Chapter Two now has audio commentary! You find it by googling "Quotev" and then searching that site for "The Price She Paid".
Sansa Stark was a column on the highest battlement of Riverrun's keep, as gray and motionless as the rock piles around her. The wind at this elevation tried relentlessly to bite through to the bone, but she hardly noticed.
Spread below her like a bas-relief toy map was a thicket of red and yellow tents. It sloped up a hill to blend with the colors of the forest, dimmed by muddy morning light. Clumps of black dots moved sluggishly up and down the map's rows, but to her left, there was no sign of life among the white birch of a village. She had long since stopped looking.
Her head turned slightly at the scrape of someone walking along the battlement towards her. She could hear the creak of leather as the Blackfish moved up beside her.
"I thought I might find you here," he said. "Up where it's lonely. It's a shame about the view, though. I would have liked for you to be able to see Riverrun at its best. In full summer bloom, without all those boots churning up the fields."
"I can imagine how beautiful it must be," Sansa mused. Her shoulders twitched in what could be an incipient shrug. "But this has its charms too."
"You're up early. Having trouble getting used to a soft bed?" He chuckled as she raised an eyebrow at him. "You're talking to an old soldier, girl. Sleep on the ground for a few weeks and a real bed starts to feel a bit like torture."
"How's Uncle Edmure doing?"
"Not much change. His wife tended to him all night, though. I think she's afraid we'll turn her out if he dies."
Sansa's response was to lean between two crenelations, fingers splayed lightly on the stone, and look down. "Do you see what's changed in that first row of tents?"
The Blackfish followed her example. "The coat of arms is flying. Stevron must be here, for all the good it'll do them. He's a terrible general."
"That doesn't seem to concern Lord Frey. He's panicking."
"As sweet as it is to think of the soon-to-be-late Frey cowering in his bed, he's a very dangerous man to have as an enemy. You were right to come here. Too many of Kat's children have suffered for other people's wars."
She avoided his efforts to meet her eyes, instead watching the banner bearing the coat of arms with a peculiar intensity. "I have no shortage of very dangerous enemies."
"So you've said. Why didn't you take refuge at The Wall?"
Sansa's dry, sardonic chuckle barely even reached his ears. "I've surrounded myself with murderers and rapers before. I wasn't eager to make that mistake again."
"I never thought of it that way."
"No one ever does. Besides, Jon didn't help Robb or Bran and Rickon." She smiled at her great-uncle. "Are you different? Can I count on you?"
"I told you, you can stay as long as you like."
"You know that's not what I mean."
"What do you want me to do? Abandon my home? I can't."
"Edmure is your lord and commander. Now that he's back, it's his job to protect Riverrun, not yours."
"If he survives, even Edmure won't abandon his home to the tender mercies of the Freys or the Lannisters."
She blinked, then shook her head. "You misunderstand. How many soldiers does it take to defend a city like this?"
"What?"
"A city like this, you know, with strong walls and a moat. What's the smallest force that could hold it?"
"I don't know. Maybe two hundred."
"And how many soldiers do you have right now?"
He looked at her with dawning comprehension. "I let others fight for me at the Red Wedding. I won't do that again. Not here."
Sansa placed a confiding hand on his shoulder. "And if you hadn't, none of us would be here right now. Riverrun would already be flying House Frey's banner. How much longer do you think you can keep that from happening on your own?"
"Until the food runs out. Which won't be for a very long time."
"And then what? You need the support of the North to break this siege, and all the sieges that will follow. Support you'll only get if we take it back."
"I swear, it's like Ned's voice is coming out of your mouth." He turned up his palms in mock surrender.
"I never paid much attention when my father talked. Or my mother, come to think of it."
That got a grudging laugh out of him. "How am I supposed to get an army out of here anyway? You may have noticed that a much bigger army is camped outside our gates."
Sansa lifted her eyes to the horizon she had crossed to get here. An ugly bruise had spread across the cloud cover.
"I've already taken care of that."
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From a bird's eye view, the Grey Cove would resemble an oblong bowl hollowed out of the rock of the shoreline. The only way in from the sea was a passage barely wide enough for a single sailing ship, partly obscured by overhanging rock slabs that looked as if they could topple at any moment. The only way in by land was a crevice carved by a long-dried stream that once emptied into the sea.
