I'm pulling in a few characters that were barely in the show and are likely more prominent in the books. Consider this a general apology to all the book readers for the licenses I will inevitably be taking with the characters.

In other places, I will be inventing my own where book characters likely exist. Similar to the Jeyne/Talisa situation, I feel like that's preferable to reusing the name while ignoring canon.

The only thing I care about more than consistency with canon is – unfortunately – my ability to easily write this story. If I flipped those priorities, I'd never finish and I'd be too caught up in researching to enjoy it.

Sorry this chapter is so long! I considered splitting it up, but thought it was still stronger this way. Hopefully you enjoy it. :)

Sansa's horse galloped up the steps into Casterly Rock, Margaery's horse only a nose behind. No guards bothered to stop the two most prominent women in the Stark camp.

Bodies littered the courtyard. Blood spattered the steps, the walls–

But Sansa didn't have time for any of that. Pulling on the reins, her horse whinnied as it came to an abrupt halt. "Robb Stark!" she called to the Stark soldiers, hauling away the dead. "Where–"

"He's been shot," a soldier said, and spat. "Dunno where they took him."

Another soldier squinted up at her. "We haven't finished clearing the castle. It's not safe, princess."

Sansa's heart pounded louder. "Just tell me–"

A wolf howled.

Sansa was off her horse in an instant. Lady stood in the entryway to the castle at the other end of the courtyard. Blood matted her fur. Sansa raced toward her wolf and Margaery ran alongside.

A soldier stepped in front of the girls, holding out a hand to block them. "My ladies, stay back and wait until–"

"Touch me and lose that hand," Margaery snapped.

Stunned, the soldier stepped away.

Lady turned back into the castle. The girls followed her without question.

The great hall of Casterly Rock must have once been grand, covered in gold and rich tapestries. Now, its finery was covered in blood. The screams of the dying filled the air. Yet Lady walked toward the back, where many lords huddled into a cluster.

Sansa reached for Margaery's hand, yet again. Good news did not wait behind milling hordes.

"Let us pass!" Margaery's voice rang out. Immediately, lords ducked aside, bowing with murmured apologies.

Finally the last ones parted.

Robb lay on the cot, his skin pale and breathing shallow. A bandage wrapped around his right shoulder, stained a thick red in the middle. Grey Wind rested a head on Robb's uninjured shoulder, one of the wolf's eyes squeezed shut and dripping blood.

Sansa couldn't breathe. Her brother, the King in the North – after everything she'd done – still could die. And there was nothing Sansa could do about it.

"Robb!" Margaery fell forward, grasping at his hand.

Weakly, Robb opened an eye. A smile flickered on his face. "Marg–" He winced.

"Do not speak, my lord," a man with a maester's chain said. "Rest and try to heal."

Tears spilled down Margaery's face as she held Robb's hand to her chest. She pressed a kiss down on his knuckles. Robb gave another weak smile. She smiled back, even as it mingled with her tears.

Sansa felt hollow. Suddenly, she was forced to confront all the things that she'd pretended weren't possible. Robb could still die. After everything she'd done, a single battle, a single arrow, and…

Ignoring the strangling sensation of her own panic, Sansa turned to the maester. In a low tone, she asked, "How bad…?"

The maester paused. "He should recover. In time, my lady."

Sansa could breathe again. "Then, we will give him time." She eyed the man's chain, realizing there was exactly one place the Starks would have picked up a maester. "You serve the Lannisters."

He gave a rueful half-smile. "I serve Casterly Rock, my lady. Now that your brother–"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "You've served Tywin Lannister for most of your life and you expect me to believe that he'd allow you to be anything but a Lannister man?"

The maester paused again, frowning at the impudent girl. "My lady, I am sworn by my order to serve Casterly Rock–"

"What's your name?"

"Maester Garthan, my lady."

Sansa put a hand on his arm. "Thank you for watching over my brother, Maester Garthan. No matter what your feelings toward Tywin, I thank you for performing your duty to Casterly Rock so faithfully."

He gave a polite nod, turning back to study Robb in a clear dismissal. Sansa turned with him, soothing her ragged fear with the sight of her brother. Margaery held Robb's hand, running her other through his hair, singing softly under her breath.

Robb slept, ignorant of all of it.

Behind Sansa, some of the northern Lords shifted. One whispered to another, "And to think we were worried the Lady Margaery didn't care for him. She tends him as if he's already hers."

