Chapter 27: Paths Made Clear and Obscure


POV Arya, 2nd Day, 4th Moon

Their paws pulled them quietly over the wooden ground of the Riverman den, their claws controlled carefully so they didn't make the usual clacking noise that gave them away so many times before.

Soon enough, they had made their way to the door separating the family den from the rest of the – Castle- den. From there they followed the scent of the pointy eared not-man down the right hall. It didn't take very long for them to spot a glowing shaft of orange light further down the hall, and it took even less for the she-wolf to silently bound over to it and keep close enough to get a good look inside.

Through the thin opening the she-wolf looked into the pointy-eared female's den, and satiated their curiosity with what lay within.

Inside was the pale furred not-human, sitting behind a carved-up tree scratching at dry, and likely toothsome, sheep hide with an ink smelling feather. Next to her, sitting behind a much smaller version of the not-human's tree, was a nice smelling man with a white sunburst on the shoulder of his woven black pelt.

"Are you certain that the Darry boy will be a good fit for Seagard, my lady?" the man asked, his voice flat yet somehow curious, "The Darry's sided with the Targaryen's back in Robert's Rebellion, the boy's uncle was killed by Lord Jason Mallister. Should he not simply remain here in Riverrun with Prince Edmure for a fosterage?"

Prince Edmure?

"Yes, I am aware of this, Lord Eddard." the not-human- Karra! - told this 'Eddard' without heat, "Lord Lymond was not yet born, and although he may have been taught to hate the men of Jing Robert's Rebellion, I doubt he will trouble Lord Mallister's household. As for not keeping the young lord here, there will be no lord to teach him the ways of ruling. All able-bodied men, safe for a strong garrison, will be without Riverrun to secure the Riverlands. Prince Edmure himself will be taking to the field as soon as he is well."

The Eddard fell into what seemed to be a contemplative silence at that. Then, after a moment, he spoke once more, "I see, I thank you, my lady."

"Of course, my lord. Most knowledge is worth considerably less when kept to oneself."

From there the conversation turned to the contents of various scrolls and tomes, along with each of their opinions on them, with the occasional forays into politics. And while the well-smelling Eddard and the not-human Karra enjoyed such talk, it quickly bored the she-wolf and made her hasten down the hall for something of higher entertainment.

As they searched, the sound of steel striking steel sung in their ears and they quickly started padding after it.

Soon, the she-wolf rounded a fish-carved corner, leapt out of an opening in the cave wall, and lopped out into the bare clearing inside the man-den. Soon, they saw who was making the blade-song.

It was one of her Big-Silent Brother's man-pack, the pup of the bunch, challenging a bigger opponent with a much bulkier shell.

Just as their eyes focused properly on the spar, the boy sent a quick glance their way mid attack. And it seemed to slow him enough that his bigger opponent got his coloured bark- shield -up in time. The boy's claw- sword -clanged against the man's round shield and brought yellow sparks into the night air as it quickly slid off the metal rim.

The boy's entire sword arm was pushed down by the – crossguard- with a visible amount of force in the man's own claw- Sword! -sword. And then, just when the boy stumbled, his opponent struck him in the chest with his shield.

He was launched off of his feet by the strength behind the blow, and crashed shoulders first into the lightly churned muck. Then just as he was about to rise once more, his victorious opponent spoke, "The hour is late, Stone. Just as the oak requires sunlight, the body must have sufficient sleep to grow strong." he said, his voice a deep rumble, "Go rest yourself, I'm certain Captain Arctic will understand."

With that, the man left, and Eren simply laid there. Which was strange, usually the man-pup rose without a second's thought to try again or practice alone. Wolf curious and girl concerned, they padded over to him.

Eren didn't even seem to notice them until they started to sniff at him to see if he might be ill.

"Evening, Nymeria." he said, "I'll be up in a moment, I'm just..."

His words drifted off, as did his gaze, so they whined so the wolf could regain his attention and the girl show her concern.

"I'm well, only tired... is all."

They barked.

"Yes, I know I can't sleep here. It's just that I don't feel like I'm making any progress."

They barked once more, yet softer this time. The girl knew what it was like to be stuck in one's progress.

"I suppose sleep is all I can do about it tonight." Eren said, finally rolling back onto his feet and starting for the door, "But you have to do the same, the captain tells me that you're still growing. And as old Hughor said, a growing body needs sleep."

They whined, even though they knew he was right. The wolf wanted to explore more with the girl, even as they started to separate.

Arya peeled away from Nymeria, pulling the parts of her mind out from where they locked in with the wolf's. As she did the sight of Riverrun's halls slowly faded away and what gradually took its place was a familiar battlefield.

Before her very eyes grew a massive plain of frostbitten grass, the white of the ice making the countless blades all a strange shade of blue-green.

Under her, between her thighs, was a massive mare with a jet-black coat and equally dark hair. As the great beast shifted, her muscles rippling under her skin, Arya turned right to look at Lya, who sat as tall and strong on her horse as she always did in the dream. Standing between their horses, her shoulder reaching Arya's plate-armoured knee, was a fully grown Nymeria in her full winter coat.

Without even looking, Arya knew that behind them waited a small army of five-thousand Northmen from the Mountain Clans, Umber, and even some adventurous Skagosi. All of them following her not because of their King's command, but because each and every one of them believed in her like Jon's riders believed in him. All of them ready to crush the foe that massed before them.

Wildlings, so many that she couldn't tell how many there actually were, rushed about in a panic. The bloodthirsty fools thought that they could cross the Wall and attack the North without consequence, all because the Night's Watch was undermanned and Stonedoor empty, even with all the recent additions. Their commanders were even worse and went about like chickens with their heads cut off, running up and down to get their men ready for them. And Arya let them, as it was according to her plan.

Finally, Arya saw the smoke signal in the distance, and ordered a cavalry charge, to be followed by the infantry to take advantage of the holes their strength forced in the enemy line. No matter the simplicity of the plan, she knew it's effect would be enough. For not only was simplicity just a better way to go about a battle, to keep confusion out of the ranks and catch any flaws, but Arya knew that the Mormonts would arrive in time the crush the enemy from the rear.

The She-Wolf of Stark, accompanied by Nymeria's howl, let out a roar as she leveled her spear at the invaders and charged to plunge into the thick of it.

_The Following Evening_

"Enter." Arya said to the sudden knock on her door, just as Robb did when his guard announced her at his solar door.

Not a second after she spoke, the heavy redwood door glided open on its well-oiled hinges, and Bess walked in. Bess had been serving Arya for as long as she'd been at Riverrun, but even after all this time Arya knew little to nothing about the slim woman. And not for lack of effort on Arya's part either. None of her attempts to warm her up to her had done any good, even now Bess still kept as tense around her as Nymeria was when about to throw herself at a doe.

Bess also happened to be one of the maids her mother had deemed 'suitable' when she had replaced the more open servants Uncle Edmure had had placed around Arya.

"Apologies for disturbing you, Princess." Bess said, curtsying woodenly once she was fully in the chamber, "But the Maester said that these were urgent."

She then held up a collection of rolled up letters, the kind that would be stuffed into a messenger raven's leather capsule.

Curious, but also mildly concerned, Arya waved Bess over, ignoring the questioning looks from all the ladies packed into the room with her.

Bess quickly complied, and soon the letters were in Arya's hands.

She hardly noticed her curtsy again, so focused she was on the letters. It was with the same part of her that she knew Bess left the room just as Arya rolled open the first message and Nymeria settled on top of her feet.

Stark correspondence, written by the hand of Maester Luwin in the ravenry of Winterfell, year 299 after Aegon's Conquest.

Princess Arya, Rickon has demanded, with his Princely authority no less, that I write his message to you first and, although he can't read well enough to tell, I have given him my word to do so. And, no matter how much it pains me not to correct his speech, I shall do so without changing it in the least. He sends to you thusly:

I saw father in the godswood yesterday, I did I promise! His feet were in the pool and he was talking to me, so come back Arya. Come back, father's here and you all should be to! Robb's ignoring me so you gotta trick him! I miss you, Serena and father miss you so come back. Or... Or I won't talk to you ever again!

Arya, her vision going blurry, screwed her eyes shut for a moment. Rickon was little, and couldn't accept it but it still hurt her to think of her father back in Winterfell, of curling herself up against his side and protected under his arm as he sung old songs to her. Rickon was too young to finally accept it like she had, and yet it still burned an anger in her that he'd try to fool her into rushing back with lies of their father...

Once all her churned together feelings passed, she opened her eyes and continued reading.

That was all the lad was willing to say, Princess, and yet I am certain that he had more he wanted to tell you yet lacked the ability to put it into words. I beg of you, forgive your brother in this. Young Rickon cares for you deeply, Arya, and mourns your absence daily. Sadly, this is all I can write on the matter as I seem to have run out of space on this parchment.

May your guards' swords remain sharp and your wits sharper,

Maester Luwin

Once she had finished the letter, Arya read it over once more, then crumpled it up and passed it to Nymeria. The she-wolf wetly chewed up the dry parchment, then spat it into the empty hearth.

Ignoring the lingering feelings in her belly, Arya took up the second letter and rolled it open to find it written in Serena's hand.

Arya -or should I say Princess?- it has been such a long time since you've left Winterfell. I know it has been only a few moons, but I feel as though it has been years since we've last seen or even written to each other and a letter as small as this one is far too little to tell you all that I wish to tell. However, I'll do my best.

As you may know, I am heavy with mine and Robb's first child. Although heavy may be an exaggeration on my part, only six, nearing seven, moons along as I am. I am well, please have no concerns over that, and thus far the babe has been little bother. Speaking of babes, Rickon has been... well, he's less worse off than I imagined him being at this point. He hasn't bitten anyone, thank the Gods, but he's been becoming more and more unruly as more fortnights pass without any of you returning. Shaggy's even worse, we had to chain him deep in the Godswood after he nearly took a pound out of master Farlen's leg. Now, near everyone but Bran has been too afraid to go pray.

And Bran, he's been acting queer. When he's not walking with his crutches, fire in his eyes, he's at the Hearttree or listening to Old Nan's tales. Now, I know it doesn't sound strange just like that, but there's something... wrong in the way he speaks. Whenever anyone can get him to that is. And, at times, it seems as though he's peering into the distance when he looks at me. I've done all I can imagine to help, but it's all for naught.

Now I've gone and used all the parchment for my worries, I'm sorry Arya. Give Lya my love, I hope to see you again before this year is out.

Love,

Serena

Arya's heart warmed at the news of Serena's continued health, but she couldn't help but worry about her brothers as well. Quickly, she moved on to the next letter, hoping it would hold some answer. But first, she had to get rid of the letter.

Once Serena's letter was served the same fate Luwin and Rickon's had, Arya unrolled the third and final letter.

Sister,

I know that this letter is overdue, but I have been rather preoccupied as of late. I have been healing well, and I've even started training with Ser Rodrik. It's only stances and swings with a wooden sword, but he says, and Maester Luwin agrees, that it will return the strength to my arms and shoulders sooner. My lessons have also been going well, Luwin tells me I'm advancing quickly, especially on my histories. Other than my training, it is my duties as the Stark in Winterfell that take up much of my time. Only a sennight past a patrol caught a band of wildlings that were in the midst of sacking a farmstead, I was the one to execute those that survived the men-at-arms' attack. Father made it seem easy, but it was what had to be done.

