A/N: Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to anyone still reading this. Your kind little nudges of encouragement have been such a sweet blessing and are 100% the reason I'm posting this.

I've been stuck on an incredibly tricky portion and was waiting to post again until I'd solved it. My sticking point in Chp. 14 is now fixed, but the worse ones further out… not so much. With life getting in the way and the rest of the standard excuses, I'm not sure how long it will be until I've solved it – or if I will.

BUT I realized I had four chapters still saved in my backlog! So, enjoy, anyone who's still reading. I think you've got some fun in store ahead of you. Hopefully, you agree. :)

Robb pounded his fist against the table. "The Mountain shouldn't be this clever!"

His advisors fell silent, watching.

Robb buried his face in his hand. "We had him on the run. We had him in open fields. And now, with his armies double timing away from us, he'll be walled inside Casterly Rock before we can get within a mile of him. What. Happened?"

Various theories were offered, the men talking over each other, but as usual, Bolton had the only word of sense. "Clegane is an idiot but Tywin Lannister is no fool. All it would take is a rider from him correcting his bannerman's errors."

"Aye," Umber snorted. "A rider called the Kingslayer. Shoulda killed him while we had the chance."

Sansa sat at the side of the tent, satisfied with silently listening. She'd learned as much as she could of military strategy and tactics from Jon and the endless meetings before the Battle for the Long Night and tried to learn more from Robb and the Northerners with every passing day.

Robb sighed, looking down at the map. "And now we have to lay siege to the second-most fortified castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

"The most fortified, some say," Umber corrected shamelessly. "Not even dragons could have taken that hunk of rock."

Robb met Sansa's eyes. She'd told him her knowledge of its weak spot; he could disclose it or not as he chose.

"Pardon me for speaking my mind, Your Grace," Karstark said. "But we've chased the lions around. We've spanked them, made them bleed. Stannis is set to barrel down their throats. Isn't it time we looked to our own homes, our own kingdom?" Nods and grunts of affirmation followed his words, especially from Umber. "The ironborn–"

"Are being dealt with," Robb replied. "I'm sending Ser Rodrik north along with Lord Glover, Wylis Manderly, and four thousand men."

Gasps echoed around the tent.

"Four thousand?!" Umber said, planting his ruined hand on the table. "We've only got twelve! That's a third of our forces!"

Robb tilted his head. "A moment ago, you'd have sent all twelve."

"Wylis Manderly is still wounded, Your Grace," Bolton replied, standing as Robb leaned over the maps. "And Lord Glover is a fierce warrior but no commander. Surely, there are better suited men to lead this mission?"

Robb's smile held little warmth. "Men such as yourself?"

Bolton paused. "Yes, Your Grace."

Umber and Karstark both nodded at Bolton's suggestion. They'd fought beside him and knew him as an able commander. Sansa clenched her fists in her skirts. There was no way for her to offer military advice without undermining her brother and insulting all his experienced advisors.

. . .

So she'd already offered it.

"Robb, listen to me!" Sansa had said in private, before the meeting began. "You can't trust Bolton."

Robb had snorted. "I already don't. You've seen how often he wishes to torture our prisoners. Have I yet listened? No. But he's the only bannerman I have who can think more than a step ahead of his own boots. I can't risk offending him."

Robb dropped back to his desk chair, about to pick up more reports. Before he could move, Sansa snatched the stack away.

"By all the gods, listen to me before you get yourself bloody killed!" She stood in front of him, chest heaving with frustration.

Robb looked up at her. He shifted his maps away, giving her his full attention. "Go on, then."

"Bolton doesn't just want to torture people," Sansa hissed down at her brother, worried someone could hear through the cloth tent. "He wants to supplant you."

Robb's eyes narrowed. "How do you know this?"

"My sources. More than one, all reputable, and all saying the same thing." She did indeed have more than one eye and considered each of them extremely reputable sources. "Rely on his advice, his command in battle. But show a sliver of weakness, a chance for him to grasp power, and Bolton will take it. He would rule the North."