"Aye," another replied. With a chuckle, he added, "I wish she'd tend me like that."

Whether Margaery was making a show of caring for Robb or actually caring for him, no one needed the comments. "Leave us!" Sansa snapped at the surrounding lords. With murmured apologies, they all trickled away.

As they went their separate ways, one lord remained. He sat in a chair at the foot of Robb's cot, blood smeared across half his face, staring at Robb as if he could make his king live through willpower alone. Even as Sansa watched, he waved away another healer.

Sansa walked toward him. "Theon…?"

He didn't glance up at her. "I tried to get to him in time. I tried, and–"

She rested a hand on his shoulder. It came away covered in blood. She looked down at the rest of him. It was hard to see the blood against the dark grey of his armor. But it coated his side, his legs, dripping into a puddle underneath his chair.

"Theon." Her voice sounded flat with shock, even to her own ears. "You're hurt. You need–"

"The maester's already stitched me." His jaw clenched. "I'll live."

Sansa put her hand back on his bloody shoulder. Theon placed his own bloody hand on top of hers. Both watched the wounded man they cared so deeply for, with nothing to do other than bask in their own helplessness.

"My lady…" A man barely older than Robb approached her, wringing his hands. "I've been searching for my father, but no one here's seen him. Have you, by chance…?"

Sansa blinked, unable to place his face or why he thought she'd know him. "And you are?"

He gave a quick, apologetic bow. "Torrhen Karstark, my lady."

Under her hand, she felt Theon flinch. He spoke with reluctance. "I saw your father die. He saved my life – and was killed by the Kingslayer. "

Torrhen started backwards as if he'd been struck. "The same bastard that killed my brother. You got vengeance for my family?"

Theon hesitated. "I did."

Torrhen gave a stiff nod. "I guess that makes me Lord Karstark, now. I had wondered why he hadn't seen to our lodgings, as he always does."

"My sympathies for your loss," Sansa said, her lips moving almost without conscious thought. "Any assistance we can give is yours."

"My lady." With another stiff nod, Torrhen Karstark crossed the hall, toward where Lord Umber stood arguing with another group of lords.

"About that," Theon said once Karstark had left. He looked grimly up at Sansa, standing behind him. "I'd been planning to let Robb figure out what to do with him, but…"

"With whom?"

Theon grimaced. "The Kingslayer." He lowered his voice, so that not even Margaery, at the other end of the bed, could hear. "He's not dead. In case Robb wanted to try ransoming him again."

Sansa closed her eyes, trying to sort through the new information. "Who knows of his survival?"

"My ironborn and any of Karstark's men who were with him might guess, but they wouldn't know for sure. He'll still be unconscious – for now."

Sansa nodded, still considering. "You can't do anything for Robb by sitting here. But preserving that secret could win us the war. Tell no one. Disguise him and get him into a cell in Casterly so deep that Tywin himself wouldn't know where to find him."

Theon frowned. "That's an awful lot of effort to go through for one, lousy, sister-fu–"

"Please, Theon," Sansa said. He'd never heard her sound so desperate. "Can you do it? I don't know who else I can trust."

He said nothing. Then, after a long moment, he nodded. "Your advice hasn't led me wrong so far, has it?"

At once, their gazes both flicked towards Robb, his face pale and slack in the grip of unconsciousness. War was uncertainty, Theon had told Sansa, before. But it was hard to remember that in the face of such helplessness. Surely Sansa had known something, could have–

"He'd kill his own cousin to escape," Sansa said, and it took Theon a moment to realize she'd switched back to speaking of the Kingslayer. "Never assume there's anything he wouldn't do." Something fierce flashed behind her eyes. "And never risk your life for his. If we lose a valuable prisoner – so be it."

Lose. Meaning, Theon knew, if he had to kill the Kingslayer to defend himself, Sansa would back him every inch of the way. It was good to know.

Normally, he'd give a flippant grin; he couldn't manage one today. "As you command, Princess."

Sansa gave Theon her most formal nod in reply, sinking down onto his vacated stool. All she could do was watch as Margaery held Robb's hand, still smoothing the other through his curls. The woman's grief-filled smile was always so rapturous, so perfect, that Sansa wanted to puke.

