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Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Gift

War horns sounded at the break of day, rousing the sleeping soldiers to the yard. The air was soon filled with curses and the scrape of metal as armour was fastened over ringmail shirts. Then, hundreds of marching feet stampeded through the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, waking the last of the servants huddled deep in the dank, dark basements. Arya was awake already, seeing as she hadn't slept at all. But she uncurled herself from her pallet bed and pulled on her tattered breeches as angry voices sounded all around her.

"Starks and Tyrells at the gates!" shouted one.

Another joined in: "Wolves and roses everywhere you damn well look!"

Arya froze, all her senses quickly heightened to their fullest. She instantly forgot the roses and only the wolves mattered to her. "Robb," she whispered. She quickly glanced all around her, checking where everyone was. Pink Eye was all a-flutter, threatening to beat everyone bloody. But she knew he wouldn't. He wasn't Weese and Weese was cold in his grave, thanks to Jaqen. After dressing in a hurry, she darted to the stairs leading up into the Wailing Tower and didn't stop climbing until she was as high up as she could get.

They were approaching from the west, the direction of Riverrun but at least three miles down the road. Not exactly 'at the gates'. But the outriders streamed ahead, the banners of House Stark and House Tyrell fluttering in the brisk wind. Her thoughts and her heartbeat began to race. She had to find a way to open the castle gates to them, but she couldn't think how. She needed Gendry, and Hot Pie and Jaqen – all the people she knew she could trust. She needed them fast.

Jon turned away from the Stark and Tyrell banners that now fluttered side by side, they were approaching Harrenhal. Coming in from the west, they found themselves circling the God's Eye and headed for the north shore to where that infamous castle cast its crooked shadows over the Isle of Faces. Mounted on a destrier, he looked out over the shimmering waters to see if he could catch a glimpse of the sacred weirwoods. But a silver mist had gathered along the water's surface and shrouded the island from view.

The castle chilled him. It's broken towers, still charred from the fires of Balerion the Black Dread, rose from the hilltop as crooked as splintered bones. When he looked up, he could make out the small figures of Lannister men, patrolling the battlements. Others stood motionless, their longbows trained on the approaching army, although they were well out of range. Hanging from the main gatehouse, the lion of House Lannister roared against its scarlet field. This first sight of enemy troops, after near a year of waiting in suspense, came almost as a relief to him. They were only human, despite his worst fears, and could die as easily as anyone else.

"Is this the place your mother and father first met?" It was Garlan Tyrell who asked. Jon had taken an instant liking to the elder of the Tyrell brothers after his disastrous first meeting with Margaery.

He nodded, feeling another chill creep down his spine. "At the Tourney. It's hard to imagine an event of such splendour happing in that old ruin."

"I'll say!" Garlan laughed, also looking up at the battlements. "My father was there and said it was the greatest tourney he ever attended. And my father is a man who's attended a lot of tourneys."

A few miles farther north of Harrenhal was also the place where his birth father died. In the rushing waters of the Trident, a place now known as the Ruby Ford, Rhaegar Targaryen had been cleaved almost in two by Robert Baratheon. If this was the place he and his mother first met, where they sealed their pact before the weirwood and fled and died, it was safe to say Harrenhal had lived up to its foreboding reputation.

Bringing himself out of his reverie, Jon turned in the saddle to see where Robb had got to. But he was almost a half-mile back down the line, speaking with Lord Rickard Karstark and Loras Tyrell. They had both made a conscious decision to get to know all of their new southern allies and the north/south divide be damned. As such, he had not spoken with Robb since they left Riverrun, almost three days past. But when his brother saw him looking, he dug his spurs into the horse's flanks and galloped up to meet him.

"I thought you were still angry with me," he said, by way of greeting.

"Why would I be angry with you?" Jon asked, frowning. "Just because you laughed at me doesn't mean I'm going to hold it against you. I mean, it's not like you've been a roaring success with the ladies, either."

Robb did not reply immediately, but he fixed Jon with a shrewd look. "See, you are angry still. You have to admit, brother, it is funny. Whatever got into you? Surely you knew you were a prize catch these days."

