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For clarity of timelines – the events of this chapter occur over several days.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Little Princess.

Robb was almost inside the keep of Harrenhal when the foot soldier bearing Jon's message found him. Immediately, he dug his spurs into the flanks of his destrier and galloped back the way he had come. Luckily for him, the fight was ebbing fast. Ser Steffon had perished before he could yield, so the remaining Lannister forces retreated rather than die for the sake of a ruin. A small mercy for which he sent up a silent prayer of thanks to both the old gods and the new. Although small, there were still losses on either side. A few golden roses had been trampled into the churned up earth, be he could tell there were more lions and even less wolves among the dead. Fearing that there may soon be another, he jumped from the saddle as soon as he reached the forge and barrelled through the old wooden door.

"Jon!" he called to the figure lying prone in the rushes.

To his relief, Jon was conscious and holding a long and slender blade in one hand. "Arya," he said, trying to sit up.

Robb rushed to his side, almost falling beside him. "Don't move, brother- "

"Arya!" Jon repeated, more insistently and grabbing the front of his cloak with his free hand. Up close, Robb could see how pale and fevered he looked.

Uncomprehendingly, Robb shook his head. "She's not here, Jon." She's probably dead, he added to himself.

Jon cringed in pain, shrinking back and dropping the sword to clutch at the open wound in his shoulder. Pushing the sword out of his way, Robb did what he could and tore off clean patches on his own tunic to stem the blood loss. To tie the bindings properly, he had to haul him into a sitting positon, revealing a large patch of bloodied rushes that made his stomach lurch horribly.

"Help is coming," Robb promised him, working methodically at the bindings. "Just hold on tight and stay with me."

For a long moment, Jon looked up at him with pleading in his wide, grey eyes. He turned to the sword now abandoned in the rushes. "It's Arya's!" Jon managed to rasp.

The realisation hit Robb like a smack in the face. Suddenly, he was torn between his wounded brother and the possibility that his little sister was somewhere nearby. Hit with indecision, he kept looking between the forge door and back to Jon again as if there were some way he could splice himself in two to help both at once.

"I can walk, just help me up," said Jon, trying to catch his breath. "We can look … together."

Robb shook his head. "No. No you can't. Stay here, I'm going to get help and then I'm going to find our sister. Promise me, you'll stay put."

Next thing he knew Robb was running through the yard on foot, in darkness and now in driving rain. His method was to grab at every person he ran into, demanding to know if they had seen his sister. He described her as best he could, but it had been two years since he saw her last. But, as he went, more and more people joined the search and called out her name. As he went, he found a maester who had lost his chain during the fighting and sent him to tend to Jon's wounds. He discovered a Lannister foot soldier, slow on the uptake, still humping a servant girl he called Pretty Pia, in a hayloft. Robb allowed them to go in peace, rather than make trouble.

Despondent, he followed the young lovers back outside into the pouring rain. Slouching against the exterior wall, he buried his face in his hands. If Arya was scared, chances were she had fled through the postern gate or over the drawbridge along with all the others. She could even have been killed, but he tried to push that thought away. Before he could give in to despair, however, the sound of hurried footsteps splashing through deep puddles jolted him from his reverie. When he turned, he noticed a small, skinny boy running full pelt towards him, with bony arms wide open.

"Robb!" cried the boy in a little girl's voice. "Robb! It's me!"

It really was her. For a full second, his heartbeat stopped. They had cut off her hair and dressed her in tattered breeches, but there was no mistaking Arya. Tears welled in his eyes as he ran up to meet her, grabbing her and pulling her upwards, clean off her bare feet, into a tight bear hug. He only let go when he realised he was crushing her tiny frame into his steel breastplate. Beyond words, he picked her up again and let her wrap her arms around his neck as he cradled her, carrying her back into the castle and out of the rain.

"Why are you helping me?" Sansa was genuinely curious. Now that they had stopped by a stream so Stranger could drink his fill, she finally had an opportunity to ask. It was mid-morning already, and they were far from King's Landing by her estimation. The sun was up, the cold light of day was everywhere and she had pinched herself several times. Yet, the reality remained the same – she really was free. Sandor had not dumped her in the woods, but was currently splashing cold stream water over his gnarled face. He still had his back to her, so she thought he did not hear her.

"Why are you helping me?" she repeated the question. "It's a long way to Winterfell."

Finally, he looked at her from over his shoulder. "It's as well we're not going to Winterfell then, isn't it?" Seeing the look of fear on her face, he added: "The Imp says your brothers are marching on Harrenhal. That's where I'm taking you."

He stood and dried his face on the white cloak of the Kingsguard. "I should get good gold for you."

