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Chapter Twenty-Three: One Step Ahead.

They moved like the anxious restless seas. Wave after wave of soldiers and pikemen, surging ever northwards. Outriders charged ahead, clearing the roads and scouting for Ironborn spies as soon as they reached the Barrowlands. Then came the Northern Lords, fuelled by the anger of the betrayal that had beset them. As they passed through the Neck with an agonising slowness, Jon learned that the Crannogmen had already repelled the Iron Islanders some days before they arrived. Poisoned darts shot from the shadows, arrows had rained down from the impenetrable canopy overhead and suck holes had done for the remaining invaders. As Lord Reed recounted the attack, Jon recalled the sense of watchers hiding in the shadows that had dogged his every move while in the Neck. He hadn't fully realised just how deadly they could be.

When they set up camp, they did so only overnight. Come first light and the storm of northern troops began anew. Most of the time, Jon was too busy to dwell on what had happened. He had to marshal the men, direct the foot soldiers and take counsel from his Lords. During the long days on the road, he never left Lord Glover's side and listened attentively to his counsel. If not Lord Glover, then Greatjon Umber. Even if this wasn't a proper battle, he was keen to listen and learn from them both. But when night came, and exhaustion and darkness forced them to a standstill, Jon remembered Theon then. His smirking face was the last thing he saw before sleep finally claimed him; it was the first thing he recalled when the breaking dawn tossed him out of his slumbers.

"It's been more than a week since we crossed the Neck and there's still no sign of the Ironborn anywhere," Jon complained. He scanned the horizon all round him, as though the foe may spring from a hole in the ground like a jack-in-a-box. "Where are they all?"

"They don't hang around, Jon," Lord Glover replied. "If they did, then battle and defence would be an awful lot simpler."

He huffed a response and mounted his horse for the next leg of the journey. Their next stop was Torrhen's Square, where they would wait for Robb and Lord Karstark's forces to join them. The Mallisters and Manderlys had only gone as far as Seagard, from where they would sail under cover of darkness and skirt the coast as far north as Blazewater Bay to form a blockade clear of the Iron Islands themselves. They were few in number, but just enough to form a wall at sea. Meanwhile, Robb and his host were delayed as they found a safe crossing to the Kingsroad. From there, they had a straight forwards march north, until they reached the turning for Torrhen's Square.

"Be patient, Lord Stark," Glover counselled. "Chances are they already know we're coming and that will be enough to scare them into a retreat."

The Iron Islanders weren't exactly known for their subtlety. But Jon knew right enough that even they would have the sense to set discreet watchers along the way, ready to relay advance warning of their progress north.

"We'll flush them out, right enough," Greatjon added, just as they set off again. "Our whole host will sweep the north, backing the Iron bastards into a corner before falling on them like hammers."

In the end, the Ironborn found them. Or one of them did, at least. They were riding hard for Torrhen's Square when one of their outriders brought the prisoner back to them, bound at the hands but free at the feet to allow the man to follow the horse he was being dragged behind at pike point. He was gagged with a dirty, roughspun rag and his wrists were bleeding where the binds bit into the flesh. When presented to Jon and Lord Glover, he was forced to his knees whereupon he looked up at them with wild, wide eyes. Instinctively, Jon drew his sword and let the Valyrian steel flash in the setting sun. With his free hand, he motioned to the prisoner.

"Ungag him," he commanded.

The Ironborn gasped for air when released from his gag, flecking his chin with spittle as foamy as the sea. The corners of his mouth red and raw from the roughspun fabric. Jon frowned, looking for a house sigil and finding none.

"How do you know he's Ironborn?"

The outrider who had captured the man gave Jon a knowing look. "When you find a man raping a half-dead woman while pocketing her valuables, you know he's probably Ironborn."

"Wouldn't be surprised if he was raping a half-dead goat and pocketing the whiskers off its chin!"

Jon didn't see who made the jest, but several of the others snorted with laughter. However, he himself could not find it in himself to find amusement in such barbarity. Instead, he pressed Dark Sister's deadly point into the man's Adam's apple, just enough to break the skin and bring a dribble of fresh blood tracking the veins of the throat. No one made any move to stop him.

