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Chapter Seventeen: Wars and Weddings

Mesmerised, Jon watched the falcon gliding silently overhead. Carried on the current, miles above the mountaintops, its keen eyes scanned the rugged terrain. In the years that had passed since he last dabbled in falconry, he'd forgotten how those birds could spot a mouse from ten miles up. The bird dived abruptly and he whistled it home, a thin wavering note that carried on the thin mountain air. When it returned to him, it came with a bloodied mountain hare clamped between its beak.

Pleased with the catch, Jon took the hare and tied it to his saddle pack for that evening's supper. Meanwhile, Sansa's bird continued to soar and she herself seemed to be in a world of her own. She was sat by the side of the mountain track, her back against a fallen rock and her eyes closed. Reluctant to disturb her since she'd been up since the crack of dawn with Sweet Robin, he stepped around her quietly. At least, he thought he did before she awoke with a start.

"The path ahead is clear, but thick with snow," she declared, getting to her feet. "If we keep going, we could be at the Bloody Gate by evenfall. Delay much longer and we'll be snowed in all winter."

Jon felt his brow tighten into an automatic frown. He went to say something, but thought better of it and by the time he changed his mind again, she was already back on her mule. Mya Stone was waiting nearby, ready to begin the final leg of the descent down to the Bloody Gate.

"How far away are the others?" he asked, brushing aside his concerns.

"Not far," she assured them. "About a mile back. Do you want to wait for Sam and Gilly?"

"No, but I thought we might speak privately," he suggested.

Sansa smiled. "Of course. Better out here than back at the Eyrie. At least the rocks aren't spying for Petyr."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Jon laughed. "But what is it with Lord Baelish? Why did you save him?"

"I have enough on Petyr Baelish to have him thrown out of the moon door then scraped off the rocks and thrown through the moon door again," she replied, keeping her voice down. "All the same, it's just not that simple."

"But what's stopping you?" he persisted. "You say he can't be trusted to know the truth about Robb, yet we're taking him to Riverrun with us."

"Petyr saved my life," Sansa answered. "He saved my life twice. Once when he got me out of King's Landing before I could be arrested for killing Joffrey. The second time when my Aunt Lysa tried to throw me through the moon door."

Jon's heart thumped in shock. He knew Lysa had died and now his mind was racing as he imagined the worst. "I think you need to explain that last one from the beginning, sister."

They were on the road again, following Mya as she forged ahead with the pack mules. Meanwhile, Sansa was looking flushed in the face but Jon put it down to the brisk winds skirling up the stony passes.

"Petyr kissed me, Lysa saw it and went half-mad with rage," she said, blushing deeper. "I never asked him to kiss me, Jon. He just did it-"

"I believe you," he assured her. "He took advantage, Sansa. He's been taking advantage, by the sounds of it, since the moment you first crossed his path. So, how did he save your life? Was Lysa even being serious? I cannot imagine she would harm her beloved sister's eldest daughter."

"Lysa and my mother loathed each other!" Sansa retorted.

"Really?"

"Well, Lysa hated my mother. But she was serious, Jon. She tried to throw me out of the moon door, my legs were hanging over the edge and I had to hold on to a pillar to stop myself going over the edge. It was awful. But Petyr talked her down and … and…" Sansa faltered, turning away from him as if she could no longer meet his eye.

Jon realised the chilling truth. "He pushed her through the moon door." He didn't need Sansa to confirm it. "I'll grant you, Petyr saved your life. But it's funny how this act of valour also benefitted him. He got the Vale and he still got to keep his key to the North."

"I know, but there were things Lysa told me before she was killed," she continued, making sure Mya was still out of earshot. "She killed Jon Arryn on Petyr's orders and they worked together to bring about the War of the Five Kings. It was Lysa who wrote to my mother stating that the Lannisters killed Lord Arryn and it was Tyrion mother blamed for trying to kill Bran – because of that letter."

Despite the thick cloak he wore, the winds now seemed to cut right through him to the bone. He shivered in the saddle. "The more you tell me about Baelish the more I think you might have been better off with Joffrey."

"Don't say that. Joffrey was a monster, he killed our father."

"I didn't mean to be flippant." Jon sighed heavily. "The thing is, Lysa sounds like she might have been a little … unstable, shall we say. Is what she told you the truth? Can you prove it?"

"And that's it," she said, pitifully. "It will be my word against Petyr's and someone's already been imprisoned for Lysa's death. I went along with it because I was so pathetically grateful to Petyr and scared out of my wits that the Lords of the Vale would have me sent back to King's Landing. If I can just get Petyr back to Riverrun, Robb and Uncle Brynden will understand, won't they? They'll believe me over him and they've suffered the most at his hands."

"Lord Arryn is fond of you too," he pointed out.

"He thinks Petyr is his beloved Uncle," she countered. "And you've seen him, Jon. You never know what he's going to do or how he's going to react. He'll be hugging me one minute and smacking me around the head the next. I can't move against Petyr unless I know it's going to work. The risk is too great."

Reluctantly, Jon ceded the point. Lord Arryn had awoken that morning and instantly worked himself up into such a frenzy, Maester Coleman had had to fall on him with dreamwine – the catch all remedy for all the boy's many mysterious ailments. As for his behaviour, he wondered how Sansa had the patience to deal with it. All the same, her touch and the sound of her voice seemed to soothe the boy.

"I can't believe Robb left you with these people," he grumbled, genuinely disappointed in his brother. "Then, I suppose he didn't have much choice. It's not like he could have walked into the Red Keep and just asked for you back."

He had never got on with Lady Stark. But now he was thanking his lucky stars his father was never betrothed to her sister. He would have been feeding the wolves the same night he was brought back to Winterfell.

True to Sansa's earlier prediction, they reached the Bloody Gate by evenfall. Lord Arryn had stabilised, but went straight up to bed. While Sansa was reading to him, Jon joined Sam and Gilly for supper – stew made from the hares the birds had hunted for them. While there, he was greeted by the Redforts and Waynwoods, both of whom had been campaigning to join Robb's cause prior to the wedding.

When Sansa did return, his thoughts had turned to the Tyrells. When it had just been himself and Sam, their plan had been a simple one. Sam would speak to Ser Garlan and convince him to let Jon into Riverrun. He was, after all, just one person. Now, however, they were turning up at Riverrun with an entire army of thousands of armoured knights at their backs.

Sansa seemed unconcerned.

"The Vale are a neutral force and the Tyrells just want to go home. We send in some Vale knights – and you – to parley with the Blackfish. Bring Robb with you when you leave. The Tyrells won't know who he is, so just walk him out past the siege lines."

Jon remained sceptical. "That's if the Tyrells haven't worked out who he is."

Sansa shrugged before making a start on her stew. "Why would they? None of them have ever met him and surely Robb wasn't fool enough to introduce himself."

"True," he agreed. "Not even our Robb could make that mistake."

"Gods, it's cold!" Robb stamped his feet in some paltry effort to keep the feeling in his toes. The Stark words were proving true: winter was coming.

Margaery, however, counted herself lucky. It had stopped raining for more than a day now. She wasn't so naïve as to think it would hold off until after the wedding, but that was being held indoors anyway. The celebrations were to be lowkey, with just the Tyrells and the Blackfish and his bannermen in the common hall. No public announcements were to be made in the name of secrecy and no one beyond their immediate surviving families could even know about it. All the same, her nerves were tingling already.

The supply carts were already coming up the King's Road from the Reach, untroubled by Lannister forces still patrolling the borderlands that separated their lands. But Cersei had remained silent since her bloodless coup against House Tyrell. So silent, that Margaery wondered what in seven hells she was playing at.

In the meantime, they had food, grain to make bread, fabric for the dresses and fresh fruits for the sweet courses of the wedding feast. Despite all that, there was just one final, rather last minute, alteration Margaery wanted to suggest and she was leading Robb there now.

Out in the cold, they made their way across the yard and to an area of the castle grounds not many seemed to venture into. It was closed off from the main thoroughfare by a gate, leading into a wide area of several acres. Populated by redwoods and tall elms, the godswood was light and airy, with birds still singing in the trees and wild flowers growing in thick clumps around the bases of the trunks.

"You want to marry in the godswood?" he asked as they approached the weirwood tree.

"Why not?" she countered. "Your mother and father married here, didn't they?"

She thought it boded well for them to marry in the same place as the revered Eddard and Lady Catelyn. But Robb soon put her right.

"They married at Riverrun right enough. But in the sept, according to my mother's faith."

"No, it should be done here, I think," she insisted. If she wanted to be accepted by the people she meant to rule, she had to adopt their customs. It was a basic lesson in winning hearts and minds. Besides, she felt the seven had rather overlooked them both of late. Approaching the heart tree, she traced the lines of the downturned mouth. Just like the one in Highgarden, that carved face with the sap-weeping eyes watched over the sacred space with great solemnity, even though its surroundings were really quite beautiful. "Why do they always look so sad?"

If anything, the surrounding flowers and chirruping birds only emphasised the grimness of the tree's face. Robb, however, smiled as he bid her sit with him beneath its ruby boughs.

"I don't think the Children carved those faces to cheer the place up," he laughed. "There was a war with the First Men, who cut down the sacred trees and slaughtered the children. If you go west of here, you'll reach High Heart, where the ring of weirwoods were hacked down and used as stumps to slaughter the Children by the thousand. When the pact of peace was signed at the Isle of Faces, the First Men agreed to leave the remaining weirwoods in tact and the Children carved the faces in the trees so they could watch over the First Men and make sure they upheld their end of the bargain. And now, here they stand."

Thousands and thousands of years had passed between then and now, but the sap caught the light and just for a moment the face looked half alive.

"Are they watching us now?" she asked, looking the tree dead in the eye.

Robb had his back to it, resting nonchalantly against the bark. "This doesn't feel like a proper godswood. It shouldn't be all pretty and light, like this. In the south, you turned them into pleasure gardens." He paused, gesturing toward the wildflowers and looking to the treetops where the birds continued to sing. "In Winterfell, it's a dark place with a deep pool, as ancient as the land itself. No birds sing there, nor thickets of wildflowers growing. It's just the trees, the pines and sentinels and ironwoods. And the heart tree in the middle. It's not a pleasure garden, like this. It's a place where the old gods still live."

She knew the old gods had all but vanished from the south. A few houses still worshipped the old way, but they were a minority within a minority. She herself hadn't really given them much thought. The godswood was just a place that existed within Highgarden, a pleasant little acreage where one could while away a warm afternoon with friends, taking shelter from the summer sun beneath the broad ruby boughs. She began to appreciate that there was more to them than that.

"Is this one not suitable to wed in?" she asked. "If I am to help you rule the North, I think it only fitting we join in a union acceptable to your people."

Robb sat up sharply, serious now. "Of course we can wed here, but it's not essential. The Northern Lords will accept you all the same, no matter if you wed in a sept dressed in a roughspun sack."

Margaery smiled. "Well then, that settles it. We are to have a wedding pleasing to the Old Gods of the North."

She hated to admit it to herself, but it felt right on an almost superstitious level. As if marrying here would somehow bring good fortune in the Northern wars to come. She might as well be carrying around rabbit's feet and charms bought from wise-women of the woods for the all the good it would really do. But she was powerless to rein in the superstitions now she had succumbed once. Besides, she thought it really would please the Northern Lords and smallfolk whose culture was centred around the Old Gods.

"We're looking for your brother," she said. "The scouts on the north roads have seen nothing, unsurprisingly."

"I doubt he'll come from that direction," Robb explained. "He wouldn't make it past Winterfell, never mind Moat Cailin. The far more sensible route would be for him to sail from Eastwatch down to Gulltown. The Hound went that way. Is there any news of him?"

"None," she admitted. "A few of our scouts followed him, more tried to track him. But he's evaded us all. Do you think we've seen the last of him?"

Even the Brotherhood Without Banners hadn't found Sandor Clegane, but Lem thought he might have spotted him heading toward into the Vale of Arryn at some point. The Brotherhood never left the Riverlands, so there the trial went cold and the Hound slipped the leash that had been slowly closing over him.

"Arya says he won't give up on Sansa," said Robb, doubt clouding his expression. "I don't know what to make of that, myself. But I'm certain we've not seen the last of him."

"Well, we can't wait for them forever," she said. "I know it's hard leaving without them. But we need to get the wedding done and then we need to head north."

"No, I understand. Jon, I think, will know how to find me. But if Sansa turns up here and she's been on her own all this time … I dread to think what might happen."

Riverrun would be left garrisoned, but the Blackfish would be coming North with them. They could leave instructions to shelter any red-haired maid of about fourteen who looks like she might be Lady Catelyn's daughter, but the risk was too great.

"Maybe we could leave Arya here?" Margaery suggested. "I know you'd rather she stayed with us, but she would recognise Jon and Sansa."

"I don't know," he replied. "I would not leave Arya and risk her life should this castle be taken while we're away. I say she comes with us."

"Theon, then," she suggested. "He won't be needed until we reach Moat Cailin and if Sansa shows up here, he can be brought out of his cell to identify her."

Robb perked up a little. "Yes, I suppose he still has his uses after all."

She knew about the talk they'd had, late at night in the dungeons. She knew Bran and Rickon were supposedly alive somewhere. Although she had been quick to temper his expectations, she still found herself wondering about the truth of the matter. It was as he sought solace after learning of their deaths that Robb had broken his marriage pact with Walder Frey's daughter. It was that which had led to the Bolton betrayal and the red wedding. Whether Bran and Rickon were alive or dead, whether or not Theon delivered Moat Cailin back to House Stark, Margaery could only think it wise that he should die for what he did and now she was worried the Ironborn turn-cloak was starting to weasel his way back into Robb's affections.

"You know you can never forgive him, right?" she asked. "Even if he shelters your sisters in towers of ivory, it won't change the fact you're in this mess to start with because of him."

"I'm not a lackwit," he assured her. One of the castle greyhounds that he'd become uncommonly attached to appeared from between a thicket of trees, sniffing at the wildflowers expectantly. "Theon will die soon, anyway. His sister won't want him back."

"And if she does?"

"I promised she could take him, so long as he gives up Moat Cailin," he said, clicking his fingers at the greyhound. It came bounding over to them, greeting Robb with a lick of the face. "Do you think I should have put another caveat in: so long as we get to use their fleet to liberate Deepwood Motte?"

"It might be an idea," she suggested. "In the meantime, we should start the raids on Frey lands. My brothers' men are getting bored being cooped up here."

"They're approaching already. I've seen them myself."

"The Freys? How?"

He rubbed at the dog's ears. "I've seen them, that's all. I have eyes in the strangest of places."

Robb's expression closed and he carried on playing with the dog, now letting it worry his forearm with its teeth. But the dog didn't get rough. She couldn't escape the feeling there was something Robb wasn't telling her. Meanwhile, evening was closing in on them and the temperature was close to freezing. If they were to marry here, in the godswood, they would need beacons for a little warmth along the way.

Once they were up again, Robb paused by the gate leading out of the godswood and looked back over his shoulder. He had the look of a man who had made up his mind.

"You're right," he declared, smiling crookedly back at the heart tree. "We need to marry here, not in the sept."

Relieved, she kissed his cheek and leaned down to give the greyhound's ears a scratch. On the way out, they brought the dog to the gates of the castle and let him out, so he could run free during the night. Only then did they join everyone else inside.

"Why do you throw that poor dog out every night?" she asked. "I thought you were friends."

"We are!" Robb laughed. "But I need him out there a lot more than I need him in here."

Leaving it at that, she let him lead her back into the hall where battles were planned alongside the upcoming wedding. Wars and weddings: the two often went hand in hand. Next to the place where Margaery's wedding dress was taking shape, a map showed all the places where the Tyrell army had already engaged gangs of Frey retainers as they tried to work their way south. The line of Robb's gaze followed the line of the river, all the way to where the Twins straddled the Green Fork with their vast bridge.

"I wonder what it would be like to tear that thing down," he said, pointing to the bridge.

"A fine sight, I would imagine," she replied. "Finer than all the lace in Myr, I wouldn't wonder."

Finally back at sea level, Sansa drew a deep breath and took a long look around her. The terrain was still rough. Loose soil in which little grew, clogged up with even looser stones that could break an ankle if one trod carelessly enough. But it was flat, if a little featureless with it. To the west lay Harrenhal and then Riverrun, so close now her nerves squirmed whenever she thought about it. Even now, with the Knights of the Vale at her back, she still expected something to go wrong, something to screw up her plans and set her back to square one.

So, she spent most of her days trying not to think about it. She rode with Sam, Gilly and Jon, following the outriders as they made their way steadily westwards. They chatted lightly among themselves as they passed through villages and small towns. When she looked back, as she did that day, she could see the endless procession of armoured men following them at a distance and still couldn't quite believe she had actually raised the Vale.