Robb gave a wry smile. "Sansa, that would never work. Before any Northman would accept his rule, every last Stark would have to be dead."

"Yes," Sansa cooly replied. "They would. All three males, at any rate. The females, he could breed with his own line."

"Be serious, Sansa," Robb hissed at her, dropping to a whisper. "You can't be saying Bolton is going to… to kill–!"

"I have never been more serious in my life," she replied, her voice still perfectly calm. "Not even Rickon would be safe from him. Bolton's bastard, Ramsay Snow, already has plans to torture and rape me."

At that, all color drained from Robb's face. He fell back in his chair, unable to take in her words. Before Sansa could say anything else to convince him, Robb stood. In one swift motion, he crushed his sister to him. "I'd die before I let anything happen to you."

Tears pricked in Sansa's eyes. "I know."

. . .

In the command meeting, Robb smiled up at Bolton. Sansa wondered if anyone else could detect the malicious glint behind it. "I can't afford to send you North, Lord Bolton. You're too valuable to me here."

Bolton inclined his head at the compliment, but continued on. "I have a bastard boy back at the Dreadfort. Let me send word to him, to gather the rest of our forces and the lords around us. They could meet Glover at White Harbor and reinforce him with fresh men."

Karstark was nodding to himself. "I have a few hundred back at Karhold. They'd be eager to whet their blades with some iron-blood."

At the mention of Bolton's bastard, Robb's smile had turned positively frosty. "No." Uncaring about the show of rudeness, Robb slowly turned from Bolton to the rest of his advisors. "Now is not the time to be stripping what few men remain in our strongholds. We do not know who else will follow the Greyjoy example and attempt to prey on the North while it is weak. Lord Glover and the Manderlys will see to the protection of our homes."

"That's all well and good," Umber said, his voice gaining in volume. "But how do you expect to take Casterly Bloody Rock with eight thousand men?!"

"He doesn't," a female voice offered. Her clear, confident tone immediately snapped the eyes of every man toward the entrance of the tent. Margaery smiled, perfectly at ease as she strode inside. "King Robb intends to take Casterly Rock with fifty eight thousand men." She looked around the tent, innocent and coy. "I do so hope it will be enough."

Fifty thousand Tyrell men, Sansa thought with a prayer of gratitude to every god whose name she'd ever heard. And here Sansa had assumed the rumors placing the Tyrell force at 40,000 would be high. With a smile, Sansa noticed that Margaery had even had her dress altered into a higher, more Northern neckline. Though, it still dipped enough to make it abundantly clear what assets hid behind her newfound modesty.

"My lady!" Karstark said, as he and Umber jumped to their feet. Robb, already standing, simply watched Margaery with the proudest smile Sansa had ever seen.

"That is a… wondrous notion," Karstark hesitantly continued. "But this is a war meeting, my lady. It is no place for a woman's delicate sensibilities."

"No?" Margaery said, playing at confusion. "I thought Lady Catelyn Stark was one of His Grace's closest advisors." As Umber spluttered excuses, she continued. "And surely anyone with eyes has noticed the fair Winter Rose sitting across from her brother."

While the rest of the advisors in the tent faltered, only Bolton remained unaffected. "Those are Starks, my lady."

"Yes," Margaery replied. Sansa had to hide her smile behind her hand; Bolton had walked right into her trap. Margaery stepped closer to Robb, placing a hand on his upper arm. "As I will be, as soon as we can step beneath the sight of the gods."

Robb had known, of course, but still, his smile only grew. Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to the back of it.

"Betrothals can be broken!" Umber cried. "She's no Stark yet–"

"Her brother rides to secure it this very evening," Robb replied, with eyes only for Margaery. "She stays."

Their King had spoken. With the barest mutterings, the conversation drifted onwards. Once the men were distracted back with the maps, Margaery flashed Sansa a wink.

