The Northern Conspiracies

The Queen of Love and Beauty

Lances clashed like lightning. The sound of horse's hooves clattered like lances. The crowd cheered as once more the wooden lances snapped against each other.

"Well struck!" Lord Gilwood Hunter cheered. "Oh well struck, well struck indeed!"

"They are both very gallant, my lord," Alayne agreed. Despite herself, she couldn't stop her heart from beating faster as the horses toured the tilts. Both riders were noble and dashing figures. Every highborn maiden must be swooning right now.

And yet I am betrothed to one of them, Alayne thought. And the other carries my favour. I think I chose well between them.

Both Ser Harrold Hardyng and Ser Roland Waywood motioned toward her as they passed. Ser Roland Waynwood pressed his hand to the sewn falcon handkerchief on his breastplate, which seemed only to make Ser Harrold more determined to beat the older knight.

Harry the Heir was fostered at House Waynwood, she thought. They were distant cousins, but Alayne could see something of a brotherly rivalry between them. Ser Roland was taller, with an easier laugh and more prone to teasing comments. Ser Harrold was stiffer, of stockier build, and perhaps more sullen in demeanour, yet he also seemed far more focused and determined.

Four nights ago, after dancing and flirting with Ser Harrold, Alayne had given her favour to Ser Roland. The knight had been teasing Ser Harrold relentlessly ever since, all the way until they were the final two contenders. They're not competing for the tourney of the Winged Knights anymore, Alayne thought with a smile, they are competing over me.

"Our Harry is the simple sort," she remembered Littlefinger saying, "he enjoys comely women and jousting. He always wants what he can't have, and he loves fighting for it. Make it difficult for him and he will follow you to the end of the earth."

Ser Harrold is going to win this, she thought quietly. Ser Roland seemed to have the advantage in the first tilt, but since then he had been riding more and more unsteadily, while Ser Harrold only seemed to get stronger.

If he wins, he will crown me as queen of love and beauty, I know he will, Alayne thought. She had seen the wreath of white roses that would be handed to the victor. He will place the laurels on my lap and it will be just perfect. The Vale will toast us, and later we will be betrothed.

Alayne sat in the lord's booth, below her father's empty seat. The most powerful lords in the Vale were all around her, watching intently. Myranda Royce sat by her side, bouncing in excitement.

She tried desperately not to think of the last tourney she attended, a lifetime ago at King's Landing. Her fath… the Hand's tourney. She had been a different person then, but something of that old excitement and wonder started to creep through.

"He is very good," Randa whispered with a smile. "Ser Roland is seven years his elder and many times more experienced. But Harry the Heir rides well."

"Indeed, not quite a jumped-up squire," Alayne said lowly. Harry the Arse, Lothor Brune called him when they first met. When they first met, he had been rude, dour and aggressive. Yet ever since that unpleasant introduction he has been the perfect gentlemen, she added to herself.

"It's always nice to see a man who can handle a lance," Randa whispered.

"Oh hush."

She gave a teasing smile. Randa is wearing a very tight corset, Alayne noticed. She displayed more cleavage than was strictly decent, particularly considering the cool air. Alayne knew that Randa had been flirting with Ser Roland before the tilt as well. She japed, but perhaps Randa hoped to be named queen of love and beauty if Ser Roland won. Alayne doubted it would happen - Ser Roland was likely to name Alayne as well.

"What is the reward for the victor?" Randa asked.

"A thousand gold dragons," she replied. To the last of the sixty-four noble knights. "And the admiration of the Vale."

"I believe they both care more about the admiration."

Indeed. The eight members of the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights had already been selected from the semi-finalists. Ser Harrold Hardyng, Ser Roland Waynwood, Ser Andar Royce, Ben Colderwater Ser Andrew Tollet, Ser Edmund Breakstone, Ser Elbert Belmore and Ser Osgood Upcliff had all qualified to the order. Ser Mychel Redfort had been a strong hopeful, but he lost the final place to the surprisingly skilled Ser Osgood Upcliff. Nobody had expected Ser Harrold to go so far either, considering his youth and newly minted spurs, but the young heir had a series of good tilts all the way up to the final.

The knights clashed again. The crowd was up in arms as Ser Roland swayed dangerously from the broken spear against his shield, recovering only at the last second. He was also having difficulty with his horse.

"Your lord father is missing quite the bout," Lord Gilwood noted, as he clapped.

Yes, and that is queer. Petyr had been so very busy recently. "Six lances broken so far!" Lady Waynwood said, clapping for both her grandson and her ward. "Soon we will need to judge it."

"Yes," Lord Yohn Royce rumbled. The Lord of Runestone was well named, with a face that could have been carved out of a weathered crag of rock. Even when he spoke mildly, his voice carried over the distance; had a face lined and carved like stone, and a booming voice. "Should we search for our Lord Protector?"

There was just a bit of bitterness with how he said the title. "Forgive him, my lords, but my father has been quite under the weather recently," she lied. She turned to Lord Nestor Royce. "But, my Lord Royce - as our host here I am sure there will be no objections if you would make the final judgement, if it comes to that."

Lord Nestor looked surprised. "Indeed?" He looked around the box and no one objected. "What of it, Lord Robert, may I?"

Her Sweetrobin was the only who wasn't looking at the tilts. Lord Robert Arryn had the largest chair in the lord's stands, yet he was curled up on it with his back turned, trying to hide from the crowd and the tourney. Lord Petyr had to force the young lord to attend.

"Sweetrobin," Alayne chided, gently. "Lord Nestor is trying to talk to you, you mustn't be rude."

"Tell him to go away," the boy muttered, under his breath. Alayne knew she was only allowed to sit alongside the high lords because she was the only one Sweetrobin could talk to. "I don't want them here, tell them to go away."

"Hush now," she soothed, with a smile. She softly stroked his hair. "They're fighting for you. Your Brotherhood of the Winged Knights, your loyal protectors."

"Not him," Sweetrobin muttered, with a fearful motion towards Ser Harrold. "He wears a falcon on his shield. He's not a falcon, I am."

"It's okay, Ser Harrold is your cousin. He will be your protector too, a loyal knight."

"He's not. He's just waiting for me to die." The boy sounded scared, quivering as he clutched his throne. "They all are. They think I don't know, but I do. They all want him to be lord, not me. He wants my castle."

That is not strictly untrue, Alayne thought with a sad, sweet smile. He is a delicate thing.

There was a break after the seventh broken lance. Ser Roland's horse lost a shoe and he needed a replacement. Lord Nestor decided to allow them an eighth and final tilt, before making a judgement.

The anticipation was horrible. How long does it take to find another horse? she thought impatiently.

"I don't want any of them near me," Sweetrobin muttered. He constantly stared at Ser Harrold. "Send them all away, I don't want them. Take me back to the Eyrie."

"Hush now, Sweetrobin. Just enjoy the tilt."

"I won't, I—" She put a finger on his lips. He was quivering.

"This is the final tilt, my lord."

"I don't want them!" Lord Robert wailed. The sound caused all the lords to turn to stare. "Send them all away! I am Lord of the Eyrie, I command everyone to get out!"

There were mutters behind her. He's in one of his moods again. Gods, where is Petyr?

"Forgive me, my lords, I fear Lord Robert is quite tired," Alayne said apologetically. She stroked his fingers reassuringly.

"I want everyone out!" There were tears in Sweetrobin's eyes. "I don't like that Harry, I want him gone! Make him fly! Make him fly!"

Curses, he's likely to scream at Ser Harrold when he wins. I can't let there be a scene. "Ser Byron, Ser Morgarth," Alayne called to knights. "Please, take Lord Arryn back to his chambers. Fetch Maester Colemon to tend to him."

Normally, Alayne would have left with him to soothe him, but she couldn't leave her seat. Not when she could be named her queen of love and beauty so shortly. She didn't miss the look in the lords' eyes while their liege lord was carried out of the stands, though. Lord Robert was not the lord the Vale wanted.

The crowds cheered as Ser Harrold and Ser Roland rode onto the tilt yard once more. Ser Roland had switched to a grey charger. "Harry the Heir!" the crowds boomed. "Harry! Harry! Harry the Heir!"

I hope Sweetrobin does not hear this, she thought, but it was fleeting worry. The two jousters galloped. Alayne was on her feet, cheering. Both horses sprinted full force, both lances leaned in hard…

And then Ser Roland crashed downwards off his horse. There was a moment of worry, but squires rushed to the knight's side, and then the call came that he was unhurt.

The crowd went wild. Ser Harrold dropped his lance and shield, raising his hands above his head. They were chanting his name. The Young Falcon, they called him, and Alayne couldn't fault them. He looked every inch the part - handsome, strong, with sweat across his forehead and shining armour.

Ser Harrold rode a lap of the tilt before coming before the stand. Alayne's heart was in her mouth as he stopped before her, bowed, with a wreath of white roses in his hands.

She couldn't stop the giggle, or the blush. Harrold's deep blue eyes shone brightly, dimples in his cheeks as he laughed.

Strong hands placed the crown of roses over her head. There she was, bastard-daughter, yet the envy of every highborn maiden in the Vale. Ser Harrold had eyes only for her even as Lord Nestor declared him the champion.

She gives him a coy smile, eyes twinkling. Randa was giggling besides her. Lady Waynwood smiled at her brightly as she clapped.

The excitement didn't fade. Even as Ser Harrold was played away to dismount and clean, Alayne's heart was skipping. Every maiden was cowing around her, gushing at the sight of the crown of roses.

There will be a feast, she thought. A celebration. Ser Harrold will be the champion and I will be by his side. All eight of the finalists would receive their silver wings, and blue cloaks bearing the Arryn coat of arms. The eight members of the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights would walk proud for the next three years, as the Lord of the Vale's personal kingsguard.

The closing feast wasn't as lavish and extravagant as the opening feast had been, but somehow it felt even more exciting. Ser Harrold was surrounded by crowds of knights and squires, and Arbor Gold was served by the casket. Even before the feast began, she saw Ser Harrold celebrating with his first bottle.

Ser Shadrich, Ser Jorah and Ser Lothor Brune escorted her back to the Gates of the Moon. Still she heard young knights laughing and toasting by the tilts. Ser Jorah walked stiffly, but Ser Shadrich was smiling.

"They were all very skilled, weren't they?" Alayne laughed. "Sixty-four of the finest knights in the Vale, and those eight proved the champions."

"Skilled?" Ser Shadrich laughed. "I wouldn't say that. When it comes to jousting, skill matters less than the length of your arm, in my experience."

Alayne blinked. Ser Shadrich was a wiry, short, sharp-faced man with a brush of orange hair. "Why do you say that, ser?"

"Well, if you have two men with lances charging against each other, it's always the one who has the longest arms that hits his opponent first," Ser Shadrich said with a smirk. "What does skill matter, when your reach decides the battle? Take a look at your champions, my lady. They're tall. Every one of them. Do you think that's a coincidence, or that no short person can be skilled?"

Alayne laughed. Ser Shadrich was so short that he might have been taken for a boy, but his face belonged to a much older man. She saw long leagues in the wrinkles at the corner of his mouth, old battles in the scar beneath his ear, and a hardness behind the eyes that no boy would ever have. This was a man grown. "I fear you underestimate them, ser."

"That would be an achievement," he said with a laugh. "But mark my words. Length of the arm, that's all it is. I am sure Ser Jorah here can attest to that."

The older knight looked off-guard with being mentioned. "Excuse me?"

"The tourney at Lannisport, where you were declared the victor," Ser Shadrich explained, with a smirk. "I give good odds that Ser Jorah here was simply the biggest of all his opponents."

It was a jape, but there was a somewhat mocking edge to it as well. Ser Jorah was a big man, sure enough. "You jest, ser," Alayne chided, but with a smile.

"And if size is all that matters," Ser Jorah rumbled as they walked, "then why did I never win again after Lannisport? Did I become shorter?"

Ser Shadrich shrugged. "Perhaps everyone else started using longer lances instead?"

Ser Jorah scowled quietly. The big, bald knight stood nearly two feet taller than Ser Shadrich and twice as wide, but the smaller man still made jests.

"And if size is everything," Alayne teased, "then why on earth would a mouse ever become a knight?"

"Oh, we mice have our place too. We are smaller targets, harder to hit." Ser Shadrich smiled. "I imagine that the melee on the morn will have a different result. Ser Jorah, will you be competing?"

The big knight hesitated. His eyes glanced at Alayne, and then he said, "I think not, ser."

"A shame. It could be a good contest. The best fighters prefer the melee to the joust."

"I am sure it will be a grand spectacle," Alayne smiled. They reached the keep doors. "But forgive me, sers, I must go find my lord father. I will be back down shortly for the feast."

"As you will, my lady." Ser Jorah lowered his head stiffly.

She was still smiling as she skipped - skipped - up the castle stairs. Alayne never touched the wreath of roses on her head. He chose me, she thought happily. Harry the Heir picked me. They would be betrothed soon, and then married. The whole Vale would cheer for her marriage. Ser Harrold Hardyng. Or maybe soon Lord Harrold Arryn.

Soon, she could be Lady of the Vale, just like Petyr planned.

