Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.

Theon Greyjoy is now a point of view character, taking us north of the wall (soon). This sub-plot almost became a spin-off story because it is really big and I'll only be able to fit edited "highlights" in to Full Fathom. So lots will be lost, but the most important bits will remain. Anyway, two-month time jump ahead. Please enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Six: A Wolf Among Roses

Acrid smoke rolled over Blackwater Bay, carried on the breeze from the burning kingswood. A harbinger of the war to come, to most people. To Sansa Stark it was the promise of freedom. She watched from her window in Maegor's holdfast as the fleet gathered in the harbour, praying fervently that King Stannis would come and smash them to splinters. Just a few more days, she told herself, just hold on for a few more days. To draw strength, she imagined bending her knee to the new king as Joffrey's head was dipped in tar and spiked on the castle walls. Whatever Stannis' reputation, he had to be better than Cersei and Joffrey.

Her matter grew more urgent by the day. Not long past, her first flowering had happened. She awoke to a bloodied mess and cramps in her belly, and the threat of a wedding to Joffrey as soon as the fighting was done. It made her feel physically sick to think that, a year's hence, she could well be cradling her first-born child. Prince or no, the notion of Joffrey's get quickening in her womb made her want to claw her insides out. In the early days, she comforted herself with the thought that Robb would give her Joff's head. Now she wanted anyone to do it and Stannis was as good as anyone. The sooner the better.

Behind her, her chamber door creaked open without so much as a warning knock. She knew it was only Shae, her new Lorathi handmaid. She never knocked, but Sansa liked her and did not mind. She was friends with Lord Tyrion, who was always kind to her.

"My lady," she greeted Sansa with a clumsy curtsey. "Now is definitely a good time to visit your old gods."

Her heart beat faster. "Is Stannis coming now?"

The Lorathi hesitated briefly. "Something like that. Please, you should go now."

A full length cloak was hanging over the back of a wardrobe door. Sansa reached for it, throwing it over her shoulders as she descended the steps of Maegor's. Shae made to follow her, before she assured the handmaiden she would be fine on her own. As she made her way outside, she tried not to dwell on the preparations for battle. The spikes in the dry moat scared her still. Now there were siege engines and scorpions lining the city walls, their peaks visible over the curtain walls. Great trebuchets, capable of mass destruction, loomed over he hills, giving her chills.

'Pray for Stannis,' she thought to herself, 'pray for Joffrey's sword to snap in the heat of battle. Pray for Jon and Robb and Arya … wherever they are.'

But it wasn't the ancient entities of the North awaiting her in the godswood. It was the perfumed Eunuch, Lord Varys. He had his back to her as he studied the faceless weirwood tree, but she could see his plump frame and flowing silks clearly. Panicked by his unexpected presence, she almost turned and ran. Realising how suspicious that would look, she stilled herself and remembered she was breaking no rules by being there.

"Ah, Lady Sansa, I hoped it was you." A twig snapping under her foot had drawn his attention. "Please, do not be afraid child. I have come with news of the North; I know you must miss your beloved family."

Immediately, she raised her guard. "My family are traitors; I am loyal to King Joffrey."

She looked him in the eye as she lied.

"You must listen me, Sansa," he continued, heedlessly. "The Queen has learned of your brother's betrothal to Lady Margaery Tyrell. She knows there will now be a grand alliance between the North, the Riverlands and the Reach. All of a sudden, compared with the forces gathering north of the Trident, Stannis Baratheon must seem nothing more to her than a pestilential fly to be swatted away."

Robb marrying Margaery Tyrell? Sansa could scarce believe it. All she wanted to do now was get rid of Varys so she could dance around the godswood and shout with happiness, safe in the knowledge none could hear her. But with a member of the small council so close, she had to carefully school her reactions and conceal her triumph beneath a mask of fear and helplessness. It was the hardest thing she'd had to do since Cersei forced her to write to Robb, condemning him as a traitor.

"This is a treasonous union and I am sure King Joffrey will find a way to break it," she said, monotone. "Robb is a traitor."

There was a curious look of sadness in Varys' eyes as he looked her up and down. His long, dagged sleeves hid his hands as he folded them over his belly. This one never showed his hands. "Sweet girl, it is not Robb who is to be wed to Margaery. It is your other brother, the one who was once a Snow."