I know that you, Sansa, Ciri, and Jon are well. That your control is getting better, but I hope that you'll get better faster and get ready for the future just as I'm trying to. We need to be strong, Arya, we're needed just like Jon and Robb and so many of the others that are needed for what's to come.

I know that something is coming our way, Arya, even if I don't know exactly what that something is. All I know is that it's coming, and that we need to be strong if we're to endure it. Strong enough to fight, and strong enough to do what must be done. I'm counting on you, sister.

Also, tell Jon to look out for the golden teeth in the dark, and congratulate Ciri for me,

Bran.

When Arya finally finished reading the letter, she had to read it over again, then a third time before she could make sense of it. Clearly, Bran hadn't fully recovered from his fever, and, at the same time, was more than a little paranoid over the war. That, and he may have been slightly shaken by his duties.

Once she understood it all, just like Ciri taught her to do with any information that passed her by, she gave it the same treatment as the other letters.

Once the message was properly ruined, Arya stood from her chair and faced the questioning looks she'd been ignoring this whole time. "My apologies, ladies." she said to all the girls Robb and uncle Edmure's Lords brought with them, "I find that I'm overtired." Arya then left them with a curtsy.

She didn't know if that was the proper way to excuse herself, but she frankly didn't care right at that moment.

Arya pulled open the chamber door and left, only the nice words of all the real ladies and Nymeria following her out.

She threw open the door to her bedchamber as soon as she crossed the small joining-chamber, which had only the four doors that led to the hall and the various rooms given to her, and rushed to the small vanity.

Quickly opening one of the top drawers revealed an enormous amount of face paints she hadn't bothered looking through, Arya mentally discarded them once again and searched around for where she'd shoved her extra inkwell.

Just as soon as she fished it out from between some jar of red water and another of thick blue smear, Arya pulled open a second drawer, this time on her right, and pulled out a length of parchment from under all the handkerchiefs and scarves. Next came the quill, which she had wedged between two of the joining boards under the vanity's table.

With her tools in hand Arya got to writing her return letters.

The first was for Serena, asking her goodsister about more of the general happenings in Winterfell and Winter Town, along with some hopes for when she and everyone else would be returning. She also wrote on some of the more recent events in the war, how Jon and Ciri had brought the Mountain to his knees, and of Robb's arriving in Riverrun.

Next to be written down was a letter to Bran, but it took her quite some time to get her thoughts in enough order to write anything that made sense. First, she asked him more about what he had done as the Stark in Winterfell, if he had to spend as much time behind a desk as Robb did, and if there had been any interesting petitions to him. After that she told him about her receiving Jon's axe, though only to care for of course.

Finally, Arya brought herself to write back to Rickon, after thanking and writing to Luwin with most of the space on the parchment.

It was... difficult to write what she wanted to say, so all she could do was start without thinking.

She told him about Jon putting his axe in her care while the war was happening in force, which easily led to her telling him that none of them would be returning until it was the right time. Then she finally managed to forced herself to write her short goodbye, and then slapped her quill down on the planks with a sigh.

Arya glanced at the thick panes of the window, along with the rosy light behind them, and felt weariness settle after this long day. Not to mention some of what was in the letters.

Before she knew it Arya's front crushed itself into the featherbed, her ankles bumping against the footboard as she landed.

As she laid there in the softness of the mattress, Arya heard the heavy wooden door of her bedchamber creak open and thump back closed. "I've dismissed the ladies, and sent them all back to their own chambers, your apologises." Lya said, sitting down in front of her on the bed, "You are free to come out without them there to ask you anything, you could practise while I train my muscles?"

"I'm tired, Lya. I just want to sleep." she said, and it was true, she couldn't even find it within herself to pull off her socks.

Her friend sighed and walked out of her line of sight. By the time she returned to it, Lya was clad only in a shift and simply fell on the empty space on the bed next to her.

"Let us explore Riverrun again on the morrow then, after our lessons. We could even sneak some treats from then kitchen?" Lys suggested with a small smile as she moved closer and took Arya's limp hand in hers.

"Aye, let's do that."

The Arya's eyes finally closed, the last thing she saw before the black sleep took hold being Lya's smiling face.

_The Next Day_

Once the door to the Maester's chambers slammed closed, Arya stretched her arms out in the most satisfying stretch she'd had in ages. As she did, she knew Nymeria was doing the same out on her hunt along the Tumblestone.

"Where are we going?" Alyssa asked, starry-eyed. Her little cousin had somehow found out about her and Lya's plans for the day in the middle of what must have been the hundredth lesson on Riverland grudges.

"We don't know yet." Lya answered promptly, "We just go and let our feet lead us where they please."

After a short burst of confusion ran over Alyssa's face, she smiled and hopped in place, "Then let's go!" she said. Then her cousin proceeded to scamper off down the hall.

With no other ideas on what to do, Arya decided to follow her wherever she got it into her head to go.

It didn't take very long for her to figure out where Alyssa was rushing to, what with the slowly growing sounds of the yard sounding out through the halls.

Eventually, the guardsman opened the door and they were out in the sun, the glare quickly fading to reveal a yard full of men sparring. So close together were each group of fighters that the field easily could have been mistaken for a tourney's melee. Even in the short time since they arrived, Arya spotted someone strike a man in the back seemingly by mistake, quickly turning two one-on-one spars into one large bout between four men.

In all that Choas, Arya managed to find Jon and Ciri off to the side, a short distance from one of the rain barrels, caring for their equipment. As they all approached, Jon lifted his eyes from his gleaming silver dirk and oilcloth to look at the three of them with curious eyes. Ciri did the same from her hunting knife shortly after him.

"You've all been freed from your lessons with the maester?" Ciri said, a smile already spreading over what used to be calm concentration.

"Aye." Arya easily replied, a similar smile building, "We've come searching for adventure."

She could almost hear Alyssa nodding her head in agreement.

With a contemplative look, Jon leaned back and, after a short glance to something in the distance, looked to the overstuffed training yard.

"We could make some room for them." Ciri suggested lightly, her eyes picking out places to make a breach.

Jon shook his head, "The men all need the training more, most will be going into hard fighting soon and they need all they can manage." he said, letting out a small sigh, "I'm sorry, girls, our next session will have to wait."

Ciri patted her big brother's thigh, "Go on Arya, Lya, there's little for you to do here at the moment. You too, Alyssa, there will hardly be any injuries that need your touch for quite some time." the huntress said, her pale brows twisting in sad understanding.

All Arya could do at all that was nod, and lead her disappointed companions back into the castle.

Once they were inside, she suddenly had an excellent idea. Even if neither she nor Lya could get training in properly, they could still watch the soldiers and knights spar to learn some techniques or simply imagine how they would counter attack or parry certain attacks.

She smiled, her newfound task filling her chest with purpose and lifting her head high even as she told the others of her plans. Both agreed, and they were soon off to the balconies that would let them overlook the entire yard.

However, when they arrived there was someone already there who distracted them from their task.

Nestled into one of the balconies, her mother stood looking down into the training yard with a strange look on her face. It reminded her of the face Sansa used to make when thinking which legendary prince was better, but not quite the same. Before Arya could think any more on it, her mother noticed her.

"Girls, how were your lessons with the maester?" she said, a smile breaking across her face as she did.

Beside Arya, Alyssa puffed up, "In the first years of Aegon the Fourth's rein, there were five different raids into Blackwood lands by bandits in yellow riding excellent horses, and another five in Bracken lands by bandits in rough furs and raven feathers." she recited, with the very same words and tone the old maester had.

The Lady Catelyn nodded sagely at the little girl's words, hardly hiding the amused glint in her eyes.

"I trust that all of you have learned as well as Alyssa clearly has?" she asked, looking to both Arya and Lya with questioning eyes.

"Every House in the Riverlands has a grudge against every other House." Arya said, she honestly didn't much care for it all, but Jon said any information is worth collecting. Even if it bored her to tears.

Lya followed right after without giving the older woman the time to reply, "Houses Blackwood and Bracken both claim the hills that lie on the border between their lands. Those hills have traded between them so many times that each side has given them their own names that outsiders use interchangeably." Lya said, mimicking Alyssa with how she simply repeated what the maester had told them not a half-hour past, "These names are Missy's Teats and Barba's Teats, after two of King Aegon the Fourth's mistresses. A Blackwood and Bracken respectively. However, before KIng Aegon, the hills were known as the Mother's Teats."

All her mother did in response to all that, a lesson in both history and the land at once that was a crass as it was informative, was raise both brows in what seemed like surprise and turn her head away. Arya just barely heard something about her talking to the maester later.

When her mother looked back to them, any evidence of shock or any else was gone. "It seems you've all learned well." she said, with her smile budding up, "The feast will be starting in a few hours, I would suggest you spend your remaining free time wisely." and with that, her mother bent down to lay a kiss on Arya's head, which the girl allowed her mother without fuss, then walked down the hall. Leaving the balconies, and the girls to their own devises.

As quick as they could, they all spun around from watching her walk off and peered over the red-sandstone of the balcony to look down at the men.

The first familiar figures Arya spotted in the horde were two of the group leaders of Jon's Riders, Artos and Roderick. The two men each fought with different weapons, and differing style of combat, but they seemed to have a similar air about them as they fought. It was a certain crispness in the movements, each motion carrying heavy intent that gave each strike a sense of finality.

Artos, who fought with a short spear and roundshield, allowed his opponent to strike at him over and over again, yet somehow each attempt ended on his shield despite the man's size. Then once they stopped for a breath or to make some distance, Artos went in for his own attack. More often than not it took no more than two attempts on the greybeard's part, striking his opponent in the shoulder or leg.

Roderick was much more aggressive in his bouts, his lean frame proving to be plenty strong with the wooden tourney-mace. He attacked like a man possessed, battering at those who had shields and chasing those that didn't. And yet, he always kept himself from overextending, no matter that bait given he only made strikes that he could quickly recover from. Eventually, his foes either got careless, or were simply worn down. And he beat them into leaving the yard for a hard-earned rest.

Suddenly, Arya was ripped from her careful observation by a voice she hadn't quite expected to hear and snapped her head over to look at the source.

"What are you all still doing in your morning dress?" Sansa asked, her eyes running over their rumpled dresses. "You know that there's to be a feast tonight, a Princess, her lady-in-waiting, and the sister of a Great Lord should not attend a feast in such." she said, not waiting for their reply.

Arya knew it was a good thing that Sansa was leaving her rooms regularly now, and that she was walking the castle or sewing with the older daughters of the Riverlords. But at times she couldn't help but resent her near-omnipresence.

Her older sister had clearly adhered to her own advice before finding them, and thus she stood before them resplendent in a snowy velvet gown with Tully-red accents. The bodice had small garnets sewn into it, outlining the form of a racing wolf that wrapped all the way around her waist. Just under it, the skirts billowed outward in soft snow-white pleats, the mass of cloth doing an excellent job of hiding the shake in her leg. What red velvet that was added to her bodice and sleeves greatly stood out from the white, and was further accented by Sansa's hair, its fiery waves only held back by her polished bronze circlet. In comparison, Arya's own hair had only managed to grow down to her ears, and was always messy besides.