For most of his life, Jon had been nothing more than Ned Stark's bastard. He had no inheritance, which meant he was not expected to make any great match – if any at all. It was something he lived with and thought little of. That was just his reality. Until Margaery Tyrell became the living proof of whom he really was.

"I knew," he replied, at length. "I just didn't expect her to jump out at me like that, all unexpected and everything!"

Robb sighed. "You make it sound like she was hiding in the bushes with no clothes on, waiting to take you at unawares."

A short way ahead, Garlan barked with laughter. "The more I hear about this, the better it gets!"

Jon blushed, cursing them both. "Oh, do shut up! Anyway, I have sent Lady Margaery a message. It's not like I've just left her hanging on a cliff-edge."

"A message!" Robb repeated, teasing him. "She'll be swept off her feet, I'm sure."

Jon rolled his eyes and prayed to get to Harrenhal all the faster. Anything was better than this.

Inside the Queen's ballroom the atmosphere was surreal. The war machine was swinging into action not half a mile from the walls of Maegor's holdfast, yet Sansa was seated beside the Queen at the high table and watching as all the ladies of the court filed inside. There were musicians playing from the eaves, everyone was dressed in best gowns and the kitchens were serving the finest dishes. But beneath that glittering veneer, the laughter was brittle and over bright eyes betrayed the fear of the diners; the war outside the elephant inside the room they all strove to ignore. Even Cersei was on edge. She poured herself a healthy measure of red wine and gulped it down before the first course had even appeared.

Then Cersei glanced sidelong at her, noticed her looking and filled a second cup to the brim.

"Drink," she brusquely commanded. When Sansa hesitated, the Queen repeated herself. "Drink it; like this!" She demonstrated by downing her second cup.

Recalling what Varys had told her, she suspected the Queen was attempting to loosen her tongue with this fine Arbor vintage. Still, she lifted the cup to her lips and pretended to take a long sip, putting on a show of imbibing. But, at the rate the Queen was going, she'd be long gone by the time Sansa finished her first helping.

"His Grace is very brave," she said. "I know he will hold the city until your father arrives."

"Oh, stop pretending; you're fooling no one," Cersei retorted. "By my guess there's at least a hundred other places you would rather be than here. Your brother's wedding, to name but one."

Cersei set down her glass and turned to look at Sansa, her green eyes flashing like the wildfire rigged up along the bay. Sansa did not flinch.

"Robb is not betrothed, your grace. He is a traitor and no noble house will go near him."

"Oh really, well the Tyrells clearly didn't get that message," answered the Queen. "And it gets better: it's not Robb the traitor who's getting married, its Jon the bastard traitor. Now, there's every possibility that sweet Margaery has proved powerless to resist the minimalist charms of that frozen wasteland you call a home, or there's something about that boy we don't know."

Arranging her face into an expression of incomprehension, Sansa looked back at the Queen with her jaw agape. She wanted to give the impression she hadn't understood a word of what had been said.

"Jon has traitor's blood and has allowed himself to led astray by our traitor brother," she replied, tonelessly. "But forgive me, your grace, I don't know anything about any marriage. You know I have had no contact with my family since my father was beheaded."

From outside, the muffled thuds and bangs of the battle could be heard. Every so often, the diners fell silent and whipped round to the windows whenever a sound could not be ignored, or a green flash lit up the night sky. Only Sansa and Cersei kept watching each other. The only male presence in the ballroom was Ser Ilyn Payne, mute and motionless he stood at the back and clutched the sword he had used to take her father's head. The sight of it made her skin crawl as the memory of that day at the Sept of Baelor returned to her, bringing with it a flicker of defiance.

"But Jon is legitimised anyway," she added. "Even if he is the second son, he was still worthy of a great match."

Cersei's smile stiffened, her knuckles whitening where she gripped her wine goblet that little bit harder. "You yourself admit he's a traitor and yet you think him 'worthy of a great match'. Really Sansa, that's quite revealing."

"Was," she emphasised, compensating for her unguarded comment. "He was worthy. Anyway, the Tyrells also supported the traitor, Renly. It seems to me they will do anything to cause your grace displeasure."