And then maybe Winterfell… Alayne's heart hurt at the thought. No, don't think about Winterfell.

She heard voices approaching Littlefinger's solar. Annoyed voices. "-ween ten and fifteen thousand," a man's voice grumbled. "With Dorne gathering swords they could easily reach thirty-five thousand."

"And yet the Tyrell forces stand at forty thousand," said another voice. A deep voice, with something of a lisp. "Perhaps five thousand from crownlands and riverlands. Potentially another ten from the westerlands."

"No." That was Petyr's voice. "War is not maths, numbers only go so far." He paused, thinking. "What of the Faith Militant? How many, and which side of the coin will they answer to?" "Who can say? Can you count the number of smallfolk with pitchforks?" a voice scoffed. "Easily thousands, and hundreds of Warrior's Sons. I'd wager there could be a riot of tens of thousands any day now."

"Oh Cersei," Petyr sighed. "You silly, silly woman."

"It's not enough," some other, gruff voice said. "Best numbers say that Aegon leads eight thousand against King's Landing. Part of their forces have split, and another three thousand are heading west."

"Then they are to fight armies several times their size?" the other man in the room protested. He sounded younger than the other, his voice more high-pitched. "And three thousand sellswords against Casterly Rock? Is the Imp a fool?"

Alayne's heart pounded. "The Imp is many things, but rarely foolish. Ambitious, though," Petyr noted. "And I would not count the Golden Company out yet. They have other allies that have yet to show their hand."

"The crown demands the Vale start mustering men," one of them protested. "And the Vale lords are eager to do so. It will be rebellion if we refuse any longer."

"We need not defy, just… delay," Petyr muttered. "For just a touch. Let us give it a bit of time for the pieces to fall as they may. Very soon the stalemate around our dear Queen will…" his voice trailed off. Petyr glanced to where she was standing at the doorway. "Ah, excuse me gentlemen." Petyr very quickly walked towards her, and closed the door before she could glimpse inside. "My dear Alayne. I do apologise, sweet thing, my business has run over."

Lord Protector Petyr Baelish looked - tired. There were bags under his eyes, showing his recent lack of sleep. She was well-used to Petyr running from one meeting to the next, but recently it seemed as if he never stopped. "I heard you speak of the Imp. Tyrion Lannister," she said, her voice a whisper. "How… where…?"

"Nothing to worry about," Petyr soothed. "But it seems that Tyrion may well be losing his head soon enough. How did the tourney fare?"

When Tyrion Lannister dies, I could be married again. "Um, Ser Harrold was victorious."

"Marvellous." He smirked. "And how did Ser Roland fare?"

Alayne blinked. Something about the question… "His horse lost a shoe."

"Such a shame," Petyr drawled, not sounding surprised in the least.

"Indeed," Alayne said carefully.

I wonder, did Lothor Brune or Oswell spend some time near the stables this morning? She wondered suspiciously. And when the brackets were drawn, Ser Harrold did end up with fewer matches than anybody. Ser Shadrick's face flashed through her memories. The length of the arm. Ser Harry against Ser Roland in the finals. It wasn't a coincidence, was it?

"Yet I am sure our Harry is celebrating. Do celebrate with him; this is an opportunity, sweet Alayne. A good chance to secure Ser Harrold's favour."

"It's…" She hesitated. He seemed - off. His smile was less smooth than it usually was. "Father, is everything ok?"

"It is indeed," he said, letting out a strained breath. "So very well, in fact, except we may have to move a bit faster than intended. Timeframes must be moved up."

"Why?"

He gave her a reassuring smile, caressing her cheek. "It seems the lord of the Vale are eager for war, and I cannot deny them any longer. Soon our armies will be gathering, and when they do I expect to see Ser Harrold Hardyng at the very front. I would like to see you wed before that happens."

"But… but the betrothal…?"

"Can be accelerated," Petyr promised. "I imagine that Harry will be quite eager to. You need only be your beautiful, charming self, Alayne. You are the queen of love and beauty tonight," he said with a soft stroke of her forehead, brushing at the wreath on her head. "There are none in that hall a higher status than you. Dance with your champion and there are none who could take you away from him. Wrap him around your little finger and how could he resist?"

"I thought Lady Waynwood wanted the betrothal to wait."

"She did," Littlefinger said with a nod. "But if Harry insists, then we can make it happen sooner. Dance with the boy, drink and laugh with him. Later in the night, spend some private time alone with your betrothed. Entrance him like I know you will."

There was a flicker in Littlefinger's eyes. Something she could not quite place, but then he smiled again. A soft, gentle, nearly wistful smile. This is what I wanted, Alayne thought. A handsome, young and gallant knight to marry. She nodded. "Yes, father," she nodded. "I will."

"That's my girl." Petyr smiled. He kissed her on the lips as she turned to leave.

The celebration in the hall of the castle was already underway. She heard laughter, music and singing. Sweetrobin could not abide singing ever since Marillion, but it seemed that nobody cared.

"Off to Gulltown to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho," the singers cried. "I'll steal a sweet kiss with the point of my blade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho. I'll make her my love and we'll rest in the shade, heigh-ho, heigh-ho."

"Off to Gulltown", she thought. It was a bawdy song to sing in a noble castle, but this was a celebration. "Alayne!" She heard Ser Harrold shout. His face lit up as soon as he saw her. "Alayne… my lady."

He lowered his head. His cheeks were flushed. She grinned. "Good ser," she said, with a low curtsy. Ser Harrold laughed and took her by the arm.

The whole hall was in good cheer. She saw Randa dancing with Ser Roland, and Ser Lothor dancing stiffly with Mya Stone. Wine was flowing, and for once Alayne partook in it. Sweetrobin will be calmed and put to sleep by the maester, she thought, tonight is for Ser Harry the Heir, first of the Brotherhood of the Winged Knights .

"You are beautiful," Ser Harrold whispered in her ear. "My queen…"

She didn't reply, but she grinned and she stood up to dance again. Ser Harrold shared a toast with every knight who passed, celebrating his victory.

As they danced, she felt his hand slide against her bosom. He had soft hands. She didn't react, but she didn't move away either. Tease him a little, she thought. Just like Petyr taught her to.

The celebration lasted until late. Many of the older men retired early, but the younger knights and squires remained, content with their music and drink. Lord Petyr apparently gave instructions to let the merriment happen.

It was black outside - the hour of the bat or later - before finally the singers started to retire. Ser Harrold greeted, drunk with and laughed with half a hundred people, but he only ever danced with her. "My lady," a voice called. "It is late. Allow us to escort you to your chambers."

She turned, to see Ser Jorah standing there. The large knight seemed so grim-faced and stiff amidst all the merriment. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. "A bit longer, good ser," Alayne laughed. The wine made her giggle.

Ser Harrold grabbed her hand as she made to walk away. She giggled, biting her lip. "Don't go," he begged into her ear. "I don't want the night to end."

The laughter burst from her throat. He nuzzled into her hair and pressing against her neck. He had soft lips, and his breath caused her skin to tingle…

Ser Jorah stepped forward warningly, eyes angry. Alayne quickly pushed Ser Harrold backwards. "Forgive the good ser, Ser Jorah, he's had quite too much to drink," she said, before turning to Ser Harrold. "Ser Harrold Hardyng! You are being quite uncouth! You forget your manners."

Still, her eyes were playful. Ser Harrold grinned brightly and she grinned too. "We must go now, my lady," Ser Jorah ordered, strictly. "Your father would not want you up so late."

"Of course, ser," she said, curtsying again. Her head spun. "But first, to the chamber pots, please. I'm afraid I've had too much to drink as well."

Ser Jorah walked behind her closely. He means to chaperone me to my room, she thought sourly. Still, he lingered in the corridor outside of the latrine, which gave her the chance a slip out down the other hallway. She glanced around, and then noticed Ser Shadrich sulking by a tapestry.

Alayne grinned. Ser Jorah was strict, but Ser Shadrich was often more playful. "Ser!" she called.

"My lady." He seemed surprised to see her. "Um, what are you doing here?"

"I was hoping to ask a favour of you, ser," she said, with a smile. "I was hoping for more… private time with my betrothed." Bewitch him, Petyr had said. "It is not proper, of course, for a young lady to be out at night, but… could you assist?"

He hesitated. "Private time?" He repeated.

She nodded. "I fear Ser Jorah is too zealous in his duty."

Ser Shadrich smirked. "Yes, I think I could help," he said. "Let Ser Jorah take you back to your room, my lady. Wait until you hear a knock on your door, and then count to a hundred before leaving. I'll lure the guards away and clear the corridor for you. Take the servant's exit to the wards, and the east stables will be deserted this time of night."

Alayne grinned. "My gallant knight," she said happily, before rushing back. Ser Jorah was just about to come look for her when she headed out.

Ser Harrold chased after her, to bid her goodnight. Ser Jorah had to try to push the knight away. Still, he allowed him a goodnight kiss, and when he bent forward to kiss her hand, she whispered, "The east stables. Tonight."

There was no indication that he heard for a bit, but then he smiled brightly and looked at her with wide, bright blue eyes.

Alayne could have danced as she walked away. My gallant knight. There were two guards outside her quarters. Ser Jorah muttered something to her about her betrothed, but she didn't catch it as she bid him goodnight and closed the door. She never undressed, she never even took off the wreath of white roses. Instead, she stood behind her door, and waited hopefully.

She was about to give up hope when she heard footsteps outside. Her guards. Sure enough, there was a quiet knock on the door. She closed her eyes and counted to a hundred.

When she left, the corridor was deserted. She pulled on her shawl and walked quickly. She passed a few serving girls in the castle, but she walked with purpose and nobody questioned her. The castle was only just winding down from the celebration. There was movement around the main hall, but it left the postern door deserted.

The night's air was chilly, but Alayne walked fast, excitedly. Dainty heels clipped against the cobbled stones as she rushed to the stables. Even in the dark, she recognised his outline instantly.

"My lady," Ser Harry muttered, stepping forward.

"Good ser," Alayne replied. There were no torches, she couldn't make out his face, but she could smell his musk, feel his breath on her cheek, and his hand on her waist…

Something soft touched her lips. Ser Harrold was on her, pressing into her. Oh Gods… By the Maiden…

"You promised to be all the spice I want," Ser Harrold muttered in her ear. The flirt she had said when they first danced.

"I did," she whispered, so softly like any noise might break the mood.

The kiss was deep and tender. Alayne remembered the last kiss she received - the one from the Hound in the dark room with the bloodied cloak. This kiss felt nothing like that, Ser Harrold - Harry - felt nothing like the Hound.

She took a deep breath as the lips parted. He was breathing deeply too. Then, they kissed again, longer this time, deeper. Yes, she thought. This feels good.

She didn't want it to end. The wine was thick on his breath, but he felt warm, strong, and tender. For a what seemed like a lifetime, there was nothing but him and his lips.

When Harry's hands moved upwards to her breasts, she didn't object. But then, slowly, when his fingers started to fumble with her dress and her neckline, she grasped his fingers and slowly moved his hands away, but kept kissing him.

His fingers came back again to her breasts shortly later. She giggled, but she had to hold his hands to stop him from trying to take her bosom out. "No, good ser," she muttered chidingly. "Not tonight."

They kissed. His lips were strong, forceful, but not unpleasant. She kept on hold of his hands, caressing his knuckles.

And then his grip slipped out of hers. His hand went for her inner thigh, and she jumped as she felt him grip at her groin. She slapped his fingers instinctively. "No, Ser Harrold," Alayne warned. "No tonight. Not until we are wed."

"My lady…" he muttered huskily. "You are my queen… my queen of love and beauty…"

"And until we are married, keep your hands to yourself," she said, as she stroked his cheek.

"Are you sure?" Harry whispered. "I have good hands. They can do a lot of things, these hands…"

He pressed her close and kissed her tightly, leaning her backwards. The kiss was good, but then she felt his hand sliding up her dress. "No, ser," she said forcefully. "Not until we are wed."

In the gloom, she saw him grin. Does he think I'm teasing? His hand didn't leave her leg. It hovered upwards slowly, and she slapped it away.

And then, his body pressed into hers, forcing her backwards. She could have squealed, but then his lips were on her. She tried to object, but he was forceful. Suddenly, she could feel his fingers in her smallclothes, his hands fumbling at her lips.

"NO!" Alayne shouted. "No, don't, don't—"

His forceful lips muffled her voice. His body pressed against her so tight she could barely breathe. Harry was big, strong, solid. One hand between her legs, the other at her breasts. It didn't feel good anymore - it felt like he was fumbling at her, pawing her body, fingers grasping and squeezing.

Alayne dug her fingernails into the back of his neck, scratching at him to stop, but that seemed only to egg him on further.

"It's alright… It's alright… it's alright…" she heard him mutter. The stink of wine on his breath almost made her gag.

How much has he had to drink? she thought with panic. How drunk is he?

Pain. It hurt. Clumsy fingers at her most sensitive region. Fumbling. Squeezing. Tearing. A sharp cry broke her lips, panic swelling her body. She was twitching, thrashing, but he was just so strong…

She heard something rip. My smallclothes. He tore them off . She heard the clink of him fumbling with his belt. Taking off his breeches.