A huff brought Arya attention over to Lady, who sat just slightly above her counterpart's elbow. The direwolf's fur was brushed to a shiny perfection, she even had a light blue ribbon tied into a bow around her neck.

"Well, when were you all planning on changing?" Sansa said, using their mother's 'scolding face' to perfection.

Arya didn't let the look affect her, "We only just completed our lessons for the day, not enough time to change into anything gaudy." she said, even though Sansa dress was not such, despite its value in cloth and gems.

"But enough time to bother the men in their training, distract Ser Arctic and Lady Cirilla in their duties, and watch the sparring?" her sister countered, her words and tone as formal as always.

"Yes." was all Arya had to say.

Sansa simply shook her head in return, a movement which had the added effect of gently waving her perfect hair about, "Make sure to brush out Nymeria's coat, she's bound to have mud in it when she returns."

At that, her sister gave them a queenly nod, reminded Arya to wear her own circlet at the feast, and left down the same way their lady mother had.

Arya didn't want to wear the gown her mother had issued to her the day before, she resisted even the thought of it, but she knew she'd have to put it on anyway. She couldn't go to this feast in anything less unless she wanted to disappoint Robb. Hells, even Jon and Ciri were coming to the feast in formal wear, outfits that had been tailored after what they wore in their portrait left back in Winterfell. The ensembles were even made by her mother's own girlhood seamstress, on her orders no less.

With a sigh, she informed the others of what they were to do now. Much to Lya's reserved agreement, and Alyssa's glee at finally trying out her new gown.

And so, two hours later, Arya was in her gown, a heavy thing of white wool and grey velvet that was just too tight around her shoulders and too thick to let her skin breathe. The sleeves even went all the way down to her wrists. She at least managed to get the disapproving maids to help her get her vambraces in place over her sleeves.

All told, she felt just uncomfortable enough to distain herself. Even her hair felt odd in how it hung around her circlet in some places and stood out in others.

In comparison, Lya was outstanding in her dress of black wool and green velvet. The bodice was wrapped around her form perfectly, the darker green contrasting prettily against her pale skin and dark hair. Her own sleeves were cut short to the mid-shoulder, and showed her muscled arms for all the world to see. Her skirts were black as night, but unlike Sansa's they didn't reach to the floor. Instead, they ended right at Lya's ankles.

Just beyond her, Alyssa was smiling dreamily as she swayed happily in place. Her dress was of a nearly solid summer-blue, with only peeks of cream silk in the pleats of her skirts and lines of her velvet bodice. The fabric covered her neck-to-toe, but she didn't seem at all discomforted by it all.

Then, while Arya was fantasising about being anywhere but there and in anything but her gown, her sister sneaked up beside her.

"I see you took my words to heart, good." Sansa said in a hushed voice, her eyes flicking between Arya's dress, her circlet, the somewhat brushed Nymeria, and even her vambraces.

"I will not make Robb look bad." Arya replied, the snugness around her shoulders irritating her.

"... I know." Sansa said, somehow even quieter.

Their conversation died then, as their mother took her place to Sansa's right. Finally, all the women to sit at the high table were present, prodding the doormen to reach for their charges' brass handles.

The massive double doors slowly groaned open, revealing the back of the high table and all their seats. Then they all entered as one.

As they walked up the short stairs to the dais, Arya saw that the hall was already filled by the lords, knights, and captains of the River and Northern armies. All of them either wearing their arming clothes or more practical doublets, which she'd heard from overhearing the Smalljon was expected. Only fool Reachmen and overproud westermen wore their best during war feasts, instead of using the funds to equip their levies.

The few ladies stood out greatly from them in this, all of them wearing gowns of varying expense. The wealthier Riverladies wore fine wools and velvets in their house colours, some even having gems hanging from their ears or necks, while the two Northern ladies wore their green and black wool.

Arya's gaze then strayed back to the table, and her place at it two chairs away from the center. Then, as she took it without sitting, her eyes were caught on the form of her uncle the Blackfish at the chair right of the center.

"Cat, girls." his gruff voice greeted.

"Uncle." her mother said, just as Arya turned to see him in his blacks, blues, and reds, "What are you doing here, is Edmure truly well enough?"

"Aye, he can walk down the hall without obvious struggle." uncle Brynden said, patting Alyssa's head as she hugged him from her place beside him at the table.

The conversation ended there, and they all turned to look into the crowed before them, many of whom were looking at them with varying eyes. Some admiring, some calculating, others disappointed.

Soon enough though, Arya spotted the pair she'd been looking for.

Jon and Ciri were seated closer to the high table than they had at the last feast, from the very front of the lower knights and higher captains to seated amongst the highborn. Her big brother was wearing what she had known he would, a well-weaved black wool doublet with silver-white threads making swirling patterns over the black surface and with a small badge of his roaring wolf on blue over his heart. Arya's instructor wore a gown of similar make, but had black velvet making up the bodice's center and instead of a badge the white wolf ran around her waist much like Sansa's red did hers. Only made from silver-white threads and with its jaws open wide.

As Arya looked over their dress, Ciri noticed her with a smile, but before Jon could do the same the main doors of the Great Hall boomed open and the final feasters arrived. All stood at their entrance, even the captain who had taken an arrow to the leg not long ago.

Robb entered dressed in his arming clothes, same as his men, but of a quality that far surpassed theirs. It reached down to his mid-thigh, and was made from thick white wool from White Harbour then sewn down vertically with twisted steel threads. What kept the arming doublet closed were a series of leather belts closed with silvered-steel buckles that ran down the front. It bore no heraldry, the crown stabbing up from Robb's dark red hair all he truly needed to state his identity.

On his right was their uncle Edmure, standing tall and firm for what must have been the first time in moons as they both walked towards the dais in step. The Prince of the Riverlands, as she'd heard Karra mention him, though unofficial as he may be, wore the clothes suiting such a title in the same fashion as the King beside him. With a Tully red wool sewn down with brass or copper threads, and red leather strings keeping it shut, he somehow seemed brighter than usual.

The two of them quickly reached, and then climbed, the dais of the high table. And then they turned to face the standing hall, still without taking their place behind the redwood.

"My Lords." her uncle Edmure said, "His Grace and I have news."

"Aye, all has been prepared, and we've found that enough rumours have been whispered about." Robb's words were followed by short chuckles from the hall, for there had indeed been rumours aplenty. From Robb claiming the Riverlands in his kingdom to Edmure or even the Blackfish becoming a king. Once they fell silent, he continued, "Therefor, we will set them to rest now, before you all." he said, as Brynden stepped around the table to join the two of them in front of it.

"Septon Jonothor, Master Hugh, if you would." he said, his craggy face stoic.

Two men then stepped out of one of the hall's alcoves, one as thickly built as a bull with a face to match and the other a man thin of face and form. The first was dressed in a smith's apron, the second in a Septon's white robes, a rainbow belt, and with a crystal hanging from his neck.

Together the two of them approached the old knight, the smith with a richly varnished wooden box, and the Septon with oils.

Both stopped before the dais, then the smith eased open his box to reveal a crown. He then carefully carried it over to Robb with small steps.

He knelt, and Robb took the crown from the box just as carefully as the smith had brought it to him. Once the crown was passed on, the man retreated back into the alcove with his box. Leaving only the crown that rested between her brother's hands

The best way to describe it was as a river that flowed around and back into itself. It wasn't as grimly austere as Robb's, but it still held a certain dignity in and of itself. Its band was blued silver, a colour akin to what calmer waters could be found along the tumblestone, and was shaped to form waves. Etched into that wavy band were whirls and swirls that made it truly look like a raging river. Arya had heard that some had wanted to ad gems or other such stones, but she knew that whoever looked at it now knew that it was perfect as it was.

At some unseen signal, her uncle Edmure knelt, while together the men at his sides held the crown aloft over his head. Then held it unmoving as the Septon approached with crystal and oils. When the aged man finally found his spot, he began.

"Ser Edmure of House Tully, do you swear to uphold and defend the laws of the Realm, to deliver justice and grant mercy alike."

"I swear, upon the Gods Old and New."

"Do you swear, also, to defend your people and their lands from invaders, to toil on their behalf, and to devote yourself fully to the land."

"I swear, upon the Gods Old and New."

"Do you swear, to respect and defend the faiths of your people, no matter that they may differ from your own."

"I swear, upon the Gods Old and New."

"Then, Ser Edmure, be crowned and rise as a Prince of the Rivers and Hills!"

As the Septon's last words spread through the hall, and before the eyes of all gathered within, both Robb and her uncle Brynden put the crown on the freshly named Prince's head, where it fit perfectly, and he stood to his feet.

"Long live Prince Edmure! Prince of the Rivers and Hills!" the Septon cried, raising both arms to the sky.

The hall cheered, with all the Riverlords chanting "Long Live Prince Edmure!" together. Although, Arya thought she saw some Northmen hide grimaces or somesuch.

After an uncertain amount of time had passed, the newly crowned prince raised his hands and the hall silenced.

"My Lords, I shall make this short." he said, stepping forward slightly ahead of the men beside him, "Our lands, from Seagard to Maidenpool, are the most used battleground of all of Westeros ever since Aegon's Conquest, this we all know well." to this, all the Rivermen in the hall nodded grimly, "However, it is my goal, my purpose, to put that to an end. We shall push the invaders from our lands and secure our borders together, building strong holdfasts and watchtowers in the new marches to defend it."

"To that end, I formally ally ourselves fully to the Kingdom of the North." he declared, turning to Robb with a stern expression, "To join our strengths and protect each other's vulnerabilities to the bitter end if need be."

"So I swear to you, King Stark, and every man here, by the Old gods and the New." Prince Edmure said, thrusting out an open hand towards Robb.

Her brother took the arm firmly, in a warrior's clasp, "And I so swear, that the North will stand beside the Riverlands against all would be comers, before the Old Gods and the New."

The hall cheered once more, and with that, the three of them went around the table and took their places. But still, none of them sat, and Arya was starting to get hungry.

"Before we feast, I would also like to announce that, by next fortnight, my sister the Princess Arya and her guardsmen will be serving as Royal Escort to the maimed and injured men of the North to Winterfell. Where they will be given their well-earned dues, and be given a choice." Robb said, the mention of pay and his short pause pulling in the attention of all the common-born and landless men present, "Either they may return to their homes, families, and trades with honours, or they will remain in Winterfell to assist in the training and organisation of the fresh men that will be gathering there to reap further rewards."

At that many of those men cheered. All Arya could think about though, as Robb continued with his speech, was that she would be leaving.

"As for us, my Lords, Ladies, Masters, Sers, and Captains, we shall march West!" at that the hall went up in roars. "We shall pry the land from Lannister's hooked claws, and to keep it all defended we shall take the Golden Tooth!"

"And now!" the Prince shouted, "Let us feast!"

