The Twins glowed red in the sunrise, as though the stones remembered the blood that had been spilled upon them two weeks previous. Even now, that night seemed like a dream, or more rightly a nightmare. The taking of the West Castle, that had been hell by itself, but what had followed had been slaughter, pure slaughter. Every man and woman over the age of five had been put to the sword in the end.

"Every maid and scullion a conspirator!" the King had cried, "Every cook and farrier a Lannister pawn!"

Dacey did not know whether she believed that or not, but her doubt had not been enough to stay her hand.

Old Walder had not died with his family. The old man had been dragged out before the King and died of fright. Dacey had envied how peaceful he looked, lying there on the bridge. But Robb had insisted on executing every Frey himself, young or old, dead or living. It had been a messy business, with only an arming sword and the King's arm tiring with every stroke, but… but he had finished in the end, taking two or three strokes with each neck. Gods. How many hours had it taken?

"Praying?"

Jon's voice broke her from her reminiscence. She had been sitting alone atop the West Castle, watching the sun come up, but he had come now to join her. He looked well, she thought. He had trimmed his beard and washed his face and donned a fresh tabard. The injuries he had taken two weeks ago had mostly healed… But he had a certain vacancy to his eyes, a certain deadness. Dacey knew it well. She saw it every time she passed her own reflection.

"I came here to pray," she said, uncertainly, touching the weirwood idol about her neck. "But every time I open my mouth to speak… I feel that I am about to speak a lie." That was the rule. Speak no lies to the trees. But lie and truth seemed to run together these days and she could not discern one from the other.

Jon said nothing. He did not have to say anything. They had both said all that could be said. The taking of the Twins, that had been necessary. No man could argue that point. The execution of Lord Walder and his supporters? The Gods themselves demanded it. But Lady Roslin? All the scullions and maids and washerwomen? Some would say that was necessary as well. Justice, some would say. Terror to the hearts of the Lannisters, others would say.

There was a truth to it. They had taken one of the Castles of the Crossing on that first night, but not the other, and the Freys still had an army in Oldstones, in a position where they could safely hold for many months. But news of the sack sapped the blood from their veins. The army at Oldstones had fallen to pieces without a single loosed quarrel.

She had heard many say such things. She had said these words herself. But she could not bring herself to say it to the trees, nor even the weirwood idol about her neck.

"A message arrived this morning," Jon said eventually. "From Harrenhal."

"Do the Lannisters offer peace?" Dacey wondered if the King would even read the letter this time.

"No," Jon replied, shifting uncomfortably. "This letter was signed with the Arryn seal. It seems that Robb's aunt Lysa has taken Harrenhal and wants to form an alliance with us against the Iron Throne."

Dacey's brow furrowed in confusion. A year ago they had expected every day to receive news of Lady Lysa joining the battle, but now? Now…

She laughed. Lady Lysa's brother had been confined to his quarters almost as soon as the King had freed him from them, and he had not been allowed to leave since. Lord Bracken and the other Riverlords had accepted this uneasily, but Dacey wondered if his own flesh and blood would feel the same. The King is his own flesh and blood too, she reminded herself.

"It's good news," Jon said. "With so many sacked castles word did not reach us until now, but they have made great strides. They took Harrenhal through deceit, then Maidenpool as well."

"What of Tarly?"

"Gone South to fight some bandits in the Marches, seemingly."

"With ten thousands?" Dacey paused. "The Martells?"

"Perhaps," Jon leaned forward, looking out into the sunrise. "Perhaps the Roses are beginning to question their hastily-made alliance. Mace may want his daughter to be queen, but wanting will not keep his banners rallied forever."

This is good news, Dacey reminded herself. If true this meant the war was as good as won, and yet… Dacey pursed her lips, imagining butchery on the scale of the Twins occurring at Lannisport, or King's Landing.

She closed her eyes and bowed her head. "Where do they wish to meet us?" she managed.

"Raventree Hall. Or outside it, rather. The Arryns have laid siege to it."

"I suppose that makes sense," she said lamely, unsure of what else to say.

"It is good news," Jon replied.

*~-*

Arya sat perched atop a barrel in a beerseller's tent, watching the Hound slowly drink his way through his fifth pint of ale.

"If you're drunk you won't be much good in battle," she said. They had been stuck outside Raventree Hall for five days now and no battle had occurred, but Arya almost wished for one, if only so that something might happen. Sansa remained in Harrenhal and she could only steal away to visit Grey Wind at night. The rest of the time her life belonged to the dog, and all he did was drink.

"What battle?" The Hound snorted. "You see a battle here, little shit?" He took a long sip off his mug and looked off into the middle distance.

