Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you! Apologies for the delay in getting this updated, but a big case of writer's block held me up.

In relation to which, a huge thank you to MX4 for breaking the Northern Knot I had tied myself up in over this chapter.

Chapter Fourteen: Divine Disconent

"You're shaking. Don't let them see you shake." Jon's spoke low in Robb's ear as they reached the outer chambers of Winterfell's Great Hall. On the other side of the doors the war council was already assembled minus Robb, Jon and Theon. Even his mother was in there, seated in her customary place at the high table next to the seat her husband once occupied. His nerves sharpened as he pictured the scene in his head.

"I can't help it," he replied. "I don't think I'm ready for this."

"Of course you are," Theon cut in. "You were born for this. We both were."

Whether the slight against Jon was intended, Robb still caught the irritation crossing his brother's face at the exclusion. Before they could lapse into squabbling, Robb stepped forward and pushed open the doors to be greeted by a roar of approval from his assembled Lords. Being addressed as "Your Grace" still made his face burn with embarrassment, like some weak kneed blushing maid.

But, despite the warmth of his reception, Robb could sense his men growing restless for the campaign to get moving. He had already stalled at Winterfell long enough, keeping men hungering for war cooped up within his walls while the Lannisters in the South grew prideful and arrogant that this would amount to nothing. He had to admit himself, he wanted to be on the move within the day. Wherever he was moving to, he didn't quite know yet.

Once they took their place at the high table, the servants had laid out their platters. Silverside of beef, venison and a fish dish Robb couldn't put a name to. He helped himself to roast vegetables and beef before passing the platter down to his mother. But there was to be no let-up in planning while they ate. He saw to that himself.

"I want to begin the advance south tomorrow," he informed his mother and Jon. They were sat in between him, so he didn't need to raise his voice.

"We need to reach Moat Cailin fast," said Jon. "While there, we reinforce the castle before advancing south."

His mother was even more practical. "Have you given any thought as to how you advance? Whoever lets you pass would be, in the eyes of the Lannisters, aiding and abetting treason."

Robb had already thought of that. But to give himself time to think and gather his wits, he continued with his meal for a minute. If it were up to him, they would all simply charge south and engage the Lannisters in battle as soon as they met – wherever that may be. But Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister and Kevan Lannister were all formidable commanders. Whereas he, Robb, had never been a battle before in his life and, only a matter of weeks ago, was still sparring with wooden swords. It was why his hands still shook, even now.

"Well," he said, finally answering Catelyn's question. "We ride south and cross the Trident. Grandfather will let us set up camp at Riverrun, surely?"

"Of course he would," Catelyn confirmed. "But how do you ford the Trident to get to Riverrun in the first place? Walder Frey controls the bridge and convincing him to let you and your entire army cross his land and his bridge will take … some effort."

He took heed of the note of caution in her voice. If his memory served him well, he had heard tales of the irascible Frey's difficulty before. Some people spoke of the old man with loathing; some with fear. None at all with any form of affection. If Robb could avoid the Twins, he would.

"What if there's another way that still doesn't involve a much longer march?" he speculated. "What if the Crannogmen were able to help? I mean, they've been living around the rivers and marshes all their lives. They must know a thing or two about fording rivers and Lord Reed is sworn to us, Mother."

Catelyn looked sceptical, but focused on her food while it was Jon who stepped into the debate. He put down his knife and fork, washed his beef down with some wine and turned to Robb and Lady Stark.

"Before father left, he told me to take refuge with Howland Reed in the event of any trouble. He wrote to Lord Reed beforehand, he told me himself. So, I can always go to Greywater Watch personally and negotiate some terms under which Lord Reed would assist us," he suggested.

Now Lady Stark looked a little more placated. "We need also defend the Neck, for which we will need Lord Reed's men too. I think Jon might just have the right of it, son."

A smile spread slowly over Robb's face. Finally, a plan of action was forming. For the first time, he felt like he was getting somewhere. Even if it meant being separated from Jon, his right hand man. Emboldened by the sudden advance in his plans, another idea flashed into his mind before he could even return to his meal.

"Mother, I want you to go to Storm's End and speak with Renly Baratheon. We need to know how serious he is about marching on King's Landing," he explained. "He has the Tyrells marching at his side, an army that should rightly be with us." His gaze flickered over to Jon who had resumed quietly eating. If he had overheard anything, he didn't let on. "You know why, mother," he added, in a low undertone.

Lady Stark said nothing, but she averted her eyes from him. The first sign that she did not approve. But, now that Robb had had the idea, he found himself clinging to it.

