Sansa almost couldn't believe she was back on the road so soon, with Theon up ahead, Loras talking his ear off for details on every one of Robb's battles, and Margaery alternatively chatting with Sansa or enjoying how a simple smile could make the Stark soldiers fall over themselves attending to her every whim.

Even Sansa had to admit it was entertaining, watching a man old enough to be her father blush at a simple 'Thank you' from the Tyrell girl. Margaery turned her conspiratorial smile on Sansa and she couldn't help sharing in Margaery's amusement.

But a large, grey and white shape sidling up to Sansa's horse quickly drew Margaery's eye.

"Is she… tame?" Margaery asked, watching the direwolf fixedly.

"Oh, not at all," Sansa replied happily. "She is good, though. You've no reason to fear her."

Margaery looked over at Sansa, squinting in the sun. "Is there a difference?"

"Quite," Sansa replied, unable to fight a conspiratorial smile of her own. "She's gotten quite a liking for Lannister flesh. I wouldn't call that tame, would you?"

"And Gold Cloaks!" Theon called from where he rode ahead with Loras, apparently listening in. Sansa had to smile. Her statement had been fiction; Theon's was pure truth.

Margaery swallowed. "I wouldn't call that tame, no. But is she safe… for example, to pet?"

"Perfectly," Sansa replied. "To anyone who means me no harm. Would you like to?"

She could see as Margaery steeled herself, shoving her fear back behind iron gates. "Yes. I would." Tossing the waves of her hair over her shoulders like a mane, Margaery rode her horse around the other side of Sansa's, approaching the direwolf.

"Do keep me from getting mauled if you can, Sansa, dear," Margaery said, trying to sound amused through her fear. "My father would be so very disappointed."

"I will do my best," Sansa replied. "Robb would be disappointed, as well. We told him we were bringing him a beauty."

The direwolf turned to watch as Margaery approached. Slowly, Margaery offered her hand down to Lady. Around them, all the soldiers of their caravan watched, including Loras and Theon, up ahead.

Lady sniffed Margaery's hand. Then, without warning, she licked it. Margaery gasped in surprise, pulling her hand away.

Sansa grinned. "She likes you better than Theon. Pet her, if you want."

"I bloody told you she didn't like me!" Theon called back.

The girls ignored him. Still in awe, Margaery gently lowered her hand to the direwolf's coat. It sunk into the deep fur, disappearing. But Lady made no protest, her tongue hanging happily out of her mouth as she walked. Margaery stroked the wolf again, her amazement only growing.

There was movement in the woods. In a flash, Lady was off, darting among the trees. Something squealed. Then, up ahead, they spotted her again – chasing a boar.

"Magnificent creatures," Margaery breathed. "Yet again, I feel the loss of having a rose for a sigil. I heard every Stark has one? Are all of them this big?"

"Grey Wind, Robb's, is the biggest," Sansa replied. "But yes, we all have them. Arya has hers back at camp and the other three are with my brothers, in the North."

"Three?" Margaery asked. "I thought you only had two younger brothers?"

Sansa hesitated. Bastards weren't uncommon, especially in the Reach and Dorne, but raising one as a sibling to their trueborn children was unheard of anywhere. "I have a bastard half-brother, Jon Snow. He serves at the Wall and we're all quite proud of him."

Her opinion of him had changed so radically from what she would have said in her previous life that Sansa was uncomfortable even including the 'half.'

"We are?" Theon said, turning around to make a face of exaggerated disgust. "When did this happen?"

"It was a miracle, really," Sansa said to Theon with her sweetest smile. "The moment we got him away from your bad influence, Jon turned into something respectable."

Theon waved her away, even as Margaery and Loras laughed.

Margaery shook her head. "And to think all this time, I'd been told the North was rigid and humorless. What other lies has everyone been telling me?"

"Maybe they meant 'frigid,'" Theon said. "And all this time, you simply misheard them."

. . .

After they'd camped for the evening, Theon pulled Sansa aside to where they couldn't be overheard. "I'll ride ahead to Robb first thing tomorrow. Then, after I've sent him back your way, I'll…" He swallowed. "Go my own. If you're sure, that is."