"Theon Greyjoy," he said, fixing the man with a hard stare. "Where is he? What are his intentions?"

The prisoner tried to struggle, but two outriders were pinning him down at the shoulders. He sucked in a deep breath, pulling his scrawny throat away from the blade without success. "Lower your weapon and maybe I'll tell you."

Suddenly uncertain, Jon glanced up at the more experienced Lords. Suddenly, he felt quite unsure of how to break the impasse. He couldn't kill the man without getting the information he needed, and the man knew that too. That information was literally his life. But nor could Jon do as the man asked without looking weak and indecisive. Nor could he issue empty threats about killing the man whether he talked or not. It was impossible to tell who had the real upper hand here.

Lord Glover leaned to one side and whispered quietly in Jon's ear. "It's up to you, Lord Stark. But best advice would be to bring him with us. A few days enjoying the minimal charms of northern hospitality and he'll be talking like a mime bird."

Jon lowered his weapon and gave the command for the man to be secured. While they tarried with the prisoner, the remainder of their forces were moving on ahead without them. But before he could remount his horse, Lord Glover stilled him with a hand on his shoulder.

"You don't need to do everything at once, you know," he said, not unkindly. "But you're doing well."

Jon thanked him, trying not to flush at the encouragement.

"Nice blade, by the way," said Glover, glancing at Dark Sister. "Valyrian Steel, unless I'm much mistaken."

"It is, my lord," he replied, turning to his mount to discourage any further discussion of the blade.

By the time they made Torrhen's Square, the man was starting to talk. Broken sentences at first. Then rebukes he shouted into thin air, seemingly unrelated to anything. "It's a folly!" he yelled out, one night. "I said to him, it's folly, but he'll never listen. Those weren't the orders. Not that."

In the end, after days of cold and starvation, the man talked for the price of nothing more than a bowl of hot broth and a blanket.

"Theon came back to the Iron Islands like a puffed up Prince, expecting everyone to bow and scrape to him as if he were some great Lord," the man began. "He even presented the King in the North's petition to old Balon, but he would have none of it. That's as I understand it, mind you."

They had taken overnight refuge in an old Castle not far from Torrhen's Square and a dank cellar provided this man's prison cell. There was no light, save for that from a guttering candle that sputtered out regularly because of the dripping damp. A breeze blew through the gaps in the ancient mortar and whined like the souls of the dead. It even scared Jon, at first.

"Continue," Jon prompted.

"Balon said no one would condescend to give him anything, never mind a kingdom. No, he said he'd take his kingdom - pay the iron price for it, as you like."

But he's taken Robb's kingdom, Jon thought angrily. All those years he had endured Theon's smirks, the insults of his being a bastard. Ever since discovering his true identity, Jon had dreamed of revealing the full extent of the truth to Theon, just to wipe that smirk off his face.

"You said something about orders. What orders? What folly were you raving about, back there?"

"Balon's orders to the young princeling were to do nothing more than raid the north shores," the man revealed. "Balon said nothing about taking Winterfell. What use is Winterfell to the likes of us? It's Asha what was given the task of taking Deepwood Motte, not that jumped up greenlander, Theon."

Jon's stomach twisted, clenching like a fist. "Do you mean to tell me Theon means to take Winterfell?"

The man nodded, grinning and revealing several missing teeth.

They had suspected Theon would try something like it, but never seriously thought he would actually do it. It was incomprehensible. Although he and Theon had never got on well, Robb considered him a brother. It wasn't for himself that Jon burned with anger, but for Robb. Jon fought so hard to remain calm and level headed that he began to tremble.

"Has Theon laid siege to Winterfell already?" he asked, meeting the man's gaze. If it was only a siege, they could hold out for months. As it happened, Robb was no more than another day's march from Torrhen's Square and could be at Winterfell within three more days.

"No," the man answered, to Jon's relief. But then he added: "He's already taken Winterfell."

Although Bitterbridge was close to Castle Ashford, it still took the vast Tyrell host three weeks to reach it. During the journey Catelyn liked to travel on her white palfrey, but the beast had to be changed half way through lest it die from exertion. As they progressed and she crested the high hills of the Reach, she could look back over the vast numbers marching behind her. Numbers beyond counting. Their helms glittered in the warm sun, bobbing as they marched, and from on high the procession resembled a great meandering river of steel flowing along the roads. Although it made her smile with pride, she knew they had a long, hard road ahead of them and many dangers to face before they reached Riverrun.

Once they did reach Bitterbridge, however, they took up residence in the castle there. It was a large keep and ancient, but nothing like big enough to house the entire host. However, from what she saw, this did not bother the men themselves. They seemed to sleep wherever they fell, after their weary legs gave from under them. Some managed to pitch ragged tents before giving in to much needed slumber. But, by the time the first night gathered, the dark was cast away by the light of thousands of cook fires all burning at once. Soon after that, the air became heavy with the smell of boiling stews and roasting meats. Cat's mouth watered whenever she took a deep breath. Whatever else could be said of the southern armies, the Tyrells kept them well provisioned.

Even though she was famished herself, Catelyn fell into a deep sleep before she could even consider what to wear for dinner. When she awoke in her chamber the following day, the sun was high in the sky and a hot bath awaited her. Once bathed, a handmaid brought up a tray containing fruit jams, fresh bread and new churned butter. There were scrambled eggs served on hot toast, too. She helped herself to a good portion while the maids brushed out her hair, bringing it to a rich copper shine. Also on the tray was an invitation to the private solar of the castle. Assuming it was another summons to speak with the Tyrells, she set it aside and picked her clothes carefully.

"This, I think." Catelyn ran her hand down the length of a gown of damask and silk. The colour of the overskirt was a blue so pale it reminded her of a winter's morning mist. The under skirts were silver and the hems worked in silver thread. She smiled appreciatively. "Yes, this one for sure."

The handmaid curtsied. "As you wish, my lady."

She finished her ensemble off with a pair of silver earrings that had been a gift from Ned. Seeing them again brought him back into her thoughts with acute longing. But when a steward arrived to escort her to the solar, she slipped back into her diplomatic role with ease. Before long, she was waiting in an outer-gallery while her escort announced her arrival to the Tyrells inside.

While she waited, she found herself drawn to a set of large glass doors, sitting ajar, leading out into a beautiful private garden. The rose bushes and lilac was in full bloom, filling the air with mixed sweetness. As she looked, Margaery and her parents came into view, chatting as they strolled among the flowers. Cat frowned, then looked back at the closed doors of the solar. Who was really in there? She wondered. When she looked back, Margaery noticed her and waved eagerly. But as Cat went to wave back, the steward returned. "Lord Baelish offers his apologies for keeping you waiting, my lady. But he's ready to see you now."

She thought she had misheard. "Lord Baelish?"

The man's answer was drowned out as a familiar voice called over it: "Caa-aat!"

That answered her question, and she felt her chin almost hit her chest as her jaw dropped in shock.

"Cat, we really must stop meeting like this!" Baelish jested, stepping out from behind the steward. He paused then, drinking in her appearance with ill-concealed appraisal. "Really, Cat, you didn't have to get all dressed up for my sake. But I must say, you do look very lovely. A much sweeter prospect than Mace Tyrell, I must say."

"You!" she gasped. "What schemes and plots are you pulling on us now?"

He feigned a look of utmost hurt, one hand tracing his goatee beard. "Come inside and we can talk properly."

He offered his arm, but Catelyn merely glanced at it before striding into the solar ahead of him. Affecting not to notice the slight, he followed in her wake and pulled out a chair for her. The solar was large and empty, with just a cursory guard on the door. Now, she regretted not sending for Ser Rodrik to accompany her. Meanwhile, Petyr settled opposite and at least kept a respectful distance. He poured them both a drink, using pretty crystal glasses that probably weren't his.

"Cersei Lannister and the Imp sent me to do a deal with the Tyrells, but I see they're already bought," he admitted, smiling his smile. She was about to reply when he waved it away. "No matter, no matter."

"No matter?" she repeated. "Won't your paymasters be disappointed?"

That supercilious smile was his mask, she knew. It was the shield behind which his true intentions and feelings lay hidden. But she also knew he had something big going on behind that smile. She could almost hear the calculations going on in his head.

"The Tyrells are not for turning, it seems," he said.

"So, you have already tried to break my alliance?" she asked, knowing full well that he had.

Petyr shrugged. "You would have done the same, had you been me."

"But I am not you!" Catelyn retorted, sipping at her wine. "What will you tell the Lannisters, when you return?"

"What can I say?" he replied. "You know they will find out sooner or later. You won't be able to keep this a secret for long."

"I do realise that, Petyr. I am not simple. I want them to know and I hope it scares the wits out of Tywin Lannister." If she could have one wish right now, it would be to see the look on Lord Tywin's face when he found out. "I know Mace thinks my son is untested, and he is. But with the Tyrells fighting for us, that scarcely matters."

He was looking thoughtful now. The ever present smirk had faded some, leaving him gazing at her through narrowed eyes. Even when he spoke he sounded distant, almost wistful. "With what did you win them over, I wonder? Because whatever it is they're ready to fight and die for it on the morrow, if need be. I'll thank you not to insult my intelligence by saying they're doing all this so that pretty little Margaery can freeze and wither on the vine in the northern wilderness."

Catelyn smiled, remaining tight-lipped even as she sipped more wine. Needing her wits about her, she made certain those sips were indeed small. "You mean to tell me that what they say about you is not true, after all?"

His smirk flickered back into life. "And what would that be, my sweet lady?"

"That you can read a person's very thoughts," she replied. "I can see we've been overestimating you all along."

"If I could read a person's thoughts I wouldn't even have needed to ask what they say about me," he returned. "You do me a disservice, Cat. After all these years you'd think I would be used to it."

Catelyn sighed, feigning sympathy. "Poor you." She remembered the day Brandon marked him from shoulder to hip, after that foolish duel. She hadn't visited him. She didn't even bid him farewell well Hoster Tully banished him from Riverrun. Sometimes, she wondered whether she regretted it, but she couldn't honestly say for sure that she did. "Where were you when my husband was arrested?"

"At court, and I did nothing. I won't lie to you, Cat," he replied, frankly. "Had I intervened then there would have been two people on the Sept of Baelor that day."

"The second person would never have been you, Petyr," she sighed.

Even as they strayed from the subject of what she had given the Tyrells, she could tell he still burned to know what the terms were. At this point, she thought it was only so he could try to match them. But the longer he went on in ignorance, the more he yearned to know for the sake just knowing, too judge whether he could wring some personal advantage from it. She wasn't about to end his misery.

"You're dying to tell me," he said, confirming her suspicions. His blue-grey eyes twinkled with anticipation.

"Tell you what?" she augmented the question with a shrug.

"You know what!" he laughed, but it was a cold sound. "What did you give the Tyrells that the Lannisters clearly cannot match? It must be more than gold – because you have none and Casterly Rock has mines full of the stuff. It must be more than a frozen wasteland, for that would lay waste to their precious rose for no gain at all. So tell me, I'm itching to know."

"So I see, but you of all people should know by now, that nothing in life is free. I will not tell you and you will never guess," she explained. "Because it is the one thing you would put the smallest value on. So much so, you don't even know it exists."

He smiled freely at her reply, putting up his hands in a gesture of defeat. But he wasn't done yet. Petyr Baelish was never done. However, before any more could pass between them, the doors to the solar were flung open. The formidable presence of Olenna Tyrell filled the room, whereupon she fixed the newcomer with a look of withering disdain.

"You still here, Baelish? I thought we sent you packing with a flea in your ear?" her tone was sharp as a whip, lashing through the air.

As ever, Baelish was seemingly unconcerned. "Lady Tyrell, I beg but a moment longer of your hospitality, if it pleases you."

The elderly lady, with Brienne of Tarth standing guard over her, took a seat beside Catelyn. Her blue and silver wimple was arranged neatly round her face, outlining her sharp features nicely. "You please me as well as a viper and well you know it." She then turned to Catelyn, softening her tone considerably. "Is this man bothering you? Brienne here will know what to do if he is."

Catelyn smiled pleasantly. "All is well, my lady. But I believe Lord Baelish and I have concluded our business."

That was the cue to leave even Baelish could not talk his way out of. He rose to his feet, bowed curtly and took his leave. All three of them watched his departure, listening until his footsteps had receded down the outer gallery. Only when there was no sound of him anywhere did they speak again.

"They will know by sunrise on the morrow," Olenna stated.

Catelyn knew what she meant: that Baelish would send a raven to King's Landing, informing the Lannisters of their alliance.

"We could have him tailed and any birds he sends shot down," Catelyn suggested.

"I'd sooner have Baelish himself tailed and shot down," Olenna retorted. "I wouldn't trust him as far as Mace could throw him. But no, let him send his birds. The Lannisters were bound to find out sooner or later. All that matters is that they don't know about Jon."

That evening, they dined in the Great Hall. It had been another valuable day of rest for the weary troops, but even that brief respite was ending. On the morrow, their long, hard march to the Stony Sept would begin. It could take weeks, maybe a month to get there. Catelyn dreaded it and only the end goal spurred her on. After the Stony Sept, they would make for Pink Maiden. Then, after that, Riverrun and the northern host. That was when things really began for them. As such, she excused herself from the great hall early, after dining lightly so she could sleep better.

It was dark as Catelyn made her way back to her chambers. Ser Rodrik was with her, so she had no fears as she went. The full moon was slanting through the stained glass windows, illuminating the old stones prettily. So empty, it was, that her footsteps rang clearly as she hastened to bed. She rounded a corner, lifted one foot to climb the stairs to the first floor, but collided with something hard and warm.

"Cat," his voice whispered from the dark.

Her start of alarm had Ser Rodrik drawing his blade. "My Lady!"

"It's me, Cat," Baelish hissed low. "I mean you no harm."

Cat backed away to give him room to step into the light and show himself.

"I need just one more moment of your time. Please, Catelyn."

Before acknowledging him, she turned to Ser Rodrik. "It's all right, old friend. Sheath your blade, but stay close to me."

Reluctantly, he obeyed her command.

"Well, Lord Baelish?"

His gaze flickered over to Ser Rodrik, clearly uncomfortable talking in front of the old knight. Equally, he could see he would not get her alone.

"With the Tyrells on your side you will win," he whispered. "And only a fool will believe it is all for the sake of the north, not when I offered to make Margaery Queen of the whole realm and still they turned it down. You have control of the game now, Lady Stark."

"In other words, you underestimated me and now you need to make sure you have a foot in both camps, just in case we do succeed," she guessed. "If it all comes crashing down, you need your escape route and I will not fault you for that."

He looked almost pleading for a moment. "I serve the realm, Cat." She almost laughed, but allowed him to continue. "But I fit my services to the shape of the realm, and to do that I need to know who is in control. And, you know me, I like to be one step ahead. I like to be prepared for all possibly outcomes."

"Fair enough," she conceded. "Again, I do not fault you that."

"So let me help you."

Cat frowned. "If I'm going to win with just the Tyrells on my side, surely I don't need your help?"

Now he looked genuinely pained. Instantly, inexplicably, she felt guilty. Like when he was a boy and she would chide him for silly reason. He had that same pained look in his eye.

"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," she added, softening her stance. "But I would not have you risk yourself in a rebellion."

"Pfft!" he hissed. "I can help you, Cat. I can talk your sister round; I can bring you the Vale."

Cat's heart jolted. Her sister, Lysa Arryn, had seemingly lost her wits up in the Eyrie. She was refusing to call her banners and the Vale was remaining neutral. Robb and Jon may not need them as badly now that they had the Tyrells, but they would be fools to turn them away if the Vale Lords came out for them. Baelish had piqued her interest.

