A/N: This is late b/c life sucks, but whatever.

Our Blades Are Sharp 2: The Red Reign

By Spectre4hire

Nineteen

Sansa:

"Do you have a winter town?"

She had spent the afternoon walking through winter town. It was seething with soldiers, men who had assembled and would march with her husband to the Wall, to help the Night's Watch against the wildlings. However, it would not stay empty once the soldiers left, more and more smallfolk would start flocking to the town, settling in for the approaching winter.

It had been an exhausting day, days, she corrected herself. The harvest feast was behind her, but the duties as Lady of Winterfell were still many. Winter is coming, her family words taught her the importance of preparation, and she was using those lessons now to insure Winterfell and the north was ready for the coming winter.

"We do."

She heard Domeric shift beside her so he could look at her. The two of them were enjoying the seclusion of the hot springs within the godswood. Even outside the warm waters, the air was thick and hot, allowing the two to lay barely dressed atop a blanket without feeling the slightest chill. The godswood was empty, the moon hung high in the air that night. Its bright glow cast them in its illuminated net allowing her to clearly see her husband beside her without need of torches.

"We have a few villages outside the walls that serve the purpose, but none of them could rival the size of Winterfell's even all put together," he explained, before his dark eyes took in their surrounding area, a touch of uncertainty lingered over his expression. "You're sure we're not exposed here?"

"You're plenty exposed, husband," she poked his bare chest, giggling at his reaction, before feigning a more serious demeanor, "Are you calling your wife a liar?"

Dom's lips crooked upwards. "Never," one of his hands went to her arm, "It's just strange."

"You were not complaining when we arrived," She pointed out, remembering his eager hands and tender caresses as they made love on the cool grass before slipping into the warm pool. They had enjoyed themselves in the waters in many ways before slipping out and onto the blanket they were currently resting on.

"We are safe and alone," she assured him, "Lady is with us." Her direwolf served as their guard, stalking through the darkness to insure their privacy. There was no sign or scent of anyone else within the dark woods save for her and him.

"I would not dare to question Lady's judgment," he jested, moving himself so he was once more looking upwards at the vast black sky above their heads. His fingers remained on her arm, absentmindedly caressing her.

"Only your wife's," she put in wryly, sliding over so she could feel him against her side. "You will take Lady with you when you march north." It wasn't a question.

"I will."

She had entrusted the gathering soldiers and the strategy with her husband. My duties as Lady of Winterfell keep me busy, she'd say, almost believing in it. A small part of her didn't want the constant reminder. To have to think about her husband's pending departure and the uncertainty at the Wall with the wildlings and their new king. It was in wanting her husband to return to her that she'd see her Lady go with him. It is with that same need that I now ask this, she took a breath, "Will you seek a peaceful resolution with the King-Beyond-the-Wall?" She saw his jaw clench, a flicker of a shadow that most would not have seen, but her husband's veneer was as plain to her as hers was to him.

There was a beat of silence between them. A stillness in her husband that she expected, knowing he was gathering his thoughts and deciding on how or which way to voice them. "The wildlings do not respect peace," He said eventually, "They raid our lands, steal our women, kill our people," there was a tranquilness to his tone, despite the glint in his dark eyes. "What peace can we have with them?"

"The peace that allows me to see my husband again," she said gently.

"Is this an order?" There was no heat in his voice, no darkening in his expression, nor any bitterness in his tone. He asked it with the same blandness he used when he asked her to pass the wine during their suppers. Father had made her the Lady of Winterfell. Domeric marched with her blessing and under her instructions. She ruled the north in the absence of her parents.

"No," She placed her hand atop his chest, because she knew she did not need it to be. He trusts me, her fingers skimmed along his side, and I trust him.

He remained gazing up at the stars above their head, dispassionate, but beautiful did they shine. "I will consider your words."

"I trust your judgment, Dom," she assured him, "Always." she leaned in to kiss his cheek. She'd not forget the Mummers nor the justice her husband dispensed to those sellswords. She went against her family by supporting him because she understood him in a way they could not. Sansa knew her husband, believed in him, and trusted him.

"Thank you," he murmured, his hand which had been on her arm had slid up her side. His fingers ghosted over the thin shift she was wearing.

When she felt his hand atop her flat belly, she broke the silence between them. "Maester Luwin believes we should send for a new septa."