Heavy boots clomped up behind her. "My lady," Lord Umber said, with an exhausted sigh. "The new Lord Karstark's insisting he take the best rooms, on account of his father's sacrifice, and telling all the rest that it's on your authority. The bastard didn't even whet his sword in the fighting, and he thinks he can just–"

With an exhausted sigh of her own, Sansa stood. Without waiting for Umber, she strode towards the cluster of lords in question. Bolton gave her a brief nod, as did the new Lord Karstark. Lady Mormont, Lord Hornwood, and a Martell general she didn't recognize stood with them. Umber followed behind Sansa.

"I hear there's a dispute over rooming?" Sansa asked with barest courtesy.

Bolton smiled. "Nothing to trouble yourself over, my lady. I will handle it. You've more important matters to be tending to."

"I am not a healer," Sansa replied flatly. "There is nothing for me to tend, except my brother's business, in his stead. What is the dispute?"

Karstark shifted. "You said you'd offer assistance–"

Sansa looked away from him, realizing there was no hope of a straight answer in that quarter. "Lord Tywin's rooms go to my brother, of course. How many are in the next group down?"

"Two," Maege Mormont answered. "The dead Lannister queen's and the Kingslayer's."

"Which will go to Lady Margaery and Prince Oberyn, of course, in recognition of the support of our closest allies," Sansa said. The Martell general gave a gracious nod.

"Us children figured that much out ourselves," Umber said with anger. "It's the five rooms beneath those causing all the problems. It should be Bolton, me, Hornwood, Mormont, and yourself."

Cries immediately followed from Karstark and the Martell general.

"Why is that, Lord Umber?" Sansa calmly asked.

He jerked his head toward Hornwood and Mormont. "They fought in the van. Roose and I led the reinforcements that saved all their skins."

"Did I not fight in the van?" the Martell asked, his eyes flashing.

"My father died fighting in the vanguard," Karstark said, even more angry.

"Aye, lad, but did you?" Umber replied. "I don't believe you drew your sword, all heroically guarding the supply carts back with the women and children."

Karstark reached for his sword. "How dare you–"

Sansa stepped between them. "The rooms will go to Lord Hornwood, Lady Mormont, and Lord Karstark – for their family's service in the vanguard." More protests followed, immediately, but Sansa continued. "And one to your house, my lord," she said to the Martell general, "To you or whichever lord your prince pleases."

He nodded, appeased. Umber and Bolton looked ready to spit nails.

"And the fifth, my lady?" Bolton asked, with his usual hint of ice in his tone. "To yourself?"

"No, my lord," Sansa replied, with every bit of iciness in her own tone. "To Theon Greyjoy. To him and his ironborn, whose risk all of you gracious lords so quickly forgot."

At least Umber had the decency to look ashamed. Bolton lifted his chin, his gaze never wavering.

Sansa wished she were a taller fourteen-year-old, able to look down her nose at these useless lords. "Lord Umber, Lord Bolton – take your pick of whatever rooms remain. Is there anything else?"

Karstark shifted again. "The food. We're in desperate need–"

"Lord Umber," Sansa said, turning to him. "My brother charged you with this task on the road, did he not?"

Umber didn't look any happier at being addressed than at being ignored. "He did."

"See to it that your good work continues." Karstark started to walk away, but she quickly added, "And Lord Karstark. Assist Lord Umber with anything he deems necessary. Honor your father's good service to our cause."

Umber gave Sansa a humorless smile. "I'll see what your brother thinks, when he's well."

"You may," Sansa agreed graciously. "And until then, you will do as the next-eldest Stark commands."

With a barely-civil knuckling of his forehead, Umber walked away. The other lords followed – all except Bolton. He stepped closer. "My lady, if I may, I don't think it wise to push the northerners so openly. Your brother left me in charge of them, knowing the use of a strong, experienced hand. They didn't follow him easily. And you, well…"

He let the thought trail away, the implied acknowledgement that her even greater lack of experience would not win her any favors.

Sansa repressed the urge to shudder. She hadn't been so close to him, alone, since she'd lived in Winterfell under his rule. Her mind began to shut down, to retreat into her safer places. But she had to… had to function… despite wishing she could scrub her skin of his presence – after slitting his throat, as he had her mother's.

"Lord Bolton," she slowly replied, doing her best to breathe through her mouth and avoid the risk of smelling him. She didn't want any stronger memories resurfacing. "I don't believe my brother did leave you in charge."

