Chapter 27 - The Wolf, The Stranger, and a Little Bird

Robb Stark sat in his war tent with Roose Bolton, a wooden table between them and candles aglow. The thought of his two youngest brothers at the hands of a betrayer, a man he considered one of his closest friends, and his sisters in the hands of the Lannisters haunted him. Parchments of paper were scattered across the table; one of which lay in front of Lord Bolton, who held a quill in his hand. Robb ordered his guards to keep watch outside, creating a bubble of privacy in the midst of a tumultuous war camp.

"Still no word?" Robb's voice cut through the tense air, laced with worry.

"We've sent a dozen ravens. None have returned. My bastard is only a few days from Winterfell. Once he captures the castle…" said Lord Bolton.

"If Theon has my brothers, and we storm the castle…" said Robb, contemplating the options. He had no idea if Theon truly had them or not, and the uncertainty crawled uncomfortably against his skin like pins and needles.

"He wouldn't dare hurt the boys. They're his only hope of escaping the North with his head," Lord Bolton assured him, his tone measured. Robb took in a deep breath.

"Send word to your son. Any Ironborn who surrender will be allowed to return safely to their homes," he instructed. Lord Bolton put down his quill.

"A touch of mercy is a virtue, Your Grace. Too much…"

"Any Ironborn with the exception of Theon Greyjoy," said Robb, cutting him off. "He betrayed our cause. He betrayed me. And we will hunt him down no matter where he runs."

"I expect his countrymen will turn on him the minute they hear the offer," Bolton added. The candles flickered soft light and shadows against their faces.

"And the Lannisters," Robb said, slightly changing the subject. Bolton paused before speaking.

"Have received the Kingslayer… according to Queen Cersei," he answered finally. Robb balled his hand into a tight fist on the table. Fury for his mother's decision still burned strongly, but now he had something else to address.

"My mother released him hoping it would get my sisters back, which I'm sure the Lannisters have no intention of doing," Robb began.

"Agreed," said Lord Bolton.

"So… how did you lose him?" the King in the North asked Lord Bolton, staring at him directly. Lord Bolton looked a bit taken aback, yet remained suspicious.

"Your Grace—"

"He left with Brienne of Tarth and a stranger. You had him at Harrenhal," Robb continued.

"That stranger is not someone to underestimate. He took out five of my men and escaped with them in the night against my orders. As far as I'm concerned… they are traitors as well," Lord Bolton devised cleverly, with no emotion on his face. Robb remained silent.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I believe Winterfell is a higher priority at this point," he added.

Steve and Sansa walked down one of the grand hallways of King's Landing, the opulent surroundings of the castle feeling like an intricate labyrinth to him. It didn't help that he had a million things on his mind at the moment and a frightened young girl on his arm with the last name Stark—a name steeped in both history and turmoil, and of personal importance to him. Brienne had given him a brief account of her, one of the two surviving Stark girls, and he wanted to say something to ease the tension, but he couldn't find the words.

As they moved forward, he unconsciously bent his elbow, offering her a more formal hold on his arm. Sansa's head remained lowered, a poor attempt at hiding her tears. Only when the realization dawned upon them that they had ventured into the wrong wing of the vast castle did she lift her gaze.

"Where … are you taking me?" Her voice trembled with fear.

Steve paused their walk, an apologetic expression in his eyes. "Uhh… to your… chambers?" His voice betrayed a trace of timidity, as if he was navigating a foreign terrain.

Sansa's scrutiny revealed more than her words as she surveyed their surroundings. "You don't know where we are," she stated, her tone laced with a hint of frustration.

Steve sighed. "You're right… I don't… I'm not from here," he admitted, his gaze also absorbing the ornate surroundings that confounded him. The soft cadence of his accent caught her ear, forever marking him as not one of them.

"No… you're not…" Her words carried a weight of uncertainty, and she continued to avoid meeting his gaze, still shielding herself from vulnerability behind her lowered eyes. The traces of tears on her cheeks were like silent witnesses to her pain.

Realizing his own struggles to navigate this unfamiliar territory, Steve chose not to press further. With her tear-streaked face turned away, she brushed away the remaining droplets with her free hand.

"It's this way," she said, in a kinder tone, regaining her sense of location. Their journey resumed, albeit with a hesitant rhythm. "I'm sorry… Ser Rogers… I shouldn't complain—"

"Steve," he interjected, the word falling from his lips with a hint of friendliness.

"What?" she questioned confused and paused the walk once more. Mistakenly, she met his gaze.

"Just call me Steve," he said calmly with a kind smile.

Her astonishment was palpable, her lips parting slightly and eyes widened as her gaze finally met his. She had never really got a good look at his face. Sansa only saw the hand that stopped Meryn Trant from harming her. His features seemed chiseled, sculpted in a timeless manner, with a smoothness that betrayed neither age nor wear, not a face to match that of a warrior. And his eyes, so blue, bluer than any water she had ever seen. She froze in place awkwardly for too long, gawking at him. Steve raised a strong eyebrow.

"Are … you ok?" he asked breaking the silence between them. Slowly, his warm smile faded, revealing a depth of empathy that resonated in his eyes as they flicked to the old bruise marks and healing cuts on her cheek and lip. He'd never hit a kid before, but if he ever saw that brat king again, he just might be the first. Sansa blushed hard as her eyes darted away, landing on the rip in his tunic.

"You're … hurt?" she said in a hushed murmur. She could have sworn Meryn never took a swipe at him. Steve glanced down at his covered shoulder.

"Oh, no. It's just a tear. I wouldn't worry about it," he noted with a reassuring smile.

"I-I can mend it for you … " she added quietly.

"That's … alright, it's just a shirt," he said. Embarrassed, Sansa resumed to lower her head and guide him to her chamber. Steve wanted to ask her about Tony, but that tunic was nothing compared to what this boy put her through. When they arrived at her door, Sansa released herself from her savior and reached for the door when Steve grabbed it first and opened it like a gentlemen. She blushed again.

"Ser Rogers…" she said formally before completely leaving him.

"Steve," he corrected her politely in the accent unbeknownst to her. She wanted to hear more of it, and despite her red eyes, she smiled. It was nice to see her smile.

"Steve," she repeated, "If you ever want that mended," she continued pointing to the rip in his tunic, "You … know where to find me," she jested after their journey through the unforgiving castle.

He snickered and nodded, letting the door close softly behind her. He had no doubts about the second person whom he had saved, but the first left him with many more concerns. Steve was about to leave Sansa's door when he could feel a pair of eyes on him. He looked to his right to find a small child spying on him from the corner of a stone wall. Steve scrunched up his face in confusion. The child realized they had been caught and ran. Rogers pursued unambiguously, believing the encounter to be nothing more than innocent curiosity, until he turned the corner to find the small person had disappeared. Despite their walk throughout the castle, learning its twists and turns, he still didn't trust this place any more than Sansa.