Disclaimer: This is an alternate version of Game of Thrones season 6 and onwards, made for entertainment purposes only. All characters belong to the talented Mr. Martin, I only own any minor oc characters.

The Wolf at the Door

Cold and wet, the night storm was merciless on the banks of the Trident, flooding the Green Fork, and seeping into the bones of an old knight as he silently glided down the river. Davos was no stranger to such conditions, nor to acting under the cover of night, both in service to kings and notorious pirate lords alike. The only difference being that he wasn't alone in this venture, this time he had four companions aboard and another two boats with as many men following close behind. The fine company of fisherman and cutthroats, set on taking the Water Tower right from under the nose of house Frey.

Any man with sense in his head would say someone his age had no business involving himself in daring missions anymore, but his experience with this kind of endeavor made him the natural choice to lead it. It was amusing, how often his talents as a smuggler were needed by those who stood for law and order, given the right circumstances of course. It was smuggling that brought him into the service of King Stannis to begin with, at Storm's End all those years ago. Then again, during the War of Five Kings when he brought the Red Woman beneath the walls of house Baratheon's ancestral home.

Now in service to a new king, ser Davos found himself smuggling, not crates of needed supplies, nor the mother of demons, but soldiers dressed in the garb of their hated enemy. Hidden beneath his own cloak was the surcoat of house Frey as well, courtesy of the patrols that lord Ryswell captured some weeks ago. The final touch to the North's plan for vengeance against the house that betrayed and murdered their king. If Davos had a poetic soul, he imagined this ploy would make for a great song about the Freys welcoming their doom into their home with open arms, but songs were never his talent. No, his talents were always keeping a steady hand and a level head.

He just hoped they would be enough to keep him alive and in one piece throughout the night. As they made their way around the last bend in the river, all three parties beheld their goal, the grand structure that spanned across the mighty Trident and connected the true North with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Signaling the others to follow his lead, Davos rowed on but only at half the pace they had begun with, allowing the current to carry them downriver. From here on his strokes were slow and calculated, disturbing the water only when necessary to keep them a course.

Even with the rain and thunder masking the sounds of their oars, the seafaring knight wouldn't risk their lives on the hope that the sentries within the Water Tower couldn't hear their approach. Still, he had to admit this storm was a stroke of luck in their favor. Not only did it provide greater cover from the Water Tower's line of sight, but it had also raised the Green Fork by almost a fathom, making their eventual ascent up the Crossing's columns slightly less arduous.

Glancing at the others, the old smuggler noticed how on edge some of the lads were, how tightly they gripped their weapons. One archer particularly, as his eyes shifted from one end of the bridge to the other. "Easy lad, this is the easy part, no point in worrying yourself yet."

Although his words were little more than a whisper, it was still enough for the lad to grasp before giving a nervous answer. "Sorry ser, it's just the waiting… and I never expected to be back here again, not after..."

That had garnered Davos' attention, turning to face the lad. The was no question as to what the young Northman was referring to, and it was no wonder why he was so on edge. Starring back at him was a survivor of the most heinous act of betrayal in living memory. "If you don't mind my asking, how did you manage to escape?"

"The grace of the gods or simple luck, I could never tell." Taking a deep breath, the archer struggled with his words for half a moment. "All I know is that my brothers weren't as fortunate."

An all too familiar pain clawed at Davos' heart, he knew how the lad felt, how many of the Northerners felt, to lose one's family to treachery was something that haunted a man in their waking hours and plagued their dreams. Mathos, Shireen, among the many who deserved far better fates than they received. "What were their names?"

"Karl and Martin, we were simple farmers before the Tallharts answered the Young Wolf's call and rode to war. Never even held a sword before that." Taking note how the others looked at their companion, the old knight could see that every man aboard this small boat was cut from the same cloth. All sons of farmers, shepherds, tanners, and crabbers, not a single highborn among them. These were the men that made up the ranks of Westeros' armies, who bore no great titles or proud family names.

And like these men, Davos understood that there was nothing more comforting than the thought of one's home, especially in times like this. "The place where you grew up, what's it like there?"

"A small patch of land on the edge of a hamlet, surrounded by rolling hills and open fields." A whisp of a smile graced the lad's face, as if he were looking at his home, even as they approached the column that would mark their ascent into the beast's den. It reminded Davos of himself years ago, back when he was making runs with Salladhor San. How he would think of his family, and how it was his desire to hold them in his arms again that saw him through the storm. After all these years that desire had never wavered, but it could never be as it was.

Aligning his boat alongside the bridge's support, the Onion Knight tore his mind away from his grief and fear, focusing on the task ahead of them instead. Feeling the shift in movement from his 'crewmates' he allowed them to position themselves accordingly. The first was their climber, a slim and nimble fellow, as he scurried up the column, stopping only to fasten a better foothold for those who would follow behind him. As the miraculous climb reached its end and the man tossed his line down to them, Davos was almost tempted to pray, but whether it was to give thanks or ask for the gods' favor, he didn't know.

Not that it would have done much good, he'd long given up on prayers. If anything was going to see him through till morning it would be his wits. One by one the party began hoisting themselves up the rope, hoping to dear life that it would hold their weight, and that the next patrol wouldn't happen upon them. As the last of the Northerners joined his comrades, Davos grimaced at the climb before him. His good hand reaching once again for the pouch of knucklebones that no longer hung around his neck.

Nonetheless, the old knight took hold of the line and with all his determination began his ascent. Following in the others' footsteps, he took advantage of every foothold, sparing only a few fleeting moments to rest before pressing on. Still, by the time he reached halfway up the column, Davos felt the growing strain in his arms from holding his own weight for so long. His impaired hand didn't help much either. In many ways King Stannis' justice had granted him many merits, but in this instance having his hand whole again would be a blessing.

But whether whole or maimed as he was, the Onion Knight knew he had to carry on. It became a battle between his own will and that of his aged bones and sinew. By the time he neared the top, it felt as though his arm would give way and it nearly did, before several helping hands took hold of him. Latching onto his arms, cloak and whatever else they could get a hold of the lads hoisted their captain over the side, all eagerly awaiting his orders as he caught his breath.

Though his muscles still ached and his breathing still hard, Davos knew they couldn't linger much longer, not with the chance of a random patrol happening upon them. As the rain poured down on them, they kept a calm and even pace all the way to the water tower. After all, they were the next watch, here to relieve their fellow men at arms of their post. There was no need to bring unnecessary suspicion onto themselves. He only hoped that 'their' relief would arrive in a time.

Up ahead stood the overlooking tower with both its iron portcullises firmly closed. As they were joined by the others, Davos had to admit the Freys were keen on keeping unwanted visitors from making it across their bridge. When he pounded on the sturdy wooden door not a single man made a sound. For the longest time the only sound to be heard was the relentless rain feeding into the river below them. Until the door's spyhole slid opened and revealed a rotund, pox-scarred, grumpkin of a man within.

"What do you want?" spat the guardsman, the unmistakable stench of cheap ale on his breath, causing ser Davos to turn away for a moment. The man's bloodshot eyes lazily took in the others, before breaking into a cruel smirk. "A sorry bunch of drowned rats as I've ever seen. Well out with it then, can't expect me to linger here all day."

Steeling himself against the wretched smell that emanated with the man's every breath, Davos spoke as clearly and slowly as he could, so the drunken oaf could understand. "Ser Merrett Frey sent us. He said a changing of guards was in order, regardless of the ungodly hour, and as he puts it 'the weather be damned'."

It wasn't lost on him that the guardsman didn't take kindly to his answer, and plainly asked in return what made ser Merrett think the Water Tower was his to command in the first place. Thankfully, Davos had an answer for him as well, courtesy of King Jon's recent guest, Olyvar Frey. "Because as you and your captain know all too well, the generous wages he sends your way will cease should he give the word… especially if he were to learn how you lads were spending his coin on the girls sent to keep you all warm at night, courtesy of lord Ryman."

"Fucking old goat," cried the guardsman with anger and drink taking hold of what little sense (if any) he had. "The captain won't stand for threats like that. He'll- "

"Before we get into any unpleasantries, perhaps I could speak to your captain and see if we can come to an arrangement so that ser Merrett's concerns can be laid to rest and your growing privileges are kept from his attention." His offer silenced any threat that on the tip of the man's tongue, as he glared at Davos one last time before closing the spyhole.

It wasn't long before the sound of a large latch unfastening behind the door, and it swung wide open revealing a still fuming guard standing in their way. "The captain will see you in the hall, head up the stairs and don't keep him waiting."

The Onion Knight did was he was bid and lead the others up the stairwell and further within the fortification. Taking note of the first floor they passed, he noticed two guards laying about two cauldrons kept hanging over small braziers at either end of the room with a gaping murder hole between them. Fastened against the stone wall on the opposite side of the room stood a weapons rack lined with crossbows and quivers filled to the brim with bolts. The first line of defense should anyone breach either portcullis.