Sansa was taken aback. "Jon?"

It made no difference to her, but it was surprising. Either way, the wedding would be just as beautiful, of that she had no doubt. How she ached to be there!

Varys nodded, stepping towards a fallen log. When he sat, he motioned toward the spot next to him. Although she had no desire to, Sansa settled beside him. Beneath the boughs of the weirwood, they were sheltered from the afternoon sun and the smoke from the burning woods nearby didn't seem to penetrate this sacred space. She was grateful for that.

"I have no contact with my brothers, or any of my family," she clarified. "Even if I did, I don't think they would let me be involved in arranging matches for any of them."

"Oh, no one's suggesting that," he replied. "But can you not see how this looks? Were you not surprised?"

"Yes, I would have thought Robb- "

"Precisely," he cut over her. "Why is the most eligible bride in all the Seven Kingdoms being wed to the second son of a far-flung northern house? All the more curious is that this second son has nothing of his own to inherit and was baseborn, his mother unknown and his father a condemned and executed traitor. These are all the questions Cersei is now asking herself. Before long, you will be summoned to answer for the strange goings on yourself."

Sansa trembled now. She genuinely knew nothing but Cersei and Joffrey would never believe her. "B-but I don't know anything. I cannot tell them anything, you have to believe me. Can you tell her? I've seen what they do to people to make them talk, but I ... but I- "

She began to stammer, words tripping over themselves to get out. But Varys shushed her, gently.

"I know and I believe you," he assured her. "Whatever you do, make sure you remain calm when summoned. The Queen knows you have had no contact at all with your family and Lord Tyrion will not allow you to be punished for the Tyrells' actions. But you needed to be warned, which is why you're here now."

Although she knew she should be dismayed that Shae was working for Varys, she was also grateful for the tip off at the same time. But, by the same token, she knew there would be something Varys wanted in return.

"Cersei is not alone in her curiosity, Sansa. If there is something you need to tell me about Jon, there might even be something I can do to help."

"I know nothing," she quickly answered. "I'm telling the truth, I promise."

She wanted to run away, to escape the Eunuch's choking cloud of sweet perfume. But he did not dismiss her. Instead, he lapsed into a thoughtful silence, brow creased in contemplation. But she couldn't even guess at what conclusions he was forming.

"Your half-brother is a curious boy, indeed," he said. "If I remember rightly, his mother was Lady Ashara Dayne."

"My father never told us who Jon's mother is," she answered.

"Oh!" Varys feigned surprise, she could tell it was fake. "So it may not be her?"

Sansa grew more uncomfortable. "Please, Lord Varys, I cannot say. My father danced with Lady Ashara at Harrenhal, that is all I know."

"Yet Jon is younger than Robb, isn't that the case?"

"Yes, Robb is the eldest," she answered quickly, eager to get away.

Varys smiled then. A curious smile that jolted Sansa out of her discomfort. She didn't know if she had made a mistake or not, but she became worried.

"The dates don't add up," he murmured, looking away from her for a moment. "But he was born in Dorne, wasn't he?"

"Yes, I think so," Sansa replied. "Oh, wait. I remember who Jon's mother was now. She was a servant called Wylla. We were forbidden to talk about it, so it slipped my mind but her name was definitely Wylla."

She was lying. She had no idea. But she wanted Varys to stop sniffing around and 'Wylla' was the only other name she had for Jon's mother. She had overheard Winterfell servants discussing it once. Her answer seemed to cause the man to slump a little.

"Very well, child," he said. "This time tomorrow, we will be at war. You will be summoned to the Queen's ballroom in Maegor's holdfast, where you will be forced to sit at her side and entertain guests. Although she will be distracted, you can be sure she will start to question you then. She will also tell you that Theon Greyjoy has seized Winterfell and that your brother, the little crippled boy, has yielded to the Ironborn. She may even go as far as telling you the two younger boys are dead."

Sansa's blood froze, her heartbeat racing. "What? No, Bran cannot be dead- "

Varys held up his hands. "Please, do not fear. What she won't tell you is that your older brothers immediately rode north again, took back their castles, claimed Asha Greyjoy as a captive and sent Theon to the Wall. But Joffrey means to use this to break you."