"Why does that boy keep calling you Alayne?" Jon wondered aloud. "How many times has he been told what happened now?"

There was little love between her brother and Sweet Robin, she could see that much.

"Because he's rather simple," she pointed out. "And you can point it out until the mountains fall into the sea, if you like. It will make no difference."

She found it funny, even if no one else did.

Come the evening, they dined in inns and taverns and stayed the night if they had lodgings going. Then, come dawn, onwards they trekked over the endless, bumpy terrain of the lowland Vale. As they went, Jon and Sam talked of the lands beyond the wall and the things that lay in wait out there. Armies of the dead, reanimated by white walkers.

All her life, she had been told the wall was the biggest structure known to man and that the Night's Watch was the knighthood of the North. Now the wall seemed small and the watch little more than tin soldiers, to be crumpled at the ease of harsher gods than she'd ever known.

"And what about Daenerys Targaryen?" asked Sam. "You heard what those sailors in Braavos said about her and her dragons."

"Did you hear anything about her, Sansa?" asked Jon, drawing level with her.

"We heard rumours about dragons," she recalled. "But nothing definite. Is it true then? Are there really dragons in Essos?"

They'd been dead for almost two hundred years, everyone knew that. The Targaryens had driven themselves mad in their attempts to hatch them, resulting only in bloodshed, misery and the ongoing extinction of the dragons themselves.

"If she really is the Prince who was Promised, then we need her," Sam continued. "Maester Aemon was convinced of it and he was no fool to go believing in prophecies."

Sansa looked to Jon, to see what he made of all this. But his expression was solemn and closed.

"Aemon was old," said Jon, at length. "His wits were wandering, Sam. You heard him talking to his brother. We cannot set too much store by his talk of light bringers and dragons and promised princesses." He paused for a heavy sigh. "Gods, we could use a full-grown dragon for the undead, though. I'll not deny that."

Sansa had been taught many a sharp lesson in statecraft since leaving King's Landing. But she knew nothing of the supernatural or the paranormal. And this great unknown made her blood run cold. An enemy that couldn't be charmed and bargained with. An enemy that seemed indestructible.

Not long after their discussion, they hobbled their horses for the night in an open camp. There wasn't a tavern or inn to be seen for miles, but they had caught some rabbits and game using their falcons. Despite the lack of creature comforts, it was a cosy atmosphere around their little cookfire. The smell of roasting meat filled the air and the flames kept the harsh cold at bay. Unless she was mistaken, it would begin snowing again soon. Still, she did not let that put her off.

They laughed and chatted and joked among themselves. Stories were told and Gilly taught her some folklore from beyond the wall, oral stories the free folk passed down among themselves. Wildlings had been spoken of with fear, where Sansa grew up. But she liked Gilly and baby Sam. In that tight little group, not so very far from the main army camp, Sansa didn't think anyone could get them. No until Jon rose to find somewhere to make water and a voice boomed from the darkness.

"Stay where you are!"

Their chatter ceased immediately and Sansa whipped around toward the source of the noise. As she did so, a figure emerged from the darkness beyond the light of the fire. Without missing a beat, Jon drew his sword, Dark Sister, the Valyrian blade glinting in the light of the fire. Sam had positioned himself in front of Gilly, to shield her and the baby, while Sansa stayed behind Jon. She had no weapon of her own and, even if she did, she wouldn't have known how to use it. All the same, she wished she had something. Anything.

The attacker pulled off their helm to reveal … a woman. She was huge, with blonde hair and startlingly blue eyes.

"The girl," she said, pointing to Sansa. "Lady Stark, I only want to speak with you a moment."

Then an equally large man appeared at her side. One side of his face burned badly. Recognition hit home in an instant, almost knocking Sansa off her feet.

"That's her brother, you dumb bitch. I could have told you that, if only you'd listen-"

"Shut up, Clegane."

"I think you should listen, milady."

The bizarre situation grew stranger still as Podrick Payne stepped nervously into the light of the fire. He was still bright red in the face.

Jon was glowering at them all. "You know these people?"

"Sandor," she said, feeling much more emotional than she knew she ought to. She took a moment to gather herself properly. "Jon, you remember Sandor from Winterfell, don't you?"

He sheathed his sword, at least. Emboldened by the gesture of peace, Sandor stepped closer with a twisted smile on his face. "You've slipped the cage at last then, little bird?"

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