Arya cheered along with the rest of the hall, and partook of the feast, the lamb and mashed pumpkin especially, as much as she could afterward. She even danced a few times with Jon, Robb, and some lordlings. But, as she laid in her bed that night, the half-forgotten memory of Bran's letter struck her. Tell Jon to look out for Golden Teeth.

For whatever strange reason, it stayed with her more than her impending departure right up until she managed to slip into sleep. A proper, dreamless sleep this time.

POV Barber 18th Day, 4th Moon

From his place on the wall Barber had an excellent view of the enemy, and they were a veritable horde of men and beasts. From his post on the North-East wall, near the odd road-and-castle gate, he couldn't see the entirety of the army that surrounded them, of course, but what he could see would start a shaking in a lesser man's knees.

Arrayed before him had to be the heathen Northmen. There were no siege engines to speak of, all the sigils were colourless safe for the red of some hairy man-thing, and the whole lot of them were covered in dull steel that mustn't have seen cleaning sand in years. At times, Barber even spotted shaggy dogs sniffing about just out of arrow range. These men were nothing in the face of he and his fellow elite men-at-arms of Lord Lannister, with their years of harsh training, handsome scarlet cloaks and golden helms and pauldrons.

He couldn't help but sneer down at them. Why couldn't it have been the Riverlanders?

At least there would be some honour in fighting civilized, if traitorous, men. Now he was likely to be felled by the sheer numbers of these barbarians.

Barber's disappointed thoughts were interrupted by a stirring in the enemy camps, and the growing thumping of small feet.

Soon, the messenger boy reached him and made it past his small guard, "Ser!" he said, gasping for air, "The Captain said the rebels are beginning their assault!"

"I can see that, boy." Barber replied quickly, if without heat. Still, the boy wilted under his words, and he had to remind himself that not the entire army was up to Lord Lannister's exacting standards. "Inform Captain Tyland that I shall command the defense of this section of the wall, and that I expect him to do his part." he said, knowing that a task would quickly distract the boy.

"Yes Ser!" the boy cried, snapping an eager, if slightly sloppy, salute.

Barber dismissed him with a nod and, while the boy raced off to deliver the message, turned back to watch the Northmen mass into clumps around the ladders they had built in full view of the walls. What galled him though, was that their cavalry had already formed a column aimed at the castle gate.

Their hubris was insulting, even though it would only hurt them.

Hurt them, and raise the morale of Barber's men.

"Look down there boys!" he shouted, drawing their attention to the column he pointed out with his sword, "The savages think that, on the first day, that they shall break us and open the gate!"

All his men on the crenelations swiftly looked down at the horsemen waiting on the road, those behind them trying their best to see as well while keeping formation. Eventually, he heard what he was waiting for, a soft chuckle.

"Aye, laugh at the fools!" he said with a laugh of his own, "They think we're some kind of Reacher flowers! To fold at the slightest show of force!"

Snickers then broke out among them, and Barber capitalized on it, "But they're wrong, aren't they?"

"Aye, Sergeant!" they joyfully chorused, as his squadron was well used to doing.

"Shall we roll over for the Northmen?" he asked.

"No!" his squadron answered, angrier this time, as a horn blew somewhere along the wall.

"Shall we disgrace the Lannister Red Cloaks?" he shouted.

"No!" they furiously shouted in reply, more men along the wall joining them, as the first volley of the archers behind the wall flew over them.

"Shall we fail Lord Lannister?" Barber cried, his voice reaching a zealous fervor he knew his men could feel in their bones.

"NO!" the entire wall cried back, as the few Northern archers sent arrows in return, all of them shattering against the stone wall below.

"Then prepare yourselves, for here they come!" he roared, as the archers standing on the buildings behind the walls loosed their arrows over them and at the Northmen, "We fight till the last drop of blood! Till our blades are shattered and our armour torn asunder!"

"Lannister!" he called.

"LANNISTER!" they roared in return, the name of the glorious house he served resounding over the walls and the field before them.

Soon after, even under the waves of arrows crashing down upon them, the first of the Northmen's ladders was pushed up and wedged itself between the crenelations before them.

The man before it reacted swiftly and pushed it with all his might, sending it toppling over and back into the Northmen's ranks.

But even as it struck a few rebels down in its fall, two more fell into place on the wall.

It was like fighting against the ocean's waves, the ladders pushing back only to return in greater force to batter away at them. But he and his men would endure, that was all one could really do in a siege such as this.

However, the longer it went on, and with enemy arrows occasionally finding purchase in an unlucky man, the men of the wall grew slower. They took longer to push the ladders away from the wall, and started to show their exhaustion.

Barber was just about to have the front-rank pull back to replace them with the middle, when the arrows suddenly stopped falling and a furious-looking Northman in brigandine crested the wall. Pulling a young soldier off and over it to his death as he did.

He couldn't help but click his tongue.

"Don't you dare allow anymore to reach us!" he roared, even as the pagan's fellow pulled himself up and got his shield in front of him.

The well-trained soldiers followed his commands with vigour and enthusiasm that befitted their lord's greatness, but the Northmen were as stubborn and hardy as people said.

What started as a pair of them huddled behind their shields, enduring the ferocious blows that came down upon them, slowly grew in number. Enough so that Barber finally decided that his men needed assistance, and he advanced to halt the growing numbers before the Northmen could form a bridgehead.

As he did, he shook out his left hand, getting the blood flowing well. The heavy gauntlet, nearly twice the weight on his other due to its thickness, strained on his wrist at times. But it was worth the trouble, the heavy steel would protect the empty hand from blades and allow him to force openings.

And force an opening he did, quickly grabbing onto the rim of the man's shield and yanking it towards him.

The pull easily fouled the young man's balance, and the sergeant took the opportunity to roughly thrust his well-tapered sword through his poor mail and gambeson. It went through rather easily, and Barber was just about to admonish his men for their foolish failings. When suddenly, his orderly formation was shattered into utter chaos when half a dozen Northmen climbed atop the crenelations, and then leapt into the center of his formation. Even as they were killed or maimed upon the blades his men held, their bodies brough two or three down to the stones each.

Then, as those men tried to free themselves, and all watched on in confusion, a half-dozen more barbarians crested the battlements and attacked with axes and maces. Many of the men who formed the infant bridgehead leaving it to attack with their fellows.

With his sword still stuck in the man, Barber was roughly shoved away from the corpse by one of those men and into the think of the swiftly growing melee. As he was, his grip was torn from the hilt of his blade.

And then, before he could even reach for his dirk, Barber was beset upon by a hoary old man in brigandine.

The man was a menace, even in the first few seconds into their exchange Barber knew that. He laid about for him with a well-sharpened axe, each quick chop aimed for gaps or weaknesses in Barber's armour. The use of both hands on the extended shaft gave his opponent great maneuverability despite the weight behind each blow, and he used it to his advantage well. It was only his training that kept the Sergeant alive, leaning out of the way and trying to push at the weapon when he could, but he couldn't make any distance. A counterattack that left him whole was an impossibility.

"Stand still you fucker!" the man shouted, "Find your balls and fight me like a man!"

Just as the man let out his taunt and further applied himself in rending Barber's flesh, one of his greener men threw himself at the Northman in Barber's defense. The boy fought valiantly for a short moment, but soon the heavy blade of the bearded axe slipped under his helm and split his neck to the bone.

But the young man had bought Barber just enough time to unsheathe his dirk.

The Northman snarled under the blood that painted his face, and rushed him without an ounce of hesitation despite the disparity in their armour.

Barber received the charge and the accompanying swing of the axe with a rushed cut with his short blade, one that caught and pushed the axe-head's edge up and out of its path to his head.

Barber quickly sprung into the opening, lunging into the old man's guard and thrusting with his off-hand bracing the pommel of his dirk.

Then the palm of a hand smashed into the side of his face, just under his nasal guard, and threw Barber from his low lunge to almost standing and reeling from the strength of the blow. The barbarian, a foul grin on his face, quickly took advantage.

Somehow, through the slight haze that came over him, Barber managed to bring his off-hand up in defense of his neck.

The Westerland steel dented under the force behind the axe, and he felt something break and tear inside his forearm. He felt the pain even as his gauntlet smashed into his helm and sent him stumbling.

He recovered as fast as he could, even as the Northman closed in, but then he heard his salvation.

It was a roar, sounding out from his near left, and Barber glanced to see that one of his men had finished his opponent. They locked eyes for a moment, and Addam's smiling green's flashed before he ran for them.

Addam closed the distance just a quickly as ever, and attacked without a sound.

His second's almost archaic bardiche came down in a deadly arc, but somehow the Northman realised his coming and solidly blocked the heavy blade. His counter struck back nearly faster than he could see, and the axe-blade sank deep into a break in the mail of Addam's half-plate. A deadly blow, one that surely split his comrade's collar in two.

Barber took the opportunity for what it was.

This time when he thrust for the old man, his strike went home. The dirk quickly sliding up and between the bands of the man's brigandine, carving a silver line through the leather outer layer. Then, with a grunt of effort, it slammed up to the hilt in his chest. And although it went in at an odd angle, there was a large burst of blood from between the man's lips, followed by a jerk throughout his entire body. It all let Barber know of his attack's effectiveness.

"Daryn!" a man shouted, and before Barber could extricate himself from the dying old man pain erupted from his thigh as he felt a wet crack go through him.

He managed not to fall over, even ripping his blade from the dead man's chest, and turn to see the teary-eyed face of a man near his own age. A man's whose mace had just fractured the bone in his thigh.

Barber let out a growl and advanced to the sound of his heart drumming in his ears.

Then something lanced through the back of his knee, and Barber fell down to it. As he did, he turned to the sound of raucous cheers, and saw that a swarm of the filthy Northmen pouring through the rampart door into the gatehouse.

Feeling numb in the leg, he nevertheless made to rise, but some great weight struck his helm and he fell once more. This time with his chest plate clanking against the stones as his vision swam.

Not a second later, everything went away with the rageful scream and the horrific sound of metal rending.

POV Karyl Vance

"Your Grace!" Karyl shouted to the young king, trying desperately to be heard over the shouting men, breaking wood, the rain of arrows, and clashing steel. At the same time doing his best to simply keep from his group separating from that which was being led through the gate by the king's iron-spiked helm.

"Go on, Lord Vance! No need to follow behind me! You know the castle, and your duty!" King Stark shouted back, clear as a bell despite the noise, "Get it done, and meet us at the camp come nightfall!"

He thought of his girls, every instinct telling his to rush to where they might be held, but he knew what he had to do. Besides, as far as he knew most in Lannister's army weren't childkillers, and those that were were either under Riverrun, killed outright, or far from there. He just had to wait, just like every other man under his command. He consoled himself with the fact that his girls were too valuable to even scar.

Not that that helped Lord Stark any...

With a clenched jaw, and a bark of "Yes, Your Grace!" that scratched at his throat, Vance let the flow of men, and the rare panicked servant, take him and his entourage away from the King. Quickly, the were pushed and pulled all the way into the narrow alley between the breweries where he and his sisters used to steal away sips of stout ale.

It was as empty as always, with the cobbles underfoot just as grimy as it was only a few moons ago, if redder in hue than then.