By the gods, Sansa realized. This is why she chose Robb over Joffrey. Where else could she find a King who lets women into his war council? Not even her beloved Renly. Belatedly, Sansa remembered that it had only been Theon who had passed that tidbit on to Margaery. Sansa sent another prayer of gratitude his way, wherever he was. She wondered if he had made it to Pyke, yet, and if so, how he was enjoying his reunion. Though she felt spiteful for it, Sansa hoped with all her heart that Theon had never been more miserable.

. . .

Theon had never been more miserable.

His father bent over the maps of the Sunset Sea, pointing out ship locations. "Deepwood Motte is under our control, and Moat Cailin, and all along the Stony Shore."

"Father," Theon started. "I know a weakness, we could take Casterly Rock–"

"I will hear no more of this!" Balon glared down at him. "You will do as you are told."

Theon swallowed. "And what is it I'm being told?"

A smile Theon didn't trust curled the corners of Balon's lips. "A ship has just returned from raiding the Stony Shore. The Sea Bitch. You'll take command and raid the fishing villages on Blazewater Bay."

"I'm to fight fishermen?" Theon said, unable to keep the scorn from his voice.

"Does my Lord Stark find it beneath him?" Balon replied. "On the Iron Islands, we are not given command like spoiled lordlings. We earn it."

"Yara took thirty ships to Deepwood Motte and she's only your daughter–"

Balon leaned closer. "The only nights Yara spent off this island, she spent at sea. She's earned command like a proper heir, not a simpering boy, dressed as a gilded whore, claiming to be my son."

Theon could barely breathe around the shame gripping his throat. "If my clothes offend you, I will change them–"

"You will," Balon replied. "And then you will take the Sea Bitch and raid the fishing villages."

Theon dipped his head respectfully. "Aye, Father."

"'Yes, Father,'" Balon snapped. "You're not a bloody Northman."

Theon kept his head down, without another word in reply, as his father strode away. Only after the doors had closed behind Balon did Theon look up.

He ran through the mission in his mind, calculating supplies. He'd need miners, good ones, able to calculate distances in the dark. He'd need plenty of rope, watertight rations, wax, picks–

Theon would take the Sea Bitch, alright.

He'd take the Sea Bitch all the way down to Casterly Rock.

. . .

The only way Sansa could keep track of how long into the evening the meeting had stretched was when refreshments entered and left every few hours. There had been two rounds of snacks, a full meal, and a round of drinks. Margaery was just signaling to the servants for another round of snacks when what Umber was muttering finally sunk into Sansa's brain.

"Then Tywin can throw all his bloody forces at Stannis and let him mop the lions up. We've done more than our fair share."

"Too bloody right on that one," Karstark agreed.

Bolton drew a line down the map. "Tywin has his 20,000 at Harrenhal. The moment he hears the Tyrell army has altered its course, he'll make straight for King's Landing and begin reinforcements."

"Good," Robb said, nodding down at it. "The more entrenched Tywin is, the more of Stannis's men he'll take with him when Stannis attacks."

Sansa's heart thudded in her chest. "But Stannis could lose."

It was the first time she'd spoken in the entire meeting. The lords all turned to her.

"Aye," Karstark said. "He could. But it's not likely, what with the fleet Stannis has at his back and the pitiful state of Blackwater Bay. The Mud Gate will fall, my lady. You can count on that."

Sansa was shaking her head, ignoring the patronizing tone in Karstark's voice. "If Tywin entrenches at King's Landing, every soldier he brought with him will feel like ten. Stannis will lose."

Umber spoke up. "But he'll take the Lannister fu– begging your pardon, my lady. He'll take the Lannister whelps down with him. Their army will be a shambles after Stannis is through with them."

"Yes," Sansa replied. "And Tywin, Cersei and Joffrey will still be alive."

"Have patience, my lady. We'll get them," Bolton promised.

Sansa pinned him with her gaze. "Will we? With the Lannisters locked behind the Red Keep, with miles of city surrounding them? I'd thought we'd all been worrying about besieging Casterly Rock, which we can assault directly."