The rictus grin on Cersei's face faded, her eyes narrowing as she fixed her with a calculating look. The answer she gave had thrown her, Sansa could tell. She had no idea why Jon was marrying Margaery and not Robb. Lack of knowledge meant lack of control; lack of control meant lack of power and the Queen couldn't function without any of these things. Sansa could see how much it was irking her, to the point where she began to question whether it was the battle or Jon who was causing her drink with such gleeful abandon. Whatever the reason, Sansa rather enjoyed the effect it was having on Cersei.

Cersei sighed deeply as she topped up her goblet. "Joffrey has, naturally, revoked the legitimisation my husband issued for your half-brother. He is a bastard again, so let us see the Tyrells waste their sweet little rose on him now."

A page leaned down between Sansa and the Queen, whispering in her ear. Sansa tried to listen in, but the musicians had struck up another song and drowned him out to all but Cersei. She did catch her reply:

"Have Ser Ilyn deal with them." The man left and the Queen smiled again, leaning towards her. "Looters. The first of many, I should imagine."

Mouth dry with fear, Sansa watched the page approach the headsman. A second later, they departed the ballroom together. It made her stomach churn to think of the grim task ahead of them.

"Why is Ser Ilyn in here?" she asked, tremulous now.

"Because, little dove, should Stannis Baratheon ever breach our walls, I want a guarantee that he will take none of us alive," answered Cersei. "And I mean none of us."

Fear pulsed in her gut, making her face blanch. She held her cup with hands that were suddenly clammy. All along she had been praying for Stannis' victory, her chance of freedom. How could she not have guessed how far Cersei would go to diminish that victory? Foolish, she chided herself, you're a foolish child!

"And that's not all," Cersei added, as though offering up a great treat. "Winterfell has been taken by Theon Greyjoy. Did you know that?"

Still shocked by the revelation about the headsman, Sansa did not have to feign as she thought she would. Tears were already standing in her eyes, now she let them fall and shook her head. "Theon … he would not do that- "

"Oh, but he has," Cersei cut over her. "Your little cripple brother yielded the castle to him, the Glovers yielded Deepwood Motte and the whole area is awash with Ironborn. Your brothers are dead, you have no home to go to and this means your brothers will have to turn around and march home again. Robb's gone from King in the North, to the King who lost the North."

While Cersei laughed at her own jest, Sansa made a show of trying to dry her tears. All the while, she remembered what Varys had told her. He had assured her Winterfell was already back in their possession and Theon was banished to the Wall. But she couldn't let on that she knew the truth and had to keep crying. Reaching for a napkin, she used it to dab her eyes and nose.

"B-Bran and R-Rickon…" she sniffled. People were starting to look, but she didn't care. "It cannot be so."

"Sadly, it is. And if your remaining brothers continue with their folly, Theon Greyjoy may yet bring me their heads too," she pointed out, curtly. "I suppose I shall never find out what it is about Jon Snow the Tyrells found so irresistible. He was your father's get on Ashara Dayne of Starfall. I never could figure out why she killed herself, whether it was for the brother Ned Stark killed or the babe he stole from her arms."

Sansa momentarily forgot herself and started listening to the Queen with rapt attention. "Brother?"

"Did he not tell you the story?" she asked, brow raised in surprise. "No, I don't suppose he would tell anyone willingly. Well, let me enlighten you. When your father rode to Dorne to rescue his sister, your aunt Lyanna of blessed memory, he found her under guard by Arthur Dayne, among others. Combat ensued, Ser Arthur was killed and your father returned his sword to Starfall. He came back with Jon Snow in his arms and Ashara took a long walk off a short battlement." Cersei paused, looking out over the ladies gathered at the lower tables. When her attention returned to Sansa, she was smiling sweetly again. "That was your father, Sansa. Not quite so honourable after all, no?"

That wasn't her father. She didn't know who that man was, but it wasn't her father. She remembered Varys muttering that the dates didn't add up, and being so eager to defend her father's name she almost blurted it out to Cersei. But she stopped herself in good time and disguised her choking back the words as a need for drink. Dropping the pretence, she swallowed a mouthful of wine for real.