Heading further up the spiral staircase revealed what would have been the barracks, if you considered a dozen or so bedrolls strewn about the floor as being such, with half of them being slept in. While his view did provide Davos with a rough estimate of how many guards remained unaccounted for in the upper levels, it also presented the first complication to their plans. Several girls lay sound asleep in the arms of the men they had pleased this night. He doubted that they would stay silent when they take the tower from its current garrison. But whether they were serving girls or whores by trade, the head of house Seaworth wasn't about to murder innocent women who had no stake in any of this dirty business.

The so-called commander of this garrison awaited them on the third floor, refusing to rise from his seat as he mulled over a leg of chicken and a freshly poured mug of ale. His appearance while plain was marred by a sour and contemptuous look, but what Davos took note of most was his surcoat. The black pitchfork of house Haigh, embedded upon a golden bar. When the knight spoke, there was no introduction, no sign of courtesy, just an indignant demand. "My man said you wanted to speak, then speak."

Davos stepped forward, addressing the knight with more respect than had been shown to him. "Beggin' your pardon, good ser, milord Merrett sent us to ensure that the brave lads guarding this tower haven't forgotten his generosity."

The knight of house Haigh scoffed at his words, spattering bits of his dinner onto the table, before discarding the last pierces of bone as he turned to face them. "More like he's scared Lord Ryman has made me a better offer, and who's to say he hasn't? Afterall, as the rightful heir to the house, Ryman would be in a far better position to show generosity to those who support him."

"Indeed, the lads and I saw some of his generosity on our way up," replied Davos, taking a seat across from the commander, something neither party was overly fond of. "How safe he must feel to allow such pretty distractions to go about their business within an important fortification."

"Stow that, old man!" Barked the knight, eyes blazing that the implication, before he continued. "Any fool knows that it is no easy task to take the castle from either bank, and even if they were to do so, we'd have more than enough time to prepare and hold our own until reinforcements from the remaining keep arrived." The knight in his anger and overconfidence, failed to notice two of Davos' companions edge their way around the table on either side of him.

Both men's eyes shifted to Davos, awaiting his approval to pounce on the unsuspecting fool, who carried on his rant on how demeaning it was for ser Merrett to send a commoner to speak with him instead of a fellow knight or even attending himself. "Has he forgotten who he deals with? I am ser Donnel Haigh, who along with my father and elder brother, forced the Greatjon to his knees and clapped him in irons at the Red Wedding. What have you to say to that?"

For a moment there was utter silence, the commander's spiteful gaze upon him, as if daring him to speak, but it wasn't ser Davos who spoke up. The same lad from the boat, now loomed over ser Donnel, before uttering the last words the knight would ever hear. "The North Remembers."

Davos witnessed the swift change in Ser Donnel's face, disdain, confusion, and finally terrible realization. Before he could say or do anything, a strong northern hand clasped over his mouth, pulling back his head as the dagger slashed his throat from ear to ear. His final moments were futilely spent trying to stem the bleeding from his wound. Within moments the struggling stopped, and once frantic hands now lay limp at the side of house Haigh's second son.

Rising to his feet Davos looked upon the knight's lifeless body once more, eyes staring vacantly towards the stone ceiling above them, before relaying his orders. "You four head back down, secure the door and deal with the guards. Quietly. Otto, take six others and watch the staircase while the rest of us finish with the upper levels. Once it is done, we converge on the barracks." Without question the men followed his orders, dividing into three parties: one heading below, another standing guard, and the third heading to the top.

Many young lads in his place would undoubtedly claim that they fought every step on the way up the tower, that their skill and heroism was what carried the day. All in hopes of painting their deeds worthy of a song, or to be boasted around a campfire among fellow soldiers, but the truth was hardly so grand or exciting. The handful of archers upon the fourth floor fell swiftly and silently, something Davos was quite thankful for. Sadly, the element of surprise came to an end. As the Onion Knight turned back to the last flight of stairs, he saw a single lad standing there, eyes staring at the slain men laying at their feet.

The lad didn't make it far when he turned to run. He managed a mere two feet before the bolt pierced the side of his neck. A horrid gasp and spatter of blood left the young archer's lips as he toppled down the stairwell, his body crashing against the stone steps and wall below. Something that didn't go unnoticed as a voice called from above, "Royland? What in Seven Hells is going on down there?"

This one hadn't even made it down the steps before he was greeted with a sword in his belly as one of the overeager lads rushed in to finish their work. If the last guard hadn't announced their presence with his little tumble, this one's dying scream certainly did. The unmistakable sound of clashing steel, fowl curses, and the terrified women screaming, rose from the levels below. They had two goals before them, securing the upper lantern and finishing off the garrison.

Ordering three of his followers to finish with the last floor, Davos took the remaining two and worked his way back down, joining the others against the Frey's last stand. By the time he made it down the steps, most of the fighting was already over with only three enemies left standing. They didn't last very long, leaving only a room of weeping women huddled in the corner.

Putting away his sword, ser Davos cautiously approached, seeing the fear in their eyes as they covered themselves with sheets, discarded clothing, and anything else in hand. "My name is ser Davos Seaworth, you needn't fear me or any of my men. No harm will come to you, I swear on my son's grave."

"What do you want then?" asked the lass trembling closest to him. A pretty young thing with long curly brown hair, her dress partially undone in the front, hinting at her generous breasts.

Davos gestured to his men to remove the dead from the room, hoping it put the ladies' minds at ease, before meeting the lass' frightened gaze. "Only that you remain in here, until this is all over."

Every one of them seemed to understand, but they still wept in fear. Feeling it was necessary, the Onion Knight ordered two of his men to stand guard outside of the barracks, less any of the girls give into their fears and jeopardize their mission. Despite this, Davos found himself feeling momentarily relieved as to how well things had transpired so far. Even more so when one of the lads he sent up returned saying the tower was truly theirs. But the moment passed because he knew they still had to hold the tower until Jon and the rest of their men make it through.

Once the remaining corpses were brought up to join ser Donnel, Davos climbed the stairs again, finally reaching the fifth floor. At either end of the room, facing their respective forts, two windows lay shut. Lifting the nearest lantern the old knight opened the eastward facing window, before waving it back and forth three times. In the distance, only the remote lights scattered across the tower could be seen. Davos silently starred outward waiting for a response.

'I suppose we'll find out whether the boy was trustworthy after all,' thought the seafarer, hoping that their gamble had been worth it. The others remained silent as well, wondering if they had thrown their lives away for nothing, whether these were to be their final moments, and whether the North would have their justice at long last. Stillness… Stillness… Until finally a standing light began to wave back to them.

The lads let out a low cheer at the sight, their plan was now in motion and not even Davos could resist smiling at the thought. Their cheers and his smile only grew when northern horns echoed throughout the night and thousands of voices called out like roaring thunder.

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!"

The battle raged on all around him as Jon lead the charge through the final gate of the western keep, forcing his way through the faltering line of Frey soldiers. From atop his horse the White Wolf slashed and cut away that those who held their ground. With each swing of Longclaw another soldier fell, blood pouring out of their wounds. Before long the remaining footman began to turn and flee from the very sight of him and those who rode at his side. Surging forwards the northern riders filled the courtyard, blazing a trail for others to follow.

As their spirits shattered the Freys fell further back into the keep, trying to seal the doors behind them, even though many of their own remained outside. Distracted by this, Jon was forced from his horse, his armor clattering against the carved stone before settling on his back. With Longclaw still in hand, the king began propping himself back up when a growing shout caused him to turn towards his approaching assailant. The defiant cry quickly turned into a dying scream, as Jon slashed open the man's stomach, his guts spilling out of him, before rising to his feet.

Others soon joined the White Wolf's side as he fought on towards the heavy wooden door, all bearing the trappings of the great Northern and Vale houses. Heart ablaze with the heat of battle, Jon could feel his resolve feeding into the strength of his arm, his senses now more acute than ever. One by one his enemies fell before him and his allies, Not even the sealing of the door could deter him. "Break it down! Take the beam and break it down!"

Obeying their king's command, the knights and northmen took a damaged and discarded beam, bashing it against their remaining obstacle. They acted as one, their culminated strength splintering the door, as others forced the other passageways open, allowing them to spread their forces throughout the castle. With the last remnant of the door shattered, the fury that marched through the breach made the very walls shake. Steel clashed as the remaining defenders withdrew further and further within the keep.

A strong push forward cleared the way to the stairwell, allowing several parties to splinter off to secure the ramparts, the outer towers, the inner workings of the castle, while Jon lead his party in search of the castle's commander. It was vital that they captured ser Merrett and any other high-born officers, just as they had with lord Ryman and his contingent. He hadn't come all this way just to let his enemies slip through his fingers.

"Your grace," called one of his fellow northerners, blood trickling down his cheek as he approached, his free hand firmly clasping the fresh wound. "Your grace, we have them cornered now. Ser Merrett and his officers have sealed themselves in the great hall. The castle is nearly yours, my king."

He knew It wasn't over though, not until ser Merrett bent the knee or lay dead on the stone floors of his own home. Allowing the wounded soldier to lead them the rest of the way, the King in the North could feel his heart racing with anticipation. Justice for his brother was finally within reach, and for every other northerner who died in these accursed halls as well. Even as he approached the great hall's entrance, the defenders holding it were on the verge of breaking. It was in that final moment, just before the doors were forced open, where everything seemed to slow down around him, and the sound of battle died out.