"The defenders might make a sortie, they might-"

"What do you know about sieges?" Sandor snarled, mug still to his lips, "Shut your mouth or I'll feed you your own fucking teeth."

No, you won't, she thought, but she kept quiet anyway.

Loud cheering sounded from outside, and a moment later a party of knights burst into the beerseller's tent. "Ale!" their leader cried. Arya thought him to be young for a knight, perhaps not much older than Robb. Too tall and too gangly to fit in his armor quite right, and too pretty besides, with polished armor and a cloak of pale blue. She knew him from somewhere but she did not know where. Had she seen him with Baelish? It seemed possible. "Today is a day of celebration!" He cheered. "These men are thirsty!"

"What's there to celebrate?" Arya asked him as he and his fellows sat down at the table across from them.

The knight started in surprise and Sandor cuffed Arya lightly. "I'll beg your pardon, Ser," The Hound said. "My squire knows not his manners."

The knight recovered himself and laughed. "Your squire? Ha! Well my ser, I am no ser, not yet. And if your squire means to ask me a question, he is perfectly free to do so." He turned to Arya with a wide, square-jawed smile. "Raventree has surrendered! Lord Blackwood agreed to come down and hear terms of peace from Lord Baelish almost as soon as he heard of the sack of the Twins!"

Arya bit her lip. The Freys deserved whatever came to them surely, and yet Robb was dead and this imposter desecrated his memory. She was glad that evil Lord Walder had died, at least. She must be glad. Had she not wished for his death so many nights? Or perhaps she should feel angry, that this false brother had stolen her vengeance. But in truth she felt nothing, and that disquieted her more than anything.

"I'm no ser," Sandor huffed.

The squire laughed. "I know that, Master Sandor. You've repeated it oft enough, but it's been a bad jape since the first day you came among us. Every knight in the Vale knows your name and goes in fear of you, and yet you have not sworn your vows? When I get my spurs I will name you knight straight away and dare anyone to disagree. I swear it will be so, or my name is not Harry Hardying!" His companions cheered and clinked their mugs of ale together.

All at once, Arya remembered where she had seen him. Talking to Sansa by the stables, a tall and handsome squire with a dappled destrier. This was her sister's betrothed, her goodbrother-in-waiting! Arya's lip curled. He was stupid and she did not like him.

"Master Sandor doesn't lack for people trying to knight him," she announced. "He was Joffrey's sworn sword for years, he hardly lacked for lordling ponces."

Pain blossomed in her ear and she fell to the floor. Sandor sat above her, his hand still upraised. He had hit her. She grit her teeth in a snarl.

But then Harry was there, standing between them.

"Peace, Master Clegane," Harry said. "I took no offense at your squire's words. We were all having a bit of a laugh. And besides, this is a happy day, a day of victory!"

Arya stood, her fists balled and her heart full of anger. Her ear throbbed with pain, but the embarrassment cut deeper. How dare he.

"Though as merry as this occasion is," Harry continued, blissfully unaware, "I hope not all our campaigning goes so easy at this. I am eager to earn my spurs, truly earn them, upon the field of battle!"

Sandor's eyes darkened then, and Arya uneasily tried to remember how many drinks the man had taken. The question of knighthood never failed to stir up the Hound's black anger, and even now Arya feared his rage. But when he spoke, his voice was calm, quiet, and almost tired. "Don't spend your life chasing after violence," Sandor said, "You'll find more than you know what to do with."

Harry's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak, only for a horn-call to interrupt him.

"They're just announcing the surrender," Sandor said, taking another draught of his ale. "No need to get up."

"No..." Harry said, his voice uncertain. "Five blasts, two short and three long. That's the party of the Lady Lysa!"

"Master yourself!" One of Harry's friends called. "You look like a blushing virgin."

Harry's cheeks flushed and he protested loudly, but Arya could not hear it. Sansa was coming! And soon that imposter would be here as well. If they could only bring Jon south to them…

*~-*

"I will make him listen," Jon stated. They were standing in Bolton's Solar, with Maege and Manderly and Alys. The hour was late and Jon's head felt thick with weariness and wine, but he had to do this, he had to find the words. "I will make him understand," he promised, as if the repetition would make it true.

"Why, because he is your brother?" Stannis said, his voice low and full of anger.

"He is my brother," Jon snarled in reply. "He named me his heir and you..."

"One brother gave me thankless work and the other tried to kill me," Stannis said, his voice cold and without emotion. "People change, and rarely for the better."

