A/N: So, this is just a bridging chapter. I just want some kind of overview for whatever's happening with the other characters. And I know you guys want me to do a complete chapter for every major character across Westeros but it's kind of difficult for me right now. As you can tell, my chapters are updated farther and farther apart. I've got work and my Masters and a life in general, plus other works in the mix. So sorry if I can't update as quickly as I want to. But here's one and I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones is not mine.

Summary: When Ned finally told Catelyn about Jon Snow's mother, he had not expected for things to turn out the way they did in the end. It was so unfortunate that Robert had been smarter than Ned ever thought he was. AU.

PART 4

ROBB

Robb's fingers shook as he passed the scroll on to his mother.

She let out a fragile sob, breaking just another piece of Robb's stoic face. Catelyn Stark looked at her son helplessly, rereading the scroll over and over until Robb took it from her. She took him in her arms and the first wave of tears fell into his mother's dress until his body was wracked with sobs for his brother.

Jon is dying. My brother is dying, were the thoughts swirling in Robb's head over and over again. I may never see him again. Gods, please, no… not my brother.

"I'll kill them." He hissed, the promise echoing in the dimly lit tent, battle maps littered all around them for Pyke. "I'll kill them all."

"We get your brother back first. He'll live through this. Jon is strong. He'll survive." His mother told him, voice thick with tears and vindication. "Then, we will kill them all."

MAESTER LUWIN

"Let me see." She demanded quietly. He would never admit it but it frightened Maester Luwin how eerily quiet the youngest daughter of Ned Stark could become. She is usually so wild and free-spirited; very much like the late Lyanna Stark. It often worried Luwin how close little Arya often retraced her aunt's footsteps. What was it they often whispered about Lyanna Stark?

Beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time.

But this girl standing before him now was nothing like Lyanna Stark. Where Lyanna was passionate, loud, and assertive, Arya can be quietly menacing, commanding, and, dare he think it, dangerous. Lyanna Stark had been a warrior in her own right, Luwin knew. But Arya Stark…

Arya Stark can be something else entirely.

So, with a handful of hesitation and a short leave of his senses, he handed her the dark tidings of a black raven's wings.

She read it once. Twice. Thrice…

She gave it back with not a single word and turned to leave.

When later that day, Luwin heard the master-at-arms loudly proclaim he seemed to be missing a practice sword and at night, he can hear a distinct swish of a small sword and mute thuds of metal puncturing straw targets, he said nothing.

The next day, when he sees Sansa's bloodshot eyes dim in rage and her interests grew outside of dolls and dresses but into genealogy of powerful families and politics of powerful ladies, he said nothing. When he observed Bran's control of his powers improve to controlling not only his wolf but to a flock of ravens at once, he said nothing. When he heard how Rickon seems to grow much more unruly and violent each day, he said nothing.

For he knew they weren't just children grieving a dying brother kingdoms apart. They were wolves sharpening their claws and their fangs, readying themselves to tear their enemies to shreds and woe to those who will one day taste the power of the Starks.

That's not to mention the blood thirsty direwolves growing into monstrous beasts by their sides.

NED

Blood dripped down his fists, skin torn from the aftermath of his rage.

His tent was littered with overthrown tables, chairs, and parchment. It was sheer luck that the candles did not burn the rugs. A luck so rare but meaningless to him.

His son was dying. He was too late. Too late to save Jon like he'd been too late to save Lyanna.

He was sitting in a corner and had too much wine to drink when Jory felt brave enough to enter into his lord's tent. "My lord?" He asked tentatively.

"Leave me." Ned hissed.

"It's Lady Mormont, my lord. She wants to speak—"

"LEAVE ME!" He roared, throwing his empty bottle of ale at Jory who quickly went.

He heaved a dry sob after the man left, gulping down a new bottle of ale to wash down the grief.

Whatever whore pit you're cowering in, Robert, I will find you, he vowed to himself, a wave of bloodlust swallowing him alive. And I will take what you hold dear just as you have taken mine.

OLENNA

"This is a disaster." Olenna Tyrell sneered, rolling her eyes, delicious cakes ignored.

"Grandmother, please," Margaery placated, sounding convincingly concerned, fiddling with the remnants of her deserts. "My betrothed is severely injured. His survival is more important to consider, don't you think?"

"Oh, dear granddaughter, I certainly do." The Queen of Thorns agreed fervently. "But if he dies, then he'll no longer be your betrothed! What will happen then? Marry you to Robb Stark and have you live in that wretched castle up in the far north? Or, the gods forbid, to that oaf, Edmure Tully? This will not do."

"I hear Robb Stark is a very handsome and honorable man, grandmother." The young lady replied without much care about handsome men or honor, gracefully popping a ripe grape into her mouth.

"Handsome, yes, and honorable but lacking in imagination." Olenna said for both her and her granddaughter.

The young lady hummed. "Surely I can… persuade him to imagination." Margaery smirked gleefully.

Olenna smiled proudly of her protégé. "Oh, you certainly can, my darling. But there's nothing for you in the North. Your talent will waste away in that snowy barren land. You'll be bored out of your mind, with nothing to do but raise your children and doing that accursed needle work."

"You know me too well, grandmother." Margaery purred adoringly.

"Yes, I do," Olenna concurred. "Which is why we must do something about this situation. And quickly. Time is not on our side."

The Queen of Thorns grew quiet for a long time that even Margaery thought odd of her headstrong grandmother. "What is it, grandmother?"

"We must fetch a raven at once," Olenna declared, rising from her seat.

Margaery followed suit. "Why? Do you have a plan?"

"It seems we might have to win the war for the North." Olenna said. Margaery's delicate brow lifted. "Gods know if we wait this out, we may never see you on the throne. Those Northern fools never had an ambitious thought in their lives."

"So, we raise an army?" Margaery asked.

"No, my darling," Olenna chuckled, tucking a strand of beautiful auburn hair away. "There's no need. We have you."

When Olenna regaled her with her plans, Margaery is once again reminded why she loved her grandmother best of all.