Meanwhile, Ser Ilyn returned with a bloodied sword. The looters had clearly been dealt with and another surge of panic swept over her.

"I feel ill," Sansa exclaimed, tremulously.

Cersei waved her away. "Don't vomit here."

Gathering her skirts, she headed toward the privy in the outer gallery. There were a few other women waiting in line, but Sansa walked straight past them. No one stopped her, the other guards had clearly been called to the battle outside. Seizing the opportunity, she fled up the steps of Maegor's Holdfast. As she passed a window, a great green explosion tore the sky open, briefly lighting up a scene of devastation below. And there was a smell. A smell of blood, dirt, sweat and alcohol.

"You never did sing for me, little bird."

Sandor Clegane, the source of the bad smell, stepped out of the shadows outside her chamber door. Sansa gasped, taking an instinctive step back. Another explosion outside lit up his mutilated face.

"What do you want?" she asked, faltering.

"You," he answered. "I'm going north. I'll take you with me; keep you safe."

Varys drifted back into her memory once more, assuring her she had friends. Friends in unexpected places. Was this one? Sandor had always been gruff in speech, but gentle in manner to her.

"There are guards everywhere," she pointed out.

He tugged at the white cloak over his shoulders. "I have this and you have a hooded cloak, I've seen it."

She remembered Ser Ilyn Payne, waiting to cut off their heads. Even if they survived this night, she remembered Jon marrying Margaery and what they'd do to make her talk about him. But fear being caught made bile rise in her throat. The looters had been captured attempting to escape the city. But Sandor had a white cloak and a crippling fear of fire. She was damned either way. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she pushed past him, into her chambers. Her cloak was hanging on the door of her wardrobe; the last doll her father had made for her sat on a chair, looking up at her glittering onyx eyes.

Ser Steffon Lannister came out in person. Dusk was settling over Harrenhal, lending it an even more sinister aspect, making Tywin's cousin look like small as a child. Jon was barely surprised he wanted out of the cursed place. Both sides were heavily armed, but their white peace banners fluttered in the small wind, letting each other know they meant no harm. At least, not yet. Now was the time to parlay. A few pleasant words before the killing began.

With Jon were Loras and Garlan Tyrell, Robb, Lord Karstark and Greatjon Umber. Watching over them were forces drawn up from the Boltons, the Glovers and the Fossoways. Ser Steffon was alone, aside from his paltry guard of Lannister men. He sat his horse proudly, facing his inevitable defeat with grace.

"Yield the castle, my lord, and we will let you and your men go in peace." Ser Garlan made the usual opening offer.

One Ser Steffon was duty bound to refuse. "That I cannot do, Ser. I swore an oath to Lord Tywin to hold his castle and defend our family name."

Robb urged his horse forward a few steps. "You can see our numbers, Ser. Either yield the castle, or men will needlessly die. Do the right thing and let them return to their hearths and families."

While this exchange went on, Jon looked up at the gatehouse, to where the guards had arrows trained on them through the slits in the tower walls. Suddenly, many of them withdrew and a commotion broke out. Ser Steffon looked back irritably, but didn't seem to make anything of it.

"All I need do is wait here until Lord Tywin returns from King's Landing," he explained. "He will have defeated Stannis, sent the Baratheon fleet to the bottom of the sea and absorbed the remaining troops into his own forces. He will have more men; more reinforcements- "

"But not enough," Jon cut over him. "If our forces meet Tywin on the road from Kings Landing do you seriously think we'll just let him pass?"

Ser Steffon's expression darkened, his lip quivering in doubt. Meanwhile, some of their party also became distracted by events taking place in the gatehouse. The drawbridge was down and the portcullis up, allowing Ser Steffon a swift retreat should it be needed. However, enemy access to it was blocked by Ser Steffon's guard. If they cut through them, they could reach it now that the garrison seemed in disarray.

A loud shout and several curses cut through the evening air, drawing all their attention.

"Things are going well in there, it seems," remarked Garlan.

