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.

18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen: The Deciding Factor

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the material written by George R. R. Martin, or his publishing company, or HBO.

OOOO

"He raped me," Alynne Connington cried out from her spot on the floor, gasping as she felt her throbbing cheek.

"STUPID, STUPID CUNT!" Ronnet roared. He had been nicknamed Red Ronnet not only for his red hair, but his blinding temper. Alynne sometimes wondered why a man would embrace such a title. As though it made him special. Men all across Westeros were marked by anger as red as Ronnet's hair. Only an imbecile would take pride in something so common. "THE YOUNGEST MORRIGEN COULD HAVE BEEN OURS! WASTED SO YOU COULD FUCK A STARK." He strode forth again, slapping her once more even as she knelt before him.

"Shut up, Ronnet," Raymund breathed out from where he sat. The Maester stood behind him in the same place he had been standing when chaos erupted. When he had informed them that Alynne was pregnant, and Brandon Stark had managed to flee down towards the Rainwood. "This is good for us. Better than any Morrigen." He almost spat it in disgust.

"WHAT THE F-!" Ronnet began to scream again, only to find himself cut off as Raymund stood, withdrew his blade, and stared menacingly forth.

"You will not raise your voice again, you moronic twat." He snapped in a low tone. Of her brothers Raymund was the best with the sword. "Alynne is in no way stupid. She knew when Bran Stark washed ashore on our land that he was our chance. That the only way to make up for the sins of our cousin, so heinous that we lost our Lordship, wealth, and nine-tenths of our land, was to force a Stark into marriage." Raymund was the cleverest of them all too, Alynne remembered relievedly.

"How does that help us if the little savage fled into the night?" Ronnet countered, much more calmly. He knew his place. Even as Knight of Griffin's Roost he did not have any chance of toppling Raymund. His younger brother was highly respected and had warded with the Bucklers. Ronnet, and everyone else, knew fully well that if he tried to get rid of his brother Lord Ralph Buckler would merely have an excuse to put a loyal, more dependable Knight in charge of Griffin's Roost.

"Maester Rowan was clever enough to send men after the lad. Whether they retrieve him or not is still yet to be seen." Raymund answered easily, a glint of cunning lit in his eyes. "He left a bit of himself behind. Enough of himself, I imagine, that our Septon could officiate a wedding. With reports pouring in as they are right now the world is a dangerous place for the Starks. He might not have the life remaining to contradict anything we say, if he even would. Those Starks are an honorable bunch. Ned Stark raised a bastard beneath his Lady wife's own nose."

"How does a Stark help us get back what was stolen from us?" Ronnet demanded of him, quite stupidly.

"He does not." Alynne said quietly, timidly. She knew her head could think things through as quickly as Raymund's did. Though no matter how hard the girl tried it seemed that she could never muster the same confidence.

"What did you whisper?" Ronnet was on her instantly. They both knew she was a much easier target than their brother. "Hmm, you inane whore?"

"The Starks are not what they once were, Ronnet." She spat, feeling the slightest bit angry at having been called a whore. Feeling the blood gushing in her hot cheeks where he had slapped her. "Shiera Seastar gives them a claim to the Iron Throne. Their coffers are probably almost as full as those of the Tyrells. Merchants gossip that Winterfell has become one of the most beautiful, innovative seats in Westeros. Their armies have grown enough that they are useful to the Rogares in the newest War for the Stepstones. Not to mention those of the Vale and Riverlands."

She suddenly felt quite emboldened, surprisingly so. Standing to both feet Alynne glared at her brother, "Our neighbors, you too, have three Kings to pick from. Stannis, Renly, or Joffrey. Many of our neighbor's sons will die. There will be strife. Land will be sold. The Starks shall have no choice but to loan us the funds necessary to take back what is ours. To accumulate the power necessary to bribe whoever becomes King into giving our family the Lordship back. All of that depends on the baby in my whore belly, Ronnet."

They all stared at her. Likely because Alynne had never spoken so many words aloud in her life. Silence was not a hard habit to indulge when one was a woman raised by Ronald Connington. The only women who he permitted to speak in his presence were the prostitutes as they gasped beneath him. Raymund's face was suddenly split with a wide grin. "Ronnet, you should go oversee the tracking and capture of Brandon Stark. I find myself very much interested in picking our sister's brain. Where has she been hiding this cleverness?"

