"My little baby, off to destroy people." -Mulan

/

Four human figures stood in a row, punctuated by four equine ones. The equines drank from the stream that trickled sluggishly by in front of them. Of the humans, two were dressed in armor, one in an incongruously expensive gown, the fourth in a maidservant's attire. Tense silence reigned, broken occasionally by a boisterous slurp from one of the horses.

At last, Brienne of Tarth craned over her horse's neck to get in the eyeline of Sansa Stark and said, "I expect this is your last chance to change your mind. You can still decide it's not worth it."

Their faces had been lit only by a luminous northern moon, the night she had revealed her planned next move. In that random lousy room in a random blighted village, Pod had looked into her eyes and asked her how she thought it would feel.

Sansa had looked back at him, pupils dilated by moonlight and wine swallowing the irises. "When Joffrey died, I would have told you it was the most horrifying thing I'd ever seen. But it would have been a lie. The truth is, I liked watching him die. Ramsay and Theon too."

Pod had wet his lips.

"I bet that shocks you. It shocked me too, for a long time. But now I understand that what I felt was only natural. I have no more need to fear my emotions."

"It's worth it," replied Sansa, and turned back to the slow rivulets. Brienne kept eyes on her for a long breath before relaxing her spine.

"Lady Greyjoy. Did anyone see you send the raven?"

The queried Lady opted to duck under her horse's head to answer and Sansa stooped to meet her gaze.

"I told you to call me Yara. I'm not one for airs. And I sent three ravens. I'm not here to take chances. Oh, and the messages are coded, so they'll be useless to anybody who intercepts one."

"They'll send only a hundred men at a time?"

"Yes, yes, on the pretense of raiding coastal villages. Even the soldiers won't know where they're really going until they've set sail. You worry too much."

"No such thing," Sansa whispered.

"What?"

"Nothing. You should leave for the bridge now. It's nearly midday sun."

As Sansa squeezed past her own horse to take the reins of Yara's, Brienne made one last effort at dissuasion. "I certainly never thought I'd live long enough to see someone willingly trust a Greyjoy."

Yara had to haul herself halfway into her saddle to find a good vantage point from which to respond. "We keep our promises."

"Huh. Tell that to Robb Stark."

"My brother wasn't a real Greyjoy. He was raised by-" She broke off, glanced down. "Our ways were never that important to him. His actions were a blight on the honor of the entire Iron Islands. You know that feeling, right?"

Brienne bridled indignantly. "What do you know of honor? Or right?"

Podrick's head popped up inside the strait of broad backs and saddle leather. "Calm down. Had plenty of chances to doublecross us already. And she was right about there being no bounty on Lady Sansa's head."

Added the subject of their conversation, "Lady Sansa is very grateful, and she would also like to finish before it's too dark to make our way through the forest." A soft jiggle of reins punctuated the sentence.

The manque maidservant set off for the main road, drawing a red scarf over her hair and wrapping it into a tube. "Give me twenty minutes' start," she tossed over her shoulder. "Unless someone would like to go over the plan a tenth time."

Her command was followed to the letter. Barely twenty minutes later, they left their horses tied by the stream. As they approached the road, Sansa gently suggested, "Maybe you should put the helmet on now."

Brienne groaned and settled a heavy plate helm down over head, securing the chin strap. A flip of the faceplate and her true gender was effectively obscured. "It would help if I could at least see my own hands."

Their boots clung to the mud of the well-traveled lane, the overcast sky denying any glitter of water to them, any glint of steel to onlookers. Sansa was forced to hold her skirt up around her ankles to prevent the fine ochre material turning brown.

It wasn't long before the dank, heavy smell of the river announced that they were close. The trio rounded a bend and all at once, there it was, dwarfing even the water it spanned- the Twins. It was the site of Walder Frey's greatest victory, and if all went according to plan, it would soon be the site of his greatest defeat.

They wordlessly trudged as one to a concealing copse by the side of the road and watched the farthest of the twin castles for several minutes. The simultaneous inhalation of breath was audible as a sliver of red jumped out against the gray of the stone and expanded downward from a high window. It was Yara's scarf, the signal that she was in place.

Brienne leaned in close. "Do you have your blades?"

"Always."