"Lord." Ed said, his guardsman's helm hiding his horrifically scarred face, "We can't stay here long, some men on the rooves are bound to have seen us."

"I know that Ed, I only need a moment." he replied hastily, throwing up his visor to cool his face and breathe.

Finally with space and comparative quiet to think, Vance started the process of make up his mind, and plan his route. Quickly, he decided that they would head for the main hall, where he was now certain the men in charge of occupying his home were hiding, and soon after that he thought out multiple quick ways to get there. He chose the one with the most alternative paths along the way.

Giving Ed and the others a nod, and slamming down his visor, Vance fully mortared the plan in mind, and stalked to the other end of the alley. Careful to keep in its shadow, with his back against the wall, he eased his head out of the alley, just as Ed was doing the same against the brewery opposite Vance. As far as he could see down the path, there was no one safe a maid cowering in a shadowy alcove, and above he could see none of the archers who pestered their fellows within and without the walls.

Vance tapped his leg twice, and Ed soon replied with three taps to his own.

My way then.

With a nod that might not have been noticed by the man, Vance rushed out of the alley and down the wider cobbled path, uncaring of the clank and jingle of his armour. His men followed swiftly, and they soon passed the maid, who he recognised to be old Mildred, and kept going on their way. She was safer hidden there than she'd be following them into battle.

They quickly reached the end of the road, which the branched into a T-shaped crossroad against the rear of the smithy. Without a second's thought Vance wheeled right, away from the twang of crossbows and the shouting of the infantry, and ever closer to the tall turrets of the great hall that stood over most the other rooftops.

One more empty corner later, Vance and his men came upon a small field of corpses filling one of the smallest yards of the castle. A mere cursory look revealed them all to be soldiers, no matter how torn some of the once-men were, so they quickly made their way over them thanking their luck at not having to face them.

Soon, they reached the second to last cramped path on the way to the great hall. It was one of the more well-used ways of the servants in peacetime, countless roads came together to form this path. So, not only was it filled with openings, but it also left the most-

"Karyl!" Ed shouted, pushing him from behind and almost off his feet.

Quick as he could, and just as the sound of snapping metal reached him, Vance spun around to see what brought the composed Ed to such extremes.

What he saw blew apart any feelings he may have felt, as an axe-head had bit clean through Ed's mail and into his arm. Right where Vance's head used to be.

Even with the axe still in his sword-arm, Ed ripped his dirk from his belt, twisted his waist, and slashed at the invader's poorly armoured arm.

Vance only just managed to see the old blade tear through the patchy red gambeson, when a second man charged out from the alley where the first must have come and rushed right towards him.

His foe was only a few years his younger, and probably some smallfolk miner to boot, but Vance would still cut him down. The man thought to lounge like a cat in his home, take or break whatever he could get his grimy hands on.

With a shout, the Levy-man brought down his wood-axe in a practised two-handed swing.

Since he wasn't a log to be split, nor a training pell, Vance quickly side-stepped out of the steel's path and roughly sent his armoured fist right into his foe's neck.

The man stumbled back with a broken cough, giving Vance plenty of space to pull his arming sword from its sheath. He didn't bring his long-axe, not for the close quarters of the Rest's interior.

With his sword free, it took only a single thrust to hollow of his throat to finish the still-dazed man. Most guardsmen he'd spoken to said that they remembered each of their kills vividly, yet Vance forgot the man just as soon as he ripped his longsword from his corpse. Just like all the others.

He turned to the next one as soon as he was able, and found himself facing a charging knight in half-plate and under a mailed nasal-helm. His tabard brightly displayed a House that Vance couldn't recognise, his battle cry was unknown to him, and yet his flanged mace swung for Vance's head with trained ease.

As quick as the black dragon on his own tabard, Vance pulled his head back and out of the ugly weapon's path.

With equal haste, Vance pulled up the tip of his sword, and thrust up to pierce through the comparatively weak armour protecting the pit of the man's arm.

But before it could even get close there was a sharp crack of bones, and over the sudden pain Vance just barely recognised that the mace had struck his sword hand cleanly, sending his blade flying. The man seemed likely to say something, but before his blade even hit the stones, Vance ripped his rondel from his belt and rushed to close the distance enough to get within the invader's guard.

Sadly, he just wasn't fast enough, and his foe swung his mace down with such speed that he could hear the wind whisper at the steel's passing.

The invader's mace then crashed into Vance's pauldron with a snap and a pained scream. The sheer strength of the blow crumpled the steel encasing his shoulder and brought him down to his knees. The sound faded, and Vance found that his jaw hurt, but he only felt it dimly beyond the roar of his shoulder.

Above him, just within his sight, he saw the man grin behind his worn mail aventail. The invader raised his mace, the ugly steel yet darker with someone's blood, and pulled it back with a shout to finish Vance once and for all.

Then a rippled blade tore halfway through the man's torso, and killed him without so much as a last word.

"Lord Vance?" a northerner's voice asked, his sword smoothly pulling out from the dead knight, "We thought you required some assistance."

As the corpse fell to the cobbles, Vance's view of his rescuer was cleared, and he saw that it was King Stark's base-born brother Ser Arctic.

Just as he recognised him, the Northman offered him a hand, one which Vance took without thinking.

Vance forced himself up to his feet, his knees shouting their indignation despite the assistance. Once he had made it up, and some of the pain faded, he took the time to look about and take stock of how things ended.

The rest of their attackers were either killed, or bleeding out their life's blood, with what must have been some of Ser Arctics own men patting some of them down for loot while the two of them watched on.

"Lord Vance, your shoulder must be attended to." Ser Arctic said, not deprecating nor pitying. Stating it simply as a matter of fact, he appreciated that.

"Yes, but I feel no blood coming from it." he said, voice somewhat dull even to himself as he retrieved his sword from where it rested on the cobbles, "It can wait, we need to end this, take their command center."

The taller man fell silent, before he finally agreed. Then they all set out together, crossing the final stretch to the great hall.

As they ran down the last path to the great hall, sounds of a skirmish slowly started to make itself known over the rest of the noise.

Before long they all spilled from the alley and into the wide-open yard before the great hall's solid oak doors, and Vance saw who had been fighting as they arrived.

Vance saw much of both groups, one could only be the invaders, unmistakable in their blood red gambeson and gold painted steel, while the other seemed much more mixed. Those that fought them in a great melee were a motley crew, most wearing what must have been salvaged gambeson and mail, fighting with maces and hand axes.

As his group closed in, however, he noticed that they all bore a badge of a white wolf's head on blue.

But what caught his attention the most was the warrior who, in armour similar to Ser Arctic's, seemed to dance in the fray. One moment he was running a man-at-arms through with his gleaming longsword, then in the next he would pirouette away from the blows of multiple attackers and strike from the flank. His sword seemed alive in his hands, and brought death wherever it passed.

He and his men increased their pace, eager to join in the melee no matter their wounds, but sadly, before Vance and the rest even had a chance to carry their part, the skirmish was finished. The last unyielding man of them falling to an opened throat.

Once those few who'd surrendered had been disarmed and bound, many of Ser Arctic's men spoke quick and quiet words with each other, as comrades did. But what truly caught Vance's attention was Ser Arctic and the mystery knight. They shared very similar armour, and fought with the same fluidity of motion. Vance didn't know very much about the Stark King's baseborn brother, but he did understand that he had been gone from Westeros for quite some time. This second man, perhaps he came from that place?

They approached one another, tapped vambraces, and started a conversation Vance couldn't make out the contents of. Nor did he try to even lean in close, despite his curiosity. That would simply be rude, but it didn't stop him from thinking about it.

They've been talking a little while, and seem close, sworn-brothers perhaps?

Regardless, both the skirmish and reunion were over, so they moved on to the doors.

"They're sure to be barred." Vance said, "There are two oak beams that seal the doors, held in place by pig-iron bands all along their length."

"Are there any other entrances?" Ser Arctic asked, staring contemplatively at the ancient carved doors.

"Not that will lead us inside with enough speed to cut the head off this snake before the assault is decided elsewhere. In our favour or the invaders'."

At that Ser Arctic's eyes thinned behind his helm, then turned to the monstrous Valyrian Steel sword in his hand.

He dextrously spun the blade in his hand, and flipped it into reverse grip. Then he approached the doors. "How high are they?" he asked, laying his free hand on one of the doors and putting his head up to the parchment thin seam between them.

"One is at my chest height, the other over my head." Vance said, dawning realisation slowly creeping in.

"My thanks." the knight said, before he stepped back and laid the point of the King's blade into the seam. Right where the lower of the two beams held the doors shut.

Then, with a grunt of effort, Ser Arctic slammed the blade through the doors up to the hilt. It passed cleanly and without so much as a moment's resistance, with only the squeak of pressured wood to mark its passing. Along with another grunt of effort, the sword came free and Ser Arctic moved to give the other beam the same treatment as the first.

As he ripped his sword from the doors for the last time, all the men around Vance readied themselves for assault.

Then Ser Arctic pushed open the doors, their well-oiled hinges doing their duty and letting them open fully with only a single push.

Within his hall, and behind his own solid oak dining table, Vance saw only a dozen or so well-armed and armoured men-at-arms, in the center stood a man whose helm marked him to be a captain of Tywin Lannister's own army. Somehow, his face showed none of the wide-eyed concern his fellows did at how the doors were unsealed.

"Only gnats then." the man said, annoyance in his voice, "I was hoping to kill a lord or two."

Vance, Ser Arctic, and none of their fellows had anything to say to that, answering only with raised arms and ready stances.

Both sides stood still a moment, neither wanting to show their hands in the first move. Then, all of a sudden, the enemy captain and two of his men threw the table onto its side, scattering all the figures and parchment it held, and a few men that stood behind them hid behind its shiny bulk.

It didn't take long for Vance to realise, but he still wasn't fast enough to do anything about it.

A wing of crossbows glinted out from over his table, but, to his shock, instead of retreating Ser Arctic charged forward. Vance thought he might have heard the man say something about time, but the sound was supplanted by the simultaneous release of all the bolts.

Vance was certain that they would fell the knight, but for their numbers the enemy must have aimed straight down the hall instead of focusing of the man charging them.

Already halfway to the table, Ser Arctic was the first to be hit by the bolts. One struck his pauldron, shattering without denting the steel, but throwing his shoulder back with a loud pop. The second went lower, but was caught above the bottom of the breastplate and bounced off. The only show of it hitting him being a sudden change in Ser Arctic's gait and route.

Unlike the monstrously strong knight, his fellows couldn't simply shrug through the force of a crossbow bolt, and were affected much as Vance had learned to expect. Those with steel plate or good brigandine, and were fortunate enough for the steel to catch the blow, were thrown from their feet with sharp clangs and shouts of pain. The unlucky and the men in mail and gambeson took the bolts in their flesh.

How Vance himself was spared any strike he'd never truly know, and later attribute it to the Seven, but that mercy left him as one of the three men on their feet and uninjured.

The other two were Ser Arctic, who had finally reached the table and vaulted himself over it with an angry roar and flashing steel, and young man in weathered gambeson furiously patting himself down in search of injury.