"As far as I know, Renly has already married Lady Margaery," Catelyn pointed out, taking a sip of wine. "So you needn't think I'm going to be able to slip into his camp and steal away with half his standing army, Robb."

Robb sighed heavily. "I don't need you to. We just need to know what he's planning-"

"I'm not a spy, Robb!" she retorted, colouring slightly. "And I don't think he's going to just tell me what he has planned."

What was making Robb so adamant was that he was certain Renly would be defeated in battle. Meaning, afterwards, his troops would be scattered and ripe for the picking. It wouldn't hurt to ease relations between the Starks and the Tyrells, just to err on the side of caution. He glanced over to Jon, but he was now engaged in conversation with Lord Wyman Manderly. It seemed he was alone when pressing his point to Lady Stark.

"Please mother," he said, turning back to her. "It would make me feel better if someone I trust implicitly went to Renly and tried to reach some form of agreement with him. The idea of us being at war with the Lannisters, Stannis and Renly is not an appealing one."

With one look at his predicament, Catelyn softened and put down the glass she held like a defensive shield. "Very well, son," she replied, while making it clear in her tone she thought he was wasting time. "I'll do it for you."

Still, it brought a small smile of triumph to his face. "Thank you!" He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Then I'm thinking of sending Theon back to Pyke, to bring the Iron fleet to our camp. We sorely a lack a naval presence, mother."

Sitting two places down from Robb's right hand side, Theon almost choked on his wine. He turned sharply in his seat, facing Robb with a determined look in his grey eyes. "Are you being serious?"

He was being deadly serious.

Samwell really wasn't cut out for this life. The Seven just didn't make him that way. But still he pressed on, barely still able to stand on his own two feet. Through swirling snows and head-on winds that blew right through him, as cold and sharp as steel. He would cry, if he didn't think the tears would freeze in his eyes and blind him permanently. Mile and after endless mile, farther and farther North into the white blizzards that stretched out in all directions. He could no longer tell where he was going or keep track of where he and his brothers had been. Shaming as it was to admit, he was just following the man in front and hoping for the best.

The man in front, at least, was Lord Commander Mormont. The Old Bear was tall and proud and puffed up in thick black furs matted with snow. A reassuring presence as they marched into the lion's den that was north of the wall.

Every night, they set up camp and huddled around what fire they could manage to start. Only then would some of Sam's irrepressible cheer and optimism return to him. Once they had dined on their meagre rations of salt beef and boiled snow water. Only then could he bring himself to smile again and attempt to cheer the others.

"Did you know," he began, glancing around at the other faces lit up by the campfire. "Every year, the Children of the Forest used to make a gift of dragonglass to the First Men. After the peace conference, of course-"

"Seven Hells, Tarly," Dolorous Ed droned out of the semi-darkness, bringing Sam's story-telling to a premature end. "Is there any end to the mine of useless information you have stored away in that brain of yours?"

The smile faded from Sam's face. "Well, I thought it was quite interesting and wondered whether anyone … perhaps … knew why…." His words trailed off as he was met with a wall of indifference.

"They say weirwood always makes the best bows-"

"Sam!" a chorus of weary voices called out.

Well, it was worth a try.

He decided to push it no further. Tempers among the brothers had veered from surly to the downright mutinous as their travels to Craster's Keep continued. The sooner they got there the better, as far as Sam was concerned. Clubfoot Karl and Garth of Greenway were huddled together, whispering low in each other's ears about something Sam could not make out. Something that kept drawing Mormont's attention too, from what he could see. But as soon as they reached the safety of the Keep, everyone would settle down again, he was sure of it.

And make it they did, the following day. Before heading towards the Fist of the First Men, they were able to warm their aching bodies beside a real fire. Even if the company was somewhat questionable. Despite Craster's threats of blinding anyone who dared look at his daughters, Sam couldn't help but glance upwards to where the gimlet eyed women all peered out of the gloom. Silent and foreboding, their father-husband kept them in line through fear alone, it seemed to him.

"I wonder what he does with his sons," Sam heard one of the others ask.

But no one had an answer. Several of the women were in varying stages of pregnancy, but here wasn't a boy about the place. It made Sam's stomach twist, to the point where he almost wished he were outside with the others and not stuck inside with the silent women and the incestuous tyrant. He would take his chances with the Wildlings and Others.

"I know what they're saying." It was later that evening, when Sam had sidled out of the door that Lord Commander Mormont approached him. "More importantly, I know what they're planning."

Sam was nonplussed. He only came outside so he could pretend to take a piss. Engaging in cryptic conversations with the Lord Commander hadn't featured anywhere in his plans.