Sansa couldn't have stopped herself if she'd wanted to: she pulled Theon into a hug. "Yes. Thank you. That's brilliant, even. Everyone will assume you're still back at Robb's camp and won't notice you've left."

Theon grinned. "Of course it's brilliant; I thought of it."

Rolling her eyes, she released him. "You're sure you'll be alright? You remember everything you need to tell Davos?"

"Yes, Mother," he said, though he was still smiling.

"This will be the last time I see you again for awhile, won't it?" Sansa said.

"There's no need to get dramatic," Theon huffed. "It'll only be for a week or two."

Assuming everything goes perfectly. Which, in Sansa's experience, was less likely than rising from the dead.

Her hands reached around the back of her neck, fumbling with the clasp. "Then, here. I'd like to give you something."

She pulled out a delicate chain from beneath the neckline of her dress. Then, opening her hand, she offered it to him.

A lion reared on the front of the golden locket.

"From the Lannisters?" Theon said with disgust. Then, abruptly he remembered. "Sansa, I can't," he said shocked that she would offer her most precious possession. He closed her hand around it. "I can't take your last image of your father."

Sansa remained unmoved. "I expect it back, Theon Greyjoy."

"Sansa–"

"He was your father, too," she replied. "You deserve to remember him."

"I have a father," Theon said. "Balon Greyjoy–"

"So remember both of them," Sansa said. Slowly, she removed her hand from within his, offering the necklace to him once again.

Theon ran his finger along the golden lion. It had been almost a year since Ned had passed. He wondered if his memory of the man had already begun to fade, wondered how accurate the likeness was inside.

But his eyes flicked up to Sansa's, who was watching him too carefully. He couldn't look, not in front of her, not when it might rip apart the few seams holding him together–

"To refuse a lady's favor is a grave insult, Theon Greyjoy." Her eyes danced as she spoke, knowing he would never dare.

Theon snatched the necklace, shoving it into his pocket. "There. Happy, my lady?"

"It's supposed to be worn proudly–"

"I'm not 'proudly wearing' anything with a Lannister crest," he sneered. "Make something with a kraken or a direwolf and I'll consider it."

Sansa positively beamed. "Alright. I'll have one for you by the time you get back."

. . .

Theon set off for Robb's camp at first light. By midday, he'd arrived. All around, the Stark soldiers watched as he rode past, confused as to why he was alone. Theon ignored them, heading straight to Robb's tent.

He flung open the tent flap. "They're here, Robb."

Robb sat up with a start. He'd fallen asleep over his desk. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes. "Who are?"

"The Tyrells. Margaery. They're here to meet you."

Robb finally seemed to process who was talking to him. "Theon!" he grinned, standing to clap him on the shoulder. "I didn't think you'd be back so soon."

"Well, Margaery heard good reports. She came to investigate them herself," Theon said with an answering grin.

Finally, his words penetrated through Robb's fog of sleep. All the blood drained from Robb's face. "She's here? To see me? And I'm…" Frantically, he patted down his tunic, trying to rub out creases.

Theon laughed. "She's a half day's ride east. They'll camp just shy of us, so as not to spy on the troops."

"That's…" With a deep breath, Robb tried to pull himself together. "That's very good. Thank you, Theon."

Theon snorted. "Don't thank me. Your sister practically arranged the whole thing. She and Margaery are 'such close friends!'" he said in an imitation of Margaery's words. Theon laughed as his friend kept panicking. "You're fine, Robb! Just maybe… wash your face, or something. You've got some ink on your cheek."

With a glare, Robb strode for the exit of the tent.

This was his chance, Theon realized. He could leave without Robb or anyone other than Sansa being the wiser. Yet…

The first thing Sansa had told him, the thing that had shaken Theon to his boots, was the notion that he would betray Robb. And yet here he was, contemplating a friendly betrayal on Sansa's orders. Catelyn had probably thought similarly when she'd released the Kingslayer, in that time that had thankfully never happened.

"Robb," Theon said. "One more thing."

About to exit the tent, Robb stopped, looking back at him.

"Who would you rather see on the Iron Throne? Joffrey or Stannis?"

Robb snorted. "Don't ask stupid questions."