In this moment everything felt different, the slowed beating of his heart, his tightening grip on Longclaw, even the stale air all around them tasted differently. How long had he waited for this moment, to deliver justice upon those who betrayed his brother, murdered his countrymen, and aided those who sought to destroy his family root and stem. The moment of justice was now.

As the doors flung open a dozen or so men-at-arms rushed into the hall, where the last of house Frey's soldiers held their ground. Jon followed close behind his men, who upon their entry, were greeted with a flurry of bolts from the crossbowman cowering behind overturned tables. Their last and feeble attempt at a barricade. Still the Northmen pressed on, even as some fell to the archers above, as they clambered over the tables to renew the battle.

Another two Freys fell at the White Wolf's hand before he caught sight of ser Merrett, whose longsword hacked and battered away at a Glover's shield. The oaf's sword bit deep into the man's flesh, nearly severing his shoulder from the rest of his body. Enraged, Jon surged forward towards the much larger man, more in obscene weight than anything else. He easily avoided his opponent's first clumsy swing of his blade, and effortlessly deflected the second, before launching a series of quick blows bent on unbalancing the man.

As the king fought on, he could see that Merrett was barely able to keep a pace with his younger and more agile opponent. The man's vivid frustration only grew when Jon backhanded him across his face. The damaged done was more than anyone could have expected, as a sharp yelp escaped from the Frey's massive throat, who nearly fell to his knees while tenderly clutching his head. Whether it was a past injury or an inherent malady that caused such a reaction, the King in the North couldn't tell, nor did he care.

Seizing the moment before him, Jon raised his sword to deliver the final blow, only for it to be met by ser Merrett's. Sparks flew as the two blades met, with Longclaw chipping away a massive piece of his opponent's steel. Still the blade held and the man wielding it began pushing back with all his might. Gritting his teeth, the young king held his own, doing all he could to keep the edge of his adversary's blade away from his face. But as the stalemate continued, it became painfully clear that Jon couldn't overcome ser Merrett with strength alone.

Feeling his own strength beginning to ebb, the White Wolf thought how best to use his enemy's size against him, until a battle cry rose up from behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw another Frey rushing towards him with a morning star in hand, emboldened by the prospect of killing the northern monarch and writing his name in the history of Westeros for ages to come. Sadly, fate was not so kind. Instead of glory, the man received a blow to the face from a shield blazoned with three crows clutching bright red hearts in their talons, knocking him off his feet and onto the cold stone floors.

Jon's would be assailant would never rise again, as the young knight who stood above him brought down his sword. Both the king and ser Merrett watched as the man turned to face them, the latter with anger and dismay as his last hope was snatched away in an instant. This proved to be the White Wolf's moment. Taking advantage of the distraction, Jon freed his blade from ser Merrett's and shifted his weight, allowing him to sidestep the large oaf as he stumbled forward, and brought the pommel of his blade to bear against his opponent's skull.

There was a slight pop when his blow met the side of ser Merrett's head, just above his left ear, one that Jon felt through his hand and up his arm. He watched as the man's head jerked to the side and he watched as the castle's commander fell to the ground motionless. Turning his gaze to the remaining sounds of fighting, the King in the North saw no more than a dozen men bearing the Twin Towers of house Frey still standing, huddled into a corner. Upon seeing their commander bested, the only man among them that was dressed in green and bearing a black frog upon a white lily pad upon his surcoat, cast down his sword.

"Yield! We yield," the man cried, raising his hands, and baying the others to follow suit. The clatter of steel echoed throughout the hall, as all eyes fell on Jon awaiting his decision.

He slowly approached their newfound leader, resting the point of his valyrian sword against the stone floor when he stood before them. The King in the North's unwavering eyes met with his opponent's, until said adversary bowed his head in submission. "And you are, ser?"

"Lord Lucias Vypren, your grace. Second in command of this garrison."

Jon ordered them to kneel, keeping a steady and even voice, as his remaining enemies fell to their knees and bowed their heads. Feeling the sudden weight of his armor and the soreness of his body, he looked on all those present. While some looked on with great pride, others trembled with fear and uncertainty, but all were marked by the same weariness he felt. In that moment, he knew that the battle was truly over. "In the name of house Stark and the Northern Realm, I Jon Stark, accept your surrender and that of your men."

Yet, even as he said the words and the triumphant cries of his bannermen echoed around them, this 'great victory' felt hollow in Jon's heart. For none of his brother's murderers knelt before him, nor would they ever.

The next morning brought little solace either, as there were many matters that needed attending to. Though granted a few hours of rest and now free of his armor, the King in the North now took on the arduous task of bringing order to the Twins, something the keep had sorely been lacking long before the Northern Army arrived.

"We're still getting an accounting of their men-at-arms, your grace," remarked ser Davos as they made their way down from the ramparts. "The captain of the guard and master of arms were among those slain, while Lord Glover reported seeing ser Aemon Rivers fleeing across the western moat using a gangway."

From what little he knew of this ser Aemon, he was ser Walder River's only son and his mother was from house Charlton, sworn bannerman to house Frey of course. Jon let out a frustrated sigh, while their assault proved swift, the Western garrison still had been given enough time to act. "How many fled with him?"

"A dozen, maybe more," ventured the Onion Knight, as they witnessed a corpse cart hauling away the last of the slain through the main gate. With so many dead, a mass grave was being dug on the outskirts of the castle grounds. "Lord Ryswell is already preparing twenty of his best riders to hunt them down."

A reasonable number to track down a band of deserters, but still, they couldn't take the chance that ser Aemon find a haven with his mother's family, or worse join up with Walton Frey's host at Seagard. "Have ser Mychal take some of his father's men and join lord Ryswell on the hunt, we'll see if he's as gifted capturing men with steel in hand as he is with boys carrying babes."

A bit unworthy of him perhaps, given that Yohn Royce reported how well his son-by-law fought in the eastern fort's courtyard, but Jon still recalled the young knight's spoiled demand for advancement and insolence towards Mya. Already the memory of it was stoking the White Wolf's anger, and it was something he didn't want to deal with. 'I doubt Mya would lament his absence,' he thought amusedly, recalling her anger at just being in his presence.

Making their way through the courtyard, the two continued to discuss their plans for the rest of Walder Frey's extensive brood, as every soldier and knight respectfully bowed their heads as they passed. Jon had explicitly ordered that the women and children be confined to their chambers, while the men took their prisoner's place in the dungeons, except for lady Roslin and her brothers. Olyvar and Perwyn, sons of the accursed Walder Frey, and the unlikely 'heroes' of the day. It was thanks to them alone that the northern army found the Twin's gates wide open to them.

It was certainly a gamble sending Olyvar back to his house, trusting the boy to spin the tale that the Brotherhood without Banners had captured him and now held his charge as a hostage. But given the brotherhood's recent activities against house Frey and their history of ransoming nobles back to their families, it was an easy enough lure for lord Ryman to swallow. As they worried over the cost of recovering the heir to house Tully and their hold over the Riverlands, young Olyvar would illicit the aid of those who helped in his first flight and allow them safe entry into the castle.

Jon was just thankful that it all paid off, had Olyvar or any of his companions betrayed them, it would have cost them many lives in a long and bloody siege, along with ser Davos and those who followed him to the Water Tower. However, these were the worries of what might have been, and at present the young king had little time for them. Not far ahead stood the wayward Frey along with several others, who were all under the scrutinous gaze of their guards.

Despite their contribution to house Frey's crushing defeat, Jon doubted these men would find many friends within the ranks. Not only out of the hatred his men bore their late lord father, but for turning their cloaks against the rest of their family. He could understand why the men doubted their loyalty, and if the White Wolf was completely honest with himself, he had doubts as well. While he was certain that Olyvar, and by a lesser extent his immediate siblings, were loyal to his brother's memory, the rest of their family was another matter entirely.

There was simply too much bad blood between his family and the Freys for him to ever trust their motivations completely. Yet, when the five men in question knelt before him, Jon accepted their submission and bade them to stand with befitting courtesy. The first being the eldest and only anointed knight among them. "Ser Perwyn, I am grateful for your aid in opening the gates during the assault, your actions spared many lives last night."

Ser Perwyn, who was a slightly older, and broader version of his brother, met his gaze with conflicted eyes. "You are most kind, your grace. But it would be a lie and a disservice to say that it was an easy choice to make… I was born in this castle and no matter how disgraceful my father and brother's actions were, it still weighs heavily in my heart to have a hand in its downfall."

"I thank you for your honesty as well," replied Jon, recognizing the turmoil the young knight was currently grappling with. He had very little doubt that in the lad's position he'd have felt the same. To help bring fire to Winterfell's towers, to see the faces of so many he'd know all his life and know that many would have had died because of him. It chilled him to the bone that such a thing might have been possible if he hadn't remained true to his vows all those years ago. If he'd joined Mance's cause in earnest. While the White Wolf did not envy Perwin in that regard, there was a flicker of respect for the lad, few would have the courage to admit such a thing.