"Oh?" Dom asked, "Winter is coming, but it is not our food stores or our blankets or our firewood we need most, but a woman of the cloth?"

She smiled, but she felt a thread of unease burrow inside her chest.

"Is this because of your mother?"

They had received a raven that morning that announced her mother was with child. A new brother or sister . "Yes," She sat up, the cold unease spread inside her.

She remembered Mother talking about having another child with Father when Sansa wasn't supposed to be listening. But then the King came north and everything changed. "I'm happy for her," she looked down at her flat belly that seemed to mock her.

"There is time for children, Sansa," he said softly, his hand hadn't left her, "Perhaps, you-"

"I'm not," she cut him off, "I spoke with the maester after supper." Her throat tightened, "I-I thought," the words crumbled in her mouth, a brittle laugh erupted in their place, "h-hoped, b-but-"

Domeric's arms were around her before she could finish. "Sansa," he murmured against her, his words drifting in and out, but his tone soothed her, a calming rhythm that washed over her.

She had thought she was above this. That pressure to not just bring babes into the world, but boys. But it felt ingrained into her very bones. This undaunting specter that loomed over her every lesson with Maester Luwin and Septa Mordane since she was a girl. She thought she escaped its grasp, eluding it with everything she's accomplished, but it was unrelenting in its hunt. And in this moment, she felt herself finally trapped in its cold claws. Sansa wished she could pull it out of her root and stem, this worry that grew and gnawed at her. It made her feel she was made of glass, helpless against this great burden that threatened to shatter her.

She shifted in his embrace, needing to see his face, look into his dark eyes when she asked him. "But you do want sons?"

He met her stare. "I do." His fingers brushed some of her loose hair that slipped down. "And daughters," he added, with a slight smile, "I want them to have your kindness," he took one of her hands, "and intelligence," he kissed one of her fingers, "your bright eyes and sweet smiles."

Warmth bunched inside her chest. She was not surprised by her husband's tender words, but there was still a feeling of relief that came over her. Yet, it persisted, she thought, this cold, slithering worm of doubt. "Are you disappointed?" In me?

"Not with you, never with you," he answered, "Do you believe me?"

Always, She nodded, "Thank you, Dom," she kissed him, before she reluctantly slipped from his grasp. "I'll have Maester Luwin send a raven to Lord Manderly inquiring after the septas who serve at the Snowy Sept. If we are to have a new septa, she should be of the north," she stood up, sturdy and assured once more, "but I'll leave the final decision to mother," she walked towards the hot pools, "since it concerns Winterfell," her fingers went to the straps of her shift, "But as the Lady of Winterfell, I do have a task for you, husband."

"What would you ask of me, my lady?" His own lust shined in his eyes like lit tinders.

"To distract me," the shift slid down her body, pooling at her feet. She turned, feeling his eyes on her. His gaze felt hotter than the waters she slipped into.

"As my wife commands," Following her in.

"You wish to stay with me?"

Sansa had been in her and Dom's private solar trying to focus on some tasks when Arwyn asked to see her.

"I do," Arwyn stood to the side of the table where Sansa was sitting. "I wish to accompany you when you go to the Dreadfort." she said, "My sister as well."

That surprised her. Sansa had not been expecting to bring any of her Frey companions when she went to the Dreadfort. She had hoped to have secured matches for all of them by then. Not to mention, it would still be some time before she could make the journey to the Bolton castle. She expected to be in Winterfell for the next few months. "Are you not pleased with your suitors?" Sansa had a difficult time believing they'd be displeased with the pretty Frey before her.

Arwyn chewed her lower lip for a beat, her eyes flickering towards her fingers which were clasped in front of her. "I do not wish to be married off," she answered, before hastily adding, "Not when my sister is still so young."

Shirei was a sweet girl of six, which meant if Arwyn spoke truly which Sansa did not doubt, then it would be years before Arwyn would see herself wed. She understood that with Lord Walder Frey dead, that none of the Frey maidens who had come with Sansa had any intention of trying to return to their family's castle. To have a loyal companion accompanying me to the Dreadfort. She turned the idea over in her mind, seeing its merit.

They could be quite helpful with her settling into her new home.