Alayne screamed. Suddenly, a great hand was over her mouth, clamping her shut. "Quiet," Harry whispered into her ear, still kissing her cheek. "It feels good, but you must be quiet. They'll hear us if you scream."

She choked. Panic. Fear. Pain. Gasping for air, arms flailing, and suddenly he was lifting her upwards and dropping her to the ground. Sharp hay poked beneath her. Her dark hair falling loose, the wreath of roses toppling and falling over the stables.

"No… no… stop! Stop! Stop!" she protested, gasping for air. He either didn't hear her, or didn't care.

Her dress ripped. Her breasts spilled out of her dress, hungry hands clawing at them. She would have kicked him, but he was between her legs, his body pressing down onto hers, so heavy it hurt.

No, no, no… Can't let him, don't let this happen…

There were tears running down her cheeks. She could taste the salt. There was nothing but the black stables, and the thrashing and flailing bodies.

She felt aching pain from her nether regions from his hands. She gagged.

He had his breeches off. She couldn't see it, but she could feel it. Between her legs, him grunting to position herself. He kissed her neck, mauling her like an animal, and all the while Alayne couldn't even move, or breathe, or—

"Ahem." That single sound in the darkness felt like it shattered some spell. There was suddenly light in the stables. A lantern.

Ser Harrold shot upwards. There was a figure in the doorway. It was a boy's figure, but the voice was of a man.

"It… It's not what it looks like!" Ser Harrold protested, scrambling up. His cheeks were flushed, his breath panting. "We're betrothed, she… !"

Alayne could only sob, barely able to breathe. She was crying. "Help…" she sputtered. "… Help…"

Ser Shadrich looked around the barn quietly. The small knight wore full armour, a long sword at his belt. His gaze was cool. "Ah," he said. "Not what it looks like indeed."

Ser Harrold flustered, drawing himself up. His pants were still half-down. "Listen to me, hedge knight," he said sharply. He stood head and shoulders above Ser Shadrich. "I am the heir of the Vale."

The knight paused. "Yes," he agreed. "You are."

One moment they were standing against each other, and in the next—

Ser Shadrich had a dagger in his hand. And then he moved, so quickly that Sansa could only process it in aftermath. It was a stabbing lunge that used the balls of the feet, a charge so smooth that it was almost a leap. Ser Shadrich so fast that Alayne couldn't even track him. In an instant, he had moved ten entire feet.

Then she heard Ser Harrold gag.

Ser Shadrich shoved him backwards, pinning him against the wall. The dagger was in Ser Harrold's throat. The younger man flailed, but Ser Shadrich stepped in closer. Ser Shadrich twisted the knife, cutting downwards and towards the center to destroy Ser Harrold's voicebox. Blood gushed, Ser Harrold's red cheeks drained quickly in death.

"Short arms," she heard Ser Shadrich mutter. "They don't have the reach, but they sure can draw a blade faster."

He paused only to pull the dagger out of the corpse's throat. Alayne's jaw dropped, eyes widening.

She saw the tournament's crown of white rose underfoot, stomped on by Ser Shadrich and splattered with Harry the Heir's blood.

Ser Harrold's corpse slumped. Ser Shadrich stepped backwards. Alayne screamed.

Something heavy collided with her jaw. A gauntleted fist knocked her down.

The world went black.

She felt pain. Everything was spinning.

There was something being forced into her mouth. Ser Shadrich ripped off part of her torn dress, to make a gag.

"I am sorry about him, my lady," Ser Shadrich said quietly. "I really cannot abide men who would treat women that way."

The bloody dagger was at her throat. "Now, I don't want to hurt you," he warned, his voice a whispered. "But make a noise, and I cut your throat."

The dagger's blade glinted even in the gloom. She glimpsed a plain blade with a black and unadorned handle, but it felt so sharp. Alayne was gasping, and then his hand smothered her mouth.

She could only gasp. The panic shut down her lungs. What is happening? What is he doing?

Alayne heard him sling a heavy satchel over his shoulder. A knight's travel satchel, packed and ready to go. He forced her upwards, and he was small but strong. "Forgive me, my lady," he said. Ser Shadrich really did sound apologetic "But, pray tell, would you prefer Alayne or Sansa?"

Alayne stiffened. Her eyes widened.

How could he…? Why…?

He dragged her into the far section of the stables. She tried to run, but Ser Shadrich knocked her down, and lifted her physically off the floor with a quiet grunt. Alayne could barely even breathe as sharp metal - the gorget over his mail - dug into her stomach. A wordless cry of pain broke through her lips, yet Shadrich just cursed and yanked her hair violently.

She heard horses neighing. Ser Shadrich's horse, a rangy chestnut courser, was already waiting for him saddled in the stables. With practiced ease, Ser Shadrich jumped onto the horse and dragged her kicking and screaming over his lap. He held the dagger in one hand and the reins with his other hand as he wrapped them around Alayne in a crude knot.

"Listen to me," Ser Shadrich hissed into her ear. "I really don't want to hurt you; the bounty is for you alive and whole, Sansa. But if need be, I'll cut off your head alone and just apologise. So come willingly because you'll die before I get caught."

The bounty. Oh Gods, Cersei.

He kicked his horse into motion, a fast stride. Alayne tried to squirm, to slip off, but then the dagger pressed into her torso softly. The blade was sharp enough to draw a trickle of blood even without any force.

He's trying to take me to Cersei, she realised in panic. Trying to steal me from the middle of a fortified castle filled with knights, from the most secure realm in the Seven Kingdoms.

The man is mad.

Behind her, she heard Ser Shadrich break the glass of his lantern and throw it into the hay of the stables. The flames sputtered and spread. It was the dead of night, past the hour of the wolf and he rode quickly. But there'll be guards on the gates? Even at this time, there must be…?

He glanced at her, holding her close. "The guards have already been dealt with," he promised. "And the gates are open for the tourney."

"But you can't…. you can't…" Alayne stammered. "You'll never get past the Bloody Gate, you'll never get through the high road!"

He just smirked. The guardhouse was deserted. Ser Shadrich spurred his horse into a gallop.

She heard shouts behind her, but they were the wrong direction. Guards rushing to fight the fire in the stables, not to stop the man stealing their lord's daughter. Nobody even knows I'm not in my room, she realised with horror.

Before Alayne even knew what was happening, they were galloping out of the postern gate and the highroad. If anyone saw Shadrich galloping away, they never reacted in time. She screamed, but Shadrich just slammed a hand over her mouth while laughing maniacally.

Behind her, horns rang and voices yelled, but Ser Shadrich's courser was fast and hardy.

The air was bitingly cold, so cold through her torn, flimsy dress that she could only shiver. They were out on the road, riding past the watchtowers. "No no no!" Alayne gasped, trying to thrash. The horse neighed as it galloped. "No, no, you ca—"

With an idle motion, Ser Shadrich brought the pommel of his dagger onto her head. There was a thud. Everything went black.

All of the pain, all of panic, and the fear and the emotion. Alayne couldn't handle it, she just blacked out.

When her vision returned, she felt cold. Woozy. The earth was rocking and jerking. Snow on the forest ground, staring down as hooves struggled to push through. It was daylight, but still just as cold. He had wrapped a cloak around her. Shadrich was still riding, pushing his courser through uneven terrain. He wasn't on the road, it was barely even a dirt path.

She was so dazed she couldn't even protest. He's going east, she realised slowly. He's trying to slip through the forests and the Mountains of the Moon rather than the Bloody Gate. The panic was so thick she struggled to breathe.

It was noon before Ser Shadrich finally stopped. He paused only to allow his courser time to breathe, and to bind her wrists in thick rope.

Her blue wool dress was torn. If not for the cloak, she would have frozen. Her body was shivering, weak and sore. When she looked, she saw droplets of blood staining the inside of her thighs, and bruises across her breasts. Ser Harrold's strong hands.

"Here," he offered her skin of water. "Drink up. It'll be a long journey and you don't want to lose your strength."

"You can't do this," Alayne begged. "You won't escape. Every knight in the realm will be looking for you. You killed the heir to the Vale and kidnapped their lord's daughter. You'll never escape."

"Maybe. But I reckon they'll be more likely to think that I'm going west or north rather than east. And the Vale is a big place, not even high lords can cover every mile of it."

"The Vale of Arryn is impassable except for the high road, everyone knows that."

"It's impassable to an army," he said with a shrug. "But one man can slip through the Mountains of Moon, if he's strong and tough enough. I am the Mad Mouse, Lady Stark, I reckon I'm tough enough."

"And what of the mountain clans?" She said fearfully.

"Well…" Ser Shadrich mused. "That's more of a reason for you to keep quiet now, isn't it?"

"This is suicidal, you cannot…"

"Maybe. Every battle is a bit of a suicide, if you think about it. In each battle, both sides rush forward to commit mutual suicide. It's the mad ones that come to enjoy the rush." He grinned. "And for your sake, don't cause any trouble. If we are spotted by the mountain clans… well, at least I'll get a quick death with a sword in my hand. You don't even want to imagine the things that those savages will do to a sweet girl like you."

He started moving again very quickly. Alayne didn't even know where he was going - it was like he navigated the forest at random, keeping off the trails. Father will have sent search parties after me, she thought, there'll be hundreds, thousands, looking for me. But Ser Shadrich moved fast and pushed his courser hard, all day with few stops.

"You worked for Littlefinger," she mumbled as they rode. "You were hired for protection."

"Not really. I was searching for you all the time," Ser Shadrich explained. "I wasn't sure that it was you in the Vale, but after the third week or so I was pretty convinced. It was the little things that gave you away, Sansa - like how you couldn't describe anything about Gulltown despite claiming to be from there." He smiled. "But even once I knew, I just had to be patient and wait for an opportunity. You gave me one last night, so I helped myself to a few of your father's valuables," he motioned to his satchel with his dagger. "And set about my escape."

"And Ser Harrold?" she whispered. The thought of her gallant knight pushing himself on top of her haunted her eyes. She could still smell the booze and horse manure in the stables, hear the grunts and gasps.

"Oh, he wasn't planned," Ser Shadrich admitted, sheepishly. "Truth be told, I probably made a mistake by killing him - that could well come back to bite me. Still, I just can't stand seeing brutes who enjoying hurting women."

"You're kidnapping me."

"That's just money. I don't want to hurt you."

The snow thickened. They started to move over the mountains, and the forest became rocks and scattered spruce trees. Alayne felt so weak and disoriented that she faded in and out of consciousness, but Ser Shadrich barely even paused.

The cold winds swept over them all through the night. Her body trembled fiercely, and she had to hug to the horse to try and keep herself warm. Ser Shadrich ate in the saddle, from a pouch of dried bread and meat.

The next day, Ser Shadrich dismounted and pulled the saddlebags off the courser. She thought he was finally stopping for camp, but then he started walking, leaving his horse behind. "Come on," he said, clutching the dagger. "Start walking."

"What?"

"Would you prefer I left you here?" he said with laughter. "I leave you alone out here and you'd be dead long before anyone finds your body. Start walking, my lady. Here, you can carry these bags too."

"What about the horse?"

"No, the horse is too easy to track. Won't make it much further over this terrain either. We go on foot from now on."

He's insane, she thought with horror, but he clutched the knife tightly. Short as he was, she knew she wouldn't be able to overpower him. She was shivering, but he gave her a blanket as a cloak and ordered her to start walking. Her blue woolen dress was already ruined and ripped, her shoes falling apart. She had never felt so cold, or so weak.

"It is fifty leagues to the coast," she muttered finally. "You expect to go that distance on foot? Through mountains?"

"Not really. We just need to go two leagues, towards the Oak Lake, where I've stashed a boat to take us down the river." She looked at him. "What? Just because you're mad doesn't mean you need to be stupid. Now keep walking."

She was shivering, but he refused to stop even when she started trembling. It was only late that night when he finally stopped for rest. Alayne was left pale and cold, while he nestled into a camp under a rock to keep them out of the wind.

She was hoping there might be a chance to steal his sword away from him, or even just the dagger, but instead he bound her wrists to a tree before closing his eyes, and slept with both sword and dagger tight in his grip.

Alayne was so weak that she couldn't even protest. She was only given hard bread to break her fast. Shadrich stuffed his face with dried meat and gulped water, but he gave her very little. Starving me so I can't resist.

The mountains were hard, steep and threatening. At one point, Shadrich had to hold her to push her forward through the fog and snow.

It took another day before she glimpsed Oak Lake in the distance. In the patchy morning light flickering through the clouds, the lake looked picturesque. The lake was fed by a dozen small streams running down the mountains, before breaking away into Oak River and leading out to the Narrow Sea. Ironoaks and House Waynwood is not far from here, she thought. They'll save me, they must.

"You won't reach King's Landing," she muttered wearily. "Whatever boat you have will never get make it through open sea, much less around down the Blackwater. You'll need to charter a ship in Gulltown, and Lord Baelish will spot you. Father owns Gulltown."

"'Father'," Ser Shadrich snorted. "Tell me something, has your 'father' fucked you yet?"

Her shoulders tensed. "He wants to fuck you, you know that yes?" Ser Shadrich laughed. "You think it's normal, the way he kisses you? Oh yes, I've seen that. The man you call father used to love your mother, and you look just like her, don't you? You are his replacement, the copy of the woman he couldn't get in his youth."