When she finally dared look at him, there was an icy malice in his eyes – quickly locked away. He smiled easily. "Nevertheless, in your brother's… absence… the support of his bannermen will be invaluable to yourself."

Offering me his support, in exchange for naming him second-in-command. Sansa looked away, pretending to think. There weren't many options, not if all the lords were as contentious as they had been today. Or worse.

Everyone is your friend; everyone is your enemy.

When she looked back at Bolton, it was with her warmest smile. "Thank you, my lord, for your kind offer. I believe my brother left you in charge of our military supplies and gear. The war would long have been lost without your support."

Bolton's smile in reply was patronizing; one given to a foolish girl who had misunderstood him. Certainly not one given to a rival who had caught on to his game and stopped it cold. "My lady."

He strode away, boots clicking crisply on the stone floor.

Only once he'd left the room did Sansa dare let herself breathe again.

Gods above, the man was a snake. If she took her eyes off of him for one instant, he'd have his fangs buried in her throat.

But there was another throat Sansa feared for more than her own. Robb lay on his cot, still fast asleep. Margaery still waited next to him, though she had switched to reading aloud from a book.

Sansa sought out the figure she needed at the side of the room. "Lady Mormont?" she said, approaching the fearsome older woman. "You fought in my brother's personal guard, did you not?"

"Aye, my lady," Mormont replied. She shoved her hands into her pockets with a grim expression. "For all the good it did him. Gods protect his soul."

Sansa swallowed. He wasn't dead yet – and she'd fight to the death to keep him that way. "It would ease my worries greatly if you'd continue to guard him – or assign trusted fighters who aren't battle-weary."

Maege smiled. A She-Bear knew about protecting cubs. "Aye, my lady. While there's life in these bones, no Mormont would be too weary to guard her king. You'll have your guard."

"Thank you, Lady Mormont," Sansa said with a deep curtsey. "Your loyalty will not be forgotten."

Indeed, it had not. The last time around, Sansa had watched the extinction of House Mormont for their loyalty to the Starks. Sansa swore she'd die before she let it happen again.

As Maege and the new Mormont guards positioned themselves around Robb's cot, Sansa resumed her seat at his feet, watching his sleeping form. Grey Wind let out a low keen from Robb's side. Lady lay next to the wolf and gave a lick up Grey Wind's bloody muzzle.

All Sansa could do was hope – and pray.

...

The Kingslayer was right where Theon had left him. With a knife, he hacked away hunks of the man's hair, getting him as close to bald and unrecognizable as he could manage. Then, he unbuckled the man's expensive Lannister armor, knowing he'd need to find a corpse to dress it in.

"You, you giant sack of shit," Theon said, hauling one of the Kingslayer's arms over his shoulder. The other arm ended in a mess of blood and bone. "Are more trouble than you're worth. I capture an entire castle, fend you off to do it, and I'm still stuck dealing with you."

Theon flung the Kingslayer into a wheelbarrow, delighting in the heavy crack his head made as it hit the bottom. Then he wheeled him through the castle, trying his best to ignore the curious stares. Theon was no liege lord but most in the camp knew him by sight… and had to wonder what he was doing, wheeling a corpse. As quickly as he could, Theon veered into the back halls of the rabbit-warren of a castle, away from the curious gazes. If any of them had fought with Karstark, they'd be able to guess who Theon carried. Guess, and ruin everything.

Theon dumped the Kingslayer into one of the deepest cells, making sure it was stripped bare. The Lannister groaned. Theon slammed the cell door behind him, unable to muster anything more than the barest shred of relief that a good bargaining chip hadn't been destroyed.

On the way back up, he passed a healer woman, stitching up a slice in a man's leg.

"How are you with hands?" Theon asked.

The woman looked up at him, puzzled. "I've sewn wounds everywhere, my lord. Is yours…?"

Theon simply gestured for her to follow after him. If Sansa wanted the Kingslayer as her prize, Theon would have to make sure he didn't rot from the hand up before she could make use of him.

Once they'd cleared the many steps deeper into the castle, Theon stepped into the cell with the unrecognizable man, his hand never leaving his sword. Sansa had warned Theon that the Kingslayer was capable of anything; Theon didn't intend to ever ignore so direct a warning.

The healer woman gasped at the sight of the Kingslayer's hand, falling to her knees next to him. Jaime groaned, but didn't move.