I will already have Jeyne. The mention of her friend had her mind briefly touch on the small wedding she had just had with Colmar the day before. Having those I trust to mingle with the servants, learn from the household, to help me win them over, that could be a great boon. She knew she was not the Lady of the Dreadfort and such decisions should be made by either her good father or his heir, but Sansa did not believe Domeric would deny Arwyn's request. Her mind now made up, she only hoped her hesitance would not get misconstrued as to not liking Arwyn's companionship because she did. She found her witty and loyal, which made the decision even easier.

"I would be delighted to have you and Shirei come with me to the Dreadfort."

"Thank you, my lady," Arwyn dipped head, but not before revealing a pretty smile. "My sister and I will be no trouble, I assure you."

"You will not be trouble," Sansa almost laughed at the thought, "You are my friend, Lady Arwyn, and you have helped me ever since we met," she said, "I only hope that I can continue to count on your help when we go to the Dreadfort."

"You have it, Lady Sansa," Arwyn's back went as straight as a lance when she made her vow.

"Is there anything else, my lady?"

"No, that will be all," Sansa watched Arwyn leave the solar, her eyes stayed on the closed door for another beat before she dragged them back to her waiting work, expecting a long afternoon ahead of her.

"I saw him!" Sansa burst into their chambers, nearly out of breath. Her hands were bunched into her dress to stop herself from tripping. She had kept her composure as she hastily walked through the corridors of the castle after leaving the godswood, but when the final corridor was empty of guards and servants, she all but sprinted, to tell her husband what she saw. "I saw him!" She repeated her earlier declaration, pushing out a haggard breath.

"Peace, Sansa," Domeric rose from his seat, appraising her.

I must look like a fool, at how she rushed into their chambers, babbling as she went.

"What has happened?" The concern in his dark eyes cracked his calm composure. Domeric guided her to a seat before taking the one in front of her. He kept his hands on her shoulders, trying to settle her.

"Bran," She breathed out her brother's name, "I saw him!" She knew how she must have sounded, and looked, but she didn't care. "In the godswood," Her words were tumbling out of her in a clumsy rush, "In the weirwood tree."

Domeric's expression shifted throughout her answer, thinking she saw him alive and whole in the godswood, brought relief and happiness. When she ended it with her declaration, that smile he had had at the thought of reuniting with his good brother, that smile dipped in confusion. "Sansa," he said slowly, "You saw him in the weirwood tree?"

"Yes," she bobbed her head, "The face, it wasn't the tree's," she insisted, "It was Bran's."

"I heard his voice!" She wasn't finished, "He called my name," remembering the frailty in his voice, "he sounded afraid," she didn't know for sure, "or hurt," she shook her head, "or angry," realizing she wasn't helping herself, "But I heard him."

"Start from the beginning," he asked kindly.

She did. She had gone to the godswood, seeking comfort because Domeric was setting off tomorrow, and she hoped the solace of the godswood would soothe her. She had brought Lady with her, who had seemed agitated about something. Looking back, she saw Lady must have sensed something, but then, she couldn't figure out why Lady was acting strangely, sniffing in the air, unsettled.

Sansa was kneeling in front of the weirwood tree as she had done, hundreds of times before. Resting, praying, enjoying the silence, the comfort of it all, but when she raised her head. There, looking at her, was the familiar face etched in red, and then there seemed to be a ripple, shifting before her eyes and then, he appeared. Bran's face flickered in front of her as real as Domeric's face was right now. She gasped, the branches bristled, the leaves seemed to vibrate, while Lady rose to her feet, growled. Sansa was barely able to believe what she was seeing, when the mouth moved and spoke. And it was Bran's voice! Then just as swiftly, he was gone. Cruelly, it disappeared and the long and melancholy face with its deep cut eyes returned.

"He said my name," Sansa finished, in her retelling, "Like he was calling to me." A cold finger touched her heart at her being unable to help him. She tried to replay the exact tone, but her imagination stymied her, conjuring it in a different tone with each retelling.

Domeric leaned back in his seat. He took her in, while he mulled over her words as if they were puzzle pieces that he had to put back like a puzzle box. Calm and quiet, he deliberated, "The old gods."

Sansa's heart soared, perking in her seat. "You believe me?"

That was when he looked at her like she was mad. It was not my story that caused it, she realized, but my surprise in him believing me. She nearly giggled, delirious in relief. Sansa hoped he would, but she knew how strange her story sounded, it strained belief. If another had told her, she would not be as quick to believe. Unless it was Dom, she'd have accepted it if it came from him. Which made her feel silly for that heartbeat of doubt, but deep down she knew, he'd believe her. That was why I came to him and only him.