Theon fixed him with a rare, serious gaze. "So if I found a way to help Stannis, to help him win it, you'd approve?"

Instantly, he had Robb's full attention. Robb walked back from the opening, stepping close to Theon. "What do you know? How did you find out about it?"

Theon shook his head. "You're making an alliance with the Tyrells. They loathe Stannis. If they ask you about him, it's best if you don't have to lie."

Robb stared down at his boots, his brow furrowed in thought. Finally, he looked up. "Go. I'll cover for your absence. Don't let them catch you."

Theon grinned. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Robb pulled him into a brotherly embrace. Theon returned it, glad that for once, he wouldn't be letting his sworn brother down.

. . .

Sansa sat on a camp chair in the shade of a canopy, her embroidery in her lap, her needle diving through the cloth as gracefully as a dolphin. Lady lay at her feet, enjoying the shade.

"Oh, that's beautiful!" Margaery said from the camp chair next to her.

Sansa frowned down at her needlework. So far, she'd made a grey lump. "Thank you, my lady," Sansa replied.

Margaery didn't notice. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon west of them.

"How about we play a game?" Sansa said. "To pass the time while we wait. I Spy with my Little Eye?"

"A fine idea," Margaery replied without looking away.

Sansa watched the girl, growing more amused by the second. "I spy something green."

Camped on a grassy hillside, with forests of trees in the distance, there were two easy options. Margaery said nothing.

"He's probably in a meeting," Sansa replied to the unasked question. "It's very busy work, running a war."

"I'm sure," Margaery said. Suddenly remembering where she was, she turned to Sansa with a smile. "Oh, your embroidery is simply marvelous! Wherever did you learn to stitch so evenly?"

Sansa repressed her amusement at receiving the same compliment twice.

Both girls startled as Lady jumped up from next to Sansa's feet. Sitting on her haunches, the direwolf let out an ear-splitting howl.

Sansa and Margaery covered their ears. Loras rushed out of the tent pavilion behind them, his sword drawn. But there seemed to be no cause to the howls, no danger at hand. Loras sheathed his sword.

Lady's howls died. The direwolf waited, staring fixedly into the west.

Off in the distance, two howls answered back.

Sansa grinned. "That's them!" Dropping her needlework, she rushed to the edge of their hill to stare. Margaery rushed with her, staring just as eagerly.

At this distance, the party approaching was little more than dark shapes. Yet Sansa was fairly sure she could pick out two horses at the front of the group, two wolves loping along on either side of them.

"He's brought Arya," Sansa said with delight.

Margaery had no response, staring fixedly at the approaching shapes. Then, as the riders finally drew close enough to make out Robb, at their front, Arya, at his side, and five soldiers behind, a sound escaped from Margaery, so soft that Sansa almost thought she'd imagined it.

"Oh," Margaery breathed. "Theon wasn't lying."

It took Sansa a moment to figure out what she had meant. The horses had picked up into a trot and Robb was clearly visible. In his light armor, his summer furs around his shoulders, and casually astride his white warhorse, Robb looked every inch a king. A crown couldn't have done him justice.

Clearing her throat, Margaery turned to Sansa. "Let's go inside the pavilion, shall we? Loras can bring them in and we can get out of this weather."

The weather was exceedingly pleasant, even by the Reach's standards. "Yes, of course, my lady," Sansa replied. "It wouldn't do to look too eager."

Margaery leveled her with a glare. As Sansa's smile only widened, Margaery laced her arm through Sansa's with a laugh of her own. "Oh hush, you. Expose me to your brother and I'll have a rug made from your hide."

Still laughing, the girls headed for the tent. The whinny of a horse stopped them before they could slip inside. Robb dismounted with one graceful motion, tossing his reins to a hostler. He took a step forward and stopped, frozen to the spot. Margaery had caught him with her eyes. He could no more move than a rock could roll uphill.

Sansa stepped towards him. "Robb, might I introduce Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, the Jewel of the Reach." Margaery gave a little start at that; it was not a title she had and both girls knew it. "Lady Margaery, my brother: Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North."

Margaery dropped into a flawless curtsey. The idea that she suffered from nerves of any sort was swept away behind manners both so perfect and so natural that she could have been an incarnation of The Maiden herself. "We are honored by your presence, Your Grace. Might I introduce my brother to you: Ser Loras Tyrell, Heir of Highgarden."

