"That's him, right there," the bartender said, pointing to an ordinary gray-haired man.

"You sure?" Theon asked again. "Ser Davos Seaworth."

The barman shrugged, picking up a glass. "Don't care if you believe me."

Slowly, Theon approached the man. Three other men sat at his table in the corner of the tavern, all looking at least a little disreputable and laughing heartily with the supposed knight.

"Ser Davos?" Theon asked, standing in front of his table. "Can I have a word?"

"Aye," Davos said with a half-smile. "You can even have more than one." He gestured to an empty chair. "Sit, join us, my friend."

Theon hesitated. He didn't exactly want to tell a group of men that he represented a rebel king any of Stannis's men would likely despise. "Alone, that is."

Davos looked at his companions but they were already standing from the table, clapping him on the back as they left.

Theon slipped into the empty seat. Davos leaned forward, some of the joviality gone from his face. "Now, you had better be worth my time since you made my friends leave. Who did you say you are?"

"Theon Greyjoy," he said, gesturing to the serving girl for two ales. "And I come on behalf of Robb Stark."

Davos spluttered into his mug. "Stark, you say? You want me to take you to Stannis, to treat with him and you find me here? Bloody terrible sense of humor, the Starks."

Theon shook his head. "I trust you to bring my terms to Stannis."

Davos set his mug down, watching Theon carefully. "Do you, now? And how am I to know you represent the Young Wolf?"

The serving girl set the two mugs down. Davos still hadn't finished the one in his hand and didn't flick even a glance at the new mug. Theon took a long drink of his own. They were already off to a bad start and he had little else to say that Davos would like.

"I'm not here to negotiate a full treaty," Theon said. "Robb won't bend the knee."

"Then he's Stannis's enemy," Davos replied.

"Maybe," Theon shrugged, taking a drink. "But as long as the Lannisters are his enemy first, the Starks are more than happy to be acquaintances with your king."

Davos stared at him. "Keep talking."

Theon leaned closer. "They want two things. The first: the right to mine dragonglass from Stannis's island of Dragonstone."

Davos frowned. "A near useless rock. They can have it at a fair wage."

Theon nodded. He didn't even know why Sansa wanted it, but she'd been desperate about the point. A fair wage would be a bargain.

"The second," he continued, "is that they want to help you win the Battle of the Blackwater."

Davos laughed. "They want to join forces, is that it? They think a few swords in Lannister guts will make Stannis their ally?"

Theon shook his head. "They have their hands full with Lannisters where they are. They're happy to let Stannis do all the killing."

"How do they plan to help, then, boy?" Davos said with a smirk.

Theon grinned back. "They've come across knowledge of the Lannisters' defenses of King's Landing. They're willing to trade that knowledge for the protection of one of their allies."

"And who's that?" Davos asked.

Theon swallowed. According to Sansa, their 'ally' had never raised a Stark banner and would be furious that they were trying to save him. But no one gave things away for free, so the Starks might as well try to get something for their knowledge. "Tyrion Lannister. The Imp."

Davos laughed. He finished his ale in a swig, then picked up the mug Theon had bought for him and started in on it. Then he laughed again. "Are you addled, boy? That's Joffrey's Acting Hand of the King. No. We'll not trade for the Imp."

Theon shrugged, looking unconcerned. "How do you think we got such accurate knowledge of the defenses?"

Davos stared at him, stared hard. He drummed his knuckle-less fingers on the table. "What's the offer?"

Theon couldn't fight down his grin. He had him. "I tell you a ridiculous story that sounds too outlandish to be true, you laugh at me, but when you get to the Blackwater, if that outlandish story happens to be true, you try your best to spare the Imp."

Davos frowned. "You're relying entirely on my word."

Theon nodded. "Your word and Stannis's."

"There's no assurances, even if we do try to protect the Imp, that we can get him out alive before some foot soldier stabs him. It's a war, boy."

"I've fought in my share of battles," Theon had to interject. "If he dies, the North will accept fair compensation."

"Fair?" Davos frowned.

"A king sitting on the Iron Throne is inclined to be generous." Theon took another drink, truly unconcerned. "Do you want our knowledge or not?"

Another added benefit, one Sansa hadn't said, is this negotiation let Stannis know that the North was a powerhouse of spying intelligence. One that any wise King would not cross lightly.