"Your grace," asked one of the other men hesitantly. Taking in his appearance, Jon noticed he was close in age to Perwyn, with dark hair, and an oddly crooked nose. But most striking of all was his green surcoat with a black frog sitting upon a white lily. "My name is Damon of house Vypren, my father is lord Lucias who was serving as an officer on the other bank of the river. We were told that ser Merrett still lives, but there has been nothing of my father's fate. Please, tell me, does he live?"

The mention of ser Merrett, reminded Jon of the man's unusual state of being. While he lived, the blow he received had left him abed and senseless. His vacant eyes starring endlessly outwards while his wife sat at his side wiping away the trickle of drool from his parted lips. The maester had explained to him that ser Merrett had taken a blow to his head in his youth from a Kingswood outlaw's mace. Apparently, he'd been left senseless then as well, and had suffered endless headaches ever since. It was anyone's guess when he would ever regain his mind, if ever.

But turning his thoughts to lord Vypren, Jon's curiosity was admittedly peaked, he knew the feud between the members of house Frey was great, but for a father and son to end up on opposite sides of the conflict. "He does, after Merrett fell, your father surrendered the western bank. He's now confined to one of the cells until his guilt or innocence in the Red Wedding can be proven."

The young Vypren couldn't hide the concerned look in his eyes, while his father lived, it didn't mean his fate was secure. Even with lord Walder and his fellow conspirators dead,there were still many who had a hand in the massacre. Sorting through the lies was an ordeal Jon wasn't looking forward to, but his bannermen deserved whatever justice he could give them for their slain family members. "Odd, how your father was among Merrett's supporters, while you served under lord Ryman."

"It's not what you think, your grace," answered Damon meeting his gaze, his head lifting ever so slightly as he defended his house and father's integrity. "When my grandfather was still alive, he sent father to hunt down members of the Brotherhood without Banners, who had been raiding our supply lines. By the time he returned, house Frey was divided, and the gates shut. Fearing treachery, neither Merrett nor Ryman were keen on letting anyone make the crossing. So, my father did what was needed to gain entry."

Vypren's answer was fair enough and illustrated some measure of integrity from lord Lucias. At the very least, the lesser river lord could be counted on to not abandon his own. Before Damon could say anything else in his father's defense, a murderous roar echoed across the courtyard. Turning to see the cause of the disturbance, Jon's eyes widened at the beast coming towards them. A bloody brute, even larger than Tormund, dressed in rags, while his face was covered in hair as wild and untrimmed as a giant's.

Nothing could stop his approach, not even three other men, who were merely thrown aside as they tried to restrain him. Jon almost reached for Longclaw when he recognized both the fury and size of the man, in all his life he'd only seen two men of such stature and ferocity… Smalljon and his lord father, the Greatjon Umber. The long-imprisoned lord of Last Hearth drew near, his murderous gaze set on the White Wolf… No, not him, but those behind him.

"Stay yourself, ser," ordered Davos, as several men-at-arms gathered around them with hands tightly clasped around their undrawn swords. "You stand before his grace, Jon of house Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North."

While the Greatjon did halt his advance, the murderous look in his eyes did not abate. Jon could only compare it to a starved bear greedily staring at his next meal, one he'd been taunted with for too long. When he spoke his voice, though strained, still boomed in their ears. "King or no king, this pup will stand aside and let a father take his vengeance, or else. A son for a son!"

The first to draw steel was a Glover footman, who looked more like a child holding a practice sword compared to the looming form that was lord Umber. No doubt the others would have joined their steel with his if it weren't for Jon's orders to stand down. Stepping forward, he spoke firmly to the feral lord, whose fierce gaze would leave the most hardened warrior trembling in their boots. "Lord Umber, it gladdens me to see you free from your bonds and your spirit unbroken, but these men are my prisoners, any harm done to them will be seen as an act of treason against my brother's crown."

"TREASON! It's treason to kill turncoats then!" spat the Greatjon as he stormed and loomed over Jon, his harsh gaze bearing into him, but the King in the North refused to turn away. They continued to challenge each other in silence for some time. Neither of whom were willing to give in to the other, even as the rest looked on with growing concern and uncertainty. It wasn't until the lord of Last Hearth spoke with a hint of newfound respect, that the tension waned. "You have your brother's balls, I'll give you that, boy. But mark my words, I'll have the blood I'm owed."

Turning his head and taking in Olyvar, his brother, and Damon, Jon noted how they were closer to boys than men. Despite their actions in the previous night, which suggested some level of skill, he doubted all of them together could match any Umber, let alone Smalljon. "You say you want justice for your son? Then tell me, were they the ones who killed him? Did they run him through with their swords, or did they riddle him with their arrows?"

Already lord Umber's anger returned, his face turning red and his eyes glaring daggers at the three lads before them. Yet there was something else in the man's eyes, something that told the White Wolf the truth of the matter, but the Greatjon wouldn't be dissuaded so easily. "Walder Frey and his brood killed my boy, same as they killed your brother. They denied him a warrior's death, they even denied him the decency of a proper burial. My son's body was thrown to the river and carried away… He rots amongst the reeds when he should be laid to rest alongside his kith and kin."

"I understand your outrage, my lord," offered Jon, his words now strained by anger and grief over his own brother's desecration. Robb, the first King in the North in three hundred years, deserved to be interred with the greatest honors within the crypts of Winterfell, instead he lay in some unmarked grave like a common murderer. "Just as every northerner who lost someone here does, but slaughtering unarmed men like animals isn't the way to honor their memory. Not when our allies need aid."

There was no hiding the look of confusion on Lord Umber's face, this was his only chance of convincing the old warrior to hunt the stray dog instead of the tethered pups. "Even as we speak, Seaguard is under siege from a host led by Walton Frey. Lord Mallister and his family fought and bled alongside my brother and your son. I think it only fitting that we repay their loyalty. Unless of course, you need time to recover-"

"Piss on that!" bellowed the Greatjon, The Wall would melt before an Umber turned away from a fight or let another question their strength. "If I were blind and only had one hand, I'd still be able to crush that craven and his host. Ten northerners are worth a hundred of Walder's ilk."

With the promise of open battle and unfettered vengeance the matter was thankfully settled, all parties sighed in relief as the bearded giant left, his bloodlust abated for the moment, but only a fool would think their troubles were over. If anything, it was just another reminder for Jon how easy it could all fall apart. The in fighting, divided interests, and broken oaths of his bannerman had doomed Robb's campaign from within. Jon would be damned before letting that happen again, not with everything at stake.

Oldtown, the Citadel

Life as an acolyte at the Citadel, as Samwell Tarly had come to understand it, wasn't that different from a steward's in the Night's Watch. Yes, he was… or had been, learning firsthand from the archmaesters in their respective fields, and had been afforded access to the greatest library in the world. But as an initiate, he was expected to assist in the daily chores that keep the Citadel in order. Scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots, assisting the older maester's with their duties. Not that Sam minded really, if fact, he'd gladly scrub out all the cages on the Isle of Ravens, if it meant they'd allowed him to leave his quarters, or at the very least Gilly and little Sam.

The three of them had been confined to his chamber for just over a fortnight now, and it was all his fault. He still didn't understand why they were punishing sweet Gilly and their son for something he'd done. It was his actions that risked the Citadel's safety not theirs, they had no part in it. Closing the book he'd been trying to read, Sam thought hard on his actions that night and that of the possible consequences looming over him. It still amazed him that amidst it all, he had no regrets, aside from his family's confinement of course.

How could he, when Archmaester Merwyn asked for his aid, it wasn't just a chance to save a man's life, but to repay a longstanding debt. Everything he had now; his life, his love, his son, it was all thanks to this man's family. One of those said gifts was currently sitting across from him, her arm gently draped around their boy as she read aloud to him. Her once limited ability to recognize the letters and their meaning, having grown extraordinarily in the last few months, now only struggled with certain grammatical rules and unfamiliar terms."

"A-And in his eye's stead was a sap… a sap… pyre?" Sam couldn't help but smile when she reread the line, seeing in her eyes the same determination that had inspired him to carry on during their trek through the wilds beyond the Wall, to stand firm alongside his brothers at the Battle of Castle Black, and to finally prove his father wrong. She must have felt his eyes on her as she lifted her head to meet his gaze. Despite her frustration with the word before her, she smiled back at him.

He, of course, knew what the word was, but had learned long ago not to say anything unless she asked him first. During his early attempts of teaching, he inadvertently made her feel stupid by offering the word outright, or by stressing how it should be pronounced. Something that she had deliberately expressed to the Princess Shireen, while he was in earshot. Thankfully, the young scholar had gotten it into his head that as a teacher he had to let her figure it out at her own pace.

Sam could faintly hear Gilly reciting through their lessons, until she found the right one. "When these two are together the make- Sap… Sapphire. Sapphire!"

Her eyes were brimming with pride as he nodded, confirming she'd gotten it right. But it was followed by confusion, given she had never seen or heard of a sapphire in her life. Still, this was a precious moment for Sam, then again, every moment spent with them was precious. Sadly, it wouldn't last as a knock on the door brought them back to their reality. His fellow acolytes were here to escort him to the Seneschal's Court, the assembly of archmaesters, charged with governing and maintaining order within the order.