Sansa had forgotten him but of course Margaery hadn't. Robb nodded at Loras, who nodded in return. Behind Robb, someone loudly cleared their throat.

"And might I introduce my sister, Arya Stark," Robb said with a smile, finally prodded into remembering that he had a tongue.

Arya skidded out from behind him, dropping a mockery of a curtsey in a dress already mud-splattered and with a tear up one side. She strode straight up to Loras. "I saw you fight in the Tourney of the Hand. You beat the Mountain."

"Well, yes," Loras said, clearly pleased that she remembered. "I beat him in the joust. But–"

"How do you learn how to joust?" Arya said. "Are there practice dummies you can stab?"

"Sort of. There are quintains–"

"Shall we retire inside?" Margaery interjected. "There are refreshments set out for all to enjoy. It was not a long ride from camp, perhaps, but I expect any reprieve from war might be refreshing?"

With a smile, Robb followed after her. "It would indeed, my lady."

"Please," Margaery said, slipping inside the tent. "Call my Margaery, Your Grace."

"You are too kind, my lady."

Abruptly, both Robb and Margaery realized Sansa still stood watching them with an amused smile.

"Sansa, dear, do join us," Margaery said. "I know how much you enjoy lemon cake and ours is simply to die for."

"Oh, but I couldn't," Sansa replied, unable to hide her smirk. "I haven't seen Arya in so long and we sisters–"

"Arya's fine," Robb cut in. Indeed she was, fencing with an invisible sword as Loras laughed and corrected her technique. "Your brother misses you, too."

Panic set around Robb's eyes at the idea of being left alone to Margaery.

With a laugh, Sansa pressed a kiss to Robb's cheek as she swept past him into the tent. "And I miss him, as well."

"You must tell me all about the North!" Margaery said as servants set out plates around the low table.

Robb stood, looking uncomfortably down at the array of cushions. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

Sansa cleared her throat, subtly drawing Robb's eye. Slowly, she sat, demonstrating how to recline with ease.

Robb mimicked her. His scabbard caught on the cushions, throwing him off balance. Sansa reached for him. Robb caught himself, tilting his sword out of the way so that he could sit on the cushions. Still, he looked uneasily around him, unwilling to settle back and relax.

"These blasted cushions are the Dornish way, unfortunately," Margaery said. She'd liked the cushions, earlier, when she'd shown them to Sansa. "Designed for spears that are easily set aside, not the more elegant Northern blades."

Robb laughed uneasily. "I'll not walk unarmed into a stranger's tent, no matter how much I like them."

"I find it hard to believe you would ever be unarmed, Your Grace." Margaery tipped her head, staring over Robb's shoulder. "Not with Grey Wind looking after you."

Robb turned; his wolf had followed him into the tent. It lay on the cushions behind him, staring straight at Margaery. Robb stretched a hand back to scratch him behind the ear; Grey Wind's gaze never wavered from Margaery.

"I'm sorry," Robb said, shifting to stand. "I'll try to make him leave; I know he makes ladies uncomfortable–"

"Oh, don't bother for my sake," Margaery said, sounding perfectly unconcerned. "Sansa's Lady and I made friends on the way over here, didn't we, Sansa?"

Surprised, Robb looked at Sansa for confirmation.

Sansa shrugged. "Lady didn't look at Margaery like she tasted better than Lannisters."

"Grey Wind!" Robb reprimanded.

With a huff, the direwolf rested his head on his paws, looking away. The moment Robb turned around, Grey Wind flicked his eyes back to Margaery.

Margaery nodded at the servant, who stepped out of the tent.

"Robb," Sansa prompted. "Margaery was asking about the North."

"I was, indeed," Margaery said, taking a sip of her wine. "I've been to Dorne and the Crownlands, but never to the North. Tell me, Your Grace, what is it like being surrounded by ice and snow? I've never even seen a proper winter down South."

Robb smiled. "It's not so bad, really. There's always furs to keep you warm and until you've seen a Northern winter, you can never understand the warmth and comfort of a great fire roaring in the hearth, sipping mulled wine and spiced cider."