"You're wrong," Alayne said, body stiffening. The man is a fiend.

"Sure," Shadrich laughed. "Did he also tell you what happened in King's Landing? Who do you think betrayed your real father? Who put a dagger - this dagger - to your old man's neck?"

"You lie."

"I do not. I heard it from a Spider." His clear voice rang out, still pushing his way over the heavy snow. "Lord Baelish had your father killed, all so he could take the daughter and make her call him daddy. I'm not sure whether to be impressed or horrified."

Her hands were shaking. He lies. Of course he lies.

Ser Shadrich smirked. "You're nothing more than a game piece to him. He'd fuck you himself if he didn't think he could make more money selling you to someone else. Why do you think your Ser Harrold forced himself on you like that?"

Alayne froze. "Oh the booze, sure," Ser Shadrich continued. "But I'm guessing Littlefinger took you to one side and told you exactly how to entice him. Drink with him, take him alone? If I was a betting man, I'd say Littlefinger probably shared words with Harry as well. Maybe something like, 'My daughter is really fond of you, and nobody would be too upset if you enjoyed some time with her'? Hint, hint." He looked at her expression and laughed. "Come on, you're a smart girl. Littlefinger wanted you married. What better way is there than arranging some leverage he could hold over Lady Waynwood, to make sure the marriage happens quickly? Maybe knock something off the dowry too?"

"No. You lie," she muttered, shaking her head. "My father would never do that…"

"Who's lying now? You know exactly the type of man your 'father' is." He shook his head. There was something like sympathy in his eyes. "Now come on, keep walking."

Alayne took a few nervous steps. "Listen," he continued. "I know you probably don't see it now, but this is a good thing for you. The absolute healthiest place you could be is away from Littlefinger. That man is more dangerous than anyone. I'm helping you here, believe me."

"The Queen will have me killed," she said with a gulp, trying to shamble over the rocks. Her shoes weren't meant for mountain climbing, and even under the cloak it was cold.

"I'm not taking you to the Queen." He shook his head. "I work for the Spider. You should be happy, Lady Stark, because I don't think Varys wants to kill you. I'm doing you a favour - I'm getting you out of the grip of a man who is just going to use you and discard you. Say what you want about the Spider, but at least he doesn't pine after little girls who look like their mother…"

"You're lying," Alayne growled, glaring at him. Her legs stopped.

"Keep walking, my lady," he warned.

"Say that you're lying!" she hissed.

Ser Shadrich's eyes narrowed, clutching his dagger a bit more tightly. "Keep walking, or I'll mak—"

Suddenly, a horn blew out over the mountainside. They both froze. It sounded harsh, screeching and jagged. She saw the knight's eyes widen in fear. Shadrich's hand went to his longsword. "Burned Men," he hissed, growling at her. "Run, girl."

There was a second horn blast. She couldn't tell from where it came. "What, where—"

"The treeline," he growled, grabbing her shoulder and starting to sprint. "Run, the trees!"

Alayne stumbled, dainty shoes stumbling over rocks. Shadrich cursed, grabbing her arm and yanking her upwards. There were more horns blowing. Some spotter had seen them, and the savages were answering the alert.

"Keep running!" Ser Shadrich sounded scared. "They catch you and they'll feed you to their flames, girl!"

They ran down the slope, taking cover in the trees. She was panting for breath, but Ser Shadrich kept on dragging. Behind her, she saw figures descending from the mountainside. Dark figures clutching spears, pitchforks or axes. One of them was clutching a huge burning torch, his face painted red, howling war cries.

"Keep running," Ser Shadrich hissed, and Alayne ran for as long as she could. She heard men behind them, but the forests and rocks were thick and winding. Shadrich dropped his satchel without a second thought so could run faster.

She could hear the sound of waterfalls down the mountainside. The fast rapids were fed from the Tears of Alyssa and swashed into Oak Lake, and then all the way down to the Narrow Sea.

More horns were blowing. Even Shadrich was wheezing for breath. When Alayne finally turned, she glimpsed figures moving away through the trees. The clansmen were moving away. "Why aren't they chasing us?" she panted.

Shadrich just shook his head. "Because they didn't see us," he muttered, grabbing and pulling her away.

Only when they shambled up a ridge did she realise what he meant. In the distance, less than five hundred yards away, she saw riders trotting through a snow-buried road. A group of knights. Knights searching for me from the Gates of the Moon. While we cut through the mountains, a party of knights heading east must have travelled along the highroad and made similar time. The Burned Men must have been watching the road – the savages saw the Vale knights first.

She lingered to stare, but Shadrich grabbed her and pulled her roughly towards the waters.

Behind her, it looked like a standoff was forming. A dozen knights on horseback against thirty or so clansmen slipping out of the forests. She glimpsed burning arrows. A battle. The knights would ride through the clansmen to save her.

She heard war cries and horn blasts. No, Alayne realised. It looked like the knights were being forced to retreat. They didn't have the numbers to safely fight through the Burned Men.

Shadrich was still running. Alayne's heart pounded.

"HELP!" she bellowed at the top of her lungs, before Shadrich could stop her. The sound rang out over the forests. She glimpsed the mounted men ripple. "HELP M—"

The backhanded slap took her to the ground. Her vision blurred. A horn answered her screaming. At the sound of her voice, the knights wouldn't retreat anymore.

"Bitch!" Shadrich hissed furiously, face red. "You've just cost a lot of good men their lives."

He grabbed her and hoisted her upwards, his feet shambling over the rocks. Behind, she heard screams, sounds of horses charging. Shadrich was staggering, struggling to lift her over the uneven rocks.

In the distance, she glimpsed two mounted riders fall to Burned Men's arrows.

Her heart was beating so hard it might stop. She could hear rushing water. "Nearly there…" Shadrich wheezed. "Nearly there…"

The world seemed to blur. She heard hooves behind her, arrows pinging, people and horses screaming. A voice - a heavy, husky voice - bellowing words she couldn't make out.

"Fuck!" Shadrich cursed, and without another word he shrugged his shoulders and dropped her onto the snow and stone. The impact caused her to body to oomph. She could barely breathe. "You think you can stop me, Mormont?"

Footsteps approaching. A large figure. "Move away from the lady," a voice growled. Alayne could barely make out of the shape of a man in heavy armour, pacing towards Shadrich. A bloody bear's maw growled from his breastplate.

Ser Jorah Mormont was wheezing slightly. His sword - a broad hand-and-a-half sword - was slick with blood. His eyes dark and his face hard under his helm.

He must have cut through the Burned Men to chase after me. She glimpsed a fallen horse with an arrow in its rump. Ser Jorah's mount had collapsed, but he kept on running on foot. Over the ridge, the clansmen were still clashing with the remaining knights, but there weren't many left. Ser Jorah was a strong man.

Ser Shadrich forced a laugh. "You ready to die over a bastard girl, Mormont? You sure you want to do this?"

"Sansa Stark," Ser Jorah growled, glancing down at her lying in the snow. She looked a mess - beaten, bruised and weak. Unwashed and filthy. "Are you injured?"

Her heart pounded. He knows, she thought. He knows who I am . Shadrich's face flickered. "So not quite as dense as everyone thought you were, old man," Shadrich grunted. "But it seems there's even less reason for a fight. You sure you want to risk your life over a Stark?"

"You think I fear you?" Ser Jorah grunted, taking another cautious step.

"Depends on how much a fool you are. Back away, Mormont," Ser Shadrich warned. "Turn around, walk away, and you can still get out of this. Or better yet, come on and help me. There's a fat purse of gold in return for this lady and I'm happy to share."

"Move away from the lady," Ser Jorah growled again, raising his blade.

Shadrich had his longsword in one hand and his dagger in the other. He swung both of them with confident ease. "What do you care?" Ser Shadrich scoffed. "You've sold people before for coin, haven't you? The gold is good and there's a debt to be repaid, Mormont." His gaze darkened. "We're just the same, Mormont. We both do what we need to do."

"Move away."

Shadrich just smirked. For a little man, he had an easy arrogance. "Then have it your way."

The Mad Mouse stepped forward, darting at Ser Jorah. The large man swung first, a furious double-handed swipe. Shadrich didn't parry, he just sidestepped, and as soon as Ser Jorah tried to recoil Shadrich's blade was jabbing forward.

If it wasn't for Ser Jorah's platemail, that jab would have cut open his stomach. Instead, the edge grated off hard metal. Shadrich swung his blades as fluidly as water.

The second stroke, Jorah managed to block, but barely. The third swipe and Jorah was on the backfoot. The fourth attack was with Shadrich's back hand, and she saw the dagger lash against Jorah's shoulder. The bear knight winced.

Ser Shadrich swung his blades in his hands, and then darted in for another assault. Jorah barely had a chance to retaliate.

Ser Jorah was bigger. Much, much bigger - he looked three times Ser Shadrich's size. He was stronger too - Ser Shadrich didn't dare even try to block any of the larger man's blows. And yet Shadrich was the faster swordsman, and that mattered far more.

The blades clashed. Alayne could only stare, still wheezing with pain and fear.

Ser Shadrich took second blood with a graze across Jorah's hip. The bear knight might have lost his head too, but he barely managed to push Shadrich away. The sound of Shadrich's laughter filled the air.

"You are slow, old man," he taunted. He spun and caught his sword in one hand, mocking.

Jorah could only growl. Blood and sweat dripped down his brow. He clutched his bastard sword with both hands.

Shadrich charged. Jorah managed one hard swing, but the next four strokes were all wicked fast and precise from the Mad Mouse.

She heard the clang of steel against steel. His heavy armour is the only thing saving his life, Alayne realised. While Shadrich wore light mail, Ser Jorah was clad in heavy plate. Ser Shadrich's swords clipped his plate repeatedly in short succession, but didn't pierce. Not quite.

She glimpsed the panic in Jorah's movements. He was losing ground while Shadrich danced over the rocks. Ser Jorah swung out wildly, yet Shadrich was too close and already attacking. Shadrich's dagger darted forward, straight for Ser Jorah's grip on his sword.

There was a plume of blood. The impact of the cross-guard took the dagger straight out of Shadrich's hand and it flew backwards and landed in the snow. She heard Jorah scream and stagger backwards. He was clutching his hands.

His fingers, she realised in horror. Ser Jorah was missing two fingers on his left hand from where the dagger had carved straight through his gauntlets. The large man staggered, eyes bulging in rage, but he was struggling to even grip his sword.

Ser Shadrich laughed, leaving his dagger behind him and swinging the longsword alone. "Tis a fine thing, is it not?" Ser Shadrich taunted. "The mouse that can maul a bear."

Jorah's veins throbbed, his face red. Blood dripped from his hands. He didn't speak, or even scream, there was just one long grunt of pain.

"You should have walked away, ser," Shadrich said with a soft smile, before stepping forward and swinging his sword downwards—

She never knew how it happened. One heartbeat, Alayne was lying on the floor staring in horror. The next, her body was moving all by itself.

She felt cold and fear. She felt the snow brush underfoot. She felt her hands wrapping around the smooth dragonbone hilt. She felt Ser Shadrich's mail cleave as she jammed in the edge forward with both hands. She felt a sharp scream breaking through her throat.

Before she had even realised what was happening, Sansa was standing upright and plunging the dagger straight into Ser Shadrich's back. Her hands were still bound and trembling. Blood oozed over her fingers.

His eyes widened in surprise. His body flinched.

"Oh," Ser Shadrich said dumbly.

He tried to raise his blade. Ser Jorah roared and his sword swung first. The steel bastard sword went straight into his skull.

Blood and bone shards splattered against Sansa's face. The blade cleaved halfway through Ser Shadrich's skull before it jammed, dragging his body with it like a ragdoll. The Mad Mouse's body flopped limply under Ser Jorah's blade.

The knight roared in wordless fury. He had to grunt as he dragged his sword out of the man's head. There was barely a head left - brains and skull splattered like a half-squashed tomato. Gore and blood soaked over a wide stretch of snow.

He was wobbling slightly, panting heavily. "Lady Stark," Ser Jorah murmured, with a nod.

There was blood dribbling down her chin. "Ser Jorah," Sansa gasped, dropping weakly to the ground. Her hands just felt numb. Her wool dress was shredded, stained and filthy.

Jorah was staggering, limping. "I can take you back to Lord Baelish, my lady," he said, still cradling his bloody hand. "I could take you back to Lord Arryn, Lord Royce and Miranda, my lady. If that is what you wish." His face was pained. "Or I could take you north. I could take you home, as a Stark, where you belong. There are allies there, those that support your family… I am here to bring you home, but I will not do so without your permission."

He grimaced, struggling to breathe. "It is your choice, Lady Stark. I could take you home. If you want to go. Say the word."

She was left breathless, staring upwards in numb shock. "Home," Sansa repeated. She wasn't quite sure where the words came from, but her head was spinning and… "I want to go home."

"Aye," Ser Jorah said with a gulp. "Then we must run."