Gradually, Sansa's heart left her throat and returned to its rightful place. Although pained by Theon's betrayal, nothing shocked her now. She almost expected it.

"And Bran and Rickon are safe?" she asked. "Theon didn't hurt them, surely not?"

"As for that, I cannot say. I've heard conflicting reports. But Winterfell is back in Stark hands, and that's the important thing." Varys paused, meeting her gaze. "Remember, my lady, you do have some friends here at Court. Sometimes, we're in the most unexpected of places. Do you understand?"

Sansa gave a slow, reluctant nod. It meant that he wanted her to think of his as a friend, which meant telling him everything about her family so he could betray her. She wasn't about to fall for it, but nor was she about to draw the matter out any longer. "Thank you, Lord Varys." Gladly, she got to her feet and left without protest from Varys.

"I killed a man." Jon looked out over the river from the castle's battlements. It felt strange to be talking about that here, but it had to be done. "In fact, I killed several. I don't know how many and I only remember the first."

Robb was at his side as they patrolled the defences. Now he looked back at Jon quizzically. "You'll have killed many more by the time the fighting's done, brother. You and I, both."

"I know that," he curtly replied. "I just keep remembering it all the time."

Briefly, his attention was caught by a company of soldiers riding up from the south. A Tully battalion, returning from raids along the border they shared with the Lannisters, no doubt. Although he could not make out their banners from that distance, they had panoramic views of the whole area. The endless, meandering rivers and rolling hills. It was peaceful and pleasant after such a fraught few months in the north. He watched their glittering armour shining in the sunlight.

"It's Ramsay Bolton that worries me," Robb stated, also turning to the distant soldiers. They were the size of silver ants. "He wanted Theon badly and thinks me craven for sparing his life."

Jon's brow creased into a frown. "What was he planning on doing with Greyjoy?"

"What do you think?" Robb laughed drily. "You know what they say about him; we've all heard the stories."

A small breeze swept up off the river, reaching them in a whisper of air that ruffled the Tully banners. It cooled Jon's flushed face.

"There's nothing proven," he pointed out. "But we already knew we could not trust the Boltons. Nor can we afford enmity with the second largest house in the North. Like it or not, we need him."

"That doesn't mean I should hand over my enemies to be flayed alive, Jon- "

"Of course it doesn't!" Jon retorted, affronted by the suggestion. "But what can we do? We need Bolton's men, if not him in person. But, once the fighting is done, I am sure the new King will assist the King in the North with whatever he decides to do."

He heard the breath hitch in Robb's throat, a smile spreading over his face. "You've decided then?"

Jon matched his smile. "Yes, I think I have."

As he spoke, the line of soldiers far below them kept on going and going. Much greater in number than he realised. There was a steep hill blocking his view of that particular road, but they marched out from behind it in one endless line. Frowning, he tried to get a banner or two in focus, without success.

"There's still no word from my mother," Robb sounded dismayed. "I knew I should have gone with her!"

"And if you had, you would never have been able to march north to retake Winterfell," Jon pointed out. "Lady Stark will be fine. She knows what she's doing."

Robb shrugged, but continued to look worried. "She's dead for all I know."

They hadn't told Catelyn Stark about Theon's betrayal. Not while she was meant to be negotiating; they needed her focused on that. Now, Jon was beginning to question that decision. But, like so many things, it was too late to change anything now.

"Instead of waiting here on a wire, we should march on Harrenhal," Jon suggested. "We know that Tywin Lannister has marched south and left some cousin of his in charge. If we take it, we can use it to house our men. There's not enough room for them here and father always said we needed to take care of them."

But Robb seemed reluctant to commit. "We left over a hundred men at Winterfell, another two hundred at Deepwood Motte and a further hundred at Moat Cailin, just to be safe. If we take Harrenhal now we risk losing more men in the taking and then some, when it comes to securing the place. We will discuss it further tonight. I promise you."

As far as Jon was concerned, anything was better than hanging around at Riverrun. The men were growing bored with inactivity and they needed to take more castles if they wanted to advance. With the Lannisters focused on Stannis, he knew now was the time to act. But, at that moment, he decided not to press Robb on the matter. It was a calm and pleasant afternoon, one of the few they could enjoy before their war properly began.