"Of course you will," she assured him. She was under no illusions about what he expected in return for this, but he could have gotten gold from the Lannisters too. "But what about Joffrey- "

"Fuck the King!" he cut over her, bitterly.

"I'd rather not," she returned, almost eliciting a smile from the Hound.

"I bet you wouldn't."

When he approached Stranger again, she reached for the bridle and gently directed the horse away from the stream. Having finished with the water, he had taken to cropping at the damp grass along the banks. To compensate for cutting his breakfast short, she patted his neck and rubbed the soft fur between his chestnut eyes. Meanwhile, Sandor had remounted and held out his hand to help her up. Once they were both settled, they set off again. Sansa had no idea where they were.

"What will you do afterwards?" she asked. "After we reach Harrenhal and I'm back with Robb and Jon, I mean."

"You ask too many questions."

Whatever she asked was met with blunt comments that closed the conversation.

"Earlier, you said we couldn't go slowly so I could look for my little sister," she reminded him. "But if we do, and we find her, that will double your gold."

Behind her, Sandor sighed heavily. "Most highborn mothers would pay good gold for someone to take your wolf sister away."

"Not mine!" Sansa retorted, turning so she could see him properly. "Just think about it."

Sandor kept his own gaze fixed on the road ahead. "Cersei thinks your little sister is dead, so she's not bothering to search for her. By now, she will know you're gone even though you're not dead. She will also know that I'm gone even though I'm not dead. Now, Cersei is one thick bitch. But even she can put two and two together and come to the conclusion that you and I vanishing at the same time is not a coincidence. So what do you think she's doing now?"

Sansa answered quietly. "She will be looking everywhere for us." She also thought of why Sandor was helping her. "And maybe there is a price on our heads, too. Gold."

"Lots of gold," Sandor clarified. "My face is not easily forgotten, little bird. I'll be easy to follow; you too with that hair. We keep a low profile and we don't stop until Harrenhal."

She sketched a smile of gratitude. "I understand."

He flicked the reins, urging the horse on faster. Before too long, they were galloping along the beaten earth road. They didn't dare take the King's Road, but skirted close to it along side-tracks and paths barely wide enough for Stranger to pass along. But when they were crossing open fields, the horse ran full tilt. However, they did stop again. Just as they were galloping through a farmer's field. Sansa could see the little farm house off in the distance, but there was no one around. The only living things nearby were palfrey horses nibbling at a hedgerow.

Sandor nodded to one of them. "That's about the right size for a little bird."

A few months ago, she would have been horrified by the very notion. But times had changed and she needed a horse. "You're leading me astray," she replied, sliding down from Stranger's saddle.

Daylight crept through the slats in the shutters, but not so much that they illuminated Jon's new surroundings. Certainly not enough to distract him from the pain in his thigh and shoulder. He tried to sit up, but it made his injuries scream an angry protest. Then, before he could make a sound, someone in the shadows handed him a cup of water. A maester with no chain. Realising he was parched, he gulped it down and recoiled against the sickly taste.

"Arya," he tried to say, but milk of the poppy had rendered him helpless and the name was a muffled whimper.

The darkness took him swiftly, soothed him and then, just as he was getting comfortable, began to unravel a reel of visions in his head. Bran came first, but when he tried to reach him, he met his gaze and Jon reeled in shock as a third eye opened wide in the middle of his brother's brow. Bran's auburn hair grew long and his face morphed into that of Sansa, sitting calmly beside a snarling, savage dog with a mutilated face. Before Jon could save her from being mauled, she wrapped her arms around the beast and soothed it into a state of serenity. She looked up at Jon with lilac eyes that should have been blue, her auburn hair faded to silver and suddenly her face was someone else's. Flames lapped at her flesh and a dragon burst from her loins, huge and with scales of deep green and burnished bronze. The beast fixed him with eyes as bronze as its scales and opened its maws to show large black teeth as it roared a stream of fire. He threw his hands up in front of his face, protecting himself from the heat. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the strange room, lying in his soft feather bed.

"Hush, my darling, you were crying in your sleep," said Margaery. It was pitch dark, but she made her own light as she seated herself beside him on the bed. She shushed him again, cupping his face with his hands as she leaned in close and pressed her lips to his own.

"This isn't proper," he protested, trying to pull away.

But Margaery was unconcerned. "It's all right, my love. Your mother agreed to be my chaperone."

"Lady Stark isn't my- "

He cut himself off as Margaery gestured to a woman of seventeen years, sitting at the foot of his bed. On her head was a laurel of blue roses and she wore a gown spattered and smeared with blood. She looked at him with tears of happiness in her eyes. Lyanna opened a closet door, darkness leading to more darkness. Slowly, steps appeared. Steps leading down into the crypts of Winterfell. Fear closed over him, a cold sweat beading over clammy skin as he looked down into the cold depths as he willed himself inside. Behind him, the crypt door slammed, waking him with a start.