Between the two, the striated depression of the Grey Cove itself spread out. Some said its name derived from House Greyjoy, others from the color of the tons of steel that had passed over it. One thing it clearly had not been named after was its own color, which was a pleasant greenish-blue. Regardless of the truth of its origins, its existence had been a closely guarded secret among the ironborn for millennia.
At the moment, the history and geography of the cove were the farthest things from Yara Greyjoy's mind. The sun beat down from directly above and the air within the protection of the towering cliffs was warm enough for her to quite comfortably sit underwear-clad on her lieutenant's lap. She looped her arms around his neck and leaned back, legs kicking boisterously out. Her eyes closed as she inhaled the perfume of the plant life that flourished in this sheltered niche.
She felt the lap under her shake and realized her second-in-command was laughing at her. "Shale? What the hell?"
"You don't smile like that very often. Was I really that good?"
She punched his arm, too hard to be a joke yet not hard enough to be serious. "Ask me after I find someone to compare you to."
They both took in the strained jollity going on around them.
"It wouldn't be too hard, even for you. They're bored." She punched him again. "When are they going to see the battle you promised?"
"We set out tomorrow. When we get there, we just have to wait for the Stark girl's signal."
Shale didn't answer. When she next looked at him, no hint of his needling grin remained. "I thought you would be happy to hear that."
"You didn't tell her where we are, did you?"
"Of course not! All she knows is that we anchored somewhere along the coast." Without removing her arms, she turned her palms up and teased, "I think our secret is safe for another generation."
"Good. Good. I just think- well, I don't want you to make a mistake."
"What does that mean?"
"It's bad enough that you've allied yourself with the family that humiliated your family. It can only weaken your authority further to be seen taking orders from a woman."
"I am a woman."
"It's not the same thing, though."
"You seemed to think it was exactly the same thing an hour ago," Yara shot back, nuzzling into Shale's neck.
He pushed her away. "It's not." His eyes shifted as he searched for the words to give shape to what was in his head. "You were born with the body of a woman, but the soul of a man. That's why you can fight, can lead. It's what your father saw when he named you his true heir."
She stared into his earnest face, thunderstruck. To the extent that she had ever thought about how her soldiers accepted a female's command, this bizarre rationalization wasn't something she could have anticipated. Was that really how they all thought of her? As an accident of birth?
"I'm going to get more mead," she suddenly announced. "I, for one, plan on raising a little hell before we march.
The sand was cool between her bare toes, shockingly so, as she wound through the tents. No effort was being made to guard their small camp. There was no need. The islands maintained a permanent outpost here for the sole purpose of silencing anyone unlucky enough to stumble across their secret. In Yara's lifetime, only one person had been so unlucky.
Her men barely looked at her as she passed by them, chest shifting in the tight linen of her undershirt with each step. An impressive cask that had occupied its own launchboat sat like an ancient monument between the camp and the shoreline, and as Yara reached the perimeter, she witnessed unusual behavior from two men she immediately recognized. Their youthful sheen hadn't worn away at all in the few years she had known them. They had very quickly developed a fondness for each other, but it wasn't the camaraderie of men at arms that they were displaying at this moment. This was something more... furtive.
Her pace slowed as she watched. One man whispered into the other's ear and was answered with an expression she had seen on Shale's face only an hour earlier. Yara turned and resumed her errand as the two of them slipped into an outlying tent. No treachery was brewing between them, but their position was no less precarious for it. The woman who wanted to be a king would not be the one to judge them.
The cask was nestled where the strange ripples of the beach, created when rain drained in rivulets down the sides of the bowl and into the ocean, met those faint echoes of waves that reached the cove's waters. She made her own lines in the sand with a rake of her toes as liquid amber refreshment poured into her mug, knocking back a practiced draught before refilling the mug and starting one for her lieutenant. It was sweet on her tongue and hot on her throat, a one-two punch that never failed to lift her spirits. That swell carried images of the two lovers, faces flushed with the same intoxicant that was now working its way into her own blood. As exasperating as it had been to hear it from him, Shale was right. Her position was no less precarious than theirs.
If her soldiers needed to think of her as a man with tits to justify defending her crown, so be it. And if she needed to prove she was using Sansa Stark, not the other way around, so be it.