The trek to the keep was occupied with thoughts of Robb and Mother. They walked this same path on the last day of their lives, thinking it was safe because an army of thousands walked behind them. Sansa had never seen such a thing, but she could imagine it. She could imagine it almost vividly enough to hear the rhythmic booms of thousands of feet marching behind her. One hand pressed the hard, warm disc of her lord's seal to her chest and quickly moved back to her side, in case anyone was watching. She knew it was a risk to wear it, even under layers of clothing. That understanding changed nothing. It was staying close to her heart.

They were stopped at the gate by an animate cadaver in rather alarming black leather armor. "Sorry, m'lady. Gotta search you."

She froze.

"Just you. Your guards can keep their weapons, naturally."

The man removed a single glove, one finger at a time, and slipped his hand beneath her heavy direwolf cloak, sliding fingertips down her back. She shot a warning glance at Brienne.

He hummed and ran his hand down her legs before lifting her skirt high enough to check her boots. Fingers flexed, then his progress toward her chest was halted by three hands.

"I'm just doing m' job, you know." He adopted a sanctimonious tone. "You could have weapons, er, in there."

She touched her snug collar. "And how do you imagine I would reach them?"

He pulled his arm away. "I guess I can call that good enough, seeing as you're a very special guest." An aside to Brienne: "Strong grip you have."

Sansa was suddenly seized by inspiration. "He can't answer you," she said, faintly emphasizing the 'he'. "He's mute."

Their interrogator grinned. "I get it. Cut out the tongue and you know your secrets are safe."

She had no idea what to say to that and so fell back on her most all purpose state: a half-smile.

It notched down to a quarter-smile, then a holding pattern, as she followed him through the northern castle, flanked by her mismatched pair of guardians. Podrick moved his lips so close his breath tickled her ear and whispered, "I knew I recognized that fellow. That's Black Walder, Frey's favorite bastard."

"Lucky him," muttered Sansa.

Still, she tugged her collar up as they stepped out onto the bridge and the frigid river wind grabbed ahold of her bare neck. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a style that vaguely struck her as something a foreign woman would wear, but it exposed the prickles at her nape. Even here, winter was coming, in more ways than one.

On foot, it was a surprisingly long journey to the southern castle, where the Great Hall and main family quarters were located. The transition from sunlight to the deep gloom of the Hall itself left her blinking, Black Walder appearing before her as an inky shape waving her forward on her own.

Sansa could feel the eyes on her before she could see them. Multiple rows of wildly differing ages, males on one side, females on the other. The Frey nearest to the head of the room was also the most conspicuous. A pregnant girl not much older than seventeen, puffy-eyed and bizarrely drawn for one so young, lowered her gaze to the floor as Sansa looked her way. The signs of trauma-induced timidity would have been easy to spot even without extensive personal experience in the subject.

Finally, from the backlight he seemed to have deliberate placed his chair in front of, coalesced the hawk-like features of an old man. She curtsied before his disapproving frown, eyes demurely aimed at the middle distance.

"Lord Frey, I am at your-"

"You're applying for the job of my legally wed bed mate."

Even now, Sansa was startled enough to meet his eyes.

"Well, it's true, isn't it? Don't dilly dally, woman. I need a new wife, preferably one with money. You need a new husband, preferably one with a title and influence in the Seven Kingdoms. It's a perfectly common business arrangement."

"My lord lives up to his reputation," she murmured.

He snorted. "I bet I do. You're not bad looking, I'll give you that. A bit older than I like 'em, but the tits and ass haven't started to sag yet."

The familiar taste of bile appeared in her mouth as he continued, "Although Alayne sounds like an awfully... unforeign name to my provincial ear."

This, at least, she had a prepared answer for. "Most of your countrymen find my real name unpronounceable. Alayne is the name I adopted when I came to your lovely land. I confess that I've begun to think of it as my real name."

"Eh. It hardly matters what your name is. What matters is whether you have anything to offer me. How did you come to know of my need for a wife in the first place?"

The cold fist in her stomach thawed by a few degrees. She seemed to be moving farther into well-rehearsed territory. "I spoke to your daughter in Winterfell. Lady Walda Bolton."

A sudden movement in the corner of the eye caught her attention. The pregnant Frey girl had ceased inspecting the floor and sharply looked up at Sansa.

"And how did Walda look? How have northern conditions been treating her?"

"She looked in robust health."

"How robust? Would you say she's gained weight?"

Sansa lowered her lids modestly as she considered how to answer. Walder's rasping bark of laughter made her jump.