"I've always heard people extolling the beauty of the South," Sansa added. "But to me, nothing can ever surpass our mountains, all covered in white and towering on the horizon. The Vale is impressive but too craggy to be properly beautiful."

"You've been to the Vale, Sansa?" Margaery asked.

"Er, no," Sansa quickly covered. Not in this lifetime. "But my aunt lives there."

Robb snorted. "I'd not call her 'aunt.'"

Margaery tipped her head, watching him. "You disapprove of Lysa Arryn?"

Robb grimaced. "I should not have mentioned it. Let us talk of more pleasant topics."

"Of course, Your Grace," Margaery said. "We will say no more on it if you wish. But you've no need to pretend you're not fighting a war, not on my account." She dipped her head, demurely hiding her eyes. "My late husband Renly was a casualty of it."

"Aye, my lady, that is the cost of war," Robb replied, not sure how to respond to this Southern beauty.

Sansa herself still wasn't sure of Margaery. Clearly, she was intrigued by Robb, but intrigue would not be enough to commit Tyrell troops; would not be enough to win a war.

The servant came back in carrying a covered dish. At Margaery's nod, he brought the platter over to her.

Margaery lifted the lid. Inside sat a raw side of beef, dripping juices.

"I had thought, perhaps, Your Grace, Grey Wind might like to be included in the refreshments?" Margaery seemed perfectly unconcerned, but Sansa saw her gaze fixed upon Robb, studying him like an owl watching a rabbit hole.

Robb laughed. "I've never known bribery to work on a direwolf. You're welcome to try."

Margaery stood, walking toward where Grey Wind lay. The direwolf tracked her with his eyes, never lifting his head from his paws.

Slowly, Margaery set the platter down in front of him. Grey Wind never flinched. He continued staring at Margaery, even as she backed away.

"How unusual!" Margaery said. "I've never known a dog to refuse meat."

"He's not a dog," Robb said, with a half-smile.

"Of course he's isn't," Margaery replied, settling back on her cushions. "Direwolves are far nobler beasts–"

"I wouldn't say that," Sansa said, unable to repress her smirk. "Just more clever."

She tipped her head toward Grey Wind. The platter in front of him was empty. Meat juice stained the fur around his mouth, yet his head lay on his paws as if he had never moved.

Margaery clapped her hands. "Oh, how delightful! A clever beast indeed!" She turned to the servant. "Another, for our furry friend."

Grey Wind's eyes still tracked Margaery, but when she wasn't looking, he gave a single wag of his tail.

"You've an uncommon liking for direwolves," Robb said, trying to take her measure. "How did a girl from the Reach come by that?"

Sansa had wondered the same thing. It had taken a great deal of nerve to approach Lady as she had and here Margaery was doing it a second time, with a meaner wolf.

"Well, you see, Your Grace, I've always been jealous of the Houses with proper animals. My grandmother often complains about how ridiculous our sigil is. Who fears a rose? A direwolf, on the other hand…" Margaery smiled admiringly at Grey Wind.

The moment Margaery smiled, Sansa knew. She'd seen Margaery give that smile before – and it had been directed at Joffrey. Whenever Joffrey was proud of something particularly terrible, Margaery would smile that smile of comradery, telling him that she was the only one on his side.

Margaery hated direwolves, if Sansa had to guess. But Margaery knew the Starks liked them and knew how to make herself stand out.

"Robb," Sansa rudely interrupted some discussion on wolves that she was sure Margaery couldn't have cared less about. "Whatever happened that time Father took you and Theon and Jon to White Harbor? I've always hated that I was too young to go."

"White Harbor!" Robb said and laughed. "It must be years since I've thought of that trip. Oh, it was delightful, with all the stalls and sea air and the trinkets from Essos. Why, I must have seen a thousand people in the fish markets, all selling 'the freshest fish in the North' and trying to make it so by out-yelling their neighbors. I know it's smaller than King's Landing or Oldtown, where the two of you have been, but there was something fantastic about seeing even stoic Northerners succumbing to city life."

Robb continued talking as Margaery continued listening. As she asked pertinent questions, he grew more animated. And all the while, a gleam grew in Margaery's eyes.