Her fingers were gripping the dagger so tightly she wasn't quite sure if she could let go. Ser Jorah shambled upwards, wrapping his missing fingers roughly and then snapping her binds off with his other hand. He pulled her to her feet, and the knight's armour rattled as the two of them began to run.

Behind them, a ragged horn blew over the forest. The Burned Men. Two of the pursuing knights turned to gallop away, and one was cut down by arrows. The clansmen were howling, victorious, and she heard heavy footsteps chasing after her and Jorah.

Sansa stumbled, and Ser Jorah stopped to pick her up with one arm, pressing her close as he kept on running. He stank of musky sweat and blood, his every breath deep and heavy. Even injured, Ser Jorah had stamina. He ran in heavy armour, with her body pressed into his shoulder, his lumbering feet never stopping.

The clansmen gave chase, blowing horns and loosing arrows. They are right behind us, and we have nowhere to run . There was nowhere to hide, no way to outrun them. Sansa could feel nothing but fear. Ser Jorah could only sprint and stagger, towards the sound of rushing water.

She saw Oak Lake stretch out before them. She heard the gushing falls. The currents streamed down forty feet into cold water beneath them, as hard and as grey as stone. She saw spray splashing, droplets hissing in the air, and the falls rumbling like some great beast.

"Lady Stark," Ser Jorah gasped, staggering up the rocky ridge. "Can you swim, my lady?"

Her head spinning so fast she barely made sense of the words. "Lady Stark," Ser Jorah pressed. "Can you swim?"

Swim. "Yes," she gasped. She used to swim with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel in the shallows of the Long Lake during the height of summer. Little Arya would have joined them, sometimes, splashing and giggling by the beach, and her mother would watch from the shore, fretting. Sansa stopped going out to swim as she grew to be a lady. Gods it was so long ago… "Yes, I can swim."

"That is very fortunate, my lady," Ser Jorah said with a grimace. He struggled with the clasps of his steel plate briefly, but could not unfasten them with one hand. "Because I cannot."

"Wait, what—"

He didn't even hesitate. Without warning, Ser Jorah held her tightly, and jumped off the cliff.

The Wildling King

Jon had never seen White Harbour before. His first sight was of New Castle rising over the landscape, while seagulls cawed and the smell of salt was thick in the air. The city was all white stone and straight streets, with steeply pitched slate roofs tilting downwards towards the coast of the White Knife. Even from a distance, Jon could see the harbour heaving with sails, ships attended by ant-like figures.

The journey had been quick and hard, but they ran their horses into the ground. The White Harbour riders led the way, but Jon and his Dragonguard huddled together. "I do not trust these southrons," Gerwick warned, as hooves galloped over the grassy plains. "This could be a trap."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "But they say Lord Manderly promises me guest right. They approached with an offer of truce."

"Didn't they give your brother guest right too?" Gerwick said darkly. "It seems to me that honour stops at the Wall."

"These Manderlys," Furs called from Jon's other side. "You say this fat lord was to marry his daughters to those Freys. Now what sort of man gives his grandchildren away to scum like that?"

"It may be that betrothal was forced." Jon kept his voice as low as he could. "Or it could be that you're right, this is a trap. Be wary - if they cross us, try to hurt us, Sonagon will hurt them so much more. Make sure they understand that."

The leader of the men, a lithe and tall knight introduced as Ser Alek, had dismounted and bowed before Jon. Jon, however, didn't respond. He only stood there, watching as Furs relayed to Ser Alek what he had just said.

The Manderly men had already been nervous, but after that, their fear was more obvious. They kept their weapons sheathed, and their hands far from the hilts. None of them save for Ser Alek were even willing to make eye contact with Jon, and he only did so rarely, fumbling over his stuttering at times.

Ser Alek begged that Lord Manderly wanted to treat, that their lord offered safe passage to White Harbour. If there was deception in him, Jon didn't see it, and this was too good an opportunity to let pass.

There had been little time to dawdle. Ser Alek had offered each of Jon's escort a horse, though some were forced to double up. He left eight of his own men on foot, to ensure that the Dragonguard were all mounted. Ser Alek even surrendered his own horse to Jon, a great grey warhorse of Ryswell stock, as far as Jon could tell.

Jon noticed again how Ser Alek man had been sweating, constantly lowering his eyes as he addressed him.

It took a while to convince Sonagon that the White Harbour men weren't a threat. In the end, Jon was convinced to leave the dragon behind for now, the better to avoid attention while they rode to White Harbour.

It was for the best, because Sonagon was starting to feel puckish, and there had been a scent of a herd of aurochs somewhere over the plains.

They moved at a quick trot, and soon passed by two smaller villages, but Ser Alek never stopped as they rode. He seemed afraid to. They rode for a full day, until finally they saw the pale walls of White Harbour.

They were approaching the first of the stables and farmhouses leading up to the city. None of the wildlings had ever seen a town so big, so crowded. Some tried to hide it, but they all looked either awed or nervous.

"Halt," Jon shouted to the riders, drawing his destrier to a stop. The riders paced. "What is the intention here, Ser Alek?"

His face seemed pained. "Your Grace," the knight said. "Lord Manderly wishes to treat, White Harbour offers no threat to you, I promise."

"Indeed. And we will be entering through the main gates?" Jon demanded.

"I had clear orders to bring you direct to the New Castle. We will not go through the city, we will circle around and there's a postern gate to the north straight into the keep itself."

No, that felt risky. If this was a trap, then it would make sense to keep Jon out of the streets. Jon frowned, closed his eyes for a moment, and sent Sonagon a quick command, asking that the dragon come a little closer to the city. Jon felt a distinct feeling of… satisfaction coming from the dragon. Jon suspected that the herd of aurochs Sonagon had scented was no more. Jon then refocused on Ser Alek.

"If Lord Manderly wishes to treat, then let's go the most direct route," he said firmly. "We will go through the main gate, and up the Castle Stair. I wish to enter through White Harbour itself."

"Your Grace, the city is in panic. The sight of your dragon sent many into frenzy, entire villages fled and are taking refuge here. It may not be safe for you to ride through the streets."

"I have no doubt you can provide a suitable escort. I also expect Lord Manderly himself to meet me outside the gates. Go ahead and bring those requirements to your lord, and two of my companions will escort you. When they return and tell me the path is clear, I will enter the city tomorrow morning. To give you ample time to prepare a procession."

He grimaced. "You-Your Grace, it is not safe for you to linger on these plains all night."

"I am sure I will be fine," he said coolly. "Furs and Eryn, please escort the good ser. We will camp on the coast."

Ser Alek tried to protest, but Jon gave him no space to. Furs and Eryn were two of the most level-headed of his Dragonguard, and Jon ordered them not to antagonise, but to watch and listen. Jon's instincts said that the offer of truce was genuine, but he couldn't afford to take that chance. If Lord Manderly really is willing to meet me, then let him meet me personally, during daylight, in the main street, to reduce any chance of an ambush.

It starting snowing during the night, but they camped two leagues outside of the city. Ser Alek left twelve of his men, but they all kept their distance by unspoken command. The Dragonguard kept watch diligently, still suspicious of the southerners. Jon could feel Sonagon hunting over the Bite, hunting a pod of whales tens of leagues offshore. The dragon relished his hunting, but was mostly sated now, willing to return and defend them if need be.

They woke to a cold morning. Furs and Eryn both returned at first light, reporting that Lord Manderly was waiting with a group of fifty guards by the front gates. As they rode off towards the city, Jon called Sonagon back towards him, just to be safe.

They had barely reached the gates when the dragon soared above them high in the sky. The shadow blanketed the entire road.

Jon's first impression of White Harbour was of a city in panic. He saw people on the road scattering in panic as they approached, packing into buildings and other low places. Screaming echoed through the streets. Jon only caught a single word, again and again, shouted by hundreds of throats near and far. "Dragon, dragon!"

Even the guards that met them seemed terrified. Jon approached slowly, and a field of soldiers with green cloaks and steel tridents stood to attention outside the thick ironwood gates. Sonagon could could smell the fear in the air, even though the dragon was circling the city from far above. Well, Jon reflected. I did want the whole north to see Sonagon.

"Your Grace," a man greeted, pushing a great horse forward. He was a big man: very fat, bald, with a large walrus moustache. His green cloak was clasped with a silver and sapphire trident. He held himself straight, but there were dark shadows under his eyes too. He said the words 'Your Grace' very hesitantly. "Forgive me, but my lord father is sickly and does not travel well. I am his son and heir, Ser Wylis Manderly, to greet you. I have bread and salt for you and your party."

A table of honeyed bread and jugs of wine was already set out for them. All guards very deliberately kept their weapons lowered. Oh, they're being very, very nervous. They were treating him as if a single offence risked sending him into a rage - they didn't know what to expect from him, and that made Jon feel better. "Thank you for your hospitality, Ser Wylis, it is very much appreciated."

"Yes, Your Grace." He bowed in his saddle. Jon noticed how he winced. There were men near him as if to support Ser Wylis. "House Manderly are not Freys; our hospitality is ironclad. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Jon pushed Sonagon to back off a little bit. The gates were opened, and Jon heard the sounds of the city get louder. There was already a crowd in the streets, a mob that had been trying to push out of the gates towards him. He saw thrashing bodies forced backwards by green cloaked guards with tridents.

Ser Wylis grimaced. "Please, stay close to me, Your Grace. Ser Marlon will clear the way for us."

Horses shimmied nervously. Guards rushed. His Dragonguard all had weapons readied. "Your people are panicked."

"We have heard rumours of you and the wildlings from the north for months," he shouted over the din. "Refugees pouring into the city. The sight of your dragon flying south two days ago triggered riots in Fishfoot Square."

So I see, he thought, but he kept his face hard. "Savages!" Someone in the crowd was screaming. "Rapers and savages!"

"Death to wildlings!" another shouted.

Still, he heard someone else shouting, "Death to the Boltons! Vengeance for the Red Wedding!"

Then the white dragon shot over them in the sky above, each flap causing gusts of wind through the narrow streets, and the whole city watched as the shadow of the dragon cut across the buildings. Many ran for cover, and others just fell to the ground in terror. Sonagon isn't even being aggressive, just curious.

It looked like a riot as Jon's party rode up the main street. The city guards had to fight to clear the path up to the Castle Stair. In the distance, Jon sensed Sonagon fly out over the coast, and then turn to perch on the Seal Rock overlooking the harbour. There were townsfolk trying to flee the gates, but the city was on lockdown. It was all so hectic Jon could barely even process it.

By the time they started the approach up the pale staircase leading to New Castle, Jon saw fighting on the docks below. Ships were trying to flee the harbour, but there were galleys in the water forming a blockade to stop anyone leaving. On the docks, the green cloaks looked like they were seizing ships and making arrests, and the cries of fighting were sharp noises in the orchestra of chaos. The whole city felt crazed with panic. Off the coast, Sonagon roared.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Ser Wylis panted. "The city is…"

He didn't seem to know how to finish that statement.

Jon was shuffled quickly into the handsomely furnished pale castle. Silver and green ordained the walls, along with broken shields and rusted swords from ancient victories, and wooden figureheads from the prows of ships. The doors to the Merman's Court opened, leading into a great hall of wooden planks decorated with all the creatures of the sea. A large cushioned throne of weathered oak rested at the far end, in front of a painted wall showing a kraken and grey leviathan locked in battle.

The first time Jon lay eyes on Lord Wyman Manderly, the fat lord's chins were wobbling furiously at a maester with blond hair in the centre of the Merman's Court. There were screamed objections, shouts that Jon couldn't quite make out.

The whole room was heaving. Men were stomping their feet. Someone was screaming. Whatever Jon was expecting, this wasn't it. He saw fat lords and ladies in silk, screaming murder, and the whole room felt… bloodthirsty. Savage. For a moment, he was left speechless.

Jon saw the elderly maester in chains being dragged away as he screamed, "Please my lord, don't - this is treason! This is treason against the crown!"

Lord Wyman was clad in sealskin and wool as he shook his great head. His face well-lined, doughy and wrinkled, but those eyes looked wide and mad. "That crown committed treason first," the fat lord growled. He could barely stand, but he was trembling. "Take the maester away and throw him in the Wolf's Den. No ravens leave White Harbour tonight."

There was the sound of wailing and crying. Jon could only stare as he limped into the Merman's court, all eyes wide. The sight of Jon walking through the doorway seemed to cause the room to freeze. Jon saw ladies and young girls backing away from him.

The maester's face paled as he saw Jon. "You can't do this, my lord!" The maester screamed, struggling against the men pulling him out of the doorway. "He's a monster! He'll bring ruin to the realm! He'll—"

He was cut off by a blunt blow to the stomach with the butt of a trident.

The lords and ladies of Manderly's court were all up in arms. There were others trying to object, but they were being forcefully escorted out of the room too. The Dragonguard flanked around Jon closely, all of them staring in shock.

Suddenly, all these southerners don't seem so civilised, Jon reckoned, looking at his men's expressions.

"We have all heard the news!" Lord Wyman boomed. The voice was echoing. "The ravens have been flocking across all corner of the realm. The Twins - the Freys! - scorched by a dragon's fury!" Jon stepped forward, and all wide eyes were on him. "My only regret is that I could not watch it myself. Letters from Seagard down to Fairmarket all speak of the destruction of the Twins, and I say those honourless bastards deserve to freeze in the very coldest of hells!"