Sam could feel an all too familiar knot forming in his stomach, it was the same sickening feeling he felt whenever his father's cruel and disgusted gaze fell on him. But it dissipated the moment little Sam let out a whine, trying to get his mother's attention, who glared at the two men in the doorway. These two wonderful people, who had endured the unimaginable, both North and South of the Wall, and so had he. 'You're one of the two men in living history to kill a walker.' He told himself, as he kissed Gilly and Little Sam farewell, before leaving with his fellow acolytes. 'What could they possibly do to you that's more terrifying than that.'

It also begged the question, could the court punish him? Yes, he was an initiate within the Citadel, but he was also a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. His life was technically subject to the authority of the Lord Commander of Castle Black. There also wasn't, at least to his knowledge, any record of a brother who had sworn his vows, being tried by any court outside of his order. These questions raced through Sam's mind as they silently walked through the corridors, almost unaware of the onlookers that ceased their studies and debates to get a look at him. One of the so called 'culprits' in what could have been the end of the maesters.

It was a long walk to the Seneschal Court, through the great library, and down several flights of stairs, and into the infamous stockades. Traditionally, these cells only held those who committed simple thievery, or perhaps a pair of quarrelsome youths on occasion. In fact, Sam had only ever heard of two instances where greater crimes had been committed. At one point, a novice had taken a whore to his quarters, and as he slept the whore tried to steal from him, only to be caught in the act. In his rage, the novice had taken a knife and disemboweled the man where he stood. Given the circumstances, the novice wasn't tried for murder, but was subsequently sent back to his house in the North.

The other instance was more of a mystery, given that no one seemed willing to discuss it. Sam could only imagine what foul deed had to be committed for an order founded on the principle of sharing knowledge, to remain silent as the grave. His dark musings on the matter were interrupted by the iron click of keys unlocking the cells to his right. Sam eagerly awaited his fellow conspirators to step out and join him, not sure of what their condition would be after weeks of confinement.

At Castle Black, a man was liable to lose a finger or several toes to the cold while he waited in the cells there. At Horn Hill… well his father wasn't known for being accommodating to those who broke the king's peace. Thankfully, it seemed they hadn't suffered much worse than he had, perhaps a little worn from lack of proper bedding perhaps, but still quite fit.

"Samwell," greeted the eldest among them, a short and somewhat larger, grey-bearded man, with an almost mirthful smirk on his lips. As if they were not about to face judgement from the other twenty archmaesters. "I trust you've been well since we last spoke. They haven't been too harsh on you, have they?"

A faint memory from his youth long ago, crept its way into Sam's heart. The feeling of chains strangling the breath from his lungs as he dangled from the stone walls within his own home. "believe me, Archmaester Marwyn, I've been through worse."

Desperate to shack such dark memories, the sworn brother turned towards the second man. Tall, lean, and grizzled. A tested and hardened warrior, not unlike the rest of his northern kinsman, or his late father. "Ser Jorah, how fairs your arm? Has there been… been any- "

Even though he couldn't bring himself to say his fears aloud, the older knight knew exactly what he meant. "Any sign of the grayscales' return? No, not yet at least. As for my arm, it's strange, at first it felt like my flesh was burning, making the slightest twitch excruciating, but now…" Ser Jorah's gaze lingered on his hand as he tightened his fingers into a fist before releasing them again. "Now it feels as though I move it from outside of my own body."

It wasn't surprising, not to Sam at least, in their attempt to cure ser Jorah from his affliction, he and Archmaester Marwyn had flayed the upper layer of his skin from his arm and shoulder, before applying boiling wine to the exposed flesh, and finally administering a concoction of eastern tinctures and herbal poultices. Many of which consisted of ingredients he'd never even heard of, not in his readings, not even in Archmaester Ebrose's lessons. Yet 'the Mage', as Marwyn was called behind his back, knew their properties and how to apply them. Still, the treatment was demanding, and he was certain that if it hadn't been for the milk of the poppy that they'd administered beforehand, ser Jorah would have gone mad from the pain.

Before anything else could be said the three men were asked to proceed by their escort. Walking in silence Sam took notice when the great, heavy doors slowly opened before them. Where the Gatekeeper sat with almost complete disinterest as he jotted down something in his ledgers. The man didn't even lift his gaze when one of the acolyte's addressed him. "The accused, Archmaester Marwyn, ser Jorah Mormont, and Samwell Tarly."

"Yes, of course," replied the gatekeeper, as he made his final marks before closing the book and tucking it beneath his arm. "I will address the Archmaesters of their arrival. Now, wait by the door until I return for them."

For a long time, the only sound that could be heard were the departing footsteps of the maester, but once they were gone the Mage, beckoned them both to draw near. Immediately, Sam noticed his warm demeanor, the one that so often reminded him maester Aemon, was gone. Replaced by one of utter urgency and resolve, reminiscent of Lord Commander Mormont when he ordered the great ranging North of the Wall. "Listen closely, both of you. Regardless of what happens this day, of whatever judgement the other maesters pass on to me, you must be prepared."

"Archmaester, I don't understand- "stuttered Sam before being silenced by Marwyn's gentle raised hand. This strange and newfound urgency wasn't like anything he'd seen from the old sage. The only thing that came close was the look of undivided attention when he recounted his story from beyond the Wall, the White Walker's return, the Army of the Dead, and the mystery of the dragon glass he'd used to kill one of the frozen demons. Of all the maester's within the Citadel only Marwyn had full heartedly believed his accounting.

The Archmaester of the higher powers took a deep breath before speaking, his voice barely a whisper. "I know the minds of my fellow maesters, many of whom have long desired my removal from my office and the order itself, and while I hope to convince them to open their eyes to the truth, plans must be made if I fail. Plans that rely heavily on the two of you."

This time it was ser Jorah's turn to question the old greybeard, as he turned to the acolytes behind them, seeing if they were listening in on their conversation. "If their conclusion is forgone, what makes you think that either of us will still have our heads to go along with your grand schemes?"

While morbid, ser Jorah's point wasn't easily refuted, they were all still subject to the ruling of the court, and if they were thrown out as well, there was little either of them could do. Ser Jorah was disgraced knight, who many still called a traitor to the realm and would gladly execute him for his past crimes. As for him, all alone and barred from the Citadel, all Sam could do was return to Castle Black with what training he'd received so far.

"Fear not, ser Jorah," assured Marwyn as he turned towards the room where their judges awaited them. "The blame will be laid at my feet alone. Sam is an initiate, sworn to obey the word of his instructor's and those of the Archmaesters without question. As for you, what man in your circumstances would turn away the opportunity to escape such a grim and horrific fate. No, you should worry about what is to come, and its coming for us all."

Silence filled the air, neither he nor ser Jorah could grasp what Archmaester Marwyn had just said. A flicker of fear entered Sam's heart, dreading what Marwyn was referring to, the ever-looming threat North of the Wall. "Archmaester Marwyn, you don't mean- "

"No, young Samwell," answered his mentor, his eyes wearier with every word spoken. "I do not mean 'them.' What I speak of is flesh and blood, and perhaps, a greater threat to this world than the frozen demons of ages past. One I fear will take Oldtown before the next moon."

When ser Jorah remarked that such a thing was impossible, Sam was inclined to agree. While not an ardent military man himself, he knew the history of Oldtown and the isles it rested upon. No one in the last century had ever dared to take up arms against the city, not with houses Hightower and Tyrell guarding it. But when Marwyn merely turned to ser Jorah and reminded him that the same had been said about the dragons returning to the skies, neither of them could refute that.

"I would think the two of you should know by now that what we perceive as impossible is an ever-changing thing. When a man holds onto the 'truth' he has lived by all his years rather than accept the reality around him, then more the fool is he." As the old sage's words sank in, Sam couldn't deny the truth of it. Before he arrived at Castle Black; giants, wargs, magic itself really, were just stories. True, he always wished they were real, but having seen them in all their horror with his own eyes, he often prayed they were just a nightmare.

But more pressing on the young Tarly's mind was how Archmaester Marwyn even knew of this danger. His mentor had never voiced such fears before, which is strange considered all that Sam had shared with him. What else wasn't Marwyn telling them? Sadly, such questions would go unanswered, as the great doors opened once more, revealing the gatekeeper and three others walking towards them. Sam was taken aback when his mentor's hands suddenly gripped his shoulders, forcing him to look into the older man's eyes.

Eyes with such urgency and resolution that Samwell dare not dismiss his words. "When this chain is removed, they will find a link missing from it. It will be where all forgotten things are kept. Place it under the flame that house Hightower shines in times of danger and you will find your answers within the dragon's maw."

With that said Archmaester Marwyn turned and walked unhindered towards the court, as though he were merely on a leisurely stroll along the shoreline. Leaving both men to glance towards one another, perplexed by the almost mad instructions, before following suit to face whatever judgement lie in wait.

The Twins' Library

In recent days, Mya had become accustomed to the sound of quills scratching against parchment, the ever-dull task of sorting through the endless horde of Freys. Most of the men had traded their lodgings for the very same cells their captives spent years rotting in, while their wives and children were confined to their chambers. Raising the question what was to be done with them all. Most were of direct or distant relation to prominent houses throughout the Seven Kingdoms, making them a political headache for the young queen and her husband.