"Alright," Davos said. "Tell me your outlandish story. If it happens to be true, you have my word that we'll spare the Imp if we can."

Theon leaned closer, savoring the drama of it all. "There will be a ship in Blackwater Bay, without lights on it of any kind. It'll be so dark that you'll barely see it before you stumble into it. And when all of Stannis's boats are clustered around it, a Lannister archer will light it on fire." Theon took a swig of his ale. "The boat will be filled with wildfire. It'll pour out gallons into the Bay before it explodes."

"Gallons!" Davos laughed, as Theon had warned him he would. "That would cost tens of thousands of gold dragons!"

"Closer to a million, actually," Theon replied. "Ten thousand jars of Wildfire. What do you estimate that costing?"

That made Davos pause. "You can't be serious."

"They pull the Royal Fleet out of the harbor for this," Theon continued. "If there's even a chance I'm right, you can use this knowledge to slaughter them."

Davos shook his head. "Little chance of that, Greyjoy. I'm afraid the next time you see your friend the Imp's head, it'll be decorating a spike."

With a nod, Davos stood, tossing some coins on the table for his own ales.

Theon stayed staring down at the coins on the table and the rings of water the mugs had left behind in the wood. Well, that was a failure. Sansa had said Stannis heeded Davos's counsel, but the Onion Knight had turned out to be nothing more than a skeptical fisherman. What use would that be to the Starks?

Loud laughter across the tavern drew Theon's eye.

"Look at this!" a man said, holding up a silver pitcher embossed with a fist. "Lord Glover's personal effects! I've always wanted to feel like a highborn lad when I pour my ale."

More laughter followed as the man pantomimed pouring their drinks.

At the Battle of the Twins, when Theon had been knocked to the ground with a Lannister bearing down on him, it had been Lord Glover's spear that sprouted in the man's stomach. And when Glover had been stabbed in the arm for the gesture, it had been Theon's sword that had ridded that Lannister of his bowels. Later, getting stitched up across from each other, Theon had nodded at Glover; Glover had nodded back. It was all that needed to be said.

"Where did you get that?" Theon called to the man with the silver pitcher.

The man grinned. "From an ironborn down in Seaguard. Selling candlesticks, paintings, the lot. Apparently the Glovers got more loot stashed away than they let on."

Ironborn. Theon had heard that the ironborn had attacked the North, but not that they'd sacked Deepwood Motte. The Glovers were a loyal and strong family. It would be a major blow to Robb's cause.

Theon stood, tossing coins of his own on the table. He could ride back to Robb, could fight in his battles, could be his trusted errand boy – fit to treat with lords and rescue sisters, but god forbid he do more than that. Or… he could do something to help win Robb's war for him.

Casks of wine and a treaty signed with the Stark seal waited back in Robb's camp, set aside to offer Balon Greyjoy, but Theon would have to do without. He was their Heir. He shouldn't have to come bearing gifts.

His hand slipped to the necklace in his pocket, tracing over the Lannister crest. Sansa had warned him that he'd betray Robb, that he'd fail, but Theon wondered how much of her warning still held true. He wouldn't touch Winterfell, not with ten thousand men at his back. Bran and Rickon… well, if they weren't quite his brothers, they were Robb's brothers, were Sansa's brothers. Even if he wouldn't die protecting them, the least he could do was not put them in danger. The 'other' Theon, the one Sansa had known, had died for Bran. Why would he spit upon that sacrifice?

Still…

His fingers ran across the shape of the lion once again.

Theon turned to the barman. "Where's the nearest maester? I need to get a letter off."

. . .

"Arya's been spending too much time around that blacksmith boy," Robb said, rifling through the papers on his desk. "While Mother's away, do you think you can do something about it?"

Sansa smiled from her chair next to him, adding stitches to her embroidery. "I'd leave them be."

"Oh, really?" Robb said, looking pained. "And why's that, Sansa? She can't play with butcher's boys and blacksmiths all her days. She's a lady and sooner or later she's got to start acting like it."

Sansa's smile widened.

"Don't look at me like that," Robb said with a groan. "You know something, don't you? Stop being smug and spit it out."

Sansa couldn't stop her grin. "He's Robert Baratheon's bastard. The only one left alive. If Stannis dies…"

Robb ran a hand down his face. "By the gods. He'd be the heir to the Iron Throne." He glared at Sansa through his fingers. "How long have you known?"