Jon's felt the truth of that all too keenly. The boy who had ridden north to the wall two years ago had frozen over in the snow and little of him now remained. Robb had met with a hell of a different color, could he be anything like what he once had been? Something deep and fierce within Jon still denied that Robb could be alive, that he could be leading an army in the south, and yet… and yet….

"Robb and I are not you and Renly," Jon stated. "We are brothers, nearly twin. The gods themselves cannot pull us apart."

"Very well. It is a long road to Riverrun, Lord Jon," Stannis replied. "What are we to do until you return? What are we to tell Mandlery and Mormont?" He gestured angrily to where Maege stood in the corner.

"Manderly and Mormont can take care of themselves quite nicely," Maege cackled, leaning back against a chair that had been fashioned to look like a screaming skinless man. "I find myself liking the decor of this place. I find myself thinking I'll not mind staying a few months here as an envoy if you like."

"King Robb is not at war with you, your Grace," said Jon, "And the North has enemies near at hand. There are Wildlings to settle, Ironborn to cast out, brigands to bring to heel, besides the last harvests of autumn. Your men will not lack for employment, King Stannis, and I trust Mance and Mors and Dustin will serve you as loyally as they serve me."

"That is what concerns me most."

Pain throbbed in Jon's skull. Too many nights with too little sleep. He closed his eyes and spoke carefully. "Mance knows all too well the stakes for which we play. You can trust him with your life. As for Dustin and Ryswell, they cannot turn their coats to the Lannisters if my brother lives and controls the Riverlands."

"Bastards, brigands, and dogs," Stannis said, scowling.

"You'd be dealing with a bastard either way," Jon replied icily.

The King moved to reply but Maege pre-empted him. "Wildlings are wildlings are wildings. The Weeper's a raper and a fiend, I'll warrant, but Tormund and Mance aren't too much different from Mountain Clan folk, or even Clawmen. Our people have had dealings with them for centuries."

Stannis's demeanor cooled. "Very well then. What terms do you mean to name for your brother, Lord Jon?"

"The same you offered Lord Rickon."

"And what if he should refuse?"

"Your Grace, you see only disaster and ruin, when you should see opportunity. Twenty thousand men in steel attend my brother in the south and defy the Lannisters with every breath they take. Your enemies are their enemies. Do you think they will refuse you? Do you think they will condemn the North to civil war while the Reach and Vale and Westerlands bear down upon them? I think not."

The meeting ended shortly thereafter. Much was said to little effect. All the Lords knew the truth of the matter, however much they might mislike it. The North, the Riverlands, Stannis, the Wildlings… all were kingdoms of men, and all would fall if they could not find a path to peace, all would benefit if they found peace. All except for myself, Jon thought glumly. From King to regent to… what? The brother of the King? He cursed himself. Winterfell had been his, had been his own. The seat of his father had been his. Even when Rickon had come back he had told himself that it would be almost as though he were lord in truth, and were raising Rickon as a son, but now, but now….

He sighed, and let the cold of the air carry away the heat of his heart. Why could he not simply be happy that his brother was alive? Had he truly become so heartless?

Alys caught him at the door. "Lord Jon."

"Lady Alys." They were peers now, or soon would be, where once he might have been her overlord or superior. He hated how much that hurt him to acknowledge.

"They say you leave on the morrow."

"At first light, if gods be good. We've set ravens ahead. I'll have fresh horses from here all the way to the Neck, and from there..." From there he hardly knew. Letters had been exchanged between Riverrun and the Dreadfort, but little could truly be sent in such a letter. What was the state of the Riverlands even like at this point?

Alys pursed her lips. "You look like you go to bury your brother, instead of raise him up again."

Jon smiled tightly. "In my heart, I suppose he is still buried. I will feel nothing but joy when I see him again. Until then I cannot truly believe it. But if one of us is to be happy, it should be you."

Alys tilted her head in confusion.

"You should congratulate yourself on a narrow escape. Imagine if your attempts to charm me a few days ago had succeeded. Imagine if we had become betrothed to one another. You would now be sharing in my diminished fortunes."

Alys scowled. "I came to the woods to scold you into keeping the alliance together. The charming was an afterthought, and if anything I was surprised you put up with me after that."

Jon's spirit sobered. He had been congratulating himself earlier on receiving the attentions of a lady who had once been so far above him. Even if she had such a baldly mercenary motivation, it had gratified him to know that he had been someone of import… but now he saw how foolish he was, how inflated his idea of himself had become. Alys had only feared that he and Stannis would fight, that they would brawl like boys in the mud and doom all the world to ice and snow. It is good that Robb has returned, Jon thought, He was born to wear a crown in a way that I never was.

Jon would make him see reason. He had no other choice but to succeed.