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The woman pinched a strip of meat that was just beginning to turn between her thumb and forefinger, watching pink, slobbering muzzles snap at the prize dangling just out of their reach. At length, she threw it. A peculiar little smile crept over her face at the sight of the hounds fighting over the scrap. It vanished when a gravelly voice called her back to her duties.
She helped kennel the once again docile animals for the night and fled into the darkening streets of the city, no word of explanation offered or expected. The woman was poorly dressed and barely out of girlhood, and few spared her a look as she passed them. She looked at no one, eyes fixed intently forward.
All of Winterfell held its breath, waiting for Walda Bolton to decide their fate by delivering her baby. If she birthed a son, Lady Walda would rule as his regent until he reached the age of twelve. If it were a daughter, various uncles and cousins could start maneuvering to become the new Warden of the North. Only Myranda knew that it didn't matter. She already had multiple changeling candidates in mind, along with a doula who was susceptible to blackmail. Walda was staying right she was most useful.
The towering Cyclopean eye of a lamp lighter's torch bobbed toward her from the opposite direction, pausing every so often to stretch out on its pole and ignite a street lamp. The lamp lighter performed this dance across from the castle gate as Myranda strode through it with the air of one who owned the entire pile. This was ground she had trod many times and the guards didn't even bother to acknowledge her.
She ducked into an alcove with a wash basin and pitcher and mechanically scrubbed her face, neck and hands with water that felt like it should be icing over. The smell of dog would not be so easily vanquished, but her effort would be appreciated.
A voice echoed stridently through the entrance to the Great Hall, door ajar. As she stopped in the doorway, it suddenly resolved into words. Walda sat behind the long table at the head of the room, hearing a petitioner about something involving the theft of several chickens. Her face betrayed ever-increasing helplessness, until she raised a hand to stem the torrent of words and turned to General Wyldewych for advice. He genially obliged.
Myranda held out her arms like one welcoming a long-lost friend as the woman and her nine month old load waddled across the room with profound relief. The regent's personal guard had been doubled after her husband's assassination, but Myranda ignored them. She was an honored guest, and besides, she had recommended most of them. The two exchanged a quick hug. "You handled that well," she cooed.
"It's very kind of you to say so, but I know I didn't. I don't think I could handle twelve more years of this."
"Don't be silly." They began the walk to their customary sitting room. The straw-insulated packed dirt of Castle Winterfell cut the chill seeping up into their feet, but not as effectively as it muffled the sound of those feet. One could get up to quite a bit of mischief in this place, if one were so inclined. "You just need to remember that not everyone has your interests at heart. There are powerful men who will try to take advantage of your present circumstances. Show them strength."
Walda's voice didn't exactly ring with confidence as she answered, "I will. Thank you."
Myranda choked back an irate tone. It was nevertheless with a slight edge that she added, "A good place to start would be catching the murderess. The bounty may seem steep, but you get what you pay for." Her nails picked at the hem of the leather cuff binding her sleeve. When there was no reply, she turned. "Don't you want to avenge your husband?"
A shrug. "Sure."
"Then your duty to him is clear. People are already starting to talk. You can silence them."
"I just... don't think..."
"Think what?" She stopped.
Walda leaned against the wall and sighed. "She just didn't seem like the type of girl who would even touch a bow, much less know how to shoot one."
"What type of girl would shoot bows?"
The woman colored alarmingly. "Oh, of course I know you meant nothing by it," Myranda assured her. "If Sansa Stark's wasn't the hand that loosed the arrow, she hired the hand that did. You know it's true." She backed up slowly, signalling her companion to follow.
Once comfortably ensconced before a hearth, Walda tried again. "The general says we can't afford to spread our resources too thin."
"And what do you think of the general?"
She shook her head, eyes on her lap.
"Do you know what I would do if I were you?" She held up her hands in mea culpa. "I know it's not my place to say so, my lady, but if you'll indulge me for a moment. I would find someone I can trust. Someone I trust to think of my welfare and the North's, and I would seek their counsel. Even kings have their Hands."
"I'm sure you're right. I don't know what I'd have done without you, especially these past two weeks. Not too many friends here. Or anywhere, really."
Her eyes brightened. Myranda gripped the arms of her chair, trying not to betray anticipation.