Ser Wylis Manderly lingered at the back of the room. Jon stepped forward, walking quietly into the hall towards the dais. Lord Wyman was a fat, morbidly obese man, struggling as he stood up. Jon didn't say a word, he just watched.

"The Freys," Lord Wyman spat. He could barely make out the words over all the din. "They butchered my son and my liege. They imprisoned my other son for six months. They defile honour with every breath they take, and they had the gall to smirk about it in my own home?"

He motioned to his guards with a flabby hand. Jon locked eyes with the lord; Lord Wyman Manderly was trembling with emotion, but Jon showed none as he stared back. "If there is naught else that we can agree on, King Jon Snow," Lord Wyman continued, "we can agree that House Frey deserves to be punished for its crimes," his eyes flickered. "Bring them in."

Jon heard screaming, coming off from the side. He saw wrestling bodies coming through a side door, being dragged by Manderly men-at-arms. Jon's hand went to his sword instinctively, and the wildlings braced, but no attack came. Instead, it took seven men to force three squirming, chained men into the center of the Merman's Court. Jon forced himself not to react, but many in the court seemed shocked.

The men squirmed and thrashed, but the greencloaks were ruthless. They beat the three men to the ground in front of the lord's dais, chained them to hooks in the ground and tightened their binds until they were not only forced to stay in place, but actually pinned to the ground.

There were additional hooks on the ground, and the greencloaks used them to bind the prisoner's ankles too, binding chains to the manacles on the prisoner's feet. Then they stretched the prisoners outwards, despite their screams, until all three were left stretched out on the ground like starfish.

For a moment, the court was struck silent by the brutality of the bindings. For those seconds, there was nothing in the court but the desperate clanging of the prisoner's thick metal chains, echoing through the court as the prisoner's arms and legs squirmed amidst their desperate shouting, screaming.

Then murmurs and worse passed through the Merman's Court like a tide. Some lords and knights were shouting for Lord Wyman to reconsider. But more were egging him on, or jeering the prisoners. "May I present the noble Ser Jared, Ser Symond, and Ser Rhaegar Frey… !" Lord Wyman shouted over the din. "The sons of Lord Walder Frey who came to deliver my dear Wendel's bones back to me, under the guise of friendship! The murderers who came to blackmail me, to steal for my granddaughters by threatening the father they held hostage, and to spread lies about my liege!" Beefy, trembling hands tightened. "You dared to claim that the Freys were the victims of the Red Wedding?"

The three Freys looked frantic. Bloodshot eyes, pale faces. Chained in the centre of the room atop a painted octopus' tentacles, while around them the mermen looked ravenous. "You can't…" Ser Jared gasped. He was tall, thin, pockmarked and of fifty years of age. "We came in peace… !"

"You came to deliver the body of the son that you murdered!" Lord Manderly growled. "You came to strongarm me to bend the knee - you came to smile at me after you murdered and captured my sons!"

Rhaegar Frey gasped. He was round-shouldered and kettle-bellied. "It was Robb Stark - he betrayed us, he—!"

A guard slammed his foot into the man's face. "You betray all honour, Frey," one of the other men shouted. A bushy bearded man, Jon didn't recognise him. "Your lord father died in a frozen grave! Your castle is lost, your lands frozen in dragonfire!"

"You promised us!" Ser Jared Frey screamed at the lord. "You bent the knee, you gave amends. You promised!"

"Weasels deserve no promises," Lord Manderly growled. "I feasted you when you arrived. I smiled, I fed you, I danced along to your tune. When you left here, true to the laws of hospitality, I even allowed you to ride freely for three leagues unencumbered. Before I had you captured again."

He waddled backwards towards his throne, eyes fixed on the Freys. Ser Rhaegar Frey broke down into tears. "This time, you receive chains instead of bread and salt. Consider your previous treatment as my gratitude for returning my son's bones. This, however, is your punishment for murdering him."

A large figure, well over six-foot-tall, stepped into the room from the other side of the hall. The crowd part for him. He wasn't dressed like a guard; instead he wore an executioner's black mask. He dragged with him a warhammer so heavy that the head scraped across the planks.

The man stepped up to Ser Rhaegar Frey. The knight was shrieking something nonsensically, tears and snot dribbling down his chin.

The big man heaved the hammer above his head, with a hard grunt. The whole court seemed to freeze as the hammer swung downwards…

Jon flinched. He heard the crack of wood and bone. Blood plumed as Ser Rhaegar Frey's right leg shattered. The massive warhammer snapped his leg like a matchstick. Jon saw a splinter of bone sent flying, his eyes tracked it as it bounced a ways over the floor of the Merman's court.

Jon had never heard a man make the same noise that Ser Rhaegar Frey made. He never would have thought that type of scream was humanly possible. It sounded too high-pitched to come from a human.

"Well, damn," Furs muttered quietly as he watched. One of the ladies in the court, a pretty young girl with dyed green hair looked like she was about to be sick, but she didn't turn her eyes away.

The man with the warhammer was already swinging again. This time at Ser Rhaegar's right leg. There was barely a scream this time, Ser Rhaegar just went limp, as twin pools of blood ponded around the gore that had once been his knees.

Ser Jared was next. He was begging incoherently, screaming something about mercy, justice and trials, and but then the warhammer cracked through flesh and bone and against wood once more.

Jared somehow screamed even louder than Rhaegar had. The hammer squashed straight through his leg, severing the limb at the kneecap in a bloody shower. First the left leg, then the right. The executioner moved calmly, deliberately. Jared Frey's manacles went loose as he lost consciousness. His blood had splattered so far that some of it had reached the painted sharks on the court's ceiling, fifteen or twenty feet high.

Symond Frey didn't scream at all - instead his lungs seemed to clamp shut in pain and horror. He received the same treatment. By the time the executioner was done with Symond, Ser Jared had already died of bloodloss. Ser Rhaegar lingered, babbling strange, delirious sounds that could not quite be called words.

After the legs, the executioner then moved to squash the Frey's spines with his hammer. Rhaegar Frey, his tongue lolling in a sort of feverish muttering, at last fell silent when the executioner's hammer crushed his spine into the floor. Jared Frey was already dead, but the hammer cracked through his back regardless. Ser Symond was the last to die, and the blow this time was a little off, missing his spine slightly, caving in his liver instead. He actually managed another scream, and the executioner had to strike him a second time. Sey Symond Frey's corpse spasmed for a time, the hammer head jammed in his upper ribcage. Even the executioner struggled to pull it out again, and when he did, one of Symond's deflated lungs came out with it.

Lord Manderly just watched hungrily from the dais above as the Freys were executed before him. Jon had never seen a man with so much raw hate. Three large pools of blood stained the painted ground. Frey blood had splattered for twenty entire feet, some of it even reaching the ceiling.

The lords and knights of the court roared. The emotions in the air were… indescribable, like the air itself was painted with bloodlust.

Lord Wyman needed deep breaths to calm himself. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace," Lord Wyman said finally, pulling his eyes up to look up at Jon. "But I require time to bring my house into order. May we treat together another time?"

Jon nodded. He didn't say a word. They were escorted out of the hall and into the castle. Jon didn't let it show, but he was shaken.

White Harbour has just declared open revolt against the crown, he realised. The entire city was in a state of uproar. Lord Wyman had assembled all his neighbouring lords, and he was now cleaning his court and preparing for war. A war that the dragon resting in the harbour would tip the scales of.

Why did he execute the Freys like that? Jon wondered. It could have been done cleanly, it certainly didn't need to be done in the middle of his court. It was as barbaric, savage as anything Jon had ever seen.

It took him a while before he realized, and began to suspect that Lord Manderly had wanted to make a point.

It was because of me, he thought. He could have executed them anytime. Why then, why like that, on the very morn I entered his castle? Lord Manderly knew of my ruthlessness at the Twins, so he prepared. The lord wanted to demonstrate his own ruthlessness. He wanted to impress me.

Perhaps he was missing bits and pieces of the truth, but the theory felt sound to him.

Jon and his Dragonguard were given their own entire wing of on the upper floors of the New Castle, which gave him a good view of the goings-on in the courtyard below, and a better view of the sea.

As far as he could tell from the western windows, the castle's courtyard was crowded to well beyond its usual limits, filled with hectic activity of many knights and lords moving to and fro. From the eastern windows, Jon could see the whole harbour being shut down, and a blockade of Manderly war galleys in the water. The realm would learn about Lord Manderly's actions very quickly, there was no avoiding that, but the lord seemed intent control the city, quite possibly until Jon and Sonagon had departed.

Hatch just looked at him in quiet shock. "Vicious creatures, these mermen, aren't they?"

Each of his Dragonguard were offered their own chambers. House Manderly's servants were very respectful. Scared, but respectful, and constantly on hand to tend to Jon. Just like Ser Alek, they stepped carefully around him, spoke quietly, and when they thought Jon wasn't looking, they stared at him like he was some wild monster that might tear their throat out over a minor slight. It made Jon curious.

Now just what have they been hearing about me, I wonder?

He paused. And how much of it isn't true?

Ser Wynal, a cousin of the lord and castellan of the castle, came to Jon's quarters to beg his forgiveness, that Lord Manderly had urgent business to attend to, that the lord begged the king's patience. He provided orders that all of Jon's needs would be met, and that White Harbour would do its best to accommodate the King-Beyond-the-Wall.

Jon was satisfied to wait. He needed food and rest and washing, all his Dragonguard did, and the quarters they had been provided in the New Castle were fit for the most prestigious guests. Jon suspected his own room was meant for the use of actual kings visiting the city. The bed was the size of a small boat, literally gilded in silver, with pillows and blankets of imported silk and some feathery stuffing that felt lighter and softer than goose down.

In return for the hospitality, Jon kept Sonagon calmed in the harbour. The dragon had dragged a whale's carcass onto Seal Rock from somewhere or another and was slowly gnawing at it, occasionally snapping up seals that got too close. There had been an old fortification on Seal Rock that looked like some kind of harbour control point, but that had been abandoned to the dragon.

Lord Manderly wants - no, needs - an alliance, Jon thought. If White Harbour is going to fight the Boltons and the Iron Throne, then they need a dragon on their side. Sonagon was the greatest military force in the north.

There could be little doubt of Lord Wyman Manderly's intent, at any rate. By killing those Freys in the middle of his court he had made his intentions quite clear. Perhaps it was some sort of trap against him, something to lower Jon's guard, but he struggled to see any strategy for the lord that would have been advantaged by taking such extreme steps. It was far more likely that Lord Wyman Manderly was sincere in his desire to ally with him.

And we need White Harbour, Jon thought quietly. White Harbour could provide food for the Wall, trade for the free folk, supply lines for his armies. Jon had plenty of wildlings under his command, but White Harbour had ships, silver and infrastructure.

It made Jon feel hopeful for what he suspected what would soon be an alliance. If House Manderly's blood feud with the Freys was this deep, then that gave Jon a strong position. Jon resolved to give Lord Wyman the patience he requested, and he and his guard settled in without complaint. He ordered his Dragonguard to stay cautious, but to rest, and Jon for once relaxed in the stone chambers, curling his feet in an imported Myrish carpet as he read more of Barth's Unnatural History and Yandel's First Dornish War.

At his request, a bath was drawn up for him - a warm bath in a marble chamber carved with gilded seahorses, fit for a king - and let himself relax in the gentle waters, scented with some soothing aroma perfume. It was the first proper bath he'd had since leaving Winterfell, oh so long ago, and it was like he could feel dirt from his months in the wilderness and on the campaign trail oozing out of him. When he finally left the water, it was turbid with brown.

Jon's clothing, thick padded leathers lined with wool, were warm and sturdy, but also worn and unwashed. Good for riding, not so good for meeting with lords. He debated meeting in full armour, but he decided that might appear too aggressive. Instead, he requested more proper attire, and a scrambled hour later the servants returned with a grey velvet tunic, lined in silver, and tanned cotton trousers. The leather boots they provided were slightly too large, but still better than iron-heeled boots he had been wearing.

His cloak - the giant's fur cloak that the children of the forest had provided - was itself dirty, but it was still thick and rich enough for him to wear. He kept Dark Sister on his hip at all times.

His companions were mixed. Lord Manderly had given them their own wing of the castle, so they all had rooms, and all the rooms were nearby Jon's. However, many of the free folk were ill-accustomed to their new lodgings, or just overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of the luxury. Some snapped and growled suspiciously at the servants, others had to be warned against pillaging their own bedrooms. Sam, the odd man out among Jon's entourage who had actually grown up in similar conditions, just washed and changed quietly. Grenn fell somewhere in between the two extremes, and spent the day looking simply befuddled by all the attention from the servants.

This is the first time that the wildlings, or Grenn, have ever been in a lord's castle, Jon thought with a quiet smile, let alone as guests of honor.

As evening approached, Jon and his entourage were all served honey roasted lobster, fine wine and fresh apples. He could have eaten with the others in the private dinner hall of their wing of the castle, but instead he retired early to his room. Lord Wyman must have prepared for their coming, because as far as Jon could tell, all the servants had no responsibilities but to serve Jon and his companions to the best of their abilities. Despite the fear of the servants, he found nothing lacking in the Manderly's hospitality.