"It's almost destroyed, it's…" She looked up accusingly at Theon, as if the wound were his fault. Theon only wished that the rest of the man who had killed Lord Karstark looked like his mangled right hand.

"Just keep him from dying," Theon said. "No one cares if it's pretty."

"He will," the healer said, glancing towards the Kingslayer.

"Aye." Theon snorted. "But I don't give a shit what he wants."

...

Slowly, the next day dawned.

"Sansa?" a weak voice scratched out.

Blearily, Sansa opened her eyes. It took her a moment to remember where she was, in the dead-filled great hall of Casterly Rock. Margaery had retired to her rooms sometime during the night, which meant–

"Sansa?" the voice asked again.

Robb. Sansa's eyes flew toward him. Her brother managed a weak smile. "Water?" he tried again.

She held the cup to his lips, watching as he greedily drank.

"How are you…" Emotion choked her throat, and she had to try again. "How are you feeling?"

Robb gave a hoarse laugh. "Like I've been shot."

Sansa could only smile, feeling as the tears she'd thought herself beyond shedding spilled down her cheeks.

Robb's gaze glanced around his bed, then fell back to Sansa. "Margaery. Is she…?"

"ROBB!"

As if a mere thought could summon her, from across the hall Margaery raced toward him. She fell on her knees beside his cot, all smiles and tears and worried expressions. And suddenly, they weren't just holding hands, her lips pressed to his, her hands in his hair. Even without daring to touch anything beyond his face, it was a wonder the things Margaery could do.

Sansa made an intense study of the ceiling. It was gold – shockingly – and – even more shockingly – patterned with lions. Fascinating.

The wet sounds continued, and Sansa stood, making sure to keep her gaze firmly away. "Rest up, dear brother, and–"

"Wait," Robb tore himself away for a brief moment. "Don't go too far. I've plans to discuss."

"Plans?" Margaery said, with a tilt of her head.

"Plans," Robb repeated. "Wedding ones. And…" he glanced at Sansa. "Other sorts."

Margaery had only heard the first, her attention back on her betrothed.

Sansa nodded, understanding him perfectly, and left her brother to his betrothed. They'd discuss the important 'other sorts' soon enough.

...

After a week of rest, the maester finally cleared Robb for short walks – though he sat straighter than the finest lady, any movement pulling dearly against the wound in his chest.

"Alright," Robb said with a wince, levering himself into a chair. "Tell me what I need to know."

Even the war room in Casterly Rock had not been spared from Lannister luxury. Dozens of richly cushioned chairs clustered around the table in the middle, bearing all the kingdoms of Westeros depicted across it. Each one had a different type of inlaid wood, with gems marking the major cities and weirwood strips for the roads.

Robb set a grey marble wolf token at the diamond marking Casterly Rock. He set two ruby lions at Harrenhal. With each token representing 10,000 men, Robb was rounding his total forces up – and including Oberyn's to do so. Unfortunately, he might be rounding Tywin's 20,000 down.

Robb added two fish tokens for the Tullys, placing them halfway to Casterly. He put five roses for the Tyrells alongside. And he moved the two Lannister lions from Harrenhal to the road right behind the Stark allies.

Thankfully, it was just Sansa with Robb in the room and she could speak freely. Tell him what he needs to know? As if there were anything she'd love better. Sansa smiled, relishing how lovely it felt to have gained Robb's trust.

She dug through the drawer of tokens beneath the table top. "There's two things you need to know. The first–" She pulled out one onyx, Targaryen dragon token. Then another. Then another.

Walking to the table for Essos at the side of the room, Sansa placed all three dragon tokens.

"A Targaryen restoration?" Robb said wearily, dragging a hand down his face. "That'll be a problem, to be sure. Especially if he comes with 30,000 men."

"She," Sansa corrected him. "And I'm not sure how many men she has right now. Between 10 and 20 thousand, I'd guess. I do know she comes with three dragons."

Robb laughed. "All Targaryens think they're dragons."

Sansa tilted her head. "Right now, I'd guess hers are about the size of small horses. Later, when she burns cities alive, her largest rivals Balerion the Black Dread."

Robb stared at his sister. And stared. And still, Sansa hadn't corrected herself or announced it to be an ill-conceived joke.

"The second thing?" Robb said weakly.