"You are not one to lie to me, you are not one to pull a trick," he listed the reasons as if he made the obvious conclusion, "Perhaps, you could've imagined it," he shrugged, "But why now? Why Bran?" he went on, invested, "Wouldn't you have seen him when we first arrived? Those first few days when all you wanted was to know he was safe."

"What do you think it means?"

He frowned, "That I do not know."

That didn't disappoint her as much as she thought because Bran was alive. And hearing her brother's voice for the first time in so long, she felt the rekindling of hope, and that was enough for her.

Sansa tossed and turned beneath her blankets, she had grown so accustomed to Dom's steady presence at her side. Now without him, she felt this gaping emptiness in their bed that unsettled her. She sighed, resting on her back, frustrated, feeling the touch of drowsiness, but sleep eluded her. She was about to turn over, when a thought came to her. She grabbed his pillow and held it close to her chest. She smelled him , his scent, she was not sure how to put it to words, but it was uniquely him.

Clutching the pillow, she turned over and closed her eyes, settling into an easy sleep.

Jon:

"They say you killed Victarion Greyjoy."

Some thumped the table with either their fist or their tankard while others gave a hearty: The White Wolf! But Jon ignored them, because he was more interested in the ironborn before him than dwelling on the many he killed in their decisive victory.

Baelor Blacktyde's ships were spotted two days after their victory over Greyjoy. He came alone to shore under the peace banner of the south, the rainbow flag of the Seven. When asked why he wasn't at the battle, he claimed he was waylaid by a storm, but Jon suspected it wasn't weather that delayed his arrival. Nonetheless, he gathered his nobles to meet with him interested in what he had to say.

The ironborn lord sat alone at his table despite having many ships under him. Jon sat across from him with Dacey at his side, Galbart Glover, Ser Wendel Manderly, and Roose Ryswell sat with them while a few men stood behind them.

"He did," Dacey answered proudly, "He devised the plan too," she praised, "That put those ironborn in the jaws of the wolf." There were murmurs of agreement at her words, but Jon didn't react, he merely looked ahead at Baelor Blacktyde whose eyes went to Dacey and then to Jon as if weighing her words.

"The men in here and out there are the reason for our victory," Jon finally said, not wanting or deserving of all the credit. His men put his plan in action that gave them their victory.

Victarion Greyjoy led his men thinking they'd be able to ambush an unsuspecting army that was camped. Bait to set his trap, Jon used Lord Mortimer's and his crannogmen knowledge to pick their position. The ironborn suspected they had the element of surprise, believing they came a day early, and that Jon's army wasn't expecting them. We always knew he had the crannogmen to thank for that too.

They were quickly corrected of that mistake. Dacey led the attack while Jon and his men cut them off from their beached ships, setting many ablaze and attacked the ironborn from the rear, wedging them between two vengeful forces.

A clatter interrupted his thoughts to see Dacey had dropped Victarion's warhelm onto the table between them. In his mind's eye, the battle blinked before him, the towering Greyjoy fighting Dacey and Ghost while Jon advanced on him. Using Ghost to guide him, cutting down any man who got between him and Greyjoy. Longclaw was dripping red. He cleared the memory away, to see that the helm had gotten Blacktyde's attention.

He reached for it, but waited for Jon's nod before picking it up. "I saw what was left of the Iron Fleet," He didn't take his eyes off the iron kraken that decorated the helm.

They had yet to clear the charred remains of the destroyed ships. Some did escape, but many burned that night.

"I suppose you thanked your god for stopping you from joining them," Galbart Glover said, who had fought valiantly besides Dacey.

"I serve the Seven," Baelor Blacktyde tapped the silver seven pointed pendant that pinned his cloak.

Jon had already noticed the pin as well as Baelor coming to them under the rainbow banner of the Seven. This is the north, and northmen wouldn't stand under that banner, nor an ironborn who followed their god, but Lord Blacktyde still carried it here. To show he was different, to show he could be trusted?

"I prayed to the Seven for guidance," he put the warhelm back down onto the table, "I need to follow a different path," he shifted the helm so the iron kraken wasn't facing him. "We need a new leader," he admitted. "I want Theon Greyjoy."