There were already Tully men in place, watching the roads. Almost all of them were now congregated above the drawbridge, watching as the vast host of soldiers carried on riding toward their gates. Jon led Robb over to them, inching his way through the press until he reached the crenel between the two central merlons. About to call over to Robb, he was suddenly struck speechless.

Among the thousands of marching men headed their way, the direwolf of House Stark flew alongside the golden rose of House Tyrell. Behind them came the grapes of House Redwyne, the striding hunter of House Tarly, the apples of House Fossoway and many, many more that Jon could not identify. There was no hope of fitting them all inside the gates of Riverrun, nonetheless a large party broke off from the main line. It was a wheel house decorated with golden roses, drawn by four horses and ambling noisily over the lowered drawbridge and under the portcullis.

As they looked from the battlements, they could see both wheelhouse doors opening simultaneously. Two stewards appeared, offering their arms to the people inside. Out first was Lady Stark, the top of whose auburn head Jon recognised instantly. Lady Stark was swiftly followed by an elderly lady whose hair was covered by a full wimple favoured by the dowagers of southern houses. The two women linked arms, making their way inside.

Although Robb had gathered his wits and dashed off to greet his mother, Jon's eye was caught by a third and fourth person. It was a man, golden haired and handsome, offering his arm to a beautiful young woman who could only be his sister. She glanced upwards toward the battlements, taking in the size of her new temporary home. After a second or two, her gaze seemed to fall on Jon, their eyes locking into each other's. Courteously, he bowed his head.

"Now it begins," he said aloud, to no one in particular.

Robb had known what he was doing when he selected fine Stark loyalists to escort him to the Wall, Theon realised. If he fell down during the long walk, he could rely on them to kick him up to his feet. If he walked too long without falling, he could rely on the same men to kick him back down again. If he reacted, whether a grunt of pain or just an involuntary angry scowl, he could be assured of a cutting lick of a horse whip to the back of his thighs. If he yelped, he was put firmly back in his place with a second. They guarded him while he slept, or tried to sleep, and sometimes blew a horn when it looked like he might be dozing off. His cries of alarm were met with gales of laughter. They only stopped when it started to annoy the other guards who were not on night duty and trying to sleep, themselves. He had gone from being the Stark's hostage to being their sport.

You brought this on yourself. A small voice at the back of his head reminded him constantly of that small fact. He took their castle, killed their fellow bannermen. Innocent children were dead because of him, defenceless babes whose only crime was being of an age with Bran and Rickon Stark. All he did, he had done for the blood family who had spurned him. To them he was too Stark, to the Starks he was too Greyjoy. From day one of his captivity at Winterfell he had struggled to find the right path between both houses. He was struggling so hard he fell into the chasm between the two, hit the very bottom and realised he had no real place in either of them. The bitter truth was, he had no place anywhere. Except with the rest of the rejects at Castle Black, the very people he would once have spurned, had he bothered to notice them at all.

But one thing he knew, one thing that kept him setting one foot in front of the other, was the assurance that once he crossed the threshold of Castle Black his past became null and void. In the meantime, he kept his head down and bore the scorn of others in silence. For two long months they plodded north and north and north again. The weather grew harsher, the snows more frequent and the terrain more rugged. He thought he would freeze to death before he got there. But at the point where he gave up and gave in, it appeared as if out of nowhere. Indistinguishable from the snow-capped mountains, at first. But the nearer her got, he saw that it was a vast wall of ice. Glittering in the distant sun, a thing of great and terrible beauty. It looked like he had made it at last.

"Who have we got here, then?"

The acting Lord Commander, a man by the name of Ser Alliser Thorne, addressed his guards, once they reached the gates of Castle Black. As such, Theon held his silence and directed his gaze as his worn out boots.

"We have Theon Turncloak, formerly of House Greyjoy and formerly a ward of the late Eddard Stark of Winterfell. You're welcome to him."

Theon burned with shame at the nickname they had given him. Meanwhile, Thorne looked down at him, disdain in his flint-grey eyes.

"Bring him in, then." But when Theon stepped forward, Thorne put out the flat of his hand to stop him. "Hold on, Turncloak. When you step through this gate, all your past sins will be forgotten. But the Starks have always been friends of the Night's Watch, they always answer our call. So first, let me give you this." He removed his hand, made a fist and punched him square in the gut. Winded and gasping, Theon doubled over, trying not to retch. All the while, Thorne stood over him expressionless and impassive. "Now you may enter," he added. "Welcome to the Night's Watch."

The gates closed behind him, shutting out the guards who had been his tormentors more than anything else, for the last two months. He looked back over his shoulder, watching them leave but felt no relief. Even sealed inside Castle Black, the guilt and the shame remained with him, lingering like the ache in his guts.

It took all day, but they eventually managed to find lodgings for the entire Tyrell army. Every inn, castle, small holding and public house in a five-mile radius had made room to accommodate them. Unfamiliar with the local area, none of the northmen were much use. But Edmure and his men rose to the challenge with gusto. Meanwhile, Lady Stark and the Tyrells were locked in a council session with Robb, bringing them up to speed with all events that had taken place. Still, Jon was frozen out.

The briefing was being conducted in the Great Hall of Riverrun, so Jon sat outside in the gallery and waited. He was not particularly put out by his exclusion. Such affairs were usually boring, anyway. But Lady Stark had asked for him by name and, now, he was wondering why. It was dark out now and he was tired, ready for his bed.

To stay alert, he got to his feet and crossed to a window overlooking the banks of the river rushing past. Unable to see much beyond his own pallid reflection, he soon grew bored of that too. He heaved a sigh and turned back toward the empty gallery.

"Hello."

The soft, female voice jolted him out of his torpor. He looked up, finding the woman from earlier stepping through a side door. Her gown of blue and pale green samite whispered softly as she moved, stepping through the fresh rushes. Her arm was linked through that of an older woman, clearly her mother, who wore the Hightower of her House stitched in her bodice. Jon had the presence of mind to bow, only rising when the senior Lady bid him do so.

"Lady Alerie Hightower," she introduced herself.

"Jon Stark," he said in return. "And this is…"

He already knew, of course, but the polite thing to do was to pretend you didn't and ask anyway.

Lady Alerie smiled as she introduced her daughter. "May I present Lady Margaery, of House Tyrell, my lord."

Margaery curtsied and elegant curtsey that Sansa would most approve of. When she offered her hand, he pressed his lips against her soft skin. He always felt foolish observing southron courtesies, but there was no avoiding them anymore. His awkwardness showed, but the lady deigned not to notice. Robb had not exaggerated though. Jon thought her incredibly beautiful.

"Thank you, mother. With your leave, Lord Stark and I will withdraw to speak in private?" she asked, turning to Lady Alerie.

Her mother nodded, flushing with excitement. "Just stay within my sight, sweetling."

Propriety was everything to these people, so Jon remained silent as she led him to a window embrasure. It wasn't real privacy; the mother could hear every word that passed between them. But, expecting only small talk, Jon went along with it.

"You're to be my sister-in-law, then?" he asked, waiting for her to settle before sitting down himself. "Robb is very taken with you."

"Not quite," she answered. "I'm to be your wife."

Jon felt like he had been punched in the gut. He looked around desperately, as though the cavalry may come charging in to rescue him at any minute. But all he saw was Lady Alerie, smiling indulgently and flushing brightly. Breathing raggedly, he looked back at Margaery, noting the dismay in her eyes.

"My Lord- "

"Don't call me that," he cut her off. "Please. I'm just Jon. And I think you're mistaken." Shaking and in shock, he got to his feet. "Look, you and Robb will be very happy together. I … I…I…"

He stammered into silence, not knowing what to do with himself. He could see the hurt in her eyes as she climbed uncertainly to her feet. Tremulous and fearful, she looked over his shoulder to where he knew her mother still lurked. "Have I displeased you, Jon?"

He tried to give an answer, but found his tongue leaden and useless. No, he tried to say, no of course not! But the words were lost on the way from his brain to his mouth. It was always Robb who was expected to make a grand marriage, not him.

"I have to go to Harrenhal, my lady," he blurted out. "We will speak again when I return. You have my word."

With that, he turned and left via the same door she had appeared in and tried to calm the whirlwind that started in his head.

Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be welcome, if you have a moment.

Battle of Blackwater Bay and Harrenhal next!