Sansa's smile vanished. "Father discovered it back in King's Landing," she said softly. "It's part of what got him killed." Stuffing down her sorrow, she continued on. "Not only do I think it's a good idea to let Arya spend time with that blacksmith… I think we should let her train in arms. Officially."

Robb dropped his papers. "You're not serious."

"I've never been more serious," Sansa replied. "Brienne's here in camp and she's a fully-titled lady – the Heir of the Sapphire Isle. Maege and Dacey Mormont fight for your cause. Are they not suitable warriors? I'd be afraid to tell them to their faces."

"It's different," Robb said, with that pained tone he reserved just for her. "She's Arya Stark. She'd be a laughingstock among the men. She'd make us a laughingstock."

"She's the sister of their king," Sansa replied. "They wouldn't dare laugh. And even if they did," she continued, overriding Robb's protests, "They wouldn't be laughing for long. Arya will be phenomenal."

"You can't know that," Robb scoffed.

"I can," Sansa replied with assurance. From the stubborn set of her brother's face, she could tell it hadn't come close to convincing him. Immediately, she changed tack. "Who's going to protect me when I'm off and married to some foreign lord? You, locked far away in Winterfell? Uncle Edmure, the most useless lord in all the Riverlands? Or perhaps Aunt Lysa?"

That last prod made Robb look murderous, so she continued on before his dislike of Lysa distracted him. "Theon has protected me so far but he's not your bannerman; he's not a knight. It's his duty to rule the Iron Islands, not look after your wayward sister. So who, then?"

"Ser Rodrik Cassel and Brienne of Tarth are both sworn to our House," Robb replied. "We're not helpless, Sansa."

Sansa shook her head. "Brienne is sworn to Mother, not to the Starks. Ser Rodrik will defend Winterfell, as is his duty." With a deep breath, she pressed ahead. It was now or never. "I want Arya."

Robb made a face. "She's twelve, Sansa. She's not a knight."

"Then she's too young to marry off, anyway," Sansa said, though she herself had been betrothed to Joffrey when barely older. "Take the chance to let her train while she's here. If she's a disappointment, I'll tutor her in embroidery and all the lady-like arts myself."

Robb stared at his sister. Slowly, he shook his head. "Sometimes I don't recognize you anymore. It's like a different girl came back from King's Landing and my little sister is still trapped there with the Lannisters."

"Robb…" Sansa said, not sure what solace she could offer. It was more true than she liked to admit.

He shook his head again, skimming through another supply list that had been dumped on his desk. "She's yours; in warfare or embroidery, it'll be your job to look after her."

Sansa beamed. "Thank you, Robb. You won't regret this."

"Oh, I know I won't," Robb said. Finally, he grinned. "You're the one that'll have to explain to Mother."

. . .

Other than her one trip back to camp with Robb, Sansa knew it was her duty to spend the rest of her time with the Tyrells. Banned from the main camp as they were, any chance of the Tyrells having a pleasant time lay entirely with Sansa. Robb could only be spared from the war so often.

"Lady!" Margaery greeted as Sansa's direwolf ran up to her. Satisfied with a lick of Margaery's hand, Lady dashed back into the surrounding woods. "She's a precious thing, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is," Sansa said. Though, with a slight smile of her own, she couldn't keep from adding, "You don't have to pretend to like direwolves, you know."

"Of course I like them," Margaery replied. "I love Lady and Grey Wind's warming up to me. Why, just the other day, he…"

Sansa continued staring, continued smiling her knowing smile. "They're vicious creatures and they only like Starks. One of Robb's bannermen is missing fingers because he pulled his sword on Robb and Grey Wind got to him first. It's only natural to be terrified of direwolves. We all understand."

Margaery stared at Sansa, trying to puzzle her out. Finally, she admitted defeat. "How could you tell?"

Sansa shrugged. "When you hate something, you try too hard to hide it. You're the most flawless liar I know but no one's perfect."

"What a lovely compliment!" Margaery laughed, hooking her arm through Sansa's. "Do you know who the most flawless liar I know is?"

Sansa shook her head.

Margaery smiled. "You."

"Me?!" Sansa laughed as her panic rose. "You're mistaken, my lady. I could never–"

"While I might try too hard to hide it," Margaery said, ignoring her. "You don't try at all. You flounder and prattle and act to all as if you're drowning – a pitiable little thing." Margaery locked her stare on Sansa, not letting her wriggle her way out. "And then whatever comes next is the neatest lie told with the straightest face." Margaery smiled – cold and pitiless. "Am I wrong?"