This morning alone was marked by half a dozen petitioners hoping to secure their freedom, that of a family member, or to discuss the bloody line of succession. It was bewildering to Mya that, even with a northern host holding their keep, they were so desperate to secure their hold on the lord's seat and title. With Ryman's capture and Merrett's state, it seemed the two factions had splintered into a thousand petty ones. Each one painting themselves as the unknowing party in the Red Wedding and everyone else as the puppeteer behind it all. It seemed so long as life flowed through their veins, a Frey would always seek to advance themselves by whatever means available.

Putting down her quill and closing her tired eyes for a moment, Mya turned to her fellow companions and Ladies-in-waiting; Myranda, Wynafryd, and joining them for the time being, lady Roslin Tully. They all proved a godsend in this matter, particularly Roslin, who was raised amongst them within these halls. Of all the Freys she had endured so far, Roslin had proven to be the only trustworthy one, because unlike the rest, her sole ambition had been to hold her son once again. It was the one request made of her that she had no reservations in granting.

"When I spoke with lady Vypren, she said she would write to her daughter and son-by-law and have them formally declare White Lily's submission to the Northern Realm in person. They should arrive in the next few days," stated Myranda dryly, as she set aside the letter to house Erenford, demanding the newest lady Frey's father present himself before the court and swear fealty in exchange for her safe return. It didn't sit well with Mya, using a girl of sixteen, heavy with child no less, as a hostage. The poor thing had endured enough being married to that old lech, something she knew Myranda was sympathetic to.

But such things were how they ensured the loyalty of defeated foes and their vassals, countered her old friend when she voiced her concerns. 'We may feel one thing, but we must say and act in another,' Mya quietly recited under her breath, the latest lesson passed down from her political mentor, before turning her attention towards their most recent petitioner. "I imagine she also asked for her husband's release… again."

"Yes, she's persistent, I'll give her that, but even she must realize by now his grace won't release any of the officers until the trials are over with." Jon certainly wasn't in favor of showing leniency towards those suspected of having a part in his brother's murder. In fact, just being here in the Crossing was affecting him… and she was starting to worry. Ever since the castle was taken, Jon had been withdrawn, anxious, and restless at night. He took every opportunity to oversee the outlying camp or meet with his military council on their next course of action.

She understood why of course, just the thought of how many people died in the great hall alone made her sick to her stomach every time she entered the room, but for Jon it was as if his brother's ghost loomed in every corner and haunted his every step. He needed to leave this place and she was of a similar mind, the sooner the trials were over with the better.

A knock on the door across the room snapped the Queen of Winter from her thoughts, where maester Brenett, followed by two guards, entered bowing his head apologetically. "Forgive me your grace, two more petitioners humbly ask for an audience with you. I told them you were attending to stately matters, but I'm afraid they insisted that it cannot wait."

Mya sighed, one look at the others told her that they felt the same, even Myranda couldn't hide her weariness of these petty meetings. But the Queen of Winter had duties to fulfill and sadly this was one of them. "Show them in."

Bowing his head maester Brenett turned to fetch this insistent party, allowing Mya to fix her posture; back straight, head held high, with a quick breath to release any tension and appear serene. The posture of a high-born lady as Randa called it. Something Mya had become well versed in during these last few months… and yet she still felt like a fool mummer just playing at her role.

Such composure, whether genuine or false, shattered when the returning maester addressed the names of those who followed him. "Ser Emmon Frey and his lady wife Genna of house Lannister,"

At the very mention of the name Lannister, a nightmarish image of Queen Cersei entered Mya's mind. An image that had haunted hers and her mother's dreams since word of the massacre of children had reached the Vale. Whose vicious emerald eyes echoed their murderous intent, matched only by the cruelest smile as she called out the young woman's name. A flicker of fear ran through her being as she took in the woman who now stood silently before her.

At first glance, this woman was nothing like the figure in her mind. She was older, shorter, and certainly much larger than the descriptions she had heard regarding Cersei. There was the unmistakable golden hair that the Wardens of the West were renowned for, but nothing of the person who terrified half of the Seven Kingdoms. If anything, she would sooner think of her as someone's aunt or grandmother perhaps, not as a member of the most feared house in the Seven Kingdoms. That is until the young queen met her emerald eyes. A single look made Mya feel like a cornered sheep starring into the eyes of a hungry beast.

However, Lady Genna was no mere beast. She was a proud lioness, with an air about her that commanded the respect of those in her presence. Which only made the contrast between her and her husband even more palpable. Standing next to this already dominant presence was perhaps the most dismissible Frey she had seen yet. A short wisp of a man, whose nervous eyes shifted about as if he expected danger to strike out at a moment's notice. It took a slight nudge from Wyn to snap her out of this bewildered stare, prompting them to begin with common courtesies and to discuss the nature of this meeting.

Ser Emmon was the first to speak, reciting everything Mya had heard from every other petitioner she'd received; how valiant a warrior her husband was; how ashamed he was of his father and brothers' ungodly act, how they could find no man more reliable or trustworthy than him if named Lord of the Crossing. All the while his lady wife sat there in silence, gently sipping the water from her cup. Clearly, just as weary of his prattling as everyone else. The woman's silence spoke louder than anything her lickspittle husband could ever say, as if the true matter at hand wouldn't begin until she said so.

Lady Genna's eyes never left Mya, conveying nothing of her intent. She couldn't help but wonder if this woman was trying to get a measure of her character, or to force the young queen to lower her gaze as a sign of submission. That's what every high-born wanted, wasn't it? Some recognition that they were better than everyone else… better than her. Except for Myranda, that's how every lady in house Arryn's court looked at her, especially the ones whose fathers were merely landed knights, or those so far down the line of succession they'd never inherit anything from their families.

Mya could still remember their steely eyes on her as a child. How she lowered her gaze every time a high born entered the room, believing their trueborn blood made them better than a lowly bastard-born girl. Yet, when she took work as a trail guide, she saw firsthand how helpless these women were without there castles or guards. She on the other hand, was riding at the head of each group, amidst the soldiers that defended the caravans. As they fainted at the thought of the hill tribes or of what might happen if taken captive, she learned to defend herself from ser Samwell.

Which begged the question, what hold could such looks have on her from the likes of them? Over the years, Mya learned to meet the gaze of every lady without fear, and she would do the same with lady Genna. In the contest of wills, piercing emerald eyes were met with unwavering, stormy blue ones. When it became clear that she wasn't going to submit, the lady before her seemed… amused, or perhaps, intrigued, as her golden brow slightly arched upward.

When she spoke, she nearly startled everyone, particularly her husband who flinched at her voice. "Emmon, go wait outside. I believe we've all heard enough from you."

"But- "Whatever protest he had in mind was silenced by a mere look from his wife, and without another word the old knight left the library, leaving the women to talk amongst themselves and at their leisure.

Placing her cup to the side, Genna held a faint smile on her face, her eyes taking in others for the first time since entering the room. "Quite the assembly of young women gathered here; The daughter of a traitor, one of a merchant fishmonger, another a steward, and above the rest, the heir to Robert's wine addled legacy."

"And here before us, is the great Genna Lannister," retorted Myranda, her usual charm strained under her blooming anger. "Lady of Casterly Rock, sister to the late Tywin Lannister, aunt to the Mother of Madness and her brother, the Kingslayer. Come to beg favor from her grace, Mya, the first of her name and Queen of Winter."

"beg? Oh, dear girl," Chuckled the older woman, before calming herself with another sip from her cup. "No, I came here to negotiate on behalf of my family and given how occupied the "King in the North" seems of late, I thought perhaps her grace might be of some help in that regard."

Already this meeting sat ill with Mya, not only because of how calm lady Genna was, but of what insight she might have in Jon's movements. How could she? Especially, since no one, not even the household servants, were permitted to enter or leave the guest quarters without their say so. She disliked this feeling of uncertainty and wished to be rid of it. "What is it that you want, my lady."

Again, the woman seemed amused by her question, tearing herself away from Myranda and fixating on her once more. "Hmm… blunt and straight forward, admirable in a fashion, but not unexpected. Very well then, what I desire most is the release of my two sons and nephew, a promise of safe conduct for them as they return to Casterly Rock, where they will wait out the rest of the encroaching madness. In exchange I will provide you with the names of the five remaining conspirators in the Red Wedding."

The offer was plain and quite generous at first glance, putting an end to the frustration of sorting through the lies and granting them the swift departure they all desired from this wretched place. The only cause for hesitation on Mya's part, was the fact it was coming from the lips of a Lannister. There wasn't a man in the North or the Vale that would ever trust any offer from the current holders of the Iron Throne, and she was of the same mind. "Forgive me, my lady, but why should we take your word over anyone else's here? What guarantee do we have that this isn't just another lie, a desperate attempt to save one's own neck like all the others."

Mya could see the change in lady Genna's eyes, while as resolute as before, there was something else, something she hadn't expected to see in a Lannister… sorrow. "Because it comes from a mother who lost two of her sons in the last war and has no intention of losing her remaining two in the one that will follow. A Lannister always pays their debts."