One of the drawers of the table was filled with ordinary stones – for rebellions or unnamed lords or any number of purposes.

Sansa emptied the box behind the Wall. The stones spilled over each other, some rolling off the table and clattering to the ground.

"White Walkers," she replied. "The army of the dead. They're real, Robb, and they're coming to kill us all."

"Is this a joke?" Robb said. "Father killed a man for fleeing the Wall with false tales of the dead walking."

"They weren't false," Sansa replied. "I've seen them…" She started to say, 'with her own eyes,' started to list how Theon had died fighting them, but didn't know how much to reveal when he already didn't believe her.

"You saw this in dreams?" Robb said. "Those are changeable, open to interpretation–"

Sansa shook her head. "No. More real than the two of us standing here. Some things are changeable – these two facts are not. The dead will rise and Daenerys Targaeryn will cross the Narrow Sea, towing foreign hordes and dragons."

Robb studied the Targaryen forces on the side table. "How open is she to negotiation?"

Sansa frowned down at the map of Essos. Slaver's Bay glittered in the light from the window, looking far more beautiful than the name gave it any right. "She can be reasoned with," Sansa unwillingly admitted. "To a point. There's also a point at which she burns every man, woman, and child in King's Landing alive with dragonfire, so I wouldn't count on her kind heart to win out in negotiations."

Robb's gaze turned to the Wall – and the sea of undead behind it. "What more can you tell me about them? The…"

"The dead," Sansa said with surety, where he doubted. "The wights. The White Walkers lead them. Any dead thing not burned will be turned to fight again for them. Even a dragon." Robb startled at that and Sansa continued. "The wights die to dragonglass, Valyrian steel, or fire. Nothing else. The White Walkers can only be killed by dragonglass or Valyrian steel. Nothing else."

"Valyrian steel is too rare to be of use," Robb said, stroking his beard. "But dragonglass…"

Sansa tapped the island of Dragonstone. "I've negotiated with Stannis for access to a nearly inexhaustible supply. If he holds to his word, we'll have dragonglass aplenty."

Robb laughed – and immediately winced, a hand against his chest. Instead, he smiled at his sister. "How long have you been planning for this?"

"Since the day I rode to King's Landing," Sansa replied.

And clearly, Robb didn't know what to make of that.

...

More importantly than planning battles, now that their king looked to be off of Death's doorstep, finally, the men of the North could relax.

They'd done what no army before them had ever achieved – they'd conquered Casterly Rock.

And the victory feast was magnificent.

The wounded had been cleared out of the main hall, with plates of roast boar on every long table, enough to share with every commander and honored soldier crammed into the room. The surviving soldiers outside got to dine on the finer fare that the Lannisters fed their own troops.

Fists thumped against tables in a thunderous roar throughout the hall. Robb waved a hand, hiding his wince. Slowly, they all settled down.

"There is exactly one man here to whom we owe this victory!" the King in the North announced from the head table to the gathered men.

Sansa grinned. Margaery sat on Robb's left, Theon on his right, and Sansa beyond Theon. With Theon sitting in the place of honor, it wasn't exactly a surprise. She nudged him all the same. Theon grinned back just as broadly – turning a bit pink around the ears.

"THEON GREYJOY!" Robb bellowed. Every man in the room cheered. Their king raised a cup in Theon's honor and his subjects followed suit. "Without Theon, we'd still be pitched in the mud and the muck, hoping the Tullys and the Tyrells could find their way to us faster than the Lannisters could. Instead, we feast in the Lannisters' own halls!"

More fists banged on more tables.

At the next closest table, no fists moved. One of the ironborn snorted. "They'd be in the mud and Dagmer'd still be alive."

Murmurs of assent drifted from the other three ironborn. Out of Theon's original thirty, these four were the only ones left.

But Robb had said something else and the responding cheers drowned out anything more Sansa could hear.

Robb couldn't get to his feet without wincing. "To Dorne! To Prince Oberyn, who slew the fiercest the Lannisters had to offer!"

The cheers were uproarious. No one had wanted to fight the Mountain; they were all simply glad Oberyn had managed it.

Oberyn stood, raising his goblet high above his head. "To the Mountain! May he rest in the deepest of the seven hells!"

Laughter and more cheers replied.

His gaze shifted, staring down the table from Margaery's other side. He locked eyes with Sansa, a smirk curling his lips as he raised his cup again. "And to the princess! Pretty little Sansa Stark, who found passage into the lion's den and called the spears north to fight for her. To the Red Wolf!"