"I spent a great deal of time in King's Landing," Sansa slowly replied. "They're all liars, there."

Margaery tugged Sansa closer. "See? Exactly what I was saying. A shade of truth hiding a well of untruth. You were thirteen when you went there – fourteen when you left. When I was fourteen, I cried when my cousin put a knife to my pigtails."

"Your cousin wasn't Joffrey," Sansa replied.

"No," Margaery said softly. "Thank the gods for that."

The sound of horses galloping towards them drew both girls' attention. Robb drew rein in front of them, not even dismounting. His beard was untrimmed and his tunic bore sweat stains – he'd slept in it again. On his heels followed thirty men, armored and ready for battle.

Loras stepped out of the tent at the sound of horses and Robb inclined his head to both Tyrell siblings. "I'm sorry my lady, my lord," Robb said. "We've caught a Lannister scout in the woods and a larger party could be behind him. You're not safe here. Follow me back to the main camp."

"We don't take orders from you," Loras said.

"No, my lord, you do not," Robb said, looking vaguely amused. "As you've twenty men here and I've twenty thousand in camp, it seemed the wiser course. Carry on – as you will."

Robb turned his horse away, about to gallop off but Margaery stepped in front of her brother. "Your Grace, we are honored by the offer and will of course accompany you." She turned to one of her men. "Saddle our horses at once. Break camp and follow behind as quickly as possible. No one shall know we were here."

Knuckling his forehead, the man hurried off. Behind him, a saddle was already being slung over the back of Sansa's horse.

Sansa stepped close to her brother. "Robb," she whispered up to him, "Weren't we worried about the Tyrells seeing our camp? Our numbers? Our wounded?"

"Yes," Robb said, watching as Margaery climbed onto her horse with the grace of a queen. "And we're also worried about losing Tyrell support. Getting both of their heirs killed would tend to do that."

Sansa saddled up behind Robb and immediately the company moved out. Managing to make it look accidental, Margaery found herself riding next to him as they made their way back to camp.

"Your Grace, you do us a great honor by coming here yourself," Margaery said. "But would it not have been easier to send a messenger?" Of course she hadn't missed his stained clothes, nor the haste it showed he left in.

Stunned, Robb turned to her. "You are my honored guests. What sort of man would I be, summoning you about like servants?"

"A king, Your Grace," Margaery replied with a smile.

"Aye," Robb said with a laugh in return. "But I'm not your king, am I?"

"No, Your Grace." As ever, her smile could have hidden a thousand secrets. "Not yet."

As they rode, Robb had eyes for no one but her.

Soon enough, the camp was before them. Sentries saluted as they passed. The soldiers walking the muddy paths between tents parted readily for their king and his procession.

"We have spare tents at the north end of camp," Robb said to Margaery. "You're welcome to them. If you'd prefer your own, talk to the quartermaster and he'll show you to open land."

"Your Grace!" a soldier shouted up to them as they rode past. "The smiths need more iron if they're to continue repairs. We're nearly out–"

"Lord Bolton will see to it," Robb replied. "Talk to him and I'll give any assistance he deems fit."

The man knuckled his forehead. "At once, Your Grace."

"The Young Wolf returns!" Lord Umber called out, a grin splitting his face. "Wish you'd brought back cows instead of more mouths to feed!"

Robb laughed. "We'll find you cows, Lord Umber. Don't you worry about our guests."

"Of course, Your Grace," Umber replied, still grinning. "Wouldn't dream of it."

When Margaery looked back, Sansa flashed her hand with the final two fingers bent to hide them. At Margaery's frown, Sansa tipped her head toward Umber. As they passed, he rested his hand on his belt, displaying his missing final fingers.

Margaery watched him with shock, remembering Sansa's story about Grey Wind removing fingers from a bannerman. Clearly, she had not expected him to be so prominent a lord, nor to have still remained loyal.

"Boy!" Umber yelled to one of the men manning a stew pot. "If I see you taste the stew one more time, I'll cut your tongue off to rid you of its distraction! I'd run you through myself if it'd save some meat for the rest of us!"

The man bent double over the pot, stirring faster and avoiding looking back at Umber.