That common saying that everyone from Dorne to the Wall knew, the one that was both a threat and promise, and that Tyrion Lannister uttered as he left the Eyrie after his trial by combat. This woman's nephew had certainly made good on his word when he gave Mord a purse of gold for delivering his message, and when he armed the hill tribes with Lannister steel and armor as revenge for lady Arryn imprisoning him. It was the only promise a Lannister could be counted on to keep, at least when lord Tywin was alive.

It was common knowledge that the Old Lion was the strength behind the Iron Throne. If the stories were to be believed, the lions have struggled with tribulation after tribulation since his death, a sign of their fracturing grip on the realm. However, something told the young queen that lord Tywin's sister wasn't to be dismissed like the rest of her kin. Still, the question remained, was her offer worth the price she asked for in return. "With all due respect, we are already looking into those behind the Red Wedding. As you can imagine, it is a matter of great importance to my husband."

"Of course, but while he and his commanders waste time interrogating fools, and you with lickspittles, your army remains idle here." The lioness looked into her water, staring at her own reflection as if questioning whether she should give voice to whatever else she had to say. It was becoming clear to Mya that lady Genna was indeed conflicted, torn between her house and her family. Still her resolve to protect her own compelled the woman to carry on. "Idle armies breed turmoil and petty squabbles, something your husband's predecessor learned at the expense of my nephews."

Mya had heard this story, of the murders of Willem and Martin Lannister at the hands of Rickard Karstark. How the Young Wolf saw that the sons of his enemy's house were given justice, but at the expense of half his army. As new to politics as she was, Mya could see that the danger of history repeating itself was very real, with even more dire circumstances than before. Lord Umber was certainly the loudest in his cry for vengeance, but he wasn't the only one. Nearly every house from the North wanted blood for their fallen kin. If justice wasn't given swiftly, it could become another bloodbath, one that could shatter any hope of a northern victory.

It wasn't what Jon wanted… it wasn't what she wanted either. Her mind had nearly been swayed, when Wynafryd reminded them of something they had all overlooked. "You said you wanted safe passage for your sons and nephew, my lady?"

Lady Genna almost looked irked by her friends' question, but not in the least bit surprised by it. As if it were something inevitable, regardless of how unpleasant it might be. "My nephew, Tyrek, by my late brother, Tygett. When Tywin marched his army into the Riverlands, in response to lady Catlyn's abduction of Tyrion, Tyrek was placed in my care along with Casterly Rock. A kind-hearted lad of seventeen, who has never seen a battlefield, truly of little concern to you. Merely a bystander who had the misfortune of being dragged alongside the rest of us, when my husband brought us here. The fear of losing his place at the trough outweighed his fear of everything else."

The talks continued as such for some time; with Myranda and Wyn prodding their guest about the exact details of their end of the bargain, as well as what assurances they'd have that her sons would indeed remain at Casterly Rock until the war was concluded. To that, the older woman said plainly that if she remained their hostage, her boys would hold to their vows. Still, Mya couldn't shake the concern of dealing with a Lannister, especially if it meant letting another one return to their ancestral home.

"What does 'the queen' say, are the terms fair?" Mya looked to the others, gauging their stances. Roslin seemed almost petrified by the woman and wanted no part in this, turning her attention to her son. Myranda and Wynafryd on the other hand appeared weary, but they didn't speak out against it either, leaving the decision to her.

This horrid sense of uncertainty took hold of Mya, the sheer weight of the decision presenting itself, and that of the consequences of what might follow. All the lives that could be lost on her word alone. If she agreed to the terms, they'd have what they want this day, but what of tomorrow? What if she spared the lives of three boys today, only to condemn a thousand more to die in a battle that could have been avoided. Yet, if she refused, there was the likelihood that their forces would splinter into nothing as it had before.

"I… I will discuss it with my husband," breathed the young queen, trying to maintain the same resolve she'd shown earlier, even though it was doubtful lady Genna believed it. But if nothing else this small reprieve would allow her the chance to clear her head. Besides, this wasn't her decision to make alone, not only was Jon king, but someone who was owed justice for his brother's murder. He deserved a say in how that justice was achieved, far more than she ever did. "You will have our answer soon enough, my lady."

At first the Lannister just studied her, weighing how everything had transpired, and whether her intended goals would be met. "Very well, but do not tarry long, dear girl. It may prove costly… for both of us."

Dispensing with departing courtesy, lady Genna left to rejoin the rest of her family, leaving the young queen and her ladies-in-waiting to discuss the matter amongst themselves, or at least Myranda and Wynafryd discussed it as Mya made to leave herself. "Wait, your grace, where are you going?"

With her hand on the door, Mya turned back to her friends. "Like I said, I'm going to discuss lady Genna's offer with Jon."

"But… wouldn't it be more convenient if we simply waited for him to return," asked Myranda, and perhaps she was right, perhaps it would be better to wait for him, but she was tired of being within these walls. So very tired of listening to one petitioner after another, whose pleas and lies were unlikely to compare to that of lady Genna's offer. No, this was something she needed to resolve now, both for her state of mind and that of her husband's. Randa must have seen it in her eyes as a familiar look graced her friend's face, the one she wore whenever it seemed pointless to try and sway her. It was enough to make the young queen smile.

Kingsroad

There were many points in his life where Jon wasn't certain how he came to be where he was. A bastard boy who became a spy in Mance's camp, a steward who became Lord Commander, and the Lord Commander who became King in the North. Yet at this moment none of that could compare with to what he was doing now, riding after his queen, desperate to catch up with her. The latest display of her undaunting spirit and sheer unpredictability. Mya's skill as a rider was undeniable, having easily outpaced the others in their party, all save Ghost who trailed closely behind him.

In what had been meant as a simple overseeing of the last supply wagons being brought down, had utterly changed the moment Mya joined them in the stables, wishing to speak with him of a matter of great importance. In all honesty though, something in her eyes told him that there was more to it than simple urgency that made her seek him out. Something he knew all too well, the desire to be away from this wretched place. The liars, lickspittles, and the memory of the dead, all about them, suffocating them as they slept.

Then there was the fact his queen was still new to her royal position, and no doubt felt stifled under the constraints that came with it. In some ways one could argue that the circumstances of their previous lives offered greater freedom than what they were now accustomed to. More so in her case than his, given his youthful ambition of taking the black and serving alongside his uncle. Jon could only imagine the liberties her former livelihood had allowed her. So, perhaps it wasn't all that surprising when Mya had pushed her red mare into a full sprint at the first opportunity presented to her.

Begging the question of whether he could catch her, before something else did. While the northern army in principle held the entirety of the region north of the Twins, it did not mean there were without danger. Common bandits and deserters alike would clamor at the chance of a queen's ransom, if not just for… other baser desires. The thought of which reminded him of the ordeal Sansa had endured alone in Winterfell, within their own home. The raw anger burning in his gut gave him new drive, compelling him to push his beast harder in their pursuit.

In that moment, there was only the sound of hooves crashing down onto the road and the fierce breathing of the horses themselves. Until he came up to her side and was transfixed by the sight of her, now deaf to all else in the world. She moved almost in complete harmony with her mount; the short curls of her hair strown about her face by the wind, and her stormy blue eyes were now lit with sheer and unbridled joy. More so than he'd ever seen before, something that only added to the beauty of it… to her. The flutter in his chest only grew when she turned to him and smiled, her eyes offering a friendly challenge.

Any thoughts of ending the chase now were long gone, and for the first time in many years, Jon lost himself in the thrill of the moment. For once there were no unspeakable horrors looming in the darkest corner of his mind, no weighty decisions that meant the lives of countless others, only the enjoyment of each other's company in a rare moment of levity. One that continued until the encroaching sight of their supply wagons reminded them were.

Resting their horses on a slow rising hill, the pair dismounted, awaiting both the passing of the wagons and the rest of their retinue. Scratching the back of Ghost's ear, Jon found himself glancing towards his queen. Her hair was still disheveled, her clothes ruffled, but they were hardly of any concern to her. Instead, she gently stroked her mare's fine neck, still smiling to herself. He smiled as well.

Yet, he quickly turned away as she took notice out of the corner of her eye, hoping he didn't look as great a fool as he felt. The feeling only grew worse as she approached, until he noticed how tentative her steps were. "I'm sorry… about riding off like that. I… I just needed to put my mind at ease, and riding has always done that for me."

"No need," he replied gently, putting her at ease, as a small smile began tugging at the corner of his lip. "It was a fine display of horsemanship, and in truth I enjoyed it a great deal. Morse so than the others, I imagine."

His queen couldn't stifle her laughter, and why would she? There were alone for the moment, there was no need to maintain the illusion of composure and dignity. He wished it could always be this, but as king and queen such things were beyond either of their reach now. "If I may, I'd wager whatever has you so troubled is what you wanted to discuss with me."

His words sobered her features, her gaze turning towards the first wagon that passed them. "I met with several petitioners today, one of whom was different from the winsome lot we've come to know. Lady Genna Lannister, sister to none other than lord Tywin."