"You will never bring Lysa around to that idea," she said. "Have you seen her lately, Petyr? She is changed so completely from the girl we both grew up with."

"Let me speak to her!" he almost pleaded. "She will listen to me. She and I, we always got on well. And remember, she and I were close at Court as well, while you were leagues away in the north."

Cat sighed. "She's still my sister, no matter where we are. But she will move for no man. And anyway, I'm still not willing to divulge my deal with Mace Tyrell."

"I'm not asking you to," he pointed out, sharply. Then he drew a deep breath, bringing one hand to her face and caressing her cheek. "If I can bring you the Vale, tell me then. As you said: nothing in life is free."

She wanted to trust him. In that moment, it was her heart's deepest desire. But the risk was too great. Where he was concerned, there was always an ulterior motive.

"You must do as you will," she replied, at length. "But if you could bring the Vale out for Robb, you would have my eternal gratitude. I can promise you nothing more without first consulting my son."

It was more than gratitude he wanted, she could see that well enough. But he would never succeed with Lysa and he would have to go running back to the Lannisters. What harm could it do? she wondered, so long as I remember he's probably promised the Vale to Tywin Lannister, too.

"You should leave now, Petyr," she advised. "They will succeed where Brandon Stark failed, should they find you still here."

With that, she stepped around him and went on her way. She had neither agreed nor disagreed with his proposal. Petyr could shift for himself.

Dark wings, dark words. The old adage flitted through Robb's head once more as they rode straight past the turning point for Torrhen's Square. The raven Jon sent three weeks passed truly had contained dark words. 'Forget the rendezvous,' it said, 'Winterfell is taken, lay siege immediately'. The dark words had filled him top to toe with a red rage. A rage that spurred him ever onwards, charging his whole host to Winterfell. But, they could not scale the walls as the Ironborn had done. They would be cut down again like ants being washed away with a pan of boiling water and he could not risk losing valuable men. A siege could take years, depending on what provisions the castle contained and that put the lives of Bran and Rickon in danger.

Seemingly trapped, Robb had the men set up camp well to the south of the castle as soon as they reached an appropriate area. They needed time to make plans, to trick their way inside the castle. In the meantime, it was Ramsay Bolton's servant - the one they aptly called Reek - who was selected by his lord to parley with the Ironborn under a banner of peace.

"Chances are, he'll be cut down on sight," Robb warned the Lord of the Dreadfort.

But Ramsay's pale eyes narrowed as he concurred. "I know. It's no matter, your grace."

Robb felt a familiar shiver of cold when in the Lord's presence. "If he dies, you will be compensated."

That seemed to cheer him. "Your Grace is too kind."

Meanwhile, all they could do was wait. Robb comforted himself with the knowledge that Theon had no idea of what he was doing; that it was only a matter of time before a mistake was made and they could take advantage. But the days slipped by and nothing happened. Loyal smallfolk reported back to them the doings inside the castle that they knew of. They reported that Bran and Rickon had fled. Or that they were in hiding. That a wildling girl had carried them away in the night after slaying two guards. The story about the guards had been verified on more than one occasion, and the detail about the wildling gave him hope that they meant Osha. Never before had he pinned all his hopes on a wildling. And in all those days, Reek never did return. The air remained clear of his sickening stench and Robb almost missed it.

But then, a week into their agonising waiting game, a message arrived. The bearer was the eight year old son of a tenant farmer, loyal to House Stark. The parchment was sealed with the Winterfell direwolf - showing its authenticity. Whoever sent it had access to the seal in his solar. "Brother's missing. Hunting party to leave at dawn on the morrow - Greyjoy with them." It was signed with a letter "R".

"Reek," Robb whispered under his breath as he showed the letter to Ramsay and Lord Karstark. "Theon's just made that first mistake. Now we must find a way to exploit it."

"Reek will divert them," Ramsay assured him. "We will have a lovely surprise waiting for Greyjoy upon his return, Your Grace."

They certainly would, Robb thought.

Thank you so much for reading! Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.

Next chapter will be dedicated to taking back the north. Hope everyone enjoys the story!