The mention of his father's ironborn ward received the expected grumblings from the other lords. Jon hid his surprise at this request. Greyjoy was on his way to Winterfell. He did not know what King Stannis would do with him. He was sent to Winterfell as a hostage after his father's failed rebellion. Which proved a poor deterrent, Jon could not respect a man who'd see his son killed for his own ambitions. "You wish to use Greyjoy to overthrow his father."

"Yes," he said, "I'm tired of Balon the Widowmaker and his follies," Blacktyde's expression darkened, "He has brought us nothing but ruin and death. Theon was raised by your father, hostage or not, he cannot be a worse lord than his father."

Jon did not know what sort of lord Greyjoy would make. He was arrogant, with that amusing smirk he always wore, clearly thinking and acting like he was already the Lord of the Iron Islands all those years at Winterfell. But Arya trusts him. His sister's interactions with Greyjoy were never pleasant to observe but she did seem to like him, even defending him. He trusted his sister's judgment, but he could not forget or ignore the Greyjoy he watched all those years.

"Are you alone in this?" Jon asked, curious how much of a backing Lord Blacktyde had.

"I have friends who wish to see an end to this madness, powerful friends," he answered, "Asha is a good captain, but Balon considered her his heir which I'd say is a mark against her," he went on, "Besides a son comes before a daughter, that is the law of our lands."

"Our latest defeat will only further sour those who follow Balon and Asha. Balon led us right into the wolf's teeth," he had to stop as the lords and men gathered gave a hearty cheer at that, "We saw the beacons, that chain," Blacktyde shook his head, "But Balon is grasping for the old way ," scowling when he said the words, "ordering his brother and daughter ahead, claiming the north would fold to the fire and steel that the ironborn would bring." His face twisted, "his good brother, Rodrik Harlaw spoke against him, but Balon ignores good counsel, instead listening to his brother's ramblings," Blacktyde made a dismissive gesture, "A Drowned priest with delusions claiming to be guided by their god who will lead his brother to victory over the green lands."

"I've had enough," he finished, "And I'm not alone in believing we need a change."

"I'll have accommodations provided for you, Lord Blacktyde," Jon suggested, mulling over his next action. He had been given the responsibility to deal with the ironborn threat, but that was assumed to be purely battle. And we still thought, they might not invade, Jon remembered Lord Stark's instructions.

"I would like to return to my ship," Blacktyde said, "So I can gather some of my things," he added to assure them that he did not mean to insult the invitation.

"I'll walk you to your boat."

"Thank you, Lord Snow,"

"Try not to be taken prisoner," Dacey whispered to him, smiling when he turned to her, "But don't worry, I'd rescue you," her eyes twinkled.

"My thanks," Jon smiled, but it didn't last when he saw the other nobles file out with their men. He couldn't tell what they thought of Lord Blacktyde or his offer. We've just fought them, thinking of the previous battle, and those who died to stop the ironborn. Their blood is still up, mourning friends and kin. The wounds were fresh.

"You called Balon, the Widowmaker ," Jon observed, when they set off towards where Lord Blacktyde had beached his small row boat.

"I did," Blacktyde's eyes were as cold as stone, "I lost my father in Balon's failed rebellion, one of many. I then spent eight years as a hostage in Oldtown."

"Is that why you follow the Seven?"

"It is."

Does he see himself in Greyjoy? Jon wondered, Lord Blacktyde's time in Oldtown changed him. Was he hoping that Greyjoy was also changed during his time at Winterfell?

Nymeria.

Jon woke in an instant. The mist of sleep receded rapidly, his heart pounding as if he just stepped off a battlefield instead of his bed. She's close, he knew it wasn't a dream. The direwolf was eluding the guards and sentries set up around the camp. He saw her through Ghost. He could smell her. Even now, awake, he could feel her presence was near.

A knot of anxiety wove itself inside him, his mind roiled with thoughts, trying to make sense of this. He got dressed, ready to go out to get her when the flaps of the tent opened to reveal Nymeria, and someone else followed her in. Arya, was his first thought, but it dispelled in an instant, the figure was too tall to be his younger sister. The stranger collapsed onto their knees, their hood flapped off to reveal it was Greyjoy.

Jon looked past him, waiting for Arya to follow him, but the flaps remained still. There was no Arya. There was no Lyanna. The cold knot tightened around his heart, "What are you doing here?" He grabbed Greyjoy who hadn't made a sound in the few heartbeats since he arrived. "Where's Arya?"