"Sorry, Lord Commander," he replied, shrugging his big, round shoulders. "No idea what you're talking about."

Mormont narrowed his eyes, peering at Sam acutely. It was a long and calculating look that made him feel uneasy.

"Garth Greenway; Clubfoot Karl … the Gods know who else, Tarly. But I know you're not one of them. Too many brains, too much fucking sense," Mormont elaborated, after a fashion, but was none the clearer to Sam. "I am referring, of course, to that mutiny they're planning."

"Mutiny?" Sam repeated, dumbly. He glanced around, peering furtively through the darkening woods as though the mutineers were already lurking in the gathering shadows. "No, Lord Commander. The men are with you; they wouldn't be so stupid as to do anything to you."

Mormont laughed, but it was mirthless and his grey eyes remained dull in the brazier light. "Don't you believe that, Tarly. Don't you believe it for one moment. Now, here are my instructions to you for when this mutiny happens."

Sam raised a brow, deciding it would be easier to just go along with it and hope it doesn't happen. "Aye, Lord Commander."

"A dead man tried to kill me in my own chambers," Mormont began, the moonlight reflecting in his eyes rendered them colourless. "But you stopped him. There'll be nothing you can do against these people, if they all kick off at once. So, if anything happens to me, you take this sword-" his gloved hand slipped to the hilt of Longclaw. "And you take it to my son, Ser Jorah Mormont. You find him, track him down wherever he is and bring him home with you. Bring him here to take the black and give him the sword as proof. Tell him, I forgive him."

He was about to glibly reassure the Lord Commander that nothing of the sort would ever happen. But then Sam saw the look in the man's eye; the sad resignation beneath his steely exterior. The complacent dismissal froze in the frigid night air.

"I wouldn't know where to begin looking for him," replied Sam, not wanting to offer false hope. "But I promise I'll try to find Jorah. Wherever he is. If it comes to it."

The Old Bear hardened himself once more, his moment of unguarded emotion passing fleetingly. "Last I heard he was riding with some Dothraki horse lord. Start in the Free Cities and ask around there, they trade with the Dothraki. Find them and you'll find him, eventually." He turned his back to walk back inside Craster's Keep, but then stopped. As an afterthought, he added: "If it does happen: go to Bear Island first. Get one of our Mormont girls to travel with you; you'll need a true warrior to look after you."

Sam tried to laugh, but then he realised Mormont wasn't joking.

Catelyn's eyes flashed with anger as she rounded on her son. "Have you even thought about what you're doing?"

She tried to take a step back, admitting to herself that Robb wasn't just a man grown but a King. It was no longer her place to dictate to him how he should conduct himself. But there was no rule against advising him.

As soon as the war council had been convened, she had marched both him and Jon up to Ned's old solar with the intention of talking some sense into him. But the disbelief and anger in her voice only seemed to compel him to dig his heels deeper in. She could only watch as he paced the length of the room, brow furrowed as he chafed against a mother's scolding.

"Theon is a brother to me, mother," he insisted, coming to a halt in front of her. "Why shouldn't I send him to negotiate with Balon Greyjoy? We need ships, mother, and who has the strongest fleet?"

His gaze locked into hers, silently defiant now. But no matter what he said, she could not bring herself to trust the Ironborn. Robb was not for turning. To break the tension that had swelled around them, she took a backward step and moved to where a fire burned in a hearth. Deciding it would be best for him to make the first move, Catelyn watched his back as he warmed his hands over the open fire. Then she carried on waiting, but he said nothing and gave no indication of acknowledging her continued presence in the room.

Impatient, increasingly desperate, Catelyn rounded on Jon. She wrapped her hand around his upper arm and pulled him to his feet, from where he was sitting in a stuffed chair by the fire. It got Robb's attention, too. He whipped around but she cut him off before he could say anything.

"Jon, what say you?" she demanded. "What do you think of Theon being sent back to Pyke?"

She released him when she saw just a brief flicker of fear in his dark grey eyes. She hadn't meant to round on him, she hadn't meant to startle him, but surely he could see Robb's folly too. But he had remained silent all through the disagreement. He was looking at her now the way he did when he was a small boy, before she knew the truth of who he was. It brought a sobering curl of guilt to her heart.

"I think Robb is right, Lady Stark," Jon replied. "We need the Iron Fleet. I second his proposal to send Theon as an envoy to Pyke."

Robb couldn't suppress his grin of triumph and Cat was almost kicking herself. She should have known. Jon and Theon had never got on.

"Jon, this is not the time to play out childhood rivalries," she said, gently.