Gasping for breath, he sat bolt upright in bed and rubbed the residue of the dream from his eyes. It was daylight again, and someone had fully opened the shutters on a dreary grey sky. There was a cup of real water sat on a table next to the bed, which he managed to decant into a glass. But the wounds still pained him, the leg worse than the shoulder. Pushing through it, he managed to sit up and drink his water while recalling the dreams he had had.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Without waiting for an answer, the caller nudged it open and peeked inside. She was just a pair of large, golden-brown eyes at first.

"Lady Margaery," he said, throat still dry. "Come in."

She greeted him with a smile as she stepped inside properly. Her outer gown was pale blue, her under skirts silver samite. On her bodice, his little gift of a blue Tyrell rose had been pinned in place like a badge. Jon noticed it and smiled.

"When did you get here?" he asked. "How long was I sick?"

"Only yesterday," she assured him. "And not for long."

There were no servants on hand, so she pulled up a chair herself and positioned it right beside his bed. Suddenly self-conscious of the fact that he was half-naked, he lay back and pulled the woollen blankets up to his middle. After she had sat down, she pressed her right hand to his brow for a moment, frowned and withdrew it again. Reaching down for something at her feet, she lifted a bowl of water and wrung out a cloth.

"I took the liberty of dismissing the maester," she explained. "I hope you don't mind. He claimed he had lost his chain in the fighting. Turned out the Citadel actually stripped him of it."

Jon frowned. "I remember seeing that man. He gave me the milk of the poppy. Why did he lose his chain?"

Rinsing the cloth again, Margaery shrugged. "Some say necromancy; others say dark arts. It must have been something serious, though. Said his name is Qyburn."

"Never heard of him, must have been here when we arrived," said Jon.

They were silent for a moment, just while Margaery helped him clean a cut in his arm. After that, she handed him a clean night shirt and looked away while he changed into it. Once dressed again, he remained standing although his leg still throbbed. Margaery turned, placing her hands on his upper arms.

"There's somebody else here to see you," she said, trying to hide her giveaway smile. "You'll never guess who."

For the first time since waking, Jon felt his spirits soar. "I wasn't dreaming all the time, was I? Is Arya here?"

If he was, his dream came barrelling into the room calling his name out loud. Before he could even get a proper look at Arya, she leapt into his arms and buried her face in the crook of his neck. The strain made his shoulder injury scream in pain, but he could not have cared less with his sister in his arms. Discreetly, Margaery left the room to afford them privacy. Only then did he let the tears in his eyes fall.

"Arya! Oh gods, Arya, it truly is you!"

"I missed you," she sobbed, words muffled by his shoulder. "I missed you, I missed you!"

And they held each other as though they never wanted to let each other go ever again.

A flash of green followed by the deafening roar of fire. That was Ser Davos Seaworth's last memory before regaining consciousness on a pile of rocks somewhere off the coast. It was to be his curse that one of the few other memories he had of Blackwater was watching as all but one of his sons died in a blast of that same wildfire. Then even the sea itself spat him out on a rocky outcrop just off the coast, more dead than alive and at the mercy of any passing ship. Even the little bag with his finger bones had gone. However, the gods had granted him one small mercy. The first ship that passed him by just happened to belong to his old pirate friend, Salladhor Saan.

Barely an hour later, a little boat had been sent out to scrape him off that rock and get him safely on board the galley. Salladhor himself was on board, mercifully having survived the battle, feasting with a sour look on his face. Davos' faith in Stannis had been so absolute he had promised the pirate the earth in return for his cooperation in the fight for King's Landing. As it transpired, there was only more bad news on that front.

"Your King is dead, Ser Davos. Impaled on a lance wielded by Lord Tywin himself," he said, peeling another grape and tossing it over to Davos.

Although he had not eaten since before the battle, his stomach roiled at the sight of food. Stannis, dead. It barely seemed possible. Stannis had raised him up in this world, had given him lands and a title. Had afforded him dignity and sweet wife who had bore him sons. Now it felt as though he were free falling down again, his phantom fingers failing to grasp a stronghold.

"Your cause is dead, so go back to your wife and rebuild what you can," Saan advised. "You were always a better smuggler than you were a Knight, my old friend."

"Maybe you're right on that front," replied Davos. "But you're wrong about one thing: this war is not over. Not while the little Princess lives."

The old pirate almost choked on a peeled grape. "That grotesque daughter of his? Surely you jest, old friend!"