. With that revelation Jon fully understood why his queen had been so troubled. He was surprised to say the least, to have one of his house's greatest enemies within the keep. It was strange though, he expected some fit of anger to take hold of him at the mention of her name, but he didn't feel anything besides wariness. Perhaps it was his journey with lord Tyrion that kept him in check. It was a hard thing to know the intentions of a Lannister, particularly the Dwarf of Casterly Rock, but the man had been honest and given sage advice. However, his one-time companion had also shown the world a ruthlessness at the Blackwater that matched his father, who he would later murder.

"What did she want, this lady Genna? Should I venture a guess? She wants a pardon, a place at court, and her son named Lord of the Crossing in exchange for her undying loyalty?" he finally asked, joining her in watching the passing wagons go by them.

His wife let out a half-hearted chuckle, "Three pardons in fact, for her sons and nephew. She's offering the names of the five remaining conspirators in the Red Wedding, in exchange for their release and safe passage back to Casterly Rock."

"Not for herself or her husband?" he asked, admittedly intrigued by the fact she hadn't demanded more of them. Many would certainly think they could get away with it, but if lady Genna was anything like her nephew, she had to know her list of names couldn't match her value as a hostage. She was aunt to the reigning queen of the Iron Throne, therefore a member of the royal family

"In truth, I believe we've granted her a favor by keeping him in the cells." Mya's sharp tongue elicited a look from him but given the standard of men that dwelt here at the Twins, it was most likely warranted. "She seemed to be only concerned with her boys, afraid of what might happen to them if justice isn't done swiftly."

Her fears were warranted, even with lord Umber's fury abated for the moment, he doubted it would stay that way for long. Like him, every moment spent in the wretched place served only as another reminder of the loved ones who were butchered honor demanded that the debt be paid in blood and if their king did not give it to them, they'd seek it for themselves. Having both Lannister and Frey blood in their veins, it left little doubt in his mind of whom the wolves would hunt first.

Jon thought long and hard on what was being presented to him. There had been a time he would have discarded the notion of accepting it at once, and a time he would have accepted with as much reluctance as he could afford, but now… he'd learned to consider every part of such things, or less walk into greater folly. "What do you make of it, her offer?"

Mya bit the corner of her lip, before facing him. "You'd have what you desire, justice for the North and swift departure from here, but there is something…" In the distance a small thunder of hooves could be heard drawing near as the pair continued their discourse.

"What? Do you believe she has another motive?" If Jon had asked that of anyone else, he imagined they'd have scoffed and said, 'Lying is all a Lannister knows how to do.' Mya did neither, instead she mulled over her thoughts.

Her eyes briefly shifted to their lost party, coming up from behind with great haste, no doubt relieved to see that nothing had befallen their king and queen in their absence. When she spoke, her voice couldn't hide her suspicions. "When Wyn asked lady Genna of her nephew, she seemed… irked, like she was hoping he would go unnoticed in the negotiations. Perhaps it's nothing, but he was born a Lannister and has been in her care for years, and before that Tywin's. It makes me wonder if some part of the Old Lion still lives in the boy."

"Maybe," he replied, signing in frustration at the intricacy of their dilemma. If they refused this offer, they risked facing dissention from within their own ranks. But if they accepted, they risked freeing an enemy they'd have to face on the field. "Still, he's just a boy, one who's never seen a battlefield before, lady Genna told you as much."

It was a fool's notion, one that he didn't truly believe himself. Mya was no different, but nothing could have prepared him for what she said next, though her words little more than a whisper. "The same was said about your brother, yet he won every battle he fought against the Lannisters."

Her words were hard to refute. Robb, a green boy, had repeatedly outmaneuvered and defeated armies led by tested warriors and generals. There were some in this world who had an innate gift for warfare, but whether Tyrek was one of these men or not, he was still a threat. Even more so when he considered what the boy stood to inherit, should his royal cousins meet their end at this war's conclusion. Sansa had seen Queen Cersei's resolve herself during the Siege of King's Landing. Rather than submitting to king Stannis, Cersei had ordered ser Ilyn Payne to slit their throats along with every other woman and child held up in Meagor's Keep. If the Lioness was willing to die then, instead of relinquishing her power… Well, it was unlikely she'd choose differently in this war either.

Leaving him with one simple yet imperative question, who would the Westerlands follow, after the deaths of Cersei and her brother? Even if lord Tyrion was still alive, and returned to Westeros, no man from his homeland would ever follow a dwarf, let alone one who murdered his own father. Kin slaying was among the foulest crimes in the eyes of both gods and men. In accordance with tradition, as the last living male heir to the main Lannister bloodline; Casterly Rock, the Westerlands, and all their riches would pass on to Tyrek. All of which would be of greater use in the Long Night, instead of perpetuating this conflict longer than need be.

When ser Davos and the others, now dismounted from their horses, approached them, Jon silently bayed them to hold for a moment. The old knight understood, bowing his head before gesturing the others to take several paces back, allowing the royal pair to finish their talks in private.

"Have you decided, my king," asked Mya, as the last of the wagons trudged by, following in the treks of those that came before.

Meeting her stormy blue eyes, the White Wolf found new resolve in his decision, believing it to be the best and perhaps only reliable course. "I'll want to meet them, get a measure of who they are first, and if they pose no threat, I'll consent to releasing her sons. Only her sons though, her nephew will be sent to Winterfell as a hostage until the war's end."

"What about lady Genna?" asked his queen, her voice expressing the same weariness he felt. "I doubt ti would be wise to let them stay together."

He had to agree, better to keep them apart than allow them the opportunity to conspire against them. Besides, having her close at hand might prove advantageous to their cause. Like the Boltons, the Lannisters' hold on the Riverlands was rooted in fear and the threat of arms. If they showed the rivermen that they held one of the golden lions, they'd see the Iron Throne's hold over them wasn't as strong as they thought. Many would rally behind his banners as they did with Robb. As they readied to depart a thought occurred to him, how many times in the last century had the North stood at this crossroad.

Here he was, leading his fellow northmen in open rebellion against the Iron Throne. Just like his brother, and their father before them. 'Only the banners change,' he thought bitterly, as he pondered the past and that of the future. There were so many questions that plagued his conscious, but none more so than what victory would mean for him and his people. If they achieved everything they desired; the Lannisters deposed, all Seven Kingdoms marshalling their strength against the White Walkers, and by some miracle they survive the Long Night. What then?

He could hardly see himself ascending that damned throne, enough northern blood had been spilled in its name. The idea of taking residence in King's Landing, he'd sooner lick the bottom of Tormund's boot. The North was his home, it's where he belonged. But the concept of the North had changed drastically from the moment the Vale declared itself for house Stark. Whether he liked it or not, the North was embroidered with the South in ways that can never be undone.

"It's not going to get easier, is it?" Mya's voice put an end to his own musings. Turning to his Queen of Winter, Jon could see the conflict in her eyes. The look of self-doubt, of being overwhelmed by the weight of their every decision… and that of haunting acceptance. She knew the answer to her own question before even uttering it. They were both bound to make these decisions till their final days. Once again, remorse wracked his heart for having forced Mya into this life. A woman of her spirit, and kind heart deserved far better than a live marred by guilt and uncertainty.

He wanted nothing more than to assure her that it wouldn't be so, that there would come a time where they wouldn't be so burdened, but it would have been a bitter lie. "No. If I've learned one thing in this life, is that great or small we're all faced with hard choices, and that we must deal with them as best as we can."

"And how do 'we' do that?"

"I suppose by discussing them together and with those we can trust, so that we can do what needs to be done." There was little else Jon could say on it, his tenure as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch had shown him that much was true.

The slightest smirk graced Mya's lips. "Hmm… that simple, is it?" It did sound simple when he put it like that, even though he knew it wasn't. Yet in this moment, looking into her eyes all he could do was smile back at her. It was strange, after so many years of hardship and sacrifice to feel at ease, in her company. When she moved to mount her horse, he offered his hand almost without thought. She had no need for his help, Jon had witnessed the former trail guide do so by herself countless times.

This time however, she accepted it, placing her hand in his. He could feel every hard worn mark and curve in her palm. Her hands were hardly that of a delicate lady, they belonged to someone who had toiled all their lives, and yet her touch was gentle. Unbothered by the scars of his own hand, Mya lifted herself up and settled into the saddle. But their hands hadn't parted yet, and he didn't want them to. His eyes met hers once more and there was an uncertain warmth building in his chest, something he hadn't felt in a very long time.

Mya seemed just as transfixed as he was, until a slight flush in her cheeks made her turn away. Releasing their hands, Jon felt as though something had changed in that moment. There had been respect and a growing fondness between them, but this… this was different. Perhaps it was her enduring spirit, or perhaps it was her willingness to embrace the duties of being queen. Regardless, the feelings stirring within him were raw and conflicting. His feelings at present clashed with those of the past.

'Ygritte,' he thought bitterly, wondering what his first love would make of everything, of her, before forcing her memory aside. Now was not the time for that, not when the war with house Lannister was about to begin in earnest. These growing questions could wait… for now at least.

Wow, finally. Sorry about the delay but trying to balance writing with the other aspects of life can be taxing. Anyway, like always let me know what you guys think with a constructive review.