"Just say it. She's a fucking cow. You really have met my daughter, then."

"Congratulations on your new grandchild."

The girl at the outer limits of her vision was still drinking in every word. She opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of letting words escape.

"New grandchild? They both know better than to bother me with that nonsense. I have more grandchildren than any man needs already."

With introductions made and assurances tendered, some impatience of Sansa's own was starting to manifest. She ventured a sweet smile. "Is there someplace where we could discuss what we have to offer each other? Privately?"

Walder flung his arm out expansively. "It's all here. I'm Lord of the Crossing, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident. Ain't that enough titles for ya?"

In her experience, few things appealed more to a predator's instincts than the chance to put a young girl in a vulnerable position, yet "demure" was clearly not cutting it with this predator. She would have to be bolder. Now if only she knew what that meant. Seduction wasn't a skill any of her mentors had passed on.

Or was it?

"It's much warmer in here than I expected. May I remove my cloak?"

"I couldn't care less."

Sweeping the cloak off her shoulders, she turned and made her way slowly to the back of the room, swinging her hips in a way she'd seen Margaery Tyrell do when approaching a new person. She studied Podrick's face for some sign that she looked ridiculous and saw only bafflement at this off script turn of events. Sansa passed him the cloak at arm's length, another mannerism borrowed from Margaery, and suddenly remembered to breath as she returned.

"I would like to bestow a gift to prove my ability and intent to follow through on my end of the arrangement. However, I must insist that it be for your eyes only."

A knowing yet obtuse grimace spread across the face of Walder Frey. "How very kind of you."

"It's no more than you should expect, my lord."

He rose and gathered his robes pompously around him before smearing a sloppy kiss over her hand. This time, she actually had to swallow the swell of vomit. "Follow me, my lady." She settled on smoothing her skirts as a discreet way to wipe her hands.

As they ascended a long spiral of steps, Walder trailed a hand over weeping stones. "You know, the Twins have never been breached. Not in six hundred years. Security is especially important these days, don't you think?"

She blinked. "These days?"

"Haven't you heard? A bunch of religious lunatics down in King's Landing have locked up the queen. Both queens, in fact. A pity. Always did fancy blondes."

Sansa's first reaction was a stab of empathy for Margaery. Her feelings about Cersei's predicament were more confused. The Queen Regent had been kind enough to her... except for when she hadn't. A smile flashed briefly as a possible benefit of Cersei's imprisonment occurred to her. With most of the Lannister family's core gone and civil war threatening, any attempt the Crown might be making to find her would be hampered.

Walder must have taken her silence as distress. "Damn crazies'll have us all prayin' twenty four hours a day, if they get the chance."

"Enemies assail us from all sides," she agreed.

As they passed into his private chambers, her eyes went over his shoulder to a chair facing them, then beyond that to a heavy tapestry with a slight bulge in it. "Please sit down."

He grabbed her hand again and pulled her in tight. She gasped and fought an urge to lean back, to go for her knives right then and there. The tapestry shifted a hair.

"I have no stomach for pleasantries, darling. There are more comfortable places to, ah hah, negotiate."

"Please," she choked out. "Sit. Let me surprise you."

He dragged her across the room by the hand, then released it and slowly sat. She cleared her throat in the "go" signal and Yara slipped out from behind the tapestry, creeping up.

What happened next fell into place as neatly as if they had practiced it. Yara wrapped her arms around Walder's neck from behind as Sansa stepped forward and wedged one foot between his legs.

Yara's arms tightened, throttling the man's cry in its cradle. "After what you did to her family, I wouldn't give her an excuse to crush them," she hissed into his ear. His struggles abruptly ceased.

Sansa's stare was chilly and unblinking. "You're the third man to have looked at me with rape in his eyes. The other two are dead now."

"I've done plenty of nasty things to a lot of people's families, but I think I know who you are. You're the Stark bitch. The kingslayer."

"That would make us fellow kingslayers, wouldn't it?"

His lips clamped together and went a sickly grayish-white as he considered his next words. "I suppose you're planning to kill me too."

"I'm not going to kill you, Walder. That would make you a martyr, and you don't deserve to be a martyr. I'll just let the Crown do it for me."

At this, he actually laughed. Laughed. She cut him off by leaning slightly more weight onto her upraised foot.

She continued, "I don't think your friends will be very happy to learn that you're aiding their enemy, after all."