"It should be you."
"Me? I'm nobody."
"Who else can do it? I trust you, Myranda, and you are so much wiser than your years. Of course, it may only be for a few days. Then-"
She stopped her by placing a hand on Walda's. "I'm a kennelmaster's daughter. It would be an honor to counsel the Warden Regent for a few hours, never mind a few days. Shall I give you my first official piece of advice?"
"Please."
"Don't see anyone who might upset you or place undue demands on you." The hand moved to hover a respectful inch over her lady's belly. "You're carrying a very precious cargo."
As well as the night had gone thus far, Walda's malleability could still hurt the cause as much as help it. So it was with special satisfaction that Myranda breezed through the door of General Wyldewych's office and announced, "This is my office now." She slid a parchment across his desk. "I think this mandate will answer any questions you may have."
He looked up from the document, momentarily speechless. As she folded her arms expectantly, he managed, "Chief Advisor to the regent? You?"
"I expect it to be ready for me by morning." She turned and walked away.
Wyldewych darted around the desk and checked her movement with a hand on her elbow. "You think you can get away with this just because Bolton's bastard let you swan around like you belong here? I know what you are, Myranda Snow!"
"Just think. If Ramsay had married me, I wouldn't even have had to change my name." She shook herself free and turned again.
"As if he would marry one of his lowborn whores."
Suddenly, she was facing him. The small but hard unit of her clenched fist smashed into his mouth. He froze, stunned by both the blow and her audacity, as she sneered back at him, fists still balled up.
When he felt blood seep from the corner of his mouth, he slammed her into the wall and heard her breath pop out. She fumbled at her gauntlet, trying to slip two fingers inbetween the leather and tweed, and he wrestled her wrists up to pin them on either side of her head. "Is that a knife in there? A blade won't help you."
Myranda growled low in her throat as she struggled.
"The bastard is dead, and so is his father. I am a general of the most powerful army in the North. I will not allow you to whisper to that quivering, idiotic usurper we must call regent." His blood left a bitter taste on his tongue.
Abruptly, her struggles ceased. Her gaze dipped to his larynx, then Wyldewych was howling as teeth tore savagely at his throat. More accurately, he was trying to howl. All that emerged was a pinched rasp.
He staggered back and Myranda shoved her weapon into the crack in his armor where arm met body. She held up the long, graceful spiral of metal so he could see the dark droplet clinging to its tip. "Not a knife. A poisoned needle."
She wiped the red from her lips, Wyldewych watching in horror as she licked the final traces away. "You should start feeling it soon. If I don't give you the antidote, you'll be dead within the hour. What do you think, my lord? Will you behave if I choose to rescue you?"
He glared up at her and tried to speak, producing the same rasp. Grudgingly, he nodded.
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Walda watched the general with creased brow as Myranda let her finger roam over the bottles and vials in the castle's apothecary. "Now where did I see it last?"
The man's face betrayed desperation. He was slumped, clearly feeling the effects of the poison, and his eyes burned out from dark, sunken circles.
"Ah." She tapped a vial and passed it to Wyldewych, who downed it in one gulp. "I would see the maester about that throat, if I were you. He may be able to tell you if you'll ever speak again. And I still expect my office to be ready by morning."
His eyes flicked unreadably to Walda.
"Well?" Myranda made a small shooing motion. "You've inconvenienced Lady Bolton enough for one night."
When he was gone, Walda said, "Did you really need to do that?"
"He was testing you. I put a stop to it."
"And I'm grateful that you're looking out for me. I'm just not sure it's wise to poison a nobleman."
"Poison? What do I know about poison? That was a mixture we use to calm the hounds."
Walda stared openmouthed. "So you just gave him-"
"I have no idea. It won't hurt him, at any rate. If it could hurt him, it would have had a poison label."
"Aren't you clever?"
"What you can do is not nearly as important as what people think you can do. Ramsay taught me that."
Note: You may have noticed that Yara Greyjoy seems quite straight in this chapter. That's because I planned out her arc before she was revealed to be gay on the show. I could have changed it, but I like the idea of her being able to interact with the men she leads in this way. Moreover, I think the "badass lesbian" character is a bit of a cliche. Don't worry, though: a new and hopefully cool lesbian character is coming soon.