Ser Steffon's reply was cut off as a body wrapped in a Lannister standard was thrown to the ground. Alarmed, Jon looked up to the top of the tower, just in time to see an armoured man with oddly coloured hair ducking out of view. The corpse hitting the ground made all their horses wicker and shudder.

"What in seven hells was that?" Robb snapped.

"Ready the siege engines," Loras commanded, wheeling his mount round. "This begins now."

The first trebuchet had hurled the first boulder over Harrenhal's walls before they even made it back to their front line. Jon heard it crashing into the courtyard, to be met with screams and shouts. Seconds later, men and women were fleeing through over the drawbridge that had not been raised. Confusion broke out among them, as they tried to figure out why the bridge was still down, practically inviting them inside.

"It could be a trap," Jon cautioned. "Or it's just to let the people inside escape."

"If we just stand here, we'll never know for sure," Robb countered. "I say we charge now and get this over and done with."

Garlan agreed, just as a second and third boulder crashed into their targets inside the walls. "Go!" he commanded, before facing their foot soldiers. "Advance! Advance! Follow your commander!"

As the order was relayed, waves of fighting men surged over the trench that had been dug and swept across the land in a tide of steel armour. Those attempting to flee Harrenhal were pushed back or trampled beneath the hooves of destriers, but Jon could barely see what was happening. He drew his sword as he neared the drawbridge, swinging it at anyone who came near him. Beside him, Robb did the same but then peeled off as soon as they were through the walls. Behind them, their vast host seized the castle walls with ease, then started raining arrows down on the Lannisters.

Jon saw Ser Steffon fall with several quarrels to the chest, blood seeping through his crimson cloak as though the dye had started leaking out of it. Down in the courtyard with him, Robb surged forwards with the Karstarks backing him up, cutting and slashing a path to the main keep. Jon gathered his wits, dug his spurs into his horse and galloped hard to take control of the courtyard. All the while, he yelled commands he couldn't tell if anyone even heard.

As he looked back, a retreating Lannister pikeman drove the point of his weapon into his horse's chest, bringing the beast down hard. Cursing, Jon managed to roll out of the way before he could be crushed and took out the pikeman with a slash of Dark Sister's blade. But, as he rose unsteadily to his feet, he felt the point of an arrow driven through a chink in his breast plate, the arrow embedding in his shoulder. Another searing pain lanced through his thigh as a second arrow hit him in the leg. Wounded, in pain unlike any other, he hit the ground and could only crawl towards a place of safety.

Sandor Clegane was stopping for no man. Stranger's hooves pounded against the hard-packed earth of the courtyard, sweat already foaming on his flanks. He bellowed out a command as he charged past the watch tower, his lance drawn as though returning to the front line. The men did not try to stop him and flung the exit gates wide open. They even bellowed a "good luck" greeting to his rapidly retreating back.

Even by the time he reached open ground, the whole of Blackwater burned. Ships of fire listed and rolled over the churning seas, silhouettes of men tumbling from burning crows' nests before hitting the waters. Their screams could be heard over the sound of battle. He did not slow his horse. But he did drop his lance and wrapped his one free arm around the sacking cloth in front of him. He could feel her trembling there, her ragged breaths laboured with fear and her fingers clutching the front of the tunic that covered his breastplate. He lifted his hand to the top of her head, holding the hood down to keep her distinctive hair out of sight.

The gates of the city were closed, but this did not surprise him. But the cover story came easily to him, it was something the Imp and the Queen had concocted together when sneaking Prince Tommen out of the city.

"I need to get the Prince out of Rosby," he said, gruffly. Stranger hadn't stopped properly and now reared, almost spilling his special package. "The war is going badly, ser. I've been sent to get him to safety."

"Of course, Clegane."

The men obeyed immediate. Whether that was because they believed his lies or because they were scared of him, he neither knew nor cared. Because, once they were through those city gates, they would be safe on the north road. When the gates began to creak apart, he did not wait before driving his spurs into Stranger's flanks before charging through them, almost riding down one of the guards. Even then, he did not stop. He rode and rode until the horse could take no more. Only then they wound down did he steer the exhausted animal over to a small stream.