If he had had the strength, Davos would have up-ended the table and thrown the pirate overboard. But he calmed himself, remaining composed for the sake of Shireen. The gods had not granted him a daughter. But if they had, he could only hope for one half as sweet and gentle as the little princess. Others may look at her and see only the legacy of greyscale. But all he saw was the kindest little girl with big, guileless blue eyes and a gentle wit that could overcome many an adversity in life. Stannis had adored her, too. But the mother, Selyse, had tried to keep her hidden from the world. But it was what Stannis wanted that counted to Davos, and he knew Stannis would want his daughter crowned in his place.

"I am not jesting," he replied in a measured tone. "Shireen is the rightful Queen of Westeros. If I can get her to safety, I know I can rebuild our forces."

Saan looked at him askance. "And where is 'safety'?"

Davos seethed as only the vaguest of notions came to him. "Robb Stark has been declared King in the North. I have no quarrel with him and he has no quarrel with us. If I can get the little Princess safely to the Riverlands, we can seek sanctuary with the northmen and have them fight for us in return for Northern independence – I bet they'd much rather have Princess Shireen on the throne than Joffrey Baratheon. It's a compromise Stannis would never have made, I know. But that accursed unyielding nature of his is what got him bloody well killed in the first place."

"I think you'll find Tywin Lannister also had something to do with that," Saan pointed out with a shrug.

"Tywin be damned!" Davos spat.

"You are dreaming, my friend. But I know you too well, common sense alone will not keep you from this folly. Do as you will, but ask of no help from me as refusal often offends."

Exasperated, Davos covered his face with his hands and sighed. Maybe he was being foolish. But by now, he knew, the Lannisters would be well on their way to Dragonstone, claiming it for the crown. If it wasn't for the greyscale, the little Princess might be married off to some neutral lord with no claim to the throne. But, as it was, Davos knew the Queen would just seize the child and kill her. The mother too. But they would have to go through him if they wanted to get their hands on little Shireen. He swore to the old gods, new gods and drowned gods, he would get her off that island and away to somewhere safe before the siege could begin.

Despite what he had said, Salladhor Saan provided him with one last favour. A small row boat with a black sail to get him safely back to Dragonstone, enough to slip between any enemy ships that may be starting to gather there. But if it got him safely in, it could also get him safely out again. Even with the little Princess hidden on board. It wasn't much, but it was all he needed.

"Khaleesi." Daenerys was watching over Rhaegal when Doreah entered her chamber. The Handmaiden stopped, turning her attention to the small dragon. "He is feeling better?"

Dany sat up, nudged another piece of charred goat flesh in the dragon's direction and watched as he wolfed it down. He had been out of sorts for the last few days. Sleeping a lot, refusing food and being snappy and skittish when awake. The day before, he had almost taken Doreah's finger off as she tried to feed him a morsel of pig flesh. But, a few hours passed, he had suddenly perked up and was rapidly returning to his usual self.

"I think so," she replied, eventually. "At least he's eating again."

She got up from the cushions she was reclining on and returned to her seat on the dais. She already knew she had visitors, she heard the handmaiden speaking with them about Ser Jorah. But she had been so distracted with Rhaegal, she had not come out in person. Also, still resident at the home of Xaro Xhoan Daxos, she had been less inclined to leave her chambers in case she bumped into him again. His tears at her marriage refusals were becoming irksome and it was clear she was outstaying her welcome.

Dreading a messenger from her host, bearing bad news, she gestured for Doreah to speak.

"We have visitors from your homeland," she explained. "They have travelled a long way, searching for Ser Jorah."

Suddenly, Dany was alert. "Really?"

"Samwell, of house Tarly. Alysane of house Mormont, like Ser Jorah."

Dany was on her feet again, plumping cushions at the table in the centre of the room. "Don't leave them standing around out there, show them in!"

Hastily, she made grabbed platters of dates and other fruits, and another of cold meats and buttered bread. Wine was already there and small ale, should they prefer it. If one was from Ser Jorah's house, she knew they could mean no harm. Besides, the usurper was dead and buried. For all she knew, these people could help bring her home. Just as she was ushering Rhaegal back into his cage, she heard shuffling footsteps enter her privy chamber.

"Please, be welcome!" she greeted them, eagerly. When she turned, she found a large boy, round as he was tall but with an open, jolly countenance. Next to him, a woman of rugged looks. Like Jorah, only with teats and more hair. They both looked as if they had spent a year crawling through the Red Wastes. Both noticed Rhaegal perched on her shoulder, their jaws almost hit their chests.

"You have a dragon?" the fat boy gasped, his brown eyes wide and glittering.

"I don't have a dragon," she replied, stressing the 'a'. "I have three dragons. Would you like to see?"

She beamed brightly as she addressed Sam, then watched in shock as his large knees buckled and he hit the floor in a dead faint, sending up a small cloud of dust from the rug he landed on.

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