"What in seven hells are you talking about?"

She pulled a creased roll of parchment from her bag and tossed it into his lap. "According to that, you're offering the Riverlands an alliance in cutting off support to the rightful stewards of the North. Or at least, that's what it will say once you've signed it."

"Why would I sign that?"

Sansa drew two large pins from her hair, revealing slender blades at the ends. Liberated curls spilled down the back of her neck. She held up the knives and let him get a good look. "Because if you don't, I'll have a chance to use these. I've been looking forward to that."

"Would you rather lose your left ear or your right ear first?" added Yara brightly.

Walder fixed her with the inch-deep scowl that instantly froze his children in terror, but when the tickle of her blade behind his ear turned into a mild burn, he extended the parchment and accepted a quill. Yara breathed hotly in his ear, reminding him to behave, as he signed.

"What is it with you Stark women and knives? Your misbegotten sore of a mother killed my wife, you know that? Slit her pretty throat, right in front of me, for spite. She was fifteen years old." Her grip tightened until the knuckles went the color of the bone they protected. "How appropriate that that madwoman created the very vacancy her mad daughter would go on to exploit."

Sansa rested her fists on the arms of the chair so she could lean in without crushing those parts of him she held hostage. Her lips were an inch from his face, her eyes locked resolutely onto his. "Do you know why it's still vacant? Why missive after missive has gone unanswered? No one wants to join their daughter with a traitor. Even their least beautiful are worth more than that."

His smug grin disappeared as he squinted slyly up at her. "You're going to die, bitch, just like the rest of your failed line. I only signed your scrap of paper because I know neither of you are getting out of this fortress alive. By nightfall, you'll just be a few more bloodstains for the servants to try to scrub out of the stonework."

"We'll see." She flipped the knives around to jut sharply downward, lifted them high and brought them whistling down to pin Walder Frey's hands to the armrests. Yara clamped a hand over his mouth, her other stout arm encircling him, as he bucked and shrieked. Sansa leaned into the handles and drove the points firmly into the wood. "Your servants can start with those."

As he stared in horror at the carved bone protruding from his withered hands, he realized that what he had taken for finely worked snake scales when the "pins" were in her hair were, in fact, Tully fish scales. Riverrun's answer to his "proposal". Walder opened his mouth to spew more threats, much simplifying the process of stuffing Yara's red scarf into it.

They retrieved a heavy, knotted rope from under the bed and tied one end to a ring in the wall. When the other end went out a window, Walder finally seemed to understand that they were going to bypass his security completely.

Through the frantic, garbled slurry penetrating the gag, Sansa suddenly made out a single word: Tully. She tore it away. "What was that?"

"Your uncle. Edmure. He's still my prisoner. I still have him locked away in my dungeon."

The women's eyes met across the room. After a stunned moment... "No," Yara said. "Not a chance. The plan was to get in, get what we came for and get out, not stage a two woman rescue mission in a castle swarming with soldiers."

"He's not just family. He's the only family I have left. How can I just leave him here?"

"She makes a sound point," Walder piped up. "Who knows what I'll do to him when I get around to retaliating against you two?" Sansa stuffed the gag back in.

"Maybe you can't leave him, but I can. I don't answer to you, and I have nothing to gain from a suicide mission." She put one leg up on the windowsill and extended a hand.

"The fearsome ironborn." Sansa made a dismissive sound. "Weren't you the one who was full of pretty words about paying the iron price, restoring your people's honor? Yet as soon as it gets difficult, you turn and run like a woman."

Several seconds of tense silence followed. Yara blinked rapidly and swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse. "How do you plan to even find him, much less get him out of here?"

Something had been bothering her since the Great Hall, a persistent face- the girl she had felt such an instinctive kinship with. Her misery had been so much deeper than that of the wretched daughters beside her. She had been pregnant, but with no husband in sight. She had kept her arm wrapped defensively around her belly, as if fearing someone might try to take the child away from her.

Now, with the mention of Edmure, these were all becoming clues that connected back to him. She reflexively lifted her hand back to the metal disc under her dress. Hadn't the Red Wedding been his own wedding to a daughter of House Frey? What had the bored socialites of King's Landing said her name was? Rosalind? No.

Sansa's face, screwed up in fierce concentration, slowly relaxed. No, her name was Roslin.

"I think I know someone who can help us."