"Lord Umber seems fond of you, Your Grace," Margaery said to Robb as their horses plodded through camp.

"Aye," Robb said with a laugh. "And I of him, now that he's stopped saying I'm so green I–" Robb cut off, remembering who he was talking to. "Now that he's stopped calling me green."

"That is admirable, Your Grace. Anyone can inherit respect from a title. Earning it is another matter entirely," Margaery replied.

Robb gave a wry smile, knowing flattery when he heard it. Margaery watched him and Sansa could almost see the gears turning behind her eyes as she recalculated.

A scream came from the tent up ahead. Robb swore. "I'm sorry, my lady, I should have taken you a different way–"

The scream grew louder and broke off in a wail. Sansa took a deep, steadying breath. The infirmary tent. Every time Robb fought, its numbers swelled. Passing it was never pleasant.

Lord Glover approached Robb's procession. "Your Grace, we can't wait any longer. Word from Deepwood Motte is worse than I'd thought. My family–" He broke off, covering his face to regain composure.

Robb swung from his horse, passing the reins to one of his men.

"Of course, Lord Glover," Robb replied. "I'll gather the other lords and we'll meet in my tent to discuss it." Glover walked off and Robb looked back at Margaery, torn.

"I'll see that the Tyrells have everything they could need," Sansa said. "You have enough on your plate as it is."

Robb flashed her a grateful smile and followed Glover.

But as Sansa turned to look back at Margaery, her horse's saddle was empty. "Where did she…"

Sansa was just in time to see Margaery's scarf trail across the mud and into the infirmary.

"Of bloody course," Sansa muttered, climbing off her own horse to follow after.

"I'll set up camp," Loras said, with a smile for his sister's antics.

"Thank you, my lord," Sansa said, following Margaery into the tent.

Margaery had barely been inside for a minute, yet already every spare eye in the tent was fixed upon her. Ignoring the bloodcurdling screams, the woman flitted between cots, offering a pat on the shoulder, a kind word and a smile, or a glass of water to the grateful soldiers as she passed.

Sansa couldn't help but be impressed. Impressed – and shamed, that the Princess of the North hadn't thought to come here earlier, herself. When men had fought for her at Winterfell, Sansa had been the first to visit the wounded, threading stitches with as neat a hand as the finest Maester. Of course, this time she'd been busy entertaining the Tyrells and trying to plan a course to victory for Robb, but that was no excuse. She was always busy; priorities were always priorities.

Off at the side of the tent, a strange woman caught Sansa's eye. She sat demurely between the cots, a book propped on her lap as she read out loud, her voice even amidst the moans from the men surrounding her. Sansa made her way towards the woman. With few ladies in the camp and fewer still unfamiliar, Sansa could guess who she was. "Lady Roslin Frey?" Sansa asked.

With a polite smile, Roslin closed the book. "Princess Sansa. It is a pleasure to finally meet."

More shame flooded Sansa. Yet another duty she'd ignored. "Thank you, Lady Roslin, for your care for our wounded. Your presence here is such a boon for the men."

"Yes, our wounded, isn't it?" Though Roslin's words were polite, there was an edge to the way she said them. "These are Stark men today; last week, the wounded were Freys."

Sansa pulled a stool closer, dropping onto it. "Lady Roslin, your father's support has been valuable in the war–"

Roslin looked away. "Don't insult me, my lady. I know what her presence means. The entire camp has done nothing but gossip over the Tyrells camped nearby all week."

Both women turned to watch Margaery, bending close to laugh with wounded soldiers. The men smiled up at her despite their eye patches and missing limbs.

Robb stepped into the tent and the wounded's attention immediately snapped to him. Men called out greetings, which he returned on his way directly to Margaery. She laughed at something he said, grabbing his arm. With her on his arm, Robb shook hands with every man he passed as Margaery offered her pretty words. And as quickly as he had entered, he left with Margaery, smiling broadly.

"You may not like my family," Roslin said in her quiet, firm voice. "But Frey men fought for the North. They died for the North. And they'll be marching home."

There was nothing Sansa could say. The Frey's 4,000 was nothing compared to the Tyrell's 40,000 – with money and a fleet, to boot. But both women knew it wasn't just Margaery's soldiers Robb was choosing.

"I'm sorry it came to this," Sansa said.

"No," Roslin replied, standing. "You're not."