After he finished eating in his quarters, Jon closed his eyes and carefully reached outwards.

First, he checked on Ghost. His direwolf was still beyond the Wall, assisting with the free folk the forests as refugees flocked towards Eastwatch. There had been some wight attacks, but the wildlings were organised enough to survive them. Then, Jon reached out to Phantom, who was haunting the rooftops of Eastwatch, before finally reaching out to Sonagon.

The dragon was well-fed and rested now. Sonagon responded to Jon's call and roused himself from his perch over the Seal Rock in the middle of the harbour. Hardly any of the whale's carcass was left now but for a pile of snapped bones.

Slowly, the dragon's wings unfurled, and then he began flapping with great gushes. He bounded across the ground in a running start, before with one final great flap he rose upwards into the air. The dragon circled on the warm air from the coast, circling through the lower cloudbanks, while Jon stared down at the world from behind the dragon's eyes.

Jon focused downwards on the city, the nearby coast, the docks and harborages, even the plague wharf further off. He counted the ships through Sonagon's eyes, discounting small local boats and fishing vessels that clearly stayed in the area of the city. His attention was focused only on larger vessels, merchant galleas and warships capable of crossing the sea. He counted thirty-two vessels total, on the coast and another ten under construction in the Inner Harbour.

Lord Manderly has definitely been preparing for war. Sonagon continued to circle, sniffing and staring over the rolling landscape. Most of the city stayed indoors while the dragon was in the air, but a few stayed outside to stare. Even from this high in the sky, Sonagon he them, a few groups, a few more individuals throughout the city, gazing straight upwards at the dragon.

It was dusk when the knock on Jon's door alerted him. A small group: Ser Wynal, Leona Manderly, some stewards, and two escorts. "Your Grace?" Ser Wynal called nervously. "Begging your pardon, but Lord Manderly requests your presence."

Jon just nodded. He put Unnatural History away as he exited, wrapping his cloak loosely over his shoulder. The Manderly men had swords, but they kept their hands well-away from their weapons. They are very deliberately not threatening me, Jon decided, which was for the best - Hatch and Furs were standing guard by his door, glowering at the nervous knights.

"The lord wishes to discuss terms in the Merman Court," Lady Leona said hesitantly. Jon glanced at her. The wife of Ser Wylis, he recalled. She was a plump pink woman with yellow hair, dressed in Manderly green and silver. "Will any of your… companions wish to accompany you, King Snow?"

"Samwell Tarly will join me. As well as Furs and Hatch," Jon said, nodding to his two guards. It would be too aggressive to bring all of his Dragonguard, but he didn't want to be seen as too docile if he went in alone, either. As for Sam, he could represent the Night's Watch.

They were escorted down to the Merman's Court. "King Snow…" Furs muttered dryly, as they walked. Was it his imagination, or did the wildling raider sound apprehensive? "So, this is how you southerners do things?"

"Sometimes."

"I will announce you to the court, Your Grace," Ser Wynal said with a slight gulp as they walked. "Forgive me, but what honorifics and titles would you use?"

"Jon Snow. King-Beyond-the-Wall."

"Um, is that all?"

"I believe so," Jon replied coolly.

The Merman's Court seemed strangely quiet. Compared to the frenzy of earlier, it seemed that this time the Lord Manderly wanted a more private meeting. There were no guards, no crowds. The corridor seemed strangely quiet. They had tried to wipe the floor clean of blood, but Jon could still see the stains, and the wood was cracked where the executioner's hammer had smashed the Freys' legs.

As for the blood on the roof, yes, that was still there.

"His Grace, Jon Snow, King-Beyond-the-Wall," Ser Wynal announced before him, "coming before Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbour, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed and Lord Marshal of the Mander, Knight of the Order of the Green Hand."

The voice rung in the cavern. The stewards sealed the door behind them. There were a dozen people in the hall, all standing grim-faced around the dais. Jon met their eyes, one by one. He recognised six.

Lord Manderly stood - heaving - to greet him. "King Snow," the fat man said, clearing his throat. His many chins wobbled with the motion. "It is good to have you have in White Harbour. I hope my hospitality has been sufficient, and that this is a chance for us to come to terms."

Oh, how strange it feels to be in a lord's court again. I've been among the free folk for too long. "As do I, my lord. You are very gracious to extend the invitation." Very brave too, to publicly invite a wildling king and his dragon into your city.

"This morning's events gave little time for greetings. Formal introductions are in order, I believe," Lord Manderly said, raising his voice slightly. "This is Ser Marlon Manderly, commander of the city garrison. The castellan of New Castle, Ser Wylan. And you have met my son, Ser Wylis, and his wife, Lady Leona of House Woolfield."

"Ser," Jon nodded to Wylis Manderly. Be patient, respectful. "I heard you were imprisoned at the Twins."

"I was, Your Grace. For a long, terrible time. It is good to know that justice has been delivered." Still, the polite comment didn't quite reach his eyes. Ser Wylis looked suspicious, maybe even angry. Perhaps he too was thinking of the prisoners left behind, as Jon was. Jon didn't let himself frown or unfavourably react, and didn't press the comment. He only nodded politely.

"And may I present Lord Jon Umber," Lord Manderly introduced, turning to the next figure. "Lord of Last Hearth."

Oh yes, there was no mistaking him. It had been years since Jon had last seen him, but somehow the Greatjon seemed bigger than ever. He was a huge man, bearded, broad with muscle and standing near seven feet high, with a hard face, and arms and legs like tree trunks. Still, he also looked more… ragged, than Jon remembered. The Greatjon's beard was unshaven, his face gaunter. Jon could see scars around his neck. He's missing fingers, Jon noticed.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Lord Umber," Jon said respectfully. Behind him, Hatch tensed - it was rare for Hatch to ever meet a man bigger than himself.

"You can thank Lord Howland Reed for that," the Greatjon grunted. He too, stared at Jon suspiciously. "I was in a cage being moved through the Neck when the crannogmen sprung an ambush on the convoy. Those weasels spent weeks searching for us, but Lord Reed sheltered us at Greywater Watch before bringing us here."

"That is good to know. My father always spoke highly of Lord Reed."

There was a slight ripple through the room with the words 'my father', Jon noticed. "Aye," the Greatjon muttered. He kept his arms folded. "I thought Lord Reed a sickly old craven when the crannogmen did not march with Robb Stark's campaign. And yet he proves that he still has wits; his bog-devils have been bleeding every force, from ironborn to Boltons and Freys."

"That is why we are here, is it not?" Lord Wyman said, with a glare at the Greatjon. "To find common ground against common enemies?"

He turned around the group. "May I introduce Galbart Glover, Master of Deepwood Motte, and his brother and heir, Robett Glover." Jon could see the likeness between them - both were stocky, brown-haired and broad-shouldered. "And Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island." Another one Jon recognised, she was a short, stout grey-haired old woman, with lined eyes. She was the only one in the hall wearing armour, clad in patched chainmail, heavy gauntlets and a bearskin cloak over her shoulders. There was a flicker in her eyes as they greeted each other stiffly. Bear Island is a long way from White Harbour, Jon thought quietly.

"My lady," he nodded. "You marched with my brother Robb?"

"We did," Lady Maege replied. "Before the reaching the Twins, King Stark sent us to Seagard, to then sail to Greywater Watch in preparation for the assault on Moat Cailin. Lord Reed sheltered us, and after we heard the news of the Red Wedding, he gave us passage to White Harbour."

Now why would you go that far rather than return to your own lands? Jon wondered. "I see," he said. So they had already been gathered in White Harbour, preparing a rebellion to fight back against the Boltons. Jon started to see the linkages of the connections here. Lord Reed has been recovering loyalist forces returning from the south, and sending them to White Harbour.

"Also, we have Lord Ondrew Locke of Oldcastle." An old, toothless man with a vulturous aspect to his features. "And Lady Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch." She was a plump, red-faced woman with dark hair. She looked around seven months pregnant, swollen with a hand on her stomach. "Lady Flint's son, Robin Flint, is upstairs, yet he is still recuperating from his captivity."

"That is good to hear. Robin Flint served in my brother's personal guard, I believe." He kept his eyes fixed on every little detail. The meeting had been polite so far, but there was a tension in the air he could not ignore. It had the possibility of becoming dangerous. "May I introduce Samwell Tarly, steward of the Night's Watch, as well as two of my Dragonguard, Hatch the Halfgiant and Furs of Old Mother's Crock."

The Greatjon's eyes were locked with Hatch. His arms were still folded. "Wildlings," he growled.

"Aye," Jon nodded. "Though they prefer the term free folk."

"Wildlings have been a blight on the north for millennia." The Greatjon had a formidable scowl, looking down at him. His voice dangerously low. "Do you expect me to stand easy in front of the man who brought a horde into my lands?"

"Lord Umber," Lord Wyman warned quietly.

Lord Wyman was trying to be diplomatic, but the Greatjon was not alone in his aggressive stance; Jon could feel similar emotions coming from some of the others as well. "You invited me here, my lords, knowing what I am." Jon said after a pause. "I had hoped we could make peace regardless."

"So you say," the Greatjon growled. "But I think you might just be as much of a threat as every other bastard out there."

"Enough," Lord Wyman ordered. "Let us not be distracted by squabbles. Not when there are more pressing matters to attend to."

"Jon Snow," Lady Maege said loudly, stepping forward in front of the Greatjon slightly. Her armour rattled. The older woman had hands that seemed designed for a mace. "Let us be clear. Are you the same Jon Snow, natural son of Eddard Stark, half-brother to Robb Stark?"

"I am." He met her gaze firmly. She had such a piercing blue gaze.

Robett Glover shook his head. "He lies," the man said firmly, glaring at Jon. "I saw the boy before, and you do not look like him. The Jon Snow I remember had black hair for one, not white."

"Forgive him, Your Grace," Lord Manderly said quickly, casting a warning look at Robett. "But the question does remain."

"If you walked through a snowstorm north of the Wall, my lord," Jon said, looking at Robett, "then you, too, would not come out looking the same. My hair froze when I was stranded in the ice. I am Jon Snow of Winterfell, son of Eddard Stark - and we last met saw each other four years ago, when you brought your son Gawen to Winterfell. I spent little time in the hall, I admit, but Robb told me afterwards that you almost broke Sansa's foot, tripping over her in the dance hall."

Everyone turned to Robett Glover. He didn't speak, but he gave a curt nod. Lord Umber's eyes flickered. Jon turned to Maege Mormont. "Lady Maege, we have not met before, but I did meet your daughters Dacey, Alysane and Lyanna when they passed through Winterfell. Alysane feasted in the hall, but Lyanna snuck out with my sister, Arya, to swordfight with sticks in the yard. I was ten, but the girls roped me into teaching them to fight."

"I remember," Maege admitted. "The girls told me so. Dacey said you were quite the gentleman."

Dacey Mormont had been one of Robb's personal guards, and had died at the Red Wedding, from what Jon had read in Castle Black's letters. "My condolences for your loss, Lady Mormont," he murmured.

Lady Mormont's eyes softened slightly. She nodded, and stepped back.

"I believe he is who he says he is," the Greatjon spoke up, sourly. "White hair aside, he does have his father's look to him."

"Then perhaps he is," that was Lord Locke, speaking up gruffly with toothless gums. "But Robb Stark fought for freedom for the north. He is a Night's Watch deserter who might have damned the north when he opened those gates. He shames his brother's memory." Lord Wyman flinched slightly.

"I do no such thing." Jon had to force his voice to stay level. He knew what he had to say, but… "I brought the free folk south to save the realm - to strengthen the Wall against the true threat. I united the free folk to fight against the white walkers."

The room froze. He saw the surprise and confusion over the lord's faces. Yes, I knew they would react like this, he thought sourly. The majority of people south of the Wall would. Still, they had to be warned. Robett Glover guffawed. "White walkers?" he exclaimed in genuine confusion. "Are you defending against snarks and grumpkins as well?"

Someday, I wish snarks and grumpkins actually do invade, he thought. "You talk about matters you know nothing of, my lord." His voice was bitter, meeting their eyes darkly. "I've seen the Others myself. So have many - ask any free folk or sworn brother on the Wall." Lords glanced around, looking for any sign that this was a joke. "I could provide you with ten thousand witnesses that the white walkers are very much real."

"Or better yet," Furs spoke up suddenly behind Jon, "why not go north to look? I expect you'd see them yourself soon enough."

Robett recoiled as if he had been snapped. The room hesitated, the lords sharing glances. "It is true, my lords," Sam stammered, his voice a squeak. "Castle Black came under attack from wights two weeks ago. Living men were brought through the castle's gates, and their dead bodies rose again as creatures with no heartbeats, and blue eyes."

"And who are you?" the Greatjon demanded.

"Samwell Tarly, my lord. Son of Randyll Tarly, steward of the Night's Watch," Sam said, stepping forward. "I took my vows and I uphold them, my lords, I swear it. And yet when the wildli… when the free folk came through the gate, I sided with the living because I believe that is the only way to stop the Others. All I want is to keep the Wall standing, and I believe that Jon Snow wants the same thing."