OOOO

Sansa hissed in pain. Her bones creaked with every movement as though they were no stronger than sticks. Food tasted like ash in her mouth. The sunlight burned her eyes like the flames of the seventh pit of hell. Pacing in her small chambers did nothing but worsen her pain, but lying on the small bed was worse. Only the sense of failure stopped her from slitting her own throat. "Maester Pycelle," The girl hissed under her breath, "All I did was kill a frail old fart, and it nearly destroyed me." She felt her eyes rove towards where the locked ball was hidden under her bed.

She wanted to try again. Something, anything. Though the pragmatism in her brain was too strong. So Sansa Stark waited instead. Like a pretty, broken bird in a cage as her insides boiled and the Kingsguard leered at her. Listened as the fear faded, as people began to calm and the rumours of the Red Death dissipated from the air. There was something about waiting that made people more dangerous, she discovered, herself included. If anger was the sword then patience proved to be its whetstone.

One day she found herself brought forth into the court. Surrounded by the filthy dredges of the Crownlands. Her father bound by the neck to a pillar as several guards tugged on the other end of the strangulation device. "Sansa!" Came Joffrey's loud cry, "Ser Trant says you are here. Hiding from me. Come to your betrothed, sweet Sansa!"

Face perfectly controlled she slipped forth through the crowd. Finally coming within sight of her filthy, choking father. At that moment the woman felt like a little girl again. Remembering hearing the whispered tales of how her grandfather Rickard had been burned alive with Wildfire while her uncle Brandon had strangled himself to death. A sword laid just outside of his reach. "SA-SA!" Her father gagged violently, spittle flying from his lips as the words were wrenched from his throat. They had had their disagreements since arriving in King's Landing. Well even before that, Sansa acknowledged to herself as she remembered his resistance to his daughter's coming into their own years ago. Yet this was the man who had given his seed to make her. Who had reared, protected, fed, and clothed her.

Her heart was already fraught with fear for her family. Seeing her father this way only made it more clear just how precarious their situation actually was. "My father is a man of noble birth!" She cried out in protest, "Not yet judged before the gods for these alleged acts of treason. How dare you all stand in silence as he is unlawfully punished without benefit of a trial." The young woman knew that her words meant nothing, especially as Balon Swann stepped forth and guided her up halfway to the Iron Throne.

Joffrey, the vile bastard, rose from his throne and slipped downwards like a snake. Stopping only when he stood beside her. "I am an honorable man, a King of truth and valor!" There were loud cheers though the cleverer faces remained quiet. "Even if Eddard Stark does not keep his word, I do. This morning Lord Stark declared before you for all to hear that he is indeed guilty of the crime of treason. An offence punishable with death!" There was silence. "Before he is sent to take the black at the Wall, I will fulfill my word, my own oaths." There was a sick, heavy feeling in Sansa's stomach. "At the birth of the next moon Lady Sansa Stark and I shall be wed!"

There was a thunderous eruption of applause. Both fake and genuine. Sansa felt herself pale mightily as the King of Westeros grabbed her by the elbow, leaning forth until his lips nearly touched her ears. "I will fuck you raw on the Iron Throne. Then each of my Kingsguard will have a moment with you. In this very same room. As your father watches."

"I would sooner kill you," She growled in his ear, "I would sooner pitch myself from the highest turret of the Red Keep. You filthy, bastard of incest." There was a sudden, desperate realization in her brain. "Your grandfather is the power behind your claim. He will never tolerate his precious King of a grandson wedding a traitor's daughter."

He stepped back, smiling wickedly, "I thought you were perceptive enough to notice that my Lord grandfather is not here. He is far away. Marching to claim the impregnable fortress that you refused to secure for the Crowned Stag." Those sadistic, green eyes, like the crackling Wildfire Wisdom Rourke had taught her to make, sent her mind spinning far away from her body until it was almost detached. "You will follow obediently along with my plans. Not only do I have your father, but you forget I have your Uncle Edmure, and your mother as well."

Her trance went uninterrupted as she was soon guided roughly from the hall to prepare for a feast later that night. Not even passing so close to her father could put Sansa back into form. She found herself suddenly gifted with larger chambers and a breezy window. Her meager possessions moved during her time away with the court. Only when she found the dress of Lannister gold-and-red did Sansa snap clear. Her fiery spirit returned to her body. She barred her door the best she could. Wrenching open the metal ball. Gathering whatever magical herbs still remained in her belonging.

Slipping into a trance as her tongue grew thick with foreign languages, and the smoke of burning plants filled the large space.

OOOO

Bran Stark struggled through the muddy underbrush of the Rainwood. Sword outstretched and dripping with the blood of Connington men. Behind he could hear the distant thuming of hooves and baying of hounds. Still the large forest which loomed above remained so far away. He wondered desperately if it would even be possible to hide himself expertly enough from Stormlanders who had all been born and raised with the Rainwood next door. "FUCK!" He roared desperately, ropes of saliva splattering across his mouth, kicking himself back into a slow jog as his body protested. The Stark had already run what seemed like miles.

Finally, still several yards from reprieve the lad found himself on his hands and knees. Waiting for the Connington men to capture him. They would never release a Stark from their clutches. Lady Shiera, for what little time she had had to teach him, had at least taught the Stark boys the value of their name and seed. Alynne Connington would be his bride even though she had seduced him by nefarious means. At that moment his eyes flashed before his eyes. Using his familial connections to help the Conningtons. A loveless marriage to a woman he hated. Ridicule if he ever dared admit he had allowed a woman to take… Shaking his head violently he lowered it into the dirt as his pursuers finally arrived.

"You will be marrying my sister, Stark," Red Ronnet snarled, "This fuckery ends now." His horse slowed and circled around Bran's prone form as the party of trackers who rode alongside him stopped nearby. He jumped down to the earth. Bran peered upward right as a boot connected sharply with his nose. Tossed backwards by the force he barely heard as Ronnet hissed, "Thought you could fuck my sister in my own home? At least Rhaegar Targaryen had the decency to take your whore aunt with him once he ruined her. So much for that Stark honor, hmm? Even a sister-fucking Valyrian had more of the stuff in his pinkie."

The blood rushed in his ears as he stumbled up to his feet. Fingers clenching violently with what little strength still remained to his blade. Blinking spots away Bran spat a ball of coppery mucus at his opponent's feet. Not noticing as the sky darkened. As the wind rustled violently across the field, tickling grass on its way. Only realizing what was happening when his eldest sister spoke in his head. 'Travel to the Reach. Represent our brother to the Tyrells, Bran. You are the only Stark in the south. Make me proud.' Then his eyes rolled into his head.

He was suddenly aware of the world around him. As though a blindfold had been removed from his eyes for the first time. Animals hidden from sight scurried about all around. The party of men who surrounded him shone like beacons of energy. Pillars almost. 'Only one.' Were Sansa's parting words as Bran gestured to the Red Ronnet. The man's brain struggled as Bran took over. He was strong, sucking so much strength from the second-to-last Stark. Still, swaying with gritted teeth, Bran managed to take charge. Ronnet screamed violently at the forced action. Then, his anger manifesting as an intention, Bran manipulated his foe's body into raising the sword to his throat. Slicing ever so slowly until crimson jettisons of blood splattered. Somehow Bran managed to secure the spooked horse. Riding his almost unconscious body into the Rainwood as the trackers behind fled for their own lives.

Leaving the Red Ronnet to bleed to death on the muddy earth that had once belonged to his ancestors.

OOOO

Catelyn stood within her chamber with folded arms. The Leffords of Golden Tooth, though more than willing to follow along with the Imp's demands that she be tried for her 'crimes,' had insisted she be housed according to her station. More than generous considering that she had watched as her fool brother sacrificed a large part of the Riverland's forces within that very room. How her spirits had been lifted to imagine that they might somehow break through and free her. Only for Edmure to disappoint once again.

Now she waited. Tywin Lannister had marched through several moons prior. He had demanded that her trial be postponed prior to leaving her a hostage with an uncertain fate. Mercifully taking his deformed monster of a son and his brother Ser Kevan into the Riverlands at the head of an army thirty-five-thousand strong. The Noblewoman had been raised by her father for the inevitability that something like this might one day happen. He had always treated her as more than a daughter. Edmure's delayed birth had meant that Hoster Tully long regarded his eldest girl as his heir. As such Catelyn was at least aware of how she could act within her fragile position.

So she listened. No one wished to speak to the mother of the young man riding south to retaliate against the Westerlands. They were far more willing to boast and taunt her however. Japing about her scattered cubs, Bran and Arya both likely dead. Gloating about her son's difficulties in the field as the Vale was plagued by pirate attacks and civil war. Hidden, patient, and cautiously, Catelyn schemed internally. Desperate to return to her children.

One evening after returning from another lavish feast the Lady Stark sat pitifully upon her bed. Feeling quite powerless and dull. Hair hanging lank about her like one of the dead rivers of Dorne. 'Mother,' A wind ghosted about, which seemed quite impossible considering her window had been bolted shut to prevent any attempts at suicide. The door creaked open prompting Catelyn's head to whip the other way, just in time to catch a loud thump outside. 'Hurry.' Slipping up to both feet the Lady swirled her way towards the hall. Taking note of the guard who lay outstretched on the floor. Blood pouring profusely from both of his nostrils. 'Rightwards mother, and take his sword.' The Lady distrusted the evil, the sorcery of what was happening. She questioned if she could trust such wickedness which came in the form of her daughter's voice. Still, for some inexplicable reason she abandoned all distrust, trusting only her instincts as her Lord father had once taught her not to do.

Scurrying through the shadows she followed the twisting directions the voice gave her. A thump around a corner marked the collapse of another guard. The door opened easily beneath her palm as Catelyn slipped easily inside the dark chambers. Guided by only the moonlight as she peered towards the bed. She nearly gasped aloud at the sight of who lay there. Clarisse Lefford. A pretty maiden of fifteen, and the only heir of Leo and Alysanne Lefford. 'Your collateral, mother. Now escape. Take the west wing to the stables, the gates will be open when you arrive. From there you must fly as swift and true as an arrow to our allies in the Northern Riverlands.'

With that Sansa's voice vanished, and Catelyn Stark moved into action quickly. Pressing the blade to Clarisse's throat whilst setting a firm finger against her stern lips. She had been given a chance to go out into the world, to serve her children. Nothing would stop her.

OOOO

The Siege of the Twins was a headache Robb wished he could ignore. Upon seeing how the odds had turned against him the old man had wobbled faster than was conceivable for one of his age back into the fortress. In turn the Northmen had scurried quickly out of range of the archers stationed above. Now they were stuck dealing with a House the Tullys should have put into order years ago. "Six-thousand men in the Twins." Robb ground out, fingers pressing tight against the table. "Walder Frey is late to war, and quick to retreat."

"He had you within range of his best archers," Lady Maege Mormont reminded him, and perhaps the entire room. "You were right to order us all back. Especially now that we hold the advantage."

"Myranda Royce," Lord Karstark mused, "I don't approve of women meddling in war. Unless they manage to bring soldiers our way, that is."

"Fuck you Karstark," Dacey Mormont bit back, "I could sort you and all of your sons out any day of the moon."

"Enough." The soft, silky voice cut through the Northern Army's bubbling tension like it was butter. Shiera slipped out from deep within the tent where she had hidden behind many Lords of varying importance. Her gown was loose, and crafted from cloth-of-silver. "Do not dare disgrace your House any further, Lord Karstark," She smiled dangerously, "Everyone in this tent knows why you were asked to bring all of your sons. Why my Lord husband had your daughter summoned to Winterfell before we left. Pay more attention to Lord Bolton." Everyone suddenly glanced at the cold, quiet man in the corner. "That is the favorable way to act in this situation."

Robb continued on as though she had not just put the unruly bannermen in their places. "A messenger on horseback rode in from Fairmarket. Lady Tully has sent one-thousand of the two-thousand men her husband left behind at the city. By longships from Trident's Gate with two-thousand of the men who were guarding my Lady wife's seat. Lady Dustin," He inclined his head to a pretty, brown-haired girl with a slender frame who stared confidently at the men around her. "Was sent by Myranda Royce to inform us of the situation in the south-east Riverlands. Tywin Lannister is sweeping castles left and right with twenty-five-thousand men. Lady Tully's note contained newer information that Stony Sept has fallen, and the Lannisters march towards Atranta at this very moment." He glanced again at Lady Dustin, "How many men has Lady Royce amassed?"

"I suspect there will only be just shy of twenty-thousand by the time Lannister reaches Harrenhal." She answered succinctly.

"Suspicions do not make up for counting ability." Roger Ryswell, husband of Jonelle Cerwyn and heir to Lord Rodrick, sneered disparagingly.

"Your sister taught me my sums," Lady Dustin sniffed, crossing her arms and causing the sword belt to shift on her hips. "Presumably the same Maester who taught you to count, taught her in turn. So if a Dustin's counting abilities are in question, then I imagine those of the Ryswells are as well." Brown hair shaking the whole while she turned her attention back to Robb. "That is scraping the barrel. We are employing Red Roses in defensive roles and have even gone to Hayford for help."

"What of crops?" He asked in turn.

"Lady Myranda understands the importance of food stores remaining high in preparation for winter. Whatever crops can be saved between Stoney Sept and Harrenhal are being gathered. The Lords at Darry, the Saltpans, and along the border of the Vale are in a bubble of sorts so long as Harrenhal stands. Trade and crops are flourishing, Gregor Clegane was held at bay at the start of the war. Scouts have been installed across every bit of land. If Tywin Lannister so much as blinks towards the eastern Riverlands those Lords are prepared to shelter everything in their keeps." She allowed her arms to drop again. "Of course, I have been away from Harrenhal for a while yet. Things may be changing."

"I thank you for your service to the North, Lady Dustin." He nodded earnestly at her.

"It was not just me, Lord Stark." The noblewoman shook her head, "The Ladies Barbara Bracken and Bethany Blackwood travelled to their homes. They managed to unite their families in time for five-thousand Bracken and Blackwood men to catch longboats here. A far more impressive feat than the role I played as a messenger."

"Lady Dustin downplays the service she performed, and it is a testament to her honor. A testament to her House." The man standing beside her spoke up. A cheer went up, noticeably without any input from Karstark, Bolton, or Ryswell. He smiled at Robb brightly, stormy face lightening for a moment. "I am Jason Mallister. Upon Lady Dustin's arrival to Seagard I raised four-thousand men and rode here."

"This all means there are nearly forty-thousand men in our company, Lord Stark," Lord Cerwyn's son crowed, "We can march to crush Kevan Lannister easily. Once Riverrun is no longer besieged we could storm Tywin Lannister from two fronts!"

"Not quite," Lady Mormont corrected the overexcited lad, "We may outnumber the Lannisters for now, but these weaselly fucks have us in a bad spot. Both sides of the Twins must be secured. The longships and men on the Green Fork make it easier to station men on the other side. However, that still cuts our numbers without mentioning how many men we will need to leave behind on this side as well."

"You are forgetting the Vyprens, Lady Mormont," Bolton interjected in his disquieting manner, "Walder Frey has likely gathered the entirety of his forces here, would you agree with that assessment, Lord Mallister? What of the Vyprens?"

"Certainly," The Lord of Seagard agreed easily, "His lands are expansive, but poor. The Tullys prevented the Twins from benefiting from the Sunset Canal. There has been no population boom in these parts, beyond improvement of crops from the draining of the marshes. Though none of those babes are anywhere near fighting age. Nor were they that populous to begin with, Lord Bolton." He paused, "The Vyprens are firmly with the Freys, Lythene Frey is wedded to Lord Lucias. It is harder to estimate what their forces might yield. I never hear much of them. They are weaker than Frey certainly. Lands smaller, closer to the swamps. Also not much benefit from the canal. Likely three-thousand if they scraped the barrel like the Freys have."

"As soon as we march south they will strike us from the rear," Robb surmised easily, "Wipe out my forces on the eastern side, laugh at the Riverlords on the westside of the fork, and likely march south to help Tywin Lannister at Harrenhal. Nearly ten-thousand men could be a deciding factor."

"Our only hope of winning this war is if we can handedly outnumber the Lannisters," Lord Hornwood mused, "If we lose Harrenhal it does not matter what happens at Riverrun. Especially considering that the Vale is in the middle of a full-blown civil war, and Lys is quarrelling with Braavos. The Twins are a rope around our necks."

"Perhaps more men could be summoned from the North," Lord Karstark interjected.

"Not likely," Shiera scoffed suddenly. They had carefully proportioned the numbers of troops remaining behind in the North so that a civil war would not break out as soon as they all turned their backs. "What we need are more men, and it seems unlikely to find any."

"Aye, the western Riverlords were wiped out at the Golden Tooth." Mallister agreed, "Any other troops are too far south and cut off from us by Tywin Lannister's army."

"Perhaps," Robb folded his arms, staring at the map, "We do not need superior numbers to defeat Kevan Lannister. Merely the element of surprise." He looked to Mallister. "My Lord. Is it too dangerous to transport some of my army across the Green Fork by longboat?"

"The summer still holds firmly enough, Lord Stark. I would imagine not. A treacherous waterway it is, yet it should be manageable."

"We can move our men across. Take, say fifteen thousand men over, march down to Riverrun and shock Kevan Lannister. Mostly rivermen who know the lands and we will have an advantage on that front as well. He has no reason to expect us. We have marched down the other side of the Green Fork after all. That leaves behind at least twenty-two-thousand men. Split in half for either side, obviously the bulk on the east to ward off the Vyprens. No matter what we would outnumber the Freys and Vyprens on either side of the river."

"It is a good plan," Lady Mormont stroked her chin, "Better than waiting like rocks for the Lannisters to finish at Riverrun or Harrenhal and march here."

He opened his mouth to continue speaking and instead paused violently in place. There was a thick breeze of air suddenly blowing through the tent. In the back of the tent the Free Folk who had been rather quiet to that point began to murmur with discomfort. Grey Wind's throat emitted a keening whine as he looked up from where he had lay sprawled before the brazier. Mounds of dried leaves, grass, and twigs fluttered in through the bustling flaps. Forming a misshapen, feminine figure in the middle of the tent. 'Robb… Brother… Arya and Bran live… Escaped… I am still trapped… Mother flees from the Golden Tooth as we speak… Hostage,' Sansa's ethereal voice was fading in and out like rushing water. 'Lannisters say Crackclaw Point in revolt… Shiera is a dragon reborn... Use her to your advantage… Claim the throne.'

Finally she stepped up to him, her voice becoming clear as a day. 'Joffrey plans to wed me. You will hear of it soon. Do not sacrifice this war, our House, for my sake. Do not settle. Winter is Coming. Our people will need the fruits of victory to persevere.' Then Sansa's specter exploded downwards to the floor as a pile of debris.

"Crackclaw Point. The Celtigars, and the Velaryons just a bit beyond…" Shiera stood with one hand against the table, another on her belly through the loose gown. Eyes boring into the map spread out before them. "Why did I not consider it. They are loyal to the Targaryens. I am the only Targaryen still remaining in Westeros."

Robb felt his stomach drop to his boots at the sheer terror of what was being suggested. The thought of Shiera travelling without him to deal with armies was nerve-wracking. Deciding to pursue the matter at another time with his Lady wife, he turned quickly to where the Free Folk leaders stood in the tent. "Lady Mormont, Ygritte. I need the two of you to take a party out towards the Golden Tooth. To find my mother before the Leffords do…"

OOOO

Arya was sick to her stomach. Not at the thought of being fucked by the flowery little man seated before her. No, simply because a guard had punched her in the stomach earlier that day during their abduction. Still, the pain brought on by her resistance had been for nought. She was shackled to a marble floor beside Cynthea. Clad only in the sheer, silk dress they had forced on her. Unable to ward off what was likely about to happen, let alone think of escaping. "There must be something we can do." Cynthea sighed, "Perhaps we take the Prince of Pentos hostage? We are more than capable…" Her last words were a whisper.

"We are trapped in a fortress," Arya answered in a resigned tone, "With no weapons." She sneered, mostly at herself. "We should have realized how conspicuous the three of us were. Remembered that they would be looking for virgins to throw at the Prince. Now we need to suffer the consequences of our idiocy."

"We can fight it." Cynthea argued.

"They will slit our throats after if we resist," The Stark reasoned coolly. "Perhaps this way we will be passed off to a few guards, then sold to a brothel where escape is a more easily obtainable prospect. She cracked her neck. Fighting the stress of the moment like Master Rodrik had taught her to. Then gasped in surprise. Cold rushed faintly over her neck as the air whistled cruelly about her bare shoulders. Black hair flapping mightily. The manacles binding Cynthea and herself to the marble floor clicked open. Both girls were wise enough to keep the wrist restraints in particular from clattering to the floor. Such loud noises would have alerted the guards outside the room.

'Most of the men are celebrating,' Sansa's voice, crueller than it had been before, hissed in Arya's ears, 'Myrcella is on her way…Take a right... Flee with her towards the western grove… Hole behind the Tigerberry Bush... Make for Lys… Help the Rogares… Represent our family… Save us Arya…'

"What do we do?" Cynthea asked nervously.

"We wait," Arya smiled darkly. Listening as the sound of loud thunks outside followed her words, and the heavy door creaked open. She stood lithely up from her knees to both of her bare feet. Slinking forth to exit the gaudy pleasure room they had been confined to. Both of the guards lay unconscious in the corridor before her.

"How is this possible?" Cynthea wondered in a breathy voice as they tiptoed over the fallen men.

"Magic," Arya closed her eyes and tried to enjoy not being bound to a floor in chains. "Magic and sisterly love." With that the young woman snatched one of the guard's swords before striding rightwards. Having no reason to doubt that they would run into their friend eventually.

OOOO

"She has fallen into a deep sleep, your grace," Pycelle simpered. "Lady Sansa has poor chances. In cases such as these the afflicted are known to gradually lose their ability to swallow."

"YOU WILL FIX HER!" Joffrey exploded violently, pointing a finger in the old man's face. "I don't care if you have to ram ten common cocks a day down her throat to get her to swallow. She will be awake and alive before my grandfather arrives in this city. We will be wedded by the end of the month, or your head will be planted on a pike!"

"Joffrey, love," Cersei's eyes were troubled as she stepped forth to placate him. The rest of the small council crowded the small chambers. They had all reported to the room for the update on Sansa Stark's condition. "This is a sign. Sansa Stark was always too weak to be a Que-."

"Silence." Joffrey snapped coldly, "Regardless of your qualms about our imminent marriage, the bitch is important. Her sickly, traitor father isn't enough to help us in the war. She, the illustrious Lady of Harrenhal, is enough. We need her alive." There was mixed shock. Despite the insanity Joffrey had again managed to make a fine point.

"Your grace," Baelish piped up, "Though Maester Pycelle is a true expert in many matters, I spoke with several Maesters on my own."

"Out with it," The King gritted his teeth violently.

"There are several methods that they claimed may be of help. One is to feed Lady Stark through her rectum. Practiced in some parts of Essos…." He was quick to supply the needed information.

"I want those Maesters here. They can handle my betrothed's health, since Maester Pycelle clearly cannot." He strode from the chambers then, face a deep red.

Slowly the rest filtered out until only Varys remained. Peering concernedly down at the young woman resting before him. Her lovely features were as sharp as stone from malnourishment. Dark bags beneath his eyes. Skin an ashy pallor. From beneath his voluminous clothing he let his fingertips press against the sealed, metal contraption his little birds had found beside her body. "You are trouble, Sansa Stark," He whispered to himself, "I am as well. Yet I still have a sense of self-preservation. That is what makes me special. Soon you will learn to be special in this way. Or you will die." Unsurprisingly, she did not stir.

The Spider was forced to bite down the rest of his words as he slipped out of the chambers.

OOOO

This took me a long while to finish. I think that I go through inspirational rotations between my HP fanfic and this one. Furthermore, I think that the show's ending was so unrealistic and disappointing, not with regards to Dany, just everything else, that it temporarily blocked my enthusiasm for ASOIAF. Hope you all are staying safe, panic-free, and that you enjoy this update. Yes, Sansa performed a very powerful feat, but there are serious repercussions for it.