A small, suspicious thought turned over in his mind that Blacktyde had contacted Greyjoy somehow and he ditched his party to meet up with Blacktyde in hopes of reaching the Iron Islands, and escaping whatever awaited him at Winterfell. He set it aside, he didn't care for ironborn schemes at this moment, only his sister.

He pulled Theon to his feet, the barrage of worrying thoughts pounding inside his head. That was when he got his first look at Greyjoy. He was trembling. There was no smirk, no gleam in his eyes. He was filthy, and haggard looking. And he reeked. "Grey-Theon," He stopped himself, "What happened?"

"They took her," Theon blurted out, bleary eyed, his face smeared with dirt, "They took Arya!"

Jon was about to ask who , but somehow he knew. Ironborn, his stomach turned ice cold, "Lyanna too?"

Theon shook his head. "They killed her."

Jon let go of Theon, who stumbled without the support, but Nymeria was there to keep him steady. He felt the back of his legs hit the cot. They have Arya, dread unfurled inside him, cold, and bristling. He remembered Luwin's lessons on what the ironborn did to their captives, especially their women. Jon stomped the thought before it could linger, and Lyanna, he sighed. He needed to tell Dacey. She'll be devastated.

Stuck in his own thoughts until his eyes went to his unexpected guest and Nymeria. Arya? He wondered how close she was with her wolf. Her dark golden eyes rested on him, as if reading his thoughts. If she was hurt, would we know? Could we? "Greyjoy, tell me everything."

And he did.

It was not a long story, and Jon couldn't help but notice how Greyjoy told it. His tone wavered more than once through the retelling, including a hitch when he first mentioned Arya and what befell her. He couldn't meet Jon's stare. Greyjoy spoke ahead, a distant look in his eyes, unfocused, one hand on Nymeria's fur, but the other was dropped to his side, shaking. When he finally finished, he didn't even wait for Jon to speak.

"We have to get her back."

"Greyjoy," Jon felt a pinch of pain behind his eyes, "You're a hostage." He wasn't even sure what to do with him. He was supposed to go to Winterfell.

Theon's hand made a cutting gesture, slashing it down. "That's why I came to you." Nymeria let out a soft growl beside him, as if to remind him of her. "Why we sought you out."

"What do you mean?" Jon wasn't sure what to make of this bond between Nymeria and Theon, but his instinct was to not like it.

"You'd listen to me."

"Any lord would listen to you, rambling about Arya being taken," Jon wasn't convinced, and just saying the last words aloud, breathed new cold fear within him.

"After that," Theon argued, "They'd throw me in a dungeon, or kill me, not you, you'd listen to me," he took a step closer as if to reach out to Jon before deciding against it. "You have to," there was a gleam in his eyes. "I know how to get inside Pyke."

Jon stilled. "What?"

Theon nodded, "There's a way inside my family's castle. A secret way, built in case my ancestors needed to make a quick escape. My brothers once-," he trailed off, as if the memory was too painful, he shook his head, "It's still there. We can use it. We have to."

Greyjoy was a hostage. The last thing they were supposed to do was to return him to his home. His family's in open rebellion against the crown. And yet, he couldn't dismiss it. "You want me to take you to Pyke?"

"Yes, we have to."

"Why won't you tell me where it is?"

Theon shook his head, "You'll never spot it. You have to know what you're looking for."

"Or you're lying," Jon said softly, but he didn't believe that. He should've called the guards by now, gone to Dacey, informed the other lords, but he didn't move. Arya flashed before him, with her tangled hair and smiling. His stomach twisted, thinking of her out there, an ironborn captive.

Jon thought about Lord Stark, a man of honor, and duty, and all that he did to protect his sister's child, Me. He understood him, it crystalized in his mind in a way it hadn't before. It couldn't. With Arya in danger, Jon knew he'd choose her over duty every time. He knew if there hadn't been new orders regarding Greyjoy, they would come, and it would not include bringing him to the Iron Islands. If he had to refuse a king's order to save his sister. He wouldn't hesitate.

He steeled himself, knowing there would be no turning back. "Very well, Greyjoy," Jon saw his sigh of relief, "We leave in the morning."

Jon stood on the Nightflyer.