Sam had an earnest voice. It caused some of them to hesitate. "Your own brother sent letters to all houses the first time we encountered them," Jon said, staring at Maege. "You know that Jeor would never lie. It was only two of the wights then, but then we came under attack from thousands."

She didn't reply, but her eyes were thoughtful. Robett stared at him as if he were insane. "White walkers? Dead rising?" he exclaimed. "This is a fool's excuse to justify an invasion. A bastard's attempt to steal his brother's kingdom."

"I once believed that all southerners are fools, my 'lord'," Furs spoke, cocking his head at the man. "You are doing little to disprove that opinion."

"You dare—?"

"Enough!" The Greatjon shouted, so loud the whole room seemed to shudder. Despite himself, Jon flinched. "I do not know if the Others are real or not," he growled. "But that dragon is real, that's for certain."

Lord Wyman nodded. "Aye," he agreed, chins wobbling. "The dragon is very much real, and very… concerning for many people. Can you tell us about the dragon?"

"His name is Sonagon." Jon gazed around the room. It felt like he was on trial here, with so many men staring at him intently. "He was buried in the far north, buried for a long time. I awoke him to fight against the Others."

"Awoke him how?" The Greatjon demanded.

"I bled on him," Jon admitted. "As I was dying."

There was a long, uncertain pause.

"And you control it?" Lord Locke pushed.

"Sonagon listens to me."

"But not with words," Ser Wylis spoke up. "I was watching when we entered the city - you never said a word to the beast, not even a motion. Instead, you close your eyes, and the dragon obeys."

"Aye," Jon said simply. The discussion of wargs could get even more tangential.

"How?"

"How did Robb Stark control his direwolf?" Jon asked. "I have a direwolf too, in case you're wondering."

"Is the dragon tame?" Lady Maege asked with a pause.

"When he's well fed, yes."

There were a few uncertain mutters, but the Greatjon just snorted. "I know plenty of Boltons I'm happy to feed to it."

"I do not trust him," Robett said, shaking his mane as he glared at Jon. "He's given me no reason why I should."

"He's standing here, talking to us, for one," Lord Wyman objected. "He came willingly, because he wants to treat with us. He struck a devastating blow against our enemies, for two. And his dragon is not destroying my city right now, for three."

For the first time, Galbart Glover spoke up. "I think my brother is understandably upset," he said quietly. He was much calmer, taciturn compared to Robett. "But we had kin at the Twins. Two cousins who were being held hostage."

Oh. Jon forced himself to stay stiff. Others were staring accusingly. He hesitated, and then risked, "I see." He kept his voice low. Dammit. "I am sorry for your loss."

"I understand how casualties work," Galbart said coolly. "And I am trying to remain very rational and calm in this matter. I think to myself that their deaths are primarily the fault of Freys. And yet there are more hostages. My family, my brother's wife and children are being held by the Boltons. If we side with you, they may well be executed as punishment."

Nobody replied. Jon held his tongue too. Lord Wyman continued in a hoarse voice. "And the fact remains that a dragon may be the best weapon possible against our enemies, my lords," he continued. "Aegon the Conqueror proved the worth of dragons three hundred years ago. Jon Snow proved it again at Twins."

"There are few castles in the realm that could stand against a dragon that size," Maege Mormont agreed, her voice low.

"And if you were to fly to Winterfell right now?" The Greatjon demanded, glaring at Jon. "Could you destroy those blasted Boltons as you did the Freys?"

"Perhaps I could." Jon nodded, his eyes hard. "But not while they hold my sister. I will not risk Arya Stark's life."

Nobody replied for a while. He didn't know why, but that seemed to change the atmosphere in the room slightly. A bit of the aggression faded away. "The north is a land divided, my lords," Lord Wyman said carefully. "The Dustins, the Ryswells, the Cerwyns, the Karstarks… they all declare for the Boltons. I think I can speak for all of us that none here ever will. A dragon could tip the balance in our favour." He looked between them. "Can we all agree that we are united in our enmity for House Bolton?"

"And all he asks in return is for us to bow to him," Lord Locke grunted, with a foul look at Jon. "I have difficulty trading one usurper for the other."

Jon's eyes flashed, stepping forward. "You mistake me, my lord," said Jon. "I have no interest in my brother's crown. I am no King in the North, and nor do I want to be." He shook his head. "I am no Stark."

"Says the man calling himself king," Lord Locke muttered.

"I am. I am King-Beyond-the-Wall. I don't think anyone would question that. Perhaps I am King-on-the-Wall too, but I have never claimed to be King in the North."

Lady Maege's frown deepened. "Then what do you want, King Snow?"

"I want the north to be put to rights," he said firmly. "If the north is secured, then the Wall will be. I want for northern soldiers to reinforce the Wall, to fight against the white walkers when they come." He paused. "And I also want citizenship for all free folk south of the Wall. As well as amnesty from all past crimes and raids. The free folk become part of the realm, to settle on the Gift."

That seemed catch them all off-guard. Even his Dragonguard seemed surprised. The Greatjon's face twisted. Ah, Lord Umber lost two daughters to wildling raids, didn't he? "Citizenship?" the Greatjon spat. "Amnesty?"

"Aye. If you expect the free folk to assist you, then they deserve that," Jon said. "That is my price. Peace."

The Greatjon looked ready to object, but Lord Wyman motioned at him. "The terms of an alliance can be negotiated." Lord Wyman said quickly, trying to move forward, to deny the Greatjon his chance to object. "But let us say that we are successful in bringing justice for Roose Bolton's crimes." Lord Wyman cleared his throat and spoke carefully. "Who would you expect to take the position as liege in the north?"

That question… it felt weirdly worded. Jon almost instantly replied "Stark", before realising. All my brothers are dead. "That is for the great lords of the realm to decide," Jon said after a long pause. "I do not know the rights of succession. But so long as the north is stable and the Wall is manned, I will not intervene."

Was that the right answer? Jon honestly wasn't sure. Galbart Glover and Lady Maege shared a look, as if unspoken words were going between them. There's something else in this room that I am not aware of.

"Now, I have been very patient. I have answered your questions, yet I have nothing to defend here," Jon said, his voice turning sharp. "You invited me here for a reason, and I expect you to answer mine. You are plotting rebellion here from White Harbour?"

"Aye," The Greatjon grumbled. "The north remembers. You think we would forgive something like the Red Wedding?"

"Then you must rescue my sister."

"We hope to," Lady Maege admitted. "But so long as Arya Stark is married and in Winterfell, then matters are difficult. And she is not the only highborn prisoner the Boltons hold. So we gathered together in White Harbour to determine our next steps forward, to determine the rightful king."

Jon frowned. "Show him," Galbart said quietly. "He has a right to know."

"Show what?" Jon demanded, looking at Lady Maege. He was taller than the old woman, but she still seemed to look down on him.

"Your brother wrote a will," Lady Maege admitted. "He did so shortly before arriving at the Twins, after the news of the sack of Winterfell came through. It was something else that we were to bring north to Greywater Watch."

There was no reaction for a good while. "A will," Jon repeated.

"Aye." She slowly picked up a sealed sheepskin pouch from the side of the dais. The parchment inside was stiff and well-lined, but it had been well preserved. All eyes were on Jon as he took the paper.

He paused before opening it. There were shivers down his spine. When he finally unrolled the paper, he did so tenderly, as if it might crack.

Jon's heart pounded. He recognised the handwriting instantly, even though it had been so long since he had last seen his brother's elegant script.

I, Robb Stark, First of His Name, King in the North and of the Trident, hereby legitimise my brother Jon Snow, to be released from his vows of the Night's Watch and to take his rightful place as a Stark of Winterfell. If I should I perish without progeny, I hereby name Jon Stark as heir and successor to my crown.

Jon blinked. He reread the letter again. It was marked by the seal of Winterfell, as well as half a dozen great noble houses.

There was no reaction. He reread it again, looking for any sign it was forgery. There was none, but he reread it twice to make sure.

Nobody said a word. Jon read every word of the message individually, as if there was additional meaning he could somehow find between the letters.

The lords of the Merman's Court were all looking at him, silently and solemnly, as if waiting for him to give some reaction. He gave none.

"We gathered to attempt to bring that decree to you, but at the time you were reported lost in the wilderness," Maege said slowly. "And then, when news arrived that you were leading a wildling army, well, we had to debate whether or not that left the king's will invalid."

He stared at Robb's signature. "Is it invalid?" Jon asked, a whisper.

"I do not believe so," Lady Maege said, looking around the room as if daring anyone to disagree. The Greatjon scowled, but he didn't speak.

Robb… Robb chose me as his successor?

The thought was… he didn't even know how to describe these feelings. It just doesn't feel right. I'm a bastard, he shouldn't have…

Jon Stark. He murmured the name, so lowly that the words didn't even escape his throat. That name. It didn't feel like his. He couldn't imagine ever feeling comfortable with that name.

—But this is what Robb wanted…

"No," Jon said, finally looking up from the paper. "Robb made a mistake. I cannot be his heir."

He handed the parchment back to Lady Maege. Jon kept his body stiff, but he could feel his hands trembling slightly. Nobody, none of the lords seemed to know how to respond.

"That was the king's final decree," Lady Maege said quietly, frowning.

"He was wrong. I'm a bastard, and the realm will never accept a bastard on the throne of Winterfell." His voice turned cold. "King Robb was mistaken, my lady."

"He legitimised you."

"He was mistaken." Jon was trying very hard to keep himself stoic, but the anger still felt like it was slipping through.

All my childhood, I wanted to be a Stark - and now… now I'm finally comfortable being a Snow. I can't fill Robb's role, I can't…

I'm a bastard, he thought with a deep breath. I know I am, I wear that title like armour.

The lords and ladies didn't understand. That was fine, because Jon didn't feel like explaining. He just nodded and stepped back.

"You have the largest army in the north," Lord Wyman said carefully. "You have a dragon. With the support of the lords in this room and your brother's decree, we could win this war in a month."

"I will not steal my brother's inheritance. It was not meant for me," Jon growled. His eyes narrowed. "I'm a Snow, not a Stark."

They looked confused. The Greatjon had a deep frown on his face. He met Lord Wyman's gaze for a moment.

"There is," Galbart Glover said gingerly, "another option."

"Yes," Jon agreed. "We rescue Arya Stark from the Boltons. She is the lady of Winterfell."

"I was not talking of her," he said lowly. "The sons come before the daughters."

Jon frowned. The room was quiet, thoughtful. "What?" he demanded. "What does that mean?"

"It means…" Lord Wyman cleared his throat. "That is another issue concerning the succession, to make matters more complicated. It may well be that King Robb's will is mistaken, as it seems that the reports of your brothers' deaths may have been exaggerated."

Jon blinked. "What? Ho-"

"Bran Stark still lives. There are good reason to suspect Rickon Stark lives as well," Lord Wyman admitted. "They were not killed during the sack of Winterfell as the realm thought. It appears that Theon Greyjoy could not find the Stark children when they escaped from Winterfell, so he killed two other children instead, to save face."

Jon blinked.

"I heard this first from a witness at Winterfell several months ago," Lord Wyman explained. "I had no proof, but I began my search on that day. I knew that we needed a Stark, so I investigated all the possibilities. It was only last month that we received confirmation."

"Proof," Jon repeated dumbly. Bran. Rickon. Is this a scheme? Or am I really so lucky that they might still…

"Aye," Ser Wylis said darkly. The Greatjon grumbled something. "When we were being moved north from the Twins, we were going to be traded. Three highborn prisoners in exchange for one Stark. Bran Stark was discovered at Last Hearth, and the castellans there offered a trade."

"You're sure?" Jon pressed, not daring to hope. "You're sure it was actually him?"

"Hother and Mors Umber would not have mistaken him," Lord Manderly said. "They sent ravens to White Harbour as well as Winterfell and King's Landing with the news. I urged them desperately not to go through with the trade, to bring Bran Stark to White Harbour instead, but I could not discourage them."

"I do not know what those fools of my uncles were thinking," the Greatjon growled. His gaze darkened, he looked even angrier than he had when speaking with Jon. "I should beat them both senseless for even considering a deal like that. I can hardly believe they'd be so foolish."

"Yet there was no trade." Jon felt himself smile. "The crannogmen rescued you before there could be. So where is Bran Stark now - I can find him and rescue him on dragonback."

His heart was beating faster. My brother. My brother is still alive. Why was no one else ecstatic with the news?

He met Lord Wyman's eyes, and they were grim. "As of their last message," he said slowly, "Bran Stark was being held at Last Hearth. Then the castle was attacked and razed by Bolton forces weeks ago."

The Greatjon shifted, glaring down at the floor. "It was the Bastard of Bolton and his thugs," Lady Maege explained. "Fiends worse than rabid dogs. We think the Bastard's Boys disguised themselves as refugees and snuck inside the castle among the smallfolk. They set an ambush from within and without at the same time."

Jon floundered. This conversation had gone so, so far beyond what he had imagined. "So… so where is Bran Stark now?"

"As far as anyone can guess?" Lord Wyman said grimly. "Your brother has been captured and is in the care of Ramsay Bolton."