Bolton gave a pitying smile, one she remembered with fury from their time together when Winterfell had been under his command. "With the Tyrell forces, anything is possible. After Casterly Rock, King's Landing will be next." He nodded at Margaery, who dipped her head graciously in reply. He started to speak to Umber, moving on.

But Sansa refused to drop it. "It'll be next," Sansa repeated. "After we've lost more men and we're weary from a siege. And Tywin will be fresh and rested. They'll be as safe as if we were throwing rocks. Joffrey Lannister will grow older than my father ever got to before his head falls."

With a wince, Robb turned to her. "If you've a better plan, out with it. We can't fight Tywin and take Casterly Rock. And there's no guarantee we can fight Tywin and win, but we can take the Rock."

"There's no need to fight him," Sansa replied. "Just delay him. Make sure Stannis gets to King's Landing first."

Karstark snorted. "And how do you propose we do that?"

"I don't know," Sansa said. "Do we have scouts? Ways to sabotage his supplies?"

Robb shook his head. "We're too far from him already. We'd never get there in time. It's a nice plan, Sansa, but we'll have to wait for Stannis to sabotage him for us." He turned back to the other lords. "Now, we'll need to secure our supply lines from Riverrun before we move out. Lord Hoster Tully isn't faring well, but Edmure might be able to–"

"The Tyrells could do it," Sansa said. "They're closer to Tywin."

When Robb turned to her, anger flashed in his eyes. "Enough, Sansa." He looked back at Karstark. "Now, I want you to take men with you to meet up with the Tullys…"

All but one person fixed their eyes back on the maps. As the lords bent their heads over the table, Margaery stared at the Stark girl, a calculation weighing in her eyes.

When everyone finally departed from the tent, Margaery snagged Sansa's arm, pulling her along towards her own. Uncharacteristically, she cut straight to the point. "Why were you so intent on sabotaging Tywin? It's an oddly specific goal for one who isn't a general."

Sansa watched her. When she'd known Margaery before, the older girl had befriended Sansa out of pity and to gain a grateful pawn. Now, their friendship was that of equals, as players of the game – rivals. If Margaery chose to wield her influence, Sansa had no doubt she could strip the loyalty of any man, Stark or no. But a healthy fear of Margaery's strength didn't mean they had to be enemies. Perhaps it was time to show a little trust.

Sansa took a deep breath. "Tywin Lannister is the most dangerous man in all of Westeros. If we let him reinforce King's Landing, Stannis will lose."

Margaery tilted her head. "A fitting end for a man as cruel as Stannis."

Sansa shook her head. "I don't care about Stannis." A lie. Unlike Lannisters, Stannis would fight the dead. Westeros needed him, even if the Tyrells didn't. "I care about Tywin. You heard the men in there. If Stannis doesn't take the Lannisters' heads, it's nothing but a poppy-fueled dream to think we will."

"Our Redwyne fleet is bigger than the Royal one," Margaery replied. "There's no reason we can't sack Blackwater Bay better than Stannis ever could."

As she walked arm-in-arm with Margaery, Sansa felt herself growing more angry – and more honest – than she had ever let the Tyrell girl see her before. "In how long? A year? Two? And we expect that Tywin will be sitting around the entire time, waiting for us to arrive? No. You may have the largest army, my lady, but Tywin has the best. They'll have catapults. They'll have pits dug, or caches of wildfire or I don't even know! And all it will take is a single arrow in Robb's chest to send every man attacking the capital home."

Sansa shook her head, trying to wrangle her anger in. "No. If the Lannisters continue to hold the throne, they will come for us, Stark and Tyrell, with everything they have. It cannot happen. Stannis can be reasoned with. A Lannister cannot."

Margaery listened to every word but Sansa couldn't read her reaction. "To Stannis, the Tyrells are as much of traitors as the Starks are to the Lannisters," Margaery finally said. "Stannis burns traitors alive."

A fair point, in truth. "But the Lannisters assassinate them," Sansa replied. "Stannis will hold your father solely responsible for your family's treason. Our combined forces can protect one man from the king's wrath."