It was then that the men not crowding Ser Arctic charged them with shouts of "Kill them quick!" and "Don't let them reinforce him!"

There were only five men, the rest resisting Ser Arctic's brutality and Valyrian steel, but few of the man's comrades had regained their feet or were hale enough to put up fair resistance let alone triumph.

So, despite his limp left arm and the burning agony in his swordhand, Vance prepared himself to give them time, and he clashed with the two foemen leading the small pack as the others quickly continued past him.

The men weren't skilled in the least, that much Vance could easily tell, but without his left arm he was swiftly being supressed by the pair. The only thing that kept him alive thus far being what agility he could force out of his hand and his castle-forged armour. Vance could not count the number of times his foes' arming swords slid over the steel plates, so pressed was he that he could not even look to his fellows' condition. All he could know for certain was his flagging strength, and that his enemies were getting more and more irritated.

Just as their blows were falling heavier, and their face started turning red from anger, a mace crashed into the shorter of the pair's head. The blow denting his helm and sending him falling limply to the floor.

As quickly as his battered form could allow, Vance took the opportunity for what it was and attacked the remaining man.

Stunned as he was, his attacker didn't even have the presence of mind to lift his sword nor his shield into a guard, and Vance struck him full in the face. His strike wasn't well aimed, nor even aligned as it should have been, and the flat ended up hitting his foe's helm with all the strength left to his arm. The blow landed with a sharp clang, and the force, even though the steel and inner padding, caused the man's eyes to unfocus and roll back into his head. Then he fell, stiff as a board.

Vance turned from the man, and saw that his brutish savior was already felling another Lannister man with a strike to the skull.

Not only that, but the young man who'd been spared the bolts had held another one of the men who'd attacked them, while the man in similar armour to Ser Arctic had managed to rise from a bolt to the breastplate and had cut down the last of them.

That thought brought his gaze to Ser Arctic, and Vance saw that he had already handled the enemy's captain, and the men that stood by him. As he watched, the invader was forced to his knees, then bound in rough cord that came from one of the knight's pouches.

It's over then, the head cut clean off.

His duty done, Vance finally let himself think of his daughters, it was worry for them that filled him as his vision faded and the floor rushed up to meet him.

POV Ciri, 19 th Day, 4 th Moon

Ciri stood next to her Jon against the wall of the great hall, only a little way from where they took out the occupier's command and Lord Vance finally passed out from his many wounds.

The two of them were simply standing quietly and listen to what was being said, as they always did in these meetings. At that very moment some petty lord, one who had hidden in his fort while the Lannisters took control of his lands, was making demands. With how cowardly the defenders of those territories were in the face of danger, she'd never fathom how they received and kept their people's faith in their ability.

"I say we kill them!" he said, his volume just short of a shout, "The Lannister armies, these very men before us, pillaged every town and village they sank their claws into. No matter that they were as small as a hamlet or as large as Stoney Sept, all were sacked down to their foundations."

Ciri couldn't keep the sneer of her face, hidden as she was under her helm. The man was no true Lord. For according to what she'd learned about him, he had hidden in his castle the very moment his patrols spotted the Lannister army and did nothing as they marched past him to tear into both his own lands and the rest of the nearby Riverlands. He did not even send letters alerting other castles of the army's movements, and yet he had the audacity to make demands like this.

"Perhaps they should live." a Blackwood with two dark raven clasps holding his cloak interjected, "Though only if they tell us all they know of their fellows' movements and their commanders' plans. We found nought in the solars and rooms they used, and what we managed to snatch was already half-burned by their serving men."

Thoughtful looks passed over the faces of all the other lords and knights around the table, all of them knew the value of information on the enemy had. The only one not to see to know was the one who had demanded their deaths.

"We will bleed our last before we betray our lord." the captain Jon caught said from where he kneeled between two other men.

From his seat at the head of the long table, Robb, with his kingly look about him, simply stared down at the prisoner kneeling resolutely on the other end. Jon's brother was wearing his usual crown, instead of the helm one, and was resolutely ignoring the grey robed healer as a crossbow bolt was carefully extracted from between the bones of his shield arm.

Beside him, Brynden sat like the very picture of a soldier, yet the words he said belonged more to an inquisitor. "Do the two of you feel the same way?"

The two other men, one clearly a lord judging by his wear, had completely differing reactions. One, who seemed a common infantryman, had hope glimmer to life in his eyes. While the lord showed only a small smile.

"I will not embarrass my Lord Father, Ser Brynden. You will get naught from me." the young lord said, but no one was truly listening. All they looked to was the young soldier, who seemed to be teetering on the edge of spewing his guts or not. Then the petty lord filled the short silence with more demands.

"Your Grace, my Prince, they all must die for their crimes! Be broken on the wheel, strung in the Crow Cages, drawn and-"

"Please! I was an aide to Lieutenant Amry, I ran all his letters and stood in for all his meetings!" the young man, though now he looked more a boy, shouted with obvious desperation.

Then it hit her, and Ciri smiled, Robb and the lord must have planned the whole thing. The lord, with his already poor reputation, throwing around the threat of death while the King and Prince presented the only hopeful way out. Sure, they could have just tortured him, but that never guaranteed the truth. Only that the poor man under question would tell you what you wanted to hear. This way they had a better chance of getting the truth of it, desperate and hopeful men did their very best to give you what you're looking for after all.

"Very well." Ser Brynden said, with all the cold authority he could muster, "Gerold, Hryn, Mathos, and Symon, return Captain Tyland and Lord Ewyn to their cells." he said, the four guards quick to follow his cool commands.

Their new informant's trembling subsided somewhat as the guards roughly pulled their charges from their knees. Before they moved even a step, Ser Brynden gestured to one of the younger Vale knights hovering near the table, "Ser Mark, if you would escort young Edwyn to a tower cell." the knight slammed a gauntleted fist to his chest in salut, gave a sharp bow, and took his charge by the elbow.

As all the Westerlanders were taken out of the hall, an invisible shroud seemed to lift from the old fighter turned ruler, and Ser Brynden cracked the joints in his neck with a quiet sigh of relief. The coldness in King Stark's eyes faded slightly, but Jon's brother kept himself kingly.

"Now then, let us continue to matters of higher concern." Ser Brynden said, voice grave, "The borders with the Westerlands and the Reach are not secure, nor are the Rivers and Hills this side of Harrenhall free of enemy forces. We must lift the sieges on the knightly keeps both on and behind the line." he continued, gesturing towards the small carved towers on the detailed Westerlander's map they'd managed to recover, "While at the same time continuing our efforts in rooting out what bands still roam."

The men around the table were silent for a moment, before one finally showed courage and spoke up first.

"We haven't the numbers to do as you say, and bring the fight into the Westerlands at once as planned." Lord Vance said, his voice carrying over the hall even from his chair, "The valleys and mountains are filled to bursting with forts and castles held by both knightly houses and the Rock itself, even with the all the forces at our disposal focused solely on them it would take moons to make any significant headway. If we manage to break through their borderline that is." he sighed tiredly, "And the Tooth's strength is legendary."

"Aye, and that is without mentioning the casualties that would no doubt arise from such. There is a reason the borders of the Westerlands haven't diminished since the Hoares first made their attempts." a man with a white and orange tabard said, "We would lose more than we gain every day we stand in the lands under the Rock."

"So we let them go?" a grizzled knight with a few freshly missing fingers and half his head wrapped in bloody bandages said, what could be seen of his face twisted in rage, "We let the rapers sit and do as they please! Coward!" he slammed his whole hand against the wood, "My Donella would have your guts for garters is she could hear you now!"

"We have to see the reality of our circumstances Ser Runther." the man in the white and orange calmly replied, though with an edge to his voice that wasn't there just before, "I understand your hurt, goodfather, but insult me once again and our ties won't be enough-"

"You weren't even there!" the old man, Ser Runther, shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the younger man, "You were out gallivanting with your whore-"

"ENOUGH!"

Robb's shouted echoed through the hall, and kept bouncing back long after both men had silenced themselves. Only once it had finally faded away King Robb spoke.

"Save your quarrels for after this war, my Lords. We have not the luxury while the Lannisters still claim what they took through deceit." his chilly words did little to smother the rage they could all see on Ser Runther, but both men sat back down under the disapproving stares of all the other men present.

"Mayhaps." Lord Vance said, cautiously, "If we knew more of the details on our borderlands, and those of our shared enemy, we could strategize without infighting." then he turned to look over at Ciri and Jon, "Ser Arctic, I've come to learn that you hold authority over a good part of the army's outriders, some hundred men, and that you've ranged along the border aplenty."

"If you would, I ask that you share your findings with the hall, along with your concerns."

Ciri blinked her surprise, this was a first. No one had ever asked for Jon's input at these councils, even back when they rode with Ser Brynden.

Jon, however, merely looked over to Robb.

"Brother, if you would inform the hall of your findings in the Westerlands, and what you take them to mean." the young King said, and despite still wearing his king face Ciri thought she could see a smile in his eyes.

Jon gave a nearly imperceptible roll of his shoulder, and stepped up to the table. The Sers and Lords made space for him, and Jon laid his helm upon the hard oak.

"As it has been said earlier, the borders are not secure in the least, and we need to rectify that. Before even the clearing of the roving bands, the dozen or so that remain in the interior." Jon soundly ignored any grumbling from the Rivermen and leaned over the map.

"There are two possible routes to take, as I see it." Jon said, laying a gentle finger on the Golden Tooth, "Here lies one, the only road within distance that can support an army of size marching down it, yet we would have to take the castle that straddles the working border to march into the Westerlands."

"The Golden Tooth has never been taken." the knight in the white and orange tabard said, "Not in the thousands of years it stood on the causeway has any army come close to accomplishing such a feat."

"Aye, we would have to be the first." a raised hand held off any immediate objections, "It would take a quiet infiltration to force an opening, and that is if the neighboring castles are too slow to break the siege or reinforce the Leffords. Either march at a speed without the army being reported, or take the minor forts first without ravens flying in warning."

Without allowing any time for anyone to speak up, Jon slid his finger over to the easy blue line that marked the Tumblestone and the wooden tower that marked House Drox. "Here is the second."

"Through Drox lands? That valley is bound to be filled with towerhouses and castles, not to mention Fort Drox." an older knight said, but more out of interest than anything else.

"Aye it does, that makes it impossible to pass an army through it unnoticed and unmolested." Jon said, retorted really, "However, a small band, of about a hundred horse, can, and has, traveled through with relative ease. Do it repeatedly and soon there would be hundreds of light and heavy horse riding throughout the Westerlands."

Silence filled the hall as Jon stood up from over the table, and collected his helm. He shifted to come back to her, when the objections started coming.

"Your... suggestions are all well and good, Ser, but we cannot leave our people to the Lannister's predations." a young knight said, almost snapping at the chance Jon unintentionally gave him.

"Lord Mallister, when your ship starts to sink what do you do first, pail out the water or seal the breach?" Jon asked the older Lord, who'd been silently observing up until then.

"Seal the breach, Ser." Mallister answered, stroking at his short beard with a thoughtful look to his eyes.

"The Riverlands aren't a boat." the young knight almost growled.