The waters churned under them, rough and unwelcoming, but Jon kept his vigil. He left Glover in charge of the men, but he could tell Glover wasn't too keen with what he was doing. He wrote a letter to Sansa, what felt like the third letter to his sister in as many days.

Lord Blacktyde offered his ships, Jon accepted, but he remained wary of the ironborn.

In the end, a deal was struck with members of his crew remaining behind as hostages. While Ser Wendel Manderly had enough men from White Harbor who knew their way around ships. I'll row to the Iron Islands if I have to.

"Lord Snow," Glover had pulled him aside, before he boarded The Nightflyer. "I must remind you that Greyjoy is-"

"The only way I get my sister back," Jon finished for him.

Glover thought over the words, he frowned, but he nodded, begrudgingly.

"I'll accept whatever comes of it," Jon would not let another take the blame for him.

To his surprise, Ser Wendel was coming along with his men. When Jon asked him why, Ser Wendel drew himself up, his belly shaking. "Lord Stark's daughter is in danger, and we do not forget our vows."

He heard the creak of footsteps, turning to see Dacey approach. Her usually bright green eyes were dim. Her mouth, perfect for smiles, remained grim. He stayed with Dacey after he told her about her sister, he had held her in his arms while she mourned her sister. She wanted vengeance, and wouldn't even let Jon try to dissuade her from joining.

She didn't say anything, standing beside him. She took to life on a ship better than him. He put his arm around her, as they looked out in the direction of the Iron Islands. King Robert brought the wrath of the Seven Kingdoms to bring Balon to his knees, to break Pyke. While Jon had a few ships and less than a hundred men.

It did not matter, he thought, this will be my army. And we will get Arya back.

A/N:

It wouldn't be a new update if it didn't include a long attached author's note at the end.

When you read my stories, ya gotta be able to suspend your disbelief several times because of how I write, from either the liberties and creative licenses I take or the mistakes I make. I don't think I need to list the ones from this chapter since they're likely obvious.

I went back and forth about including Sansa's apprehension of not being pregnant, but thought despite her confidence and everything she's achieved so far that this expectation of her role in society would be inescapable. It's a vulnerable, fleeting moment for her and one she can only share with Domeric. And one I hope I did justice.

Always planned on adding another Stark into the group, just couldn't figure out where to drop this bit of news since we have no Cat perspective or anyone else near her.

I'll be honest, sometimes I wish I chose to write in Dacey's POV in this story instead of Jon's. I'm never satisfied with how I write him, and this time is no different. Originally Theon was going to meet up with Jon in Theon's next chapter, but I decided to cut that bloat, and add it to Jon's chapter. It makes it a bit convenient, but I'm okay with that.

Baelor Blacktyde is an interesting character who I'm happy to include in this story. (will also be using him in my ironborn Oc story) He likely is acting OOC, but that's the fun of fanfiction. He did support Asha in the kingsmoot, but Theon wasn't included, and by backing Asha, to me that showed he supported peace over what Victarion and Euron offered. Also, is it just me or does he have one of the coolest names in ASOIAF? An impressive feat since Martin's given us so many.

I wrote the battle that Blacktyde mentions, and rewrote it countless times before deciding to cut it, and start the chapter in the aftermath of it. The battle's tactics were inspired by Bernard Cornwell's The Last Kingdom series except I likely butchered it since I'm no expert like him.

Is there a secret way into Pyke according to canon? Absolutely not, but this is fanfiction. I don't think its too far-fetched to think castles would have secrets that only their families would know.

So now Jon, Theon, and Arya are basically in their own little plot bubble that will propel them week(s)/(maybe even) month(s) ahead of the others with them traveling to the Iron Islands and all. I may use that as an advantage to wrap up a thing or two, so they can hear about the event after the fact instead of me writing it. Hooray for shortcuts!

One final note, and it's a question to my readers in regard to Renly.

Do you think he would stay inside the capital to endure a siege if Stannis brought an army despite the city having not recovered from Renly's battle including the walls not being a 100% fixed while being blockaded by the Royal Fleet and cut off from the Reach or would he march his large army out in the open and face Stannis in the field, relying on numbers to secure him a victory in a decisive battle.

I've honestly written it both ways, and I'm just curious with your thoughts/interpretations. Much obliged.

Thanks for all the tremendous support you've given me. The number of favorites and follows is humbling. While your kind, encouraging reviews always make my day and help me try to push forward when real life sucks and the muse refuses to cooperate.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire