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I own Lenora Baratheon, nothing more.

My name is Chloe Jane and if you don't read my other story you don't know, but my husband and I now own three cats! (Little Miss, our first one named after the Spin Doctors song Little Miss Can't Be Wrong. And the two new ones: Kingslayer, from GoT obviously, and Seven of Nine, from Star Trek.)
Both my husband and I are cat ladies. And we're also complete nerds.

Chapter Forty-Six: A King's Mercy

Tywin

His children always seemed to interrupt him right in the middle of an important letter. The Westerling woman had written him about his son Jaime's escape almost a fortnight ago and he was just now getting around to writing her back. Of course he would not send the raven to her. He would send it to the maester at the crag. Who would translate it into a code that he and the Lady Sybell had already determined, something benign and boring that no one would think to keep from her. And then he would send the woman a letter. A letter with Tywin's coded instructions inside.

He needed to get this letter done quickly. Because after that was the letter to the Freys.

But here was a his daughter, sitting across the desk from him. Staring at him as if she expected him to stop running the kingdoms so that the two of them could have a chat. She had said that she wished to speak with him when she walked into the room, but she had done little speaking as of yet.

And Tywin was under the assumption that she could speak without him having to put down his quill. But it seemed that he was mistaken. He sighed, "You wanted to speak to me," he said without looking up from the parchment in front of him.

"Yes," Cersei told him. "About Jaime."

"What about him?" Tywin asked her, continuing with his letter.

"I wanted to make sure that we're doing everything we can to get him back."

This made Tywin look up from his letter. He had raised an idiot for a daughter if she thought that he was sitting on his laurels while his heir was missing somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms. Of course he was doing everything to get Jaime back, and once he had he would force his son to leave the Kingsguard and become his rightful heir again. There was very little Tywin Lannister did for nothing, rescuing his son was not for nothing. There was a price that would need to be paid for that.

And Lannisters always paid their debts. Jaime would have to pay his as well.

He sanded his letter so that the ink would dry. "When Catelyn Stark took Tyrion prisoner what did I do in response?" he asked as he dumped the used sand on the floor and began to fold up his letter.

"You started a war."

"And if I would start a war for that lecherous little stump what do you think I am doing for my eldest son and heir?"

Cersei smiled ruefully at him, "For a year he's been her captive and you've done very little, Father," she reminded him. "A year. But I'm sure, now that he's freed himself you are doing whatever you can."

Tywin shot her a sharp glare, she had spent too much time with Tyrion while he was fighting. She never spoke to him like that. "Whatever I can," he agreed as he sealed the letter and reached for another one, this one would go to the Freys.

"You're still here," he said after a minute. He thought she wished to talk about Jaime. They had talked about Jaime. Yet she remained in her seat, staring at him.

"Yes," she admitted, not at all ashamed to be wasting his time.

"Why?"

"Did it ever occur to you that I was deserving of your confidence?" she asked. "And your trust? Not your sons. Not Jaime. Not Tyrion. But me. Years and years of lectures on family and legacy," she scoffed. "The same lecture really, only with tiny tedious variations. Did it ever occur to you that your daughter might be the only one listening to them? Living by them? That she would have the most to contribute to your legacy? The legacy that you love so much more than your actual children."

Tywin did not look at her. He would not give her the satisfaction of having him address her little tantrum. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw her fists clench. "I'm begging you to let me in, Father," she told him. "I'm here. Tell me your plans. I'll help."

He looked up at her and sighed, leaning back in his chair, "Alright," he told her and he could tell by the look in her eyes that she thought she had won. "Contribute."

"The Tyrells are a problem," she told him, sitting up a little straighter in her chair.

"The Tyrells helped us defeat Stannis Baratheon," Tywin told her sternly. "The Tyrells helped save this city. The Tyrells helped save your life. Your children's lives."

She would not look at him, a sign that she felt scolded, a hold out from when she had been a stubborn little child. "They mean to marry Sansa Stark to their son Loras," Cersei admitted to him. Though that was not the Tyrells' sin, at least not in Cersei's eyes. Tywin could tell because when she spoke next her voice was more forceful. "And Margaery's sunk her claws in Joffrey. She knows how to manipulate him."

"Good," Tywin told her with a nod. She looked up at him, surprised. "I wish you knew how to manipulate him." He watched his daughter for a moment. "I don't distrust you because you are a woman," he told her. "I distrust you because you are not as smart as you think you are. You've allowed that boy to ride rough shot over you and everyone else in this city."

He turned back to his letter to the Freys. This would be the end of their conversation and he hoped that it would teach Cersei a lesson, that she would not come into his solar again, complaining that he would not let her help clean up the mess that she had created.

"Perhaps," she started, her voice tight. "You should try stopping him from doing what he likes."

He looked up at her and stared silently. After a moment she dropped her gaze from his face back to the desk in front of her. He nodded, "I will," he promised her.

...

It did not take him long to get his chance to put an end to his grandson's ridiculous behavior. No more than a few days after Cersei had come to see him, His Grace had sent for him. He was required in the Throne Room.

Tywin could smell Cersei all over it. Since naming him Hand of the King Joffrey had not once asked to see his grandfather. He had not once come to a Small Council meeting. He had not once shown any real interest in running his kingdom. But now, Tywin was required. His daughter had whispered in the boy's ear. He knew. But it would not matter, by the end of their conversation Tywin was sure that he could bring his grandson to heel.

"Your Grace," he greeted once he was standing below the dais. He inclined his head, he refused to bow to a boy less than half his age. Especially not his grandson, no matter how big of a crown he had on his head. Tywin Lannister had put the boy on his throne, he could take him off of it just as easily.

"Grandfather," Joffrey greeted him.

"You wanted to speak to me?" Tywin asked him.

"Yes," Joffrey told him with a nod. He shifted in the throne, it looked terribly uncomfortable. "I would like a report on the meetings of my Small Council."

"You're welcome to attend the meetings of your Small Council, Your Grace. Any and all of them." It was pointless to say that. This boy would never attend a Small Council meeting unless he were forced. For a moment Tywin felt sorry for the fact that Lenora had not been born a son. She would have been perfect. She was moldable. And smart. She would have been at every Small Council meeting, desperate for information She would have known about all the battles, helped plan some of them. There would not be a single thing that slipped past her sharp mind and her notice.

But there was something to be said about having an aloof King. Tywin was able to run the country the way he wanted to with little argument from the crown. It was a fine line between letting the boy do whatever he wanted, terrorize whoever he wanted to entertain him and keep him from ruling and giving him enough to pay attention to that he did not ruin everything Tywin had built for him.

"I have been very busy," Joffrey sneered at him. "Many important matters require a King's attention."

Yes Tywin thought, looking at his grandson. And I have attended to them all. "Of course, Your Grace," he agreed.

"You've been holding the Council meetings in the Tower of the Hand," Joffrey told him, as if that were the reason that he had not attended any. "Instead of the Small Council Chamber." He paused and when Tywin did not respond he raised his eyebrows, "May I ask why?"

He looks like Jaime was Tywin's thought as he stared at the self righteous boy in front of him. And acts like Cersei. "The Tower of the Hand is where I work," he told him. "The walk over here would take time. Time that I could spend more productively." Running your kingdom was the unspoken end to that sentence.

"So if I wanted to attend the meetings I would now have to climb all the stairs in the Tower of the Hand?"

Lazy, Tywin thought. Again he was struck by how much easier this would be if Lenora sat on the throne. Or a boy version of her. Laziness is no excuse for misruling. Why was it that when the Gods supplied his grandchildren with their brains they had given all the useful things to the firstborn daughter? Joffrey was too spoiled to be useful. Myrcella was a girl, a simple one at that. And the youngest - Tywin never could remember his name - was too soft by half.

He had one truly useful grandchild and she was a girl. A girl in the North being used by his enemies.

He sighed and kept his eyes on his spoiled grandson as he walked slowly up the steps to the Iron Throne. Once he was on the dais and towering over Joffrey he answered the boy's question. "We could arrange to have you carried," he told him.

Joffrey looked down, shamefaced. Good.

"Tell me about the Targaryen girl in the East. And her dragons."

"Where did you hear about this?" Tywin asked. He was sure that not even Cersei would have whispered about the dragons in her son's ear.

"Is it true?" he asked.

"Apparently so."

"Don't you think that we should perhaps doing something about it?"

Tywin sighed, "When I was Hand of the King under your father's predecessor all the skulls of all the Targaryen dragons lined this room," he told the boy. He could still picture them now. "And the skull of the last of them was right here." He pointed to his left, just below the dais. "It was the size of an apple."

"And the biggest was the size of a carriage," Joffrey told him. "I know. Lenora brought me to look at them once. She shoved me into one of their mouths. Told me that the skull could still eat me."

Would that it had Tywin thought, pursing his lips and looking up at the heavens.

"Yes and the creature it belonged to died three thousand years ago." Tywin paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. "We've been keeping an eye on the girl," he told his grandson. "She seems content to travel from slave city to slave city rescuing the poor and downtrodden. The slavers and masters of Slaver's Bay will keep her busy until her last day."

"But how do we know?" Joffrey question him.

"Because we have been told as much," Tywin thundered at him. "By the many experts who service the realm by counseling the king on the many subjects about which he knows nothing."

"But I haven't been counseled," Joffrey complained.

"You are being counseled at this very moment," Tywin assured him.

"I should be consulted about such things," Joffrey told him.

"From now on I will ensure that your are appropriately consulted on the important matters," Tywin agreed with him. Though he would make sure that the king was consulted only after Tywin had dealt with the matter. He had heard whispers of how Joffrey had tried to deal with Lenora's marriage to Robb Stark and the northern victories over the Lannister armies. The last thing he needed was his grandson attempting another foolish and ultimately useless murder attempt.

He turned from the king and began to walk down the steps of the dais, pausing for just a moment to turn his head and incline it to the throne, "Your Grace."

-.-.-.-.-

Arya

Anguy the archer was kind enough to her. Though he had taken to calling her little lady and laughing at her whenever she acted unladylike. They would not give her a horse, they gave Gendry one, and she was sure that they would have given her one if she were a boy. But she was a little lady and little ladies had to ride with someone else.

Some days she rode with Thoros, sometimes with Anguy. Never with Gendry, Thoros told her that she could not ride with Gendry, they did not trust them not to ride off alone. And the woods aren't safe for Ned Stark's daughter.

They claimed they were keeping her safe. They claimed they were her friends. But she felt like a prisoner even without the chains.

But Anguy was nice to her. She liked riding with him best. When he wasn't calling her little lady he called her skinny squirrel. She was not sure what was worse. But when they rested in the evening he let her try out his longbow. But no matter what she did she was unable to draw it.

"You need a lighter bow, little Lady," he told her on their first night with a kind, friendly smile. "If there's seasoned wood at Riverrun might be I'll make one for you."

Tom, the singer that traveled with them, he called himself Tom Sevenstrings, looked up at him. "You're a young fool, Archer," he scolded Anguy. "The Lady isn't joining us. When we go to Riverrun it will be to collect her ransom and go. There won't be no time for you to sit around making bows. Lord Hoster still hangs outlaws last I checked."

"Lord Hoster is dead," Anguy told him.

"Well that son of his is no better," Tom argued. "Can't trust a man who doesn't like music."

"It's not music he doesn't like, Tom, it's you," Thoros had cut in, ending the argument.

For a moment Arya was worried, what if Robb did not agree to pay her ransom? She was no knight. She was no use to his cause. What if Robb did not want to pay for her? And what about her mother? Would her mother still want her after what she had done at Harrenhal? Thoros seemed to notice her fear because he smiled at her, as kindly as he could, "Don't worry, Little Lady," he told her. "We'll get you back to your family."

And she believed him.

...

On the second night they stayed at a place called High Heart, it was a hill so tall that from the top Arya felt as though she could see half the world. Around its brow stood a ring of huge pale stumps that could have only belonged to weirwoods - thirty-one in all.

Tom Sevenstrings told her that High Heart had been sacred to the children of the forest and that some of their magic still lingered there. And their ghosts too. The ones that had died when the Andal king named Erreg the Kinslayer had cut down their grove. He meant to scare her, she was sure of it. But Arya was a wolf. She would not be scared by magic. Or ghosts.

Yet even so, the hair on the back of her neck stood up that night. She had been asleep, but the storm woke her. The wind pulled her blanket right off her and sent it swirling into the bushes. It was then, when she went to retrieve it that she heard the voices.

Beside the campfire she saw Tom, Thoros, and the man named Lem talking to a tiny little woman, a foot shorter than Arya and older than Old Nan. She was stooped and wrinkled. Her hair was as white as snow. And her skin was whiter still. Hiding in the bushes in the dark Arya could not be sure, but she thought the little woman's eyes were red.

"The Old Gods stir and will not let me sleep," the white woman told the men by the fire. "I dreamt I saw a shadow with a burning heart butchering a golden stag, aye. I dreamt of a man without a face, waiting on a bridge that swayed and swung. On his shoulder perched a drowned crow with seaweed hanging from his wings. I dreamt of a roaring river and a dead woman that was a fish. Beside the river was a dying wolf. All this I dreamt, and more. Do you have gifts for me, to pay for my dreams?"

She scared Arya, and Arya did not want to hear anymore. So she snuck away, back to her spot beside Gendry and she lay back down. She lifted her hands to her ears to block out the whispers. The woman had to be wrong. Arya was sure of it. A dead woman that was a fish, it was stupid.

When she woke the next morning the little white woman was nowhere to be see. As the men saddled their horses, Arya asked Tom Sevenstrings if the children of the forest still dwelled on High Heart.

The singer chuckled, "Saw her, did you?" he asked.

"Was she a ghost?"

"Do ghosts complain of how their joints creak, Little Lady?" he asked her, soothing her with his question. "No she's only an old dwarf woman. A queer one, though, and evil-eyed. But she knows things she has no business knowing, and sometimes she'll tell you if she likes the look of you."

But did she tell the truth? Arya wanted to ask.

...

On the third night she and Gendry got in a fight. Not a true fight, they were playing. It started when Gendry told her what he knew of Thoros of Myr. Apparently, Arya was not the only one who recognized the red priest from King's Landing.

"He won't remember me," Gendry was telling her, "but he used to come to our forge. My master always scolded him about his flaming swords. It was no way to treat good steel, he'd say. But Thoros never used good steel. He'd just dip some cheap sword in wildfire and set it alight. It was only an alchemist's trick, my master said, but it scared the horses and some of the greener knights."

Arya thought about the time she had seen him ride in the Hand's Tourney. She wasn't sure about the wildfire, it was supposed to burn green wasn't it? Thoros' sword had been red, red and orange flames. But she did not want to argue with Gendry, and she did not want to tell him that his master was wrong. So instead she wrinkled her nose, "He's not very priestly is he?" she asked him in a whisper.

"No," Gendry agreed with her. "Master Mott said Thoros could outdrink even King Robert. They were peas in a pod, he told me, both gluttons and sots."

It was treason to talk about a king that way. Even a dead one. And besides Robert had been her father's friend. Even if he did drink a lot. "You shouldn't talk about King Robert that way," she warned Gendry.

"I wasn't, I was talking about Thoros," Gendry told her with a smirk. He was quiet for a minute, his shoulders tense and jaw clenched. "Master Mott said it was time I made my first longsword," he told her, thinking back to a time when they had both still been in King's Landing. "He gave me a sweet piece of steel, and I knew just how I wanted to shape the blade. Only Yoren came, and took me away for the Night's Watch." He shook his head, "Master Mott has probably already used the steel," he told her, his voice quiet and filled with regrets.

"You can still make swords if you want," Arya told him. She wanted nothing more than to make the regret leave his voice. "You can make them for my brother Robb when we get to Riverrun."

"Riverrun," Gendry murmured, the regret still there as he looked at her. "You'll look different there. Like a proper little girl." Arya squirmed slightly under his gaze. To tell it true she had spent so look in breeches and a tunic that she wasn't sure she would be comfortable in a dress. He shrugged his shoulders, "You might even smell better."

She punched him, "At least I don't stink like you."

She went to punch him again, but Gendry caught her hand. She stuck a foot between his legs and tripped him, but he yanked her down with him and they rolled across the forest floor. He was very strong, but she was quicker. Every time he tried to hold her still she wriggled free and punched him. Gendry only laughed at the blows, which made her mad. He finally caught both her wrists in one hand and started to tickle her with the other so Arya slammed her knee between his legs.

They were both covered in dirt when Anguy found them. He laughed as he dragged them both back toward the fire.

Tom Sevenstrings caught sight of them, all covered in dirt and chuckled before he started to sing.

My featherbed is deep and soft,

and there I'll lay you down.

I'll dress you all in yellow silk,

and on your head a crown.

for you shall be my lady love,

and I shall be your lord.

I'll always keep you warm and safe,

and guard you with my sword.

"Are we certain this one is a highborn Lady?" Anguy had joked as he forced Arya into a seat at the fire.

Thoros nodded, "Aye, though not like most. She's a lady like the princess was. I was there as the princess grew up in the castle. She was always covered in dirt too. Both highborn. Both Ladies. Both much more interesting than the rest."

Lem shook his head before he looked at Gendry, "You want to fight, fight with me," he warned him. "She's a girl, and half your age! You keep your hands off of her, you hear me?"

"She started it!" Gendry defended himself.

"I started it!" Arya shouted at the same time.

The men laughed. And Tom winked at her as he finished his song.

And how she smiled and how she laughed,

the maiden of the tree.

She spun away and said to him,

no featherbed for me.

I'll wear a gown of golden leaves,

and bind my hair with grass.

And you can be my forest love,

and me your forest lass.

...

It was on the fourth afternoon that they finally found Lord Beric Dondarrion, who called himself the Lightning Lord. He was living in a bunch of caves in the middle of the woods. A place where Thoros promised her that neither wolves nor lions come prowling.

They brought the Hound in and tore his hood off. Arya wondered why they were after him, he was Joffrey's guard. Why was the monstrous man so far from the capitol? "You look like a bunch of swineherds," the Hound growled at them when his hood came off.

"Some of us were swineherds," Anguy answer him. "And some were tanners. And masons. But that was before."

"You're still swineherds and tanners and masons," the Hound argued. "You think carrying a crooked spear makes you a soldier?"

"No," she heard a voice call out in answer. She turned to see a man making his way through the crowd. He had a strip of fabric tied around his head, covering one eye. Still, even injured and dirty he looked familiar. As the men stepped aside to let him through Arya was sure that this was Lord Beric. "Fighting in a war makes you a soldier."

"You've seen better days," the Hound greeted him.

"And I won't see them again," Lord Beric told him, gesturing toward his covered eye.

The Hound watched him for a moment, "Stark deserters. Baratheon deserters. You are not fighting in a war, you're running from it."

And what are you doing? Arya wanted to yell at him. You're far from your king! Have you been running too? But she kept her mouth shut.

"Last I heard you were Joffrey's guard dog, but here you are a thousand miles from home," Lord Beric shot back. He lowered his voice to a whisper, "Which of us is running?"

"Untie these ropes and we'll find out," the Hound growled. "What are you doing?" he asked, for the first time reminding Arya that he too would have known Lord Beric from King's Landing. "Leading a bunch of outlaws?"

"Ned Stark charged me with bringing your brother to justice," Lord Beric informed him.

"Ned Stark is dead," the Hound yelled. Arya flinched, and she felt Gendry lean closer to her, bumping his shoulder against hers in a type of comfort. "King Robert is dead," the Hound continued. "My brother is alive. You are fighting for ghosts."

"That's what we are," Lord Beric told him. "Ghosts. Waiting for you in the dark. You can't see us, but we see you. No matter whose cloak you wear. Lannister. Stark. Baratheon. If you prey on the weak and the Brotherhood Without Banners will hunt you down."

They accused the Hound of murder. He denied it. They accused him of killing children and babes. He denied it. They accused him of murdering the Targaryen children. He denied it. "If you want to cut my throat get on with it," he yelled at them. "But don't call me murderer and pretend that you are not."

And that was when Arya had had enough. She could not take it anymore. Every charge they lay before him he denied. Or blamed on his brother. But she had one charge that he would not be able to deny. And that was why she was here, she realized. The Old Gods had brought her here to the Brotherhood so that she could get justice for her friend. "You murdered my friend Micah," she yelled at him. "The butcher's boy." The Hound did not turn to look at her, but Lord Beric watched her carefully.

"He was twelve years old," she continued. "He was unarmed. And you rode him down. You slung him over some horse like he was a deer."

She waited for him to deny it. "Aye," the Hound told her, nodding. "He was a bleeder." He looked at her for a moment. "I was Joffrey's sworn shield. The boy attacked the prince."

"That's a lie," Arya yelled at him. "I attacked Joffrey. Micah just ran away."

"Then I should have killed you," the Hound told her, turning away from her as if she were some insignificant thing. "Not for me to question princes."

Lord Beric looked at her for a long moment, she held her breath, praying to the Old Gods and the New that he would punish the Hound. "You stand accused of murder," he told the Hound, finally turning away from her. "But none of us know the truth of the charge. Only the Lord of Light can do that now. I sentence you to trial by combat."

"Who will it be?" the Hound asked. He turned to Thoros, "Shall we see if your firegod really does love you, priest?" he asked. "Or you Archer, are you useful with a sword in your hand? Or is the little girl the bravest one here?"

Lord Beric turned to look at her, for a moment Arya wondered if they would have her fight the Hound. She was angry enough to do it, but she did not have the skill. He would kill her, she knew it. But as she looked at the Hound she realized she did not care. She would fight him anyway. As if reading her mind Lord Beric nodded, "Aye," he told the Hound. "She might be. But it's me you'll be fighting."

-.-.-.-.-

Robb

It was the Smalljon who woke him up. He entered their bedchambers, shoving past the guards in a way that only an Umber could do. To his credit, he tried to be quiet. Whispering Robb's name instead of speaking it. Trying to ensure that Lenora would continue to sleep as he spoke to his king. "Your Grace," he hissed at Robb. And then when Robb did not stir, "Your Grace," again. Robb sighed, he had hoped that he had dreamed the voice in his chambers, the one that did not belong there but he had not.

"Your Grace," the Smalljon whispered again.

Lenora stirred beside him. "Shh," Robb whispered to her, quietly soothing her. He was laying on his back, Lenora curled against his side. He stretched, lifting his left arm up and covering his eyes, yawning before he opened his eyes and squinting in the darkness. "Umber?" he asked trying not to growl at the man. He knew that he would not have woken him up if it weren't absolutely necessary.

The Smalljon nodded, politely averting his eyes from Lenora's naked body as Robb sat up in the bed. He was a good man, the Smalljon would not look at his wife, he would not leer at her. But Robb did him a favor and pulled the furs back up over Lenora's body. He leaned over her, pressing a kiss to her head before he climbed out of the bed and moved toward his trunk so that he could pull out a pair of breeches and a tunic.

"What is it?" he asked the Smalljon as he pulled the tunic over his head.

The Smalljon glanced back toward Lenora and the bed, "Forgive me, Your Grace," he told him, returning his gaze to Robb. "But it would be best not to discuss this here. If your Lady were to wake up, it would only upset her."

And that was how he knew something was terribly wrong. His men liked Lenora. They knew how strong she was, both with a sword and with her emotions. If the Smalljon thought that Lenora would be unable to handle it then it was bad.

With one last look at Lenora he nodded toward the door that would lead to his solar. The Smalljon nodded and followed him. "What happened?" he asked as soon as the door closed behind them. "Is it the Kingslayer? Has he been returned?"

"No," the Smalljon told him, shaking his head. "It's the Karstarks."

Robb groaned, "What happened?" he asked. "What has Lord Rickard done?"

"I'm not sure," the Smalljon admitted. "My father has him. He sent me to find you. He told me to bring you to the council chamber."

"Your father has him?" Robb asked, too busy trying to discern what had happened to notice the bedchamber door opening. "And where did your father find him?"

"The tower cells," the Smalljon admitted after a moment.

Robb watched the man in front of him, trying to understand why Lord Karstark had been in the tower cells. Who in those cells would have been important to the bannerman? All their most valuable prisoners were in the cells underneath the castle. Though, of course, their most valuable prisoner had escaped.

He could only think that Lord Rickard wanted revenge on Jaime Lannister for the deaths of two of his sons. Robb's mother had stolen that revenge from him. They had plenty of Lannister men in their cells, but there were only two true Lannisters at Riverrun.

He heard a gasp from behind him and he turned to see Lenora standing in the bedchamber doorway, the furs that he had covered her with were now pulled off the bed and wrapped around her. Keeping her warm and shielding her body from the Smalljon. "The boys," she whispered, no doubt coming to the same conclusion that Robb had come to. Probably a bit faster than he had. "He's attacked the boys."

Even though the Smalljon had told Robb that he had no idea what Lord Rickard had done, he glanced down at the floor as Lenora took a guess. "That would be my assumption as well, Your Grace," he told her softly.

Robb moved to stand in front of her. One of his hands went to her waist, the other fell to her cheek, gently cupping it in his hand. "Go back to bed, Nora," he instructed her. She shook her head. "Go back to bed," he ordered again. "I will go see about this. And then I will come back to you. I will tell you what happened." He paused, "You do not need to see this, Nora."

She stared at him and for a moment he thought that she would agree with him, that she would listen to him. But then she spoke, "No."

He sighed, "Then go get dressed," he told her, knowing that there would be no arguing with her now that she had made up her mind.

"You'll wait for me?" Lenora asked, glancing almost distrustfully between the Smalljon and himself.

"You have my word."

She nodded and turned, closing the door to their bedchamber behind her. Robb turned to look at the Smalljon. "You might not know exactly what happened, but you know how bad it is," he told his man. "Do not let her go into that room to be caught unaware. What do you know?"

"It's bad news, Your Grace," the Smalljon admitted.

And it was. He sent his squire to wake up his uncle Edmure, the Blackfish, and then as an afterthought his mother. Then all of them went to the council chambers. It was the middle of the night and the castle was cold, many of the fires had burned out or were only embers now. Lenora had a cloak wrapped around her shoulders and she stood close to his side. She held onto his left arm and stood, just a step, behind him. Almost hiding behind him.

His mother stood a bit behind Lenora. Edmure and then the Blackfish stood to his right. Robb had no idea what they were going to learn. But his guards' tight faces had him worried.

They carried the corpses in upon their shoulders and laid them beneath the dais. It had been quiet in the chamber before they brought the bodies in, but it was silent now. Robb could hear Grey Wind howling from their chambers. "He smells the blood," Lenora whispered. "Even from there."

He nodded, agreeing with her.

The boys lay naked and wet on the floor in front of him. They were almost grown, but death had shrunken them. They looked small, and helpless. He heard Lenora's gasp when she recognized them. She had suspected that it was the boys, but he knew that she had allowed herself to hope that she was wrong. But now that she looked down at her cousins she could not hope anymore.

"Cover them up," Robb growled, not taking his eyes off the boys. No doubt they had been asleep, naked and thinking themselves safe when they were attacked. The blonde one, Robb could not remember his name though he was sure Lenora knew it, looked as though he had been caught unaware. The only damage to him was the red slash across his throat, from one ear to the other. Perhaps he had died almost peacefully in his sleep.

But the boy with the light brown hair had struggled. He had fought. His arms bore slashes where he'd tried to block the blades, many of the cuts were still leaking blood. He had finally been finished by a sword ripping through his stomach. "Cover them up," he ordered again when no one moved. He would look at their faces, they deserved as much from him, but Lenora did not need to stand there staring at their injuries. The Blackfish moved forward, taking off his own cloak to spread it out, covering the boys' bodies though he left their faces uncovered.

He finally turned away from the bodies to glance at Lenora. The Smalljon had suggested that they don their crowns for this. The candlelight danced a dark dance on the bonze. Shadows danced in her eyes as well. She had visited the boys just the other day, and now they were gone.

His Lords bannermen and captains stood in the chamber before him in various states of dress. For Lenora and his mother's sake the men were all dressed, though many were not wearing their armor. Robb lifted his eyes from Lenora and turned toward the front of the room. "Smalljon," he said, his voice softer than he felt. "Tell your father to bring them in."

Smalljon Umber turned silently to obey and quickly moved from the room.

It was too long before he returned, Robb's eyes fell back on the faces of the dead boys before him. He only lifted his eyes when he heard the doors open, as the Greatjon led his prisoners through the doors many of the other men in the chamber stepped back to give them room. It was as if treason could somehow be passed by a touch, a glance, a cough. And perhaps it could.

If it weren't for the chains and the lack of weapons the prisoners and the captives would have looked very much alike. They were all big men, every one. They wore thick beards on their faces and long hair. All were clad in mail hauberks or shirts of sewn rings. They all had heavy boots on their feet and thick cloaks on their shoulders.

Robb stared at them for a minute before he spoke, "Five?" he asked, looking at the silent prisoners. "Is that all of them?"

"There were eight," the Greatjon told him. "We killed two taking them, and a third is dying now."

"It took eight of you to kill two unarmed boys?"

"It was not murder, Your Grace," Lord Karstark spoke up, at least having the grace to look a bit ashamed by his actions. "Vengeance. Any man who steps between a father and his vengeance asks for death."

Robb glanced back at his mother, his eyes narrowing into a glare, this was almost as much her doing as the Karstarks'. Willem and Martyn Lannister would have still been alive if she had not set Jaime Lannister free. He only turned from his mother when he heard Lenora whisper, her voice soft and weak, "Vengeance?" She closed her eyes and shook her head as she echoed Lord Rickard's words.

"I saw your sons die in the Whispering Wood," he told Lord Rickard. "Willem Lannister did not kill Torrhen. Martyn Lannister did not slay Eddard. This is not vengeance. This is murder. Your sons died honorably on a battlefield, with swords in their hands."

"They died," Lord Rickard answered. "Killed by the Kingslayer." He nodded to the bodies in front of him. "These two were his kin."

"They were boys!" Robb yelled at him, his voice echoing through the hall. His shout was so loud, so angry that his bannermen seemed to step away from him. Even Lenora seemed to flinch away from his anger, though a moment later she was back, just as close as before her hands shaking with what he assumed was rage. "How old were they?" Robb asked Lord Rickard. "Fourteen? Squires."

"Squires die in every battle," Lord Rickard defended himself.

"Die fighting, yes. These boys gave up their swords in the Whispering Wood. They were captives, locked in a cell, asleep, unarmed ... boys. Look at them!"

"Tell your mother to look at them," Lord Karstark growled, looking past Robb and Lenora to glare at Catelyn. "She slew them, as much as I."

Lenora lifted her hand from his arm for a moment before she placed it back on his upper arm, sliding down his sleeve gently. A comforting motion. Robb did not yell when he spoke next, he was calm. "My mother had nothing to do with this. This was your murder. Your treason."

"How can it be treason to kill Lannisters, when it is not treason to free them?" Lord Karstark asked, his voice harsh and angry. "Has Your Grace forgotten that we are at war with Casterly Rock? Has your Lannister wife whispered in your ear and made you forget? In war you kill your enemies. Did your father not teach you that, boy?"

"Boy?" The Greatjon yelled before slamming his mailed fist into Lord Rickard's stomach and sending him falling to his knees on the floor.

"Leave him," Robb commanded. Those single two wards causing the large man to move away from Lord Karstark.

"Aye," Lord Karstark sneered, "Leave me to the king. He means to give me a scolding before he sets me free. That's how he deals with treason, our King in the North." He turned to smile at Robb, he had lost a tooth, his smile was bloody and red. "Or should I call you the King Who Lost the North, Your Grace?"

Robb looked at his uncles, "I would speak to Ser Brynden and Lord Edmure in private," he announced, nodding toward the door that led to a private audience chamber off the counsel chamber. But then he turned back toward Lord Karstark and the rest of the prisoners. "Greatjon, keep Lord Karstark here till I return, and hang the other seven."

"Even the dead ones?" the Greatjon asked.

"Yes," Robb said with a nod. "I will not have such filth fouling my Lord Uncle's rivers. Let them feed the crows."

One of the captives dropped to his knees, "Mercy, sire," he called out, begging Robb to listen to him. Robb turned his gaze on him. "I killed no one, I only stood at the door to watch for guards."

Robb looked at him for a moment, "Did you know what Lord Rickard intended? Did you see the knives drawn? Did you hear the shouts, the screams, the cries for mercy?"

"Aye," the man nodded. "I did. But I took no part. I was only the watcher, I swear it."

It would have been smarter for the fool to lie. "Lord Umber," he called out, addressing the Greatjon though he did not look away from the begging prisoner. "This one was only the watcher. Hang him last, so he may watch the others die." Then he turned, glancing at his mother and Lenora. "Lenora, Mother, with us."

Author's Note:

Hello friends! How are you doing? I hope everyone is fantastic this evening!
And I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! If you did ... let me know!
Thank you for reading! Thank you in advance for reviewing! And a HUGE thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. You are the most wonderful.

RHatch89: We will have to see! Thank you for reading!

darkwolf76: I loved reading your reviews as you read your way through the chapters that you had missed! I'm glad that you enjoyed them! And I hope that you enjoyed this one as well!
I'm glad you enjoy how I write Jaime ... he's a lot of fun to write. And I like him witty, the dumb ones are no fun to write.
Yes you were right about the tea. Lady Sybell is a scheming bitch no matter what story she's in. :D
As for your question about my response to someone else's review. I'm going to try to address it without giving too much away. It is a maybe, a perhaps, a possibly that Jon will be named King in the North. An option. But if Robb dies, Lenora will definitely have a child by him.
I'm glad you're sticking with this one all the way to the end! We've still got a while, you and I!

JustDroppinIn: Damn! You write a book when you review! And I love it! Thank you!
You don't have to worry, Lenora will definitely see Jaime again and when she learns about his hand she will react with sympathy and eventual sarcasm ... because that's who she is.
Robb's bannermen might start questioning Lenora's fertility, but they're running out of time to do that.
I'm glad that you enjoyed the chapter. Theon was so much fun to write. And Jaime too. Lenora makes him a better person, but it's a quiet way. He's still an asshole, still a jerk, but then he remembers her and how she believe the best in him and suddenly, quietly he's being better.
That's interesting about the update notifications. I had never thought of that!

writingNOOB: She does think she's being clever, but you're right. Robb doesn't care about having kids immediately and he's not going to set her aside.

HPuni101: Thank you! I'm glad you're still enjoying it! I hope you liked this chapter too!

That's it. Have a great evening guys!
See you back here tomorrow!
Chloe Jane.