into Harrenhal with the help of soldiers. Destroying whatever could not be harvested. Noting that she owed Edmure Tully no fealty as well as hearing that he had already begun moving forces near the Golden Tooth, Myranda retained most of Sansa's soldiers instead. Sending only one-thousand men to Riverrun with the hopes that the Tully heir might decide against guarding such a hopeless region. Of the remaining nine-thousand Myranda used them to keep the Mountain away from the God's Eye. When ravens arrived from nearby castles seeking help she loaned her surplus men out in exchange for promissory notes of debt.

Hence, as news began pouring in that morning of Riverrun's besieged status, the south-eastern Riverlands were still a bubble of stability. Thanks in no small part to Myranda Royce's cleverness in preserving the forces of Harrenhal. "We have received a raven from Fairmarket," The elderly Maester said in his cautious tone, "Lady Johanna Tully has assumed charge of the Riverlands now that her husband is trapped under siege in Riverrun. She claims that Houses Frey, Vypren, and Lychester are not acknowledging her ravens."

"Small surprise there," Bethany Blackwood remarked with a scoff. The other Ladies in Arya Stark's court had taken a deep interest in what was going on given that all of their home regions would soon be plagued by war. As such they regularly sat in on all of Myranda's meetings. "I have never heard a good thing about the Freys and it is common knowledge that the Vyprens follow the Twins more closely than Riverrun. Why would Lychester not send men though, Maester? I thought a Vance, or some other man had been put in charge of Lysa Tully's household?"

"It is suspected that, after learning of the threat to Pinkmaiden, Markus Piper abandoned Lychester, and returned home with his men. The castle still fell to Tywin Lannister all the same of course." The Maester explained.

"Regardless," Ser Wyllis Wode, who often visited these discussions in his older brother's stead, interjected sternly. "Lysa Lychester has sent ravens of her own." He tossed the scroll over to Myranda. "She claims to be pregnant, that her husband is nearing death, and that the Lychester lands are her own. The insane bitch has even demanded that House Wode answer her call to banners. That as a born Tully she is a more suitable substitute for Lady Paramount than Lady Johanna while Lord Hoster and Ser Edmure are trapped in Riverrun." Lord Butterwell affirmed that he too had received such messages.

"Have any followed her orders? To the best of your knowledge?" Myranda interjected.

"My men and I have been working with our westerly neighbors," Lord Butterwell acknowledged, "Harvesting crops, training soldiers, and trying to convince Houses of import to abandon their keeps in favour of Harrenhal. The Smallwoods and Rygers are moving here with crops, soldiers, defenseless peasants, and anything of value as we speak." His lips tightened, "House Goodbrook is firmly allied with Lysa Lychester now."

"With their full strength committed to ours we shall have nearly thirteen-thousand men. Excepting the five-thousand dedicated to protecting Trident's Gate. Scouts have been reporting that Tywin Lannister has twenty-five-thousand men. The Kingslayer allegedly has fifteen-thousand." Lelia Elesham was deadly with a spear, and even better at logistics. Myranda depended heavily on the Lady from the Paps already. "We need more men to handle Tywin Lannister alone. Especially if Jaime Lannister sends reinforcements before they reach Harrenhal."

"Scouts are claiming he has turned south for Stony Sept. How much more time will that give us, Lord Ambrose?" Myranda asked emotionlessly in response. Her control of Harrenhal very well might have saved the disorganized, quarrelsome Riverlands. Now was simply a matter of keeping control of everything. At least until Robb Stark arrived from the North and Brynden Tully sorted out recent reports of a brewing, pro-Baratheon faction in the Vale.

"At least a fortnight, at best a month. Stoney Sept is a mighty fortress now that Brynden Tully spent so many years building it into a city. Strong walls and a stronger position. Refugees are fleeing out the back into Ryger lands with whatever harvests they can find on the way. We will benefit from the extra time allotted by Tywin Lannister's focus on Stoney Sept. The Vances of Atranta have not been communicating with us. Either they will remain neutral, or side with us. Which would be a boon since they command much land with eight-thousand men. I do not foresee the Vances attending a slaughter such as the one that is ought to happen at Stoney Sept."

"We have not received any messages from the Darrys or Mootons?" Myranda asked, trying not to feel panicked.

"I travelled out to visit Darry as you requested," Jocelyn Dustin was a fair enough rider. She also had been with Arya Stark longer than any of the other Ladies, and as such was as good a fighter as many men. Myranda lacked strong, male figureheads at Harrenhal, until more Riverlords arrived at least. So it had been simple to deduce that Lady Jocelyn could prove herself useful in diplomatic trips to the less chaotic eastern Riverlands. "Our loaned soldiers are all that kept the Mountain from ravaging the Darry lands and peoples. Lord Raymun died at the Mummer's Ford. Little Lord Lyman has been brought beneath our charge. A steward is now sending whatever crops and soldiers still can be spared. Much of Darry's strength was committed to Edmure Tully."