"Aye, and yet the situation is rather similar." her Jon's reply was instant, despite its calmness, "The line between us and something we wish to keep without is filled with holes, and danger is filling the interior to the point where collapse is close at hand."

"And what of the border with the Reach?" the other man tried again, this time from another angle, but it was a weak one. It was clear that everyone could tell.

"It can wait." he said, "The strength of the Flower Lords is closer to the Red Mountains than to us, and more concerned with crawling to the Red Keep in a constant state of frivolity."

"My Lords, Sers, we thank you for your advice." King Robb said, breaking off any further debate as he stood from his thronelike chair, "Our course is set. We continue on to the Tooth as we planned earlier, putting down any reavers we come across, but we will not disperse all over the lands to hunt them down. We secure the border, then we work inward."

There were some frowns, but no one spoke up. The tales of how Lord Umber lost his fingers, Greywind lazing by the fire with Ghost, and Robb's own air or a ruler doing their all at keeping the more pointless complaints silent in the men's heads.

After a moment of silence, Robb spoke once again, with finality.

"Dismissed, enjoy the festivities." he said, with Ser Brynden nodding his ascent beside him, and they all started easing their way out of the hall. No one was called to stay behind.

_ 23rd Day, 4th Moon_

Ciri kept herself firmly over the bucket as she retched her guts out.

It was strange, for her to ever be as sick as this. She didn't even feel a hint of seasickness when she first sailed out with her grandfather, the only time she properly sicked herself was her first time in a necrophage den, and even then, it was done in a moment.

Now though? She'd been spewing like some kind of vomit dragon for the past five minutes, the chunks of lunch scratching her throat even as the acid burned her.

It simply wasn't right, she could see no reason for her to be here, spewing her most recent meal into a bucket. She saw no reason for her to have been doing the same every day for the past sennight. The only reason for it that she could think of was that she'd eaten something that she shouldn't have, but Ciri knew that she hadn't, not for a long time.

She knew that some women during... but that was impossible.

Grandmother had only ever had mother, mother only ever had me.

Besides, as off-norm as his mutations were, Jon was a Witcher. Witchers couldn't have children.

But even as the thought reassured her, Ciri remembered something he'd mentioned off-hand to her. 'It was strange, Triss said that the Trial of Dreams failed, yet wouldn't even consider trying again.'

Though she hadn't undergone the mutations herself, and never seriously planned to, Ciri knew that it was during the Trial of Dreams that Witchers were sterilised.

But even still, Jon was no longer a normal man, his body had been changed at its foundations. It, it should still be impossible! The chances were so slim!

Ciri eventually stopped puking, and in that moment of relief she clamped down on her mind, stopping all the runaway thoughts in their tracks. After a moment's planning, she decided to go visit Lya mother, Lady Maege, and ask her to disprove this ridiculous concern. The older women had birthed five children, she knew, and had surely assisted in many more. Surely, she knew the early signs, and what may be misinterpreted as them, as well as anyone.

And so, the huntress rose from her curled kneeling position, dusted herself off, and set out to find her.

It didn't take her very long, despite the size of the camp. The hour was late, and the sun was already low, so most were in their tents preparing to sleep. Lade Maege was one of these, although she had yet to fully undress, which Ciri catching her in her warm underclothes.

"Lady Maege, I have something I need to ask of you." she quickly said, doing her upmost to sound both respectful and act naturally, "Urgently."

The older woman stared at her a moment, then blinked, then her expression shifted to a strange smile of understanding.

"Aye, girl, come in and tell me what's the matter." Lady Maege said, then gently added that she "Be done with this 'Lady' business, it's only the two of us. Maege be my name, it works just fine. You know that."

"Yes, of course." Ciri said, squeezing her eyes shut to try and get herself back into focus. It took more effort than it should have, but she did it. She explained it all to Maege, from the odd way she now detested certain odours to her nausea to how she, at times, felt as though she were slightly bloated. Ciri told her all of it, eventually making her way to her suspicions, where she lulled in her tale. It still seemed so silly, her, of all people, pregnant. She wasn't nearly prepared enough, and the current situation was atrocious. It all-

"Aye, you're with child." she said, eviscerating Ciri's line of thought, "Make sure to eat plenty of fish."

Ciri blinked, and various trains of thought bounced around in her skull until they all crashed together and crumbled apart.

When the silence stretched on, Maege looked back at her.

"Should I congratulate you?" the old bear of a woman said, raising one grey eyebrow as she did.

"Y-yes." she said, her voice weak in a way her Grandmother would have scolded her for. However, deep down, she was more shocked than anything. Queen Calanthe's difficulty with conceiving was well known, even in an active marriage more than a decade long resulted in not even a single pregnancy. Not only that, but Ciri's own mother had those very same difficulties, with only herself resulting from a years long marriage that to all accounts was a loving one.

All that went without mentioning Jon's mutations, even though the one that was meant to sterilize him went bad it should have had some effect on him. Even the Trial of Grasses must have done something to his se-

What if they come out wrong...

The stray thought drained the blood from her head, and made her whole body go cold.

The stout older woman gently took her by the arm, "Sit dear, I now the first time I'd heard o' my first I near fell out of my chair." Maege said with a quiet laugh, even they both settled down on her folding cot.

"What... what if she comes out wrong?" she asked, before she could even stop herself. And the older woman answered before Ciri could consider all she'd said.

"Ye aren't brother an' sister, ye aren't even related in the least, and yer hips are plenty wide. The babe's bound to be just fine." her words were a small comfort, but let her blood flow evenly once more.

"Thank you, Maege." Ciri said, her voice smoothing out to normal as she stood from the cot, "I need a good walk."

"Aye." the older woman said, not getting up from the woolen blankets, "There'll be plenty o' walks for you in the coming moons, their good for you and the babe both."

Ciri nodded, taking in the information even as she pushed her way through the wool tent flaps.

She barely noticed the cold nipping at her ears as she walked between the tents, and only weakly responded to the men and women that bade her goodnight as she made her back to the tent that Robb had given to her and Jon.

Before she knew it, Ciri had pushed her way in and gave Ghost a good pat on the head as she did. Her Jon wasn't back from the small patrol yet, so she distantly prepared for bed.

Undressing proved to do nothing against her numbness, even when the chill air finally brushed over her bare skin.

Without much thought, she crawled into their assorted furs and settled in for the night.

But try as she might, Ciri couldn't even start falling asleep. And the wandering thoughts quickly took over, the one that swiftly took dominance was the over-analysis of what had always been an easily answered question.

What do I do now?

She knew well what she couldn't do, couldn't risk, now. She couldn't go on any missions, good hunts, or quests now, not to mention battles. Ciri couldn't when she'd never know when a wave of nausea would hit her, or if some random cramp would slow her at a critical moment. The risk to Jon and... and the babe, was too great for her to act like nothing had happened.

And Jon. Her Jon. She wanted to tell him, wanted to celebrate it together, but she knew him well. He was a worrier, and agonized long into the night over what should be simple matters. This would distract him far too much with everything that was already happening.

But she had to tell him, and sooner than later. She just had to find the right time, the right moment.

But try as she might, Ciri couldn't find any right way to do it. And so, for the first time in years, Ciri stared into the darkness without knowing what to do next. Where before, everything in front of her was clear, but now the path was covered in fog.

Eventually she fell asleep, still without answers. Only dreaming that her Grandmother was there to hold her to her chest, that her Mama Yennifer was there with words of wisdom, and that Triss was mumbling nearby about baby names.

POV Alysanne, 24th Day, 4th Moon

As always, the interior of the castle's main Sept was gorgeous. Though, that should be of surprise to no one.

Her lordly ancestors had put truly incredible amounts of time, planning and, most importantly, gold into the creation of the main chamber alone. All of it, no matter who one asked, had all been done to as close to perfection as mere men could achieve. Firstly, the structure's carving was exquisite, with not a single detached piece or seam in the stonework to be seen, for there were none. The seven-walled hall was carved out from what remained from the dig that had held one of the larger deposits of gold this high into the mountain the Tooth was built into.

Not only was the carving of its foundations masterfully done, but so was that of the statues of the Seven and their accoutrements. The Mother, Father, Smith, Crone, Maiden, and Warrior were all carved from the purest white marble from the mountains of the Vale then polished to a dim sheen. Their stone clothing had been done in the style of the Old Andals, with the Father, Mother, Crone, and Maiden in comfortable robes while the Warrior stood in the lamellar armour that was said to be the pinnacle at the time of the crossing. The Smith was alone in bearing the rough clothing of a labourer.

Each aspect had their essential pieces wrought in silver, the Father held his scales, the Smith his hammer and chisel, the Warrior his broad-bladed arming sword and kite shield, the Crone her lamp. In the place of tools, the Maiden held a full bouquet of silver flowers. There were Bluebells, Lillies, Carnations, Hibiscus, Irises, and Mint.

Across from the young and supple Maiden was the Mother. What could be seen of her forearms corded with fine muscle, the sort one made from working in the house with dedication, or from caring for numerous children. Held in those strong, yet gentle hands was an expertly made silver basket filled with bounty. From round apples and firm stocks of wheat, to truffles half the size of Alyssane's fist.

As was the usual in most, if not all, Septs, the Stranger starkly stood apart from the rest, not only in that it was carved entirely from black northern basalt left unpolished and grim, but also that their hands empty. For all that they were formed in that they waited for something to hold.

Alysanne kneeled on the white-velvet cushion closest to the Maiden, as was tradition for unwed women and girls, and carefully kept her head lowered as Septon Damion continued with his sermon.

The wise old Septon, the very same that taught her the mysteries of the faith as her father's heir in her girlhood, had chosen to center his lesson on the story of Ser Bannet's battle against the demon Eyror from the Book of the Warrior. It was just as gripping as always, Septon Damion's deep timber pulling the same attention as usual. But with the loss at Riverrun and the slow yet sure cutting down of their forces in the Riverlands, the sermon took her mind like a fast dance does a young maid's.

"And though the sky itself darkened, and flame spewed forth from the cracks in the earth, Ser Bannet stood his ground. For the Warrior was with him." Septon Damion, for all that his once coal-black hair had gone silver, had lost none of the power in his voice. His words resounded throughout the cavern as he spoke, "With his might multiplied, the knight was finally able to snatch the wily beast and break it's back over his knee. With the death of the demon, all its terrifying illusions disappeared like morning mist, and the hellscape it wrought was revealed to be a meadow of green grass and blooming flowers."

A sudden sound behind her shook her from her attention. She discreetly glanced behind her, and saw that it was only Celia come to light a candle before the Maiden's altar. Alyssane turned back just as the young mother crept her way back out of the chamber.

"There are evils in this world that would throw darkness on our lives for their own ends, that would cloak beauty with horror to paralyse us with terror." he said, locking eyes with many in the congregation. From the knights and men-at-arms kneeling on the red wool of the warrior, to the stewards on the Smith's orange, and herself. "We need only stand fast and firm, facing these threats with courage unyielding, then we shall prevail, and see the peaceful meadow once more."

Once the echo of his words faded, Septon Damion took up the Seven's crystal from the central altar and held it high above his head. From that position, the light of the sun that had been carefully guided through tunnels by polished silver mirror struck the clear crystal and sent rainbows of colour scattering through the chamber.