"Mother! Jon is better than that and he agrees with me," Robb cut in, angrily. "You are outnumbered. Theon goes and that's final. When he returns, he will do so with a fleet of ships which will help us get Jon to where he deserves to be."

"Robb's right," Jon reiterated.

Beleaguered, Catelyn stood back and looked at them both in turn. Robb was displaying gross naivety and Jon had seized on an opportunity to tactically rid himself of what he considered a rival. She was defeated.

"Very well," she said, stiffly. "As you wish, Your Grace."

With that, she turned and swept from the room. She hadn't seen Bran for days, nor Rickon too. She had no idea when she would get to see them again and wanted to make the most of her last night in Winterfell. She would have all the time in the world to argue with her obstinate son.

If Sansa looked from the Queen's chamber window she could see out over Blackwater Bay. Whenever Cersei's attention was directed elsewhere, she tried to see what it was they were doing. There was a large chain being positioned across the mouth of the bay, hemming in the ships. It was Lord Tyrion's idea. The same Lord Tyrion who had stopped Joffrey beating her on the throne room floor. Even still, half of her hoped Stannis Baratheon arrived on the morrow and burned this city down.

Meanwhile, she looked back at the Queen and felt her heartbeat quicken in fear. Sometimes, it was as though those green eyes could bore through her skull and read her thoughts. Treason and all.

"Well, Little Dove, do tell us what's happening outside that you find so endlessly fascinating?" the Queen's voice was smooth as honey, her smile as dangerous as a lion.

"Ah, oh, I was just looking Your Grace," she replied, stammering over her words.

"Or are you just looking out for Stannis Baratheon, waiting to go rushing down there to throw yourself at his feet? If you think he'll take you back north, you're kidding yourself, silly girl."

Sansa felt her face grow hot. How did the Queen always know what she was thinking? It made her stomach squirm. Now, Cersei was fixing her with that keen emerald smile. A smile Sansa returned with grace.

"I am sure King Joffrey will lead the vanguard and defend the city from all usurpers," she said, politely. Then my brother will come and cut off his head and serve it to me on a silver platter, she inwardly added. Cersei continued to smile her toxic smile. If she could read thoughts she definitely didn't catch her last one.

"You are a good girl, aren't you?"

Sansa pictured the spot over Winterfell's gates where she would spike Joff's head.

"I try to be, Your Grace. I hope to be a good Queen one day and bear many sons." Yes, Sansa knew all the lines, now. She could sing to Cersei's tune. But she would never become bitter and twisted like her. No matter how hard they beat her, no matter how they tormented her, she would always be the Lady they could never be.

Cersei leaned back in her seat, still regarding Sansa closely. "Is that so, Little Dove? Well, take my advice, learn what charms you have and hope for the best. Maybe that way you will learn to control the world around you…"

Sansa took in the Queen's advice with a smile still on her face. Whatever else anyone said of Cersei Lannister, she wasn't a complete fool despite recent events. Her mood was sour now because Myrcella was sailing for Dorne in the morning. The one time when someone really had gotten the better of her. One day, Sansa may well get the better of them all. The thought alone made the smile a little easier to hold. Meanwhile, outside, preparations for war continued.

Jon, mounted on an armoured Destrier, watched the portcullis rise. The grinding of the ancient chains, the creak of the wooden drawbridge as it lowered to offer them passage over the moat. He glanced left at Robb, whose keen eyes were fixed on the road ahead. Behind them was a host of thousands, countless silk banners fluttering in the head wind and multitudes of foot soldiers who would be forming up behind their vast war machine.

"This is it, brother," said Jon, as they dug their spurs into the horse's flanks. Slowly, the beasts walked forwards, bearing them out of the Winterfell. "We have no idea when we'll be coming back."

Both of them looked back, over their shoulders as they departed their childhood home. Now it was real to him. Now he knew there was no going back. They were at war and it wasn't a matter of when they came back, but if they came back. The castle was soon obscured by the battle standards and banners and the glinting of armoured men. A dazzling light filling the northern landscape. But Jon looked through the crowds, to the place where his mother's crypt stood deep below the earth of the courtyard. If she could see and hear him now, what would he say to her?

'This isn't a war, mother,' he thought, glancing back to the road ahead and whatever they would meet along its lengths. 'We're merely stirring up divine discontent against a multitude of wrongs.'

Thank you again for reading, a review would be much appreciated if you have a moment.

The "divine discontent" quote is paraphrased from the great Keir Hardie, founder of the British Labour Party. Thank you again to MX4 for vital help with battle strategy.