"The Mootons have sent us no word," The Maester spoke up. "Lady Eleanor has been wedded to Moredo Rogare recently. Unfortunately, both of them are presently in Myr. Lord Rogare is now the leading Ambassador of Trade for the Assembly of Riverlords. Lord Mooton is a known coward, and I fear he will not summon our call to arms now that Lady Eleanor is temporarily beyond Tully reach."

"That is about three-thousand swords at least we direly need," Lady Lelia protested, "It is unjust that we stand defiant against Tywin Lannister, but Lord Mooton does not defend his own lands. Even Hayford has given word that the Knight of Sow's Horn is sparing us one-thousand men, and they are not yet even officially sworn to House Tully!"

Everyone looked to Myranda, and she realized this was the crossroads. No longer could the long widowed woman wait for powerful men to intervene in this war. Her's was now the preeminent voice at Harrenhal. "Lady Sansa ordered the training of this region's young women moons ago. Lord Wode, I task you with investigating the level of training of these 'Red Roses' as well as to determine how many of them there are." Protests broke out from men around the table. Myranda waited for them to calm. "I have been given authority over this keep by both Lady Sansa and Lady Arya. We need more soldiers. If those women can fight half so well as Lady Arya's other Ladies-in-Waiting then they will make all of the difference."

"I will do as you have asked," Lord Wode acknowledged sullenly. Even he could not deny the truth in her point.

"Now," She stared, "We have secured enough food for a siege. I fear that as much of the southern Riverland's strength as can be preserved shall be matched to our own. Though it is true that more men are needed if there is to be any hope against Tywin Lannister." Myranda nodded to Barbara Bracken and Bethany Blackwood. The two had, much to the surprise of all, grown far closer in recent weeks. Especially given that they were the only two Riverwomen present in Lady Arya's court. "You two must travel north before Gregor Clegane breaks beyond Riverrun. Together the pair of you must convince your quarrelsome families to work together. Ask them to coalesce forces at the Frey border."

"Lady Jocelyn. You have already travelled so much," Her voice was apologetic, " But I need for you to travel to Trident's Gate. From there take a fleet of fast ships to Fairmarket. There will be a note that I need you to deliver to Lady Tully. One that is too sensitive to risk delivering by raven. From there immediately travel to Seagard. Ask that the Mallisters travel south to meet their forces with the Brackens and Blackwoods. We will need them to send at least two-thousand men. It is my hope that between us at their southern border, and Robb Stark coming from the Neck we can strongarm the Freys and Vyprens into sending arms as is their duty." Now Myranda turned to Lelia, "You will travel with Jocelyn, but at Tridents Gate you will head for the Vale. If it is safe head for the Eyrie. I need at the very least to have accurate correspondences with Brynden Tully. The upstarts must be shooting all of his ravens down."

"Are there any other suggestions?" She asked the other women then, "Before I send you all off on your missions?"

"I remember once that my father told me of a skirmish he saw won against savages in the Vale," Lady Lelia said. "He spoke of how Lord Yohn Royce laid traps behind in foothills that were more familiar to his own men. By the time battle came the First Men forces were nearly halved. Can you not do that as lands empty before the Lannister host arrives?" She stared at the surprised faces around her. "Why not lay pits there, or set up trebuchets in these woods here? If the Dornish could fight the Targaryens so effectively with such tactics, why should the Rivermen not be able to?"

"That is a fair point, Lady Elesham," Ambrose Butterwell agreed, "I am unsure of how effective it might be. Though we certainly do have more time to implement such plots with Tywin Lannister's movement towards Stoney Sept…"

"I also have an idea of my own, Lady Royce," Lord Wode spoke out. "Why do we not send two-thousand men to Maidenpool. I have met Lord Mooton. He is indeed a coward. If a force of men demanded that he yield them forces, the fool would surely do so. Better that we demand such a thing of him before a Lannister or Baratheon can do the same."

"Gather the details for me regarding the Red Roses," Myranda agreed, "Then march with two-thousand men to Maidenpool as quickly as you can." With that she dismissed them all. Sending even the Maester away to keep tally of the flood of incoming food stores.

She did not allow herself to succumb to the insecurities of a woman playing at a man's role though. Myranda reminded herself that she was a Royce. With that affirmation at the front of her mind the confident, buxom Lady returned to planning for war.

OOOO

Next Chapter: Knowledge from the Tenth City.