"My father." Margaery's eyes narrowed. "You say it like it's nothing, when all of this is to avenge your own. You'd pin our treachery on him, have him abdicate. You'd have the Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and Warden of the South exile himself to Essos."

"No," Sansa quickly replied. "But I'd have nothing worse than that happen to him. If Highgarden bends the knee, especially if they've helped against the Lannisters, Stannis should accept the loyalty even of your father, though perhaps with a levy. When the North negotiates its separation, you will be safe from Stannis forever. A Lannister's enemies will never be safe as long as there is a single lion left alive."

Margaery watched Sansa closely. "Vicious words from such a pretty mouth."

"I lived with them," Sansa simply replied. "I know them. There are two Lannisters whose word I would trust as far as I could throw them, but I have not been known for the strength of my arms." And the dwarf would sail much further than the Kingsguard in all his golden armor.

"Two?" Margaery replied. "It seems an oddly specific number."

Sansa smiled back. "It would seem that way, wouldn't it?" Let Margaery guess which two. Even if she could guess the Imp, she would never guess the Kingslayer who had crippled Sansa's brother.

Margaery stared at her, thinking. Then, finally, she said, "Loras rejoins my father in the morning to secure my betrothal to your brother. Perhaps there is something he can do. Goodnight, sweet sister."

With a final pat on Sansa's arm, Margaery slipped away into her own tent. Sansa was left standing in the middle of the camp, hoping her burst of faith in the other girl hadn't been a mistake.

. . .

Loras sauntered into the main tent in the Tyrell camp, enjoying how good it felt to be home. Well, as close to home as one could get in a war camp, anyway.

His father and Lady Catelyn had been in the middle of laughing at something Baelish had said, still wearing his proud smirk.

The servant at the entrance to the tent cleared his throat. "Lord Loras Tyrell," he announced.

"Loras, my boy!" Mace immediately stood, crushing his son to him in a hug. "So good to have you back. Is Margaery well?"

"She is." Loras tipped his head to Catelyn and Baelish, who both returned the nod. "Though it seems the North has enough on its plate without the affairs of Highgarden added to it. Lady Stark, my sister waits for you by the horses, if you'd like to return home to your children."

Catelyn's smile vanished at the knowledge that the negotiation had fallen through. "Robb, Sansa, Arya? Are they well?"

"They are, my lady," Loras replied, wishing she would hurry. "And the moment you speak to my sister, she can tell you all about them."

With a smile at Loras, Catelyn swept out of the tent.

Baelish studied him carefully, considering. "So, your sister's betrothal to Joffrey…?"

"That is still our plan," Loras replied, turning away to pick up an apple where Baelish couldn't study his face. "But I would like to speak to my father, for a moment."

With his most insincere smile, Baelish departed.

"Good gracious, son," Mace said. "I was beginning to like the Starks! Don't tell me they offended the two of you so grievously!"

"They did not," Loras replied, dropping down to sit next to his father. "In fact, I would say quite the opposite. Tell me, how slowly can we reinforce the Lannisters?"

"Slowly!" Mace burst forth. "Lord Tywin demanded we make all haste to King's Landing!"

"Yes," Loras said. "And I suggest our best scouts do exactly that. Ones familiar with, oh, let's say, sabotaging roads? Destroying bridges?"

Mace Tyrell scowled over at his son. "Did Margaery put you up to this? I can almost imagine my mother sitting here next to you, saying the exact same words."

Loras smiled, taking a sip of his wine. "Of course not." He lied as easily as breathing where his father and sister were concerned. Secretly, he treasured the compliment of the comparison to his grandmother, even though it had indeed been Margaery's plan. Or Sansa's. These days, it was getting harder to keep track.

He had lied to Lady Catelyn. Margaery was nowhere near the Tyrell horses, still waiting back in the Stark camp, attached to Robb no less firmly than if they shared a hip. Lady Mormont waited by the horses, ready to explain the deception to Catelyn in the fiercest of whispers before they made haste back to Robb's camp.

Loras would secure his father's blessing for Robb soon enough. First, the Tyrells had a war to win.