"May the wisdom of the Seven, which surpasses all our understanding, remain in your hearts as you depart in peace."

With the final blessing of Godsday given, the harpist played the Ode to Departure and everyone sang the accompanying words from memory. It all came together perfectly.

And then it was done.

The divine service ended, and Alyssane quickly returned the cushion to the others beside the Maiden's altar. Then, while everyone else who hadn't any duties in the Sept returned to their tasks in a flood of bodies out the main doors of the chamber, Alyssane quickly made her way to Septon Damion and caught his attention just as he had put everything in order on the central altar.

"What troubles you, Child?" he asked, his voice infinitely softer than it was only moments before.

"It is the war, Septon. I fear for the smallfolk, this was none of their fault, or responsibility, and yet they shall pay the steepest price." All because of what had to have begun as a misunderstanding, then pulled along by base greed. " H- how could the Seven allow such a thing to begin in the first place? The death, cruelty and pestilence that has already occurred is only sure to grow. If there is some reason for this, some sin that was done or cause that this war is necessary for I cannot see it."

Alysanne finished, and held her breath for the Septon's answer.

He started with a sad sigh, and a weary smile. Then said with a voice that suggested he'd answered this very question so many times before, "Your own Lord Father asked me quite a similar question, decades ago now, when the last Blackfyre rebellion started. The answer I give you now is just the same as I gave him then, Child." Septon Damion then managed to catch her eyes in his, then continued, "We, as mortals, are formed to struggle."

She blinked, and couldn't help but ask what he meant by it, to elaborate.

The Septon promptly did, "At the creation of our ancestors, the Gods gave us souls, and with them the ability to distinguish good from evil, kind from cruel. But with that came our ability to choose between the two, to choose the evil path over the good, for whatever reason." then, even his eyes turned sadder, yet also accepting in a familiar way, "To be human is to struggle between good and evil, to succeed some times and fail at others, yet be mired in it all regardless of the outcome."

"Do you see, Child? The presence of evil in this world is not due to the Gods negligence, or some grand plan, it is the failure of mortal struggle."

Alysanne nodded, for she did, but something kept her questioning, "Then... are there no good people in the world? If we are all destined to fail, and fall to evil?"

"There have been many treatises written that contemplated that very question, but in the end, the answer they found was that it was the depth of our struggle and our belief in the Gods that made our worth to them. The man that believed fully in the Seven and followed their laws with all his being, and that struggled against his weakness towards evil with every ounce of his soul, would be among the greatest of men regardless of his stature in life."

"I see."

He nodded, "Lords great and small, and other leaders, carry this struggle ten-fold and more. Each person under their responsibility giving even more weight to their own fight between good and evil." Septon Damion then gently took her by the shoulders, and said to her in what the Father's voice must have been like, "As the ruling Lady in your Lord Father's stead you have taken up his struggle, along with his power."

Alysanne nodded at his words, even as his arms fell back down to his sides. She felt... strengthened by them, even as the weight on her shoulders seemed to grow. Is this how father's knights and men at arms feel? When armoured and ready for battle? She thought so, and promised to herself to treat this as her own war.

But to face the challenged best, she needed every advantage. "Septon, I would like you to accompany me to my meeting with my council. I believe that your wisdom will be sorely needed there." she needed his wise council, to gain some balance from Hobert's pragmatism and Maester unfeeling numericals.

"Of course, My Child. I live to serve the Seven, and tend to their people, it would be my honour to assist you in any way I can."

Alysanne smiled, though she didn't truly expect any other answer from the Septon, and they both left through the main doors.

They went quickly, only stopping a moment for Septon Damion to give one of the holy brothers that assisted him instructions in preparing things while he was gone. The rest of their walk past by in a comfortable silence, with only the salutes of passing men-at-arms and soldiers to slow them.

When the two of them finally reached her father's solar, where she had been ruling in his name since the war broke out, the guards opened the way to reveal that Hobert the Head Steward and Maester Auric were already there ready for her.

Both stood at attention as she entered, greeting her with a respectful "My Lady."

Alysanne returned only a nod, as she had been taught, and gave all three men leave to take a seat for themselves before her father's great oaken desk even as she sat behind it.

It never stopped feeling strange to be sitting in her Lord Father's seat, be it the wooden chair here or the stone throne in the great hall. Even still, she found herself looking over to the empty chair by the wall where she'd always sat in on her father's meetings with whomever needed to speak with him in relative privacy. At first it felt like when, after she'd been confirmed as heir, she had snuck into room to see what it felt like to sit behind the ancient desk. She had been almost giddy, yet somehow also horrifically nervous at the prospect of rule.

Now Alysanne only felt like an imposter, or at the very least a place holder.

Nevertheless, she had her duty, no matter how it twisted at her guts and left her hands trembling in the night.

"Hobert, if you would begin with the depletions of our larders."

"Yes, My Lady." he said, the gleam of his bald head shifting as he pulled various papers from a satchel leaning against his chair.

The steward cleared his throat, and got to reading off the numbers. "Our supply of meats has depleted by eight parts, the tallow six, the raw flour is down seven parts, of the fresh fruit only five parts remain, while the roots vegetables have gone down to three parts. The stored arms outside the castle armoury have depleted entirely, and the light armour is gone by nine parts."

It was troubling news, especially how low they were getting on beets, carrots, onion, and the like. And now they could no longer arm and rearm the men coming through to Oxcross.

"Have the half bladesmiths halt their making of arrowheads in favour of spear and axe-heads, and one quarter of the smiths start crafting mace heads and long nails." she commanded, and he wrote. "And have the cooks avoid the use of root vegetable in future meals, before the next carts come in."

"Your will be done, My Lady."

Alysanne then turned to Maester Auric, "How fairs Ser Robin's leg, Maester?"

"The tendons behind his thigh are still torn, and the loud clicking in his knee will most likely remain with him for the rest of his days, but he is young and healing well." he reported, his eyes growing distant in the way they always did when speaking of patients.

"Good." she said, before moving on to what might have been the most important subject of this meeting, "And how goes the collection of our levies? Ser Stafford has been sending ravens asking as to when we shall be sending them on to Oxcross."

"It has been going well, My Lady. The state of the men is good, and we even have a good few veteran from the Rebellions and even the War of Ninepenny Kings among them. Some are arriving later than anticipated, those from Tumblebrook and Bouldergate haven't arrived despite the-"

Suddenly, the door to her father's solar slammed open and cut off Hobart drowsy words. Alysanne had half a mind to scold the rude young man, and her guards outside, when she stopped herself when she recognised the deep red crusted on his jerkin to be days old blood.

"My Lady, pardons..." he weakly croaked.

Then, before she or any of her advisors could do or say anything, he fell to his knees.

Quick as she could in her simple gown, Alysanne rushed around the desk and over to the man, even as her advisors sat unmoving, and managed to catch him before he fell completely.

She eased him sideways, even as his blood coated her skirts and the broken rings of his mail cut into the yellow and blue velvets.

Soon after she had settled the trembling man-at-arms, Maester Auric crouched over him and went about inspecting his injuries, but the man resisted as one of his hands clenched on her skirts.

"A warning, a warning from Ser Staffen near the border-fort." he said, his eyes focusing only on her.

"My Lady, he is terribly unwell. If he is to have any chance we must bring him to my cutting-room, quickly."

"No!" the soldier cried, throwing his off hand at the maester.

"The Stark's Monster... and his riders fell upon the company as we marched." he said, pushing the maester away even as though that hand was limp, "They tore through us... Ser Staffen sent us away... a dozen of us... fastest riders." tears welled in his eyes, one falling down his face to make a clean track through the blood and grime, "The Beast, he hunted us like so many rats... only I could-" a cough racked his trembling form as his strength dimmed.

Alyssane laid a hand to the bloodstained chest, and felt as even more of his lifeblood seeped through. Her heart wept for him, truly it did, but a dozen swift riders would not be sent to her without dire reason.

So, she had to ask, "Your message, good man. Pray, what is it?"

Some light returned to his eyes as she said the words, and he locked eyes with her. "They're coming, Lady, the Stark and Tully armies... they come for the Tooth in force." he said, but his will quickly faded from his face and form, and his eyes seemed to look past her, "He's was only clearing the way... the bastard..."

Then his breathing halted, his trembling abruptly came to an end, and he went limp like a marionette suddenly dropped on the stage.

Alysanne screwed her eyes shut as she whispered the Stranger's Embrace, once it was done she gently closed his eyes and commanded Hobart to "Have him laid to rest in the inner lichyard, with full honours." without hesitation.

"My Lady, that-"

"His sacrifice brought us vital information, I will see him honoured."

"... As you command."

After a moment, where all she did was look upon the man in her arms even as his weight strained her muscles, she made her decision.

"Summon all the nearby smallfolk to the castle, and command our lords and knight to do the same. Then prepare the castle for siege, we must halt their advance here until Lord Stafford finished the training of the third army. Then we shall break this host thrust upon our door."

Alyssane heard Hobart choke slightly at her words, but she ended whatever could come of it with what she said next.

"There will be no more sacrifices, no more prey for those beasts." she proclaimed. She hardly noticed when all those men nodded in agreement, and whatever their faces told went completely unseen.


After Notes:

So, as some of you may have guessed, the Riverlands have essentially become a Princedom. Which, in modern terms, is acting as a satellite state to the Kingdom of the North. Not much is going to change really in the governance, other that a few laws Edmure wants to decree for the small follks' sake, and the region's general independence. What they have with the North is, basically, a very strong alliance that puts the North in a "first among equals" situation. For example, food shipments north have heavily reduced price and the trade tax between the two nations is greatly reduced.

There are two large gates to Wayfarer's Rest, and one minor one. Vance and Robb were waiting before the gate nearest Barber, with the Vale knights with the other main gate, and Jon and his lads with the minor one. All of them had a small group whose goes is the command post.

The reason that Vance doesn't know that Ciri is Ciri is twofold. First, the idea that she would participate in the assault of a castle is inconceivable to as traditional a man as him (Even with the Mormont women, who are glaring exceptions to the widespread norm). Second, he hasn't seen her armour, Vance has only seen Ser Arctic's paramour at feasts were she mostly wore arming clothes, or practical clothing (Something his cousin [in this fic] does as well), or the black dress. (He also didn't see her on the march, what with the Northern, Riverlord, and the small Vale contingent all being in well segregated camps to avoid what brawls might start)

Now, with the news she just got, Ciri wants the maternal figures, and her sisterly one, in her life to be there with her for this. But, one is gone forever, and the other two are many worlds away, so many that finding them would be difficult even with all the practise she'd had and the time to search through so many spheres one after another would be so long that the war could take a turn without her knowing. That goes without saying how tough it would be to get back to Planetos. Also, there's this saying "There's no perfect time for a baby on the way." and I really wanted to just give a bad time. I could have just done this as an epilogue thing, but I find this to be more interesting. I can, at the same time, force Ciri out of her comfort zone and add extra stress. Then I get to write about a baby doing baby things! (All from its caretakers' side of course, though maybe not all.)