"Little bird," he said, once the horse was drinking. "You're free now."

Still in the saddle, he lowered the hood to reveal her red-flushed face. Breathless and fearful, her wide blue eyes darted from his face, to the dark countryside that now surrounded them. But every so often, a green flash was reflected there as an explosion shook the capital nearby. They were still too close to the city walls.

"It-it's done? We're out?"

His face twisted into a smile. "I promised you, little bird, I'll keep you safe now."

She cast aside the sacking cloth he covered her in and fastened her cloak properly in its place. Both enjoyed the clean air after the ash and smoke of King's Landing. Stunned and silent, they both turned to face the road ahead of them.

The only place to find peace in Riverrun was in Catelyn's late mother's private garden. Sectioned off from the inner-keep, the great walls muffled all sounds from beyond, even the great rivers rushing past. Oil lanterns had been hung from hooks on the same walls, lighting up the well maintained lawns and beds of flowers. Clearly, someone had been working in there despite Lady Tully being long dead and gone. Edmure, or so she thought.

Together, she and Lady Margaery strolled the perimeter of the garden, grateful for the clean night air.

"Are you worried?" Cat asked the younger woman. "I hear they're taking the Castle this evening. Harrenhal should be ours, soon."

"Some," she answered. "Forgive the abrupt change of subject, Lady Stark, but Jon sent me a gift."

"Oh?" Curious now, she steered Margaery to a nearby bench in the light. "What was this gift?"

When settled, she reached into a pocket sewn into her gown and held out a roll of fabric. "It's a message of some sort, I think."

It was wrapped in black cloth, but when she opened it a rose of House Tyrell appeared. Only, it was not golden, it was fashioned from pale blue silk. Crude, but effective enough for Catelyn to catch its deeper meaning. It made her smile.

"What does it mean?" asked Margaery. "There was only one word on the note, alongside his name."

"Jon's always been a man of few words, so you'll have to excuse his reticence," she began. "But, I think I understand. When his father first met his mother, he crowned her with a laurel of her favourite flowers – the blue winter roses that grow at Winterfell. This is the sigil of your house, combined with the token of love Rhaegar gave to Lyanna. It you and it is him."

She heard the breath catch in Margaery's throat as she took the token back and pressed it to her lips.

"What was the one word?" Catelyn didn't mean to pry, but curiosity compelled her to ask.

Margaery met her gaze, happier now and replied: "Forgive."

Wounded and unable to move, Jon had collapsed in a smith's workshop. A strange bull's head helm was looking down at him from a worktop, but he soon glazed over it. Blood was seeping down the legs of his breeches now, a quarrel still embedded in his thigh. He had already pulled the other out of his shoulder, and set about tearing at a strip of cloth to stem the blood loss. Although painful and messy, he knew the wounds posed no real danger but he also needed a Maester.

Lying on his back, he looked up at the invisible ceiling of the forge, gritted his teeth and yanked hard on the second arrow. It wasn't embedded deep, but it still burned a raw pain as he removed it. Once it was out, he lay panting on the group, sweating and in convulsions of pain that pulsed with the beat of his heart. With his eyes closed, he distracted himself by listening to the sounds outside. The fighting was all but over and any minute now someone would find him and bring him to safety. He hoped it would be Robb.

After what seemed an age, a young northern soldier burst through the door and spotted him lying there helplessly.

"Get King Robb!" Jon called. "Get him now, I can't move."

He tried to sit up, pulling on a cloth to give him leverage. But he pulled too hard and it was only dragged from the table, spilling various items on him as it descended. After receiving a bash on the head from an empty gauntlet, he sent up a prayer of thanks that it was nothing heavier. Then, however, one item caught his eye in the poor light of the lantern overhead. A sword, long and slender, forged in a castle hundreds of leagues away.

He picked it up and turned the skinny blade in the light. "Needle," he whispered.

Thank you again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.

Next time, I'm slowing the pace again as we catch up with Daenerys, Sam and Alysane. And, obviously, a certain little Stark girl must be reunited with her brothers and give full account of what was happening in that gatehouse. Hope to see you all then and love to you all. Thank you.