"The Red Wolf!" Oberyn's daughters echoed.

Torrhen Karstark raised his cup. "The Red Wolf!"

Around the hall, the cry went up. Sansa didn't know what to say. Her contributions had been secret, had been–

With a wry smirk, Theon raised his cup. "The Red Wolf!"

From further down the table, smiling and laughing, Robb and Margaery did likewise. "The Red Wolf!"

But when Oberyn drank the toast in her name, his eyes never left Sansa. His black-eyed gaze was fierce and uncompromising; like it knew something she didn't.

Sansa looked away, pretending not to have seen. Soon enough, the men settled back into their meat and mead, their strange cry forgotten. Varys drifted from Lord Umber to Oberyn, discussing something animatedly at their end of the table.

"Theon!" Sansa said brightly. "I have something for you. Seems a fitting time, I think."

He set down his knife. "That handkerchief you've been trying to give me?"

She scoffed. "Handkerchief. Honestly."

Instead, she pulled out a package from where she'd hidden it underneath the table. Tentatively, Theon unwrapped it. He held up the black fabric curiously– as it unfurled before him.

It was a black Northern cloak with summer fur like Robb wore. Yet beneath the black fur ringing the neck of the cloak, embroidery stretched down its back and sides, in writhing grey kraken tentacles. His house emblem, in the style of her people, and in Stark colors.

A Stark – and a Greyjoy.

Theon looked up from it, speechless.

"Well, put it on!" Sansa said, pleased.

"I… I can't…"

She raised an eyebrow. "Can't you?"

And suddenly, he flung it around his shoulders. A swell of pride filled her. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could help him weave the hairsbreadth line between their two houses. If the past was anything to go off of, perhaps she already had.

One of the ironborn looked at Theon with a derisive sound, taking another swig of his ale.

There was still time. Thankfully, Theon hadn't noticed. When he looked back at Sansa, his face could have rivaled the sun. She beamed back at him.

Umber stood unsteadily, his drink still clutched in his hand. His other fist pounded at the table. Slowly, the men around him drifted into silence.

"There sits our King," Umber said, shifting his cup to point towards Robb. Scattered shouts of, 'The King in the North!' followed his comment. Umber grinned. "Aye, he is the King in the North. But we're not in the North, are we? We're in the South."

Robb frowned, not sure where Umber's comments were going.

"And why are we in the South?!" Umber continued, growing in volume.

Sansa glanced down her table, at its members. Theon looked curious, Robb was worried, Oberyn intrigued, and Margaery unconcerned. Varys stood behind Oberyn, looking almost… smug. Interesting.

Umber spat. "We're in the bloody south, stuck down here, because the damned southern kings won't let us be! They'd crush the North beneath their boots until we licked them! If they'd bother to look around, we've more than twice the men! Maybe three times the men as that old lobster-headed Stannis!"

Cheers echoed his words. Umber turned to the rest of the room. "We named Robb our King. And a damned fine King he's been." Umber nodded toward Robb. Robb nodded back. "Now we have the Westerlands beneath our heel and four kingdoms at our backs. Why should we settle for anything less than what we deserve? Enough of Southern Kings!"

Sansa could barely breathe. No. It can't be. Not this, not here–!

Umber paused, lifting his goblet higher. "For the Iron Throne!"

"Sit down, Umber!" Lord Hornwood said. "We've no business in Southern politics! We can't–"

Across from Umber, Maege Mormont stood. "A Wolf on the Iron Throne!"

Karstark shot to his feet. "For the Iron Throne!"

Then Bolton. "For the Iron Throne!"

Chairs scraped around the hall, the chant growing as each new bannerman pledged himself to the cause.

"THE IRON THRONE!"

Lord Hornwood remained seated, frowning at the lords around him.

Theon shot to his feet, raising his goblet. "For the Iron Throne!"

Sansa did not stand. She looked with worry down the head table. Robb's expression was serious, thoughtful. Oberyn was amused, his eyes still glued to Sansa. And at Robb's side, Margaery looked fit to burst with excitement.

Robb looked to his betrothed, still worried. Margaery clasped his hand, pressed it to her bosom… and nodded. A sudden resolve stole through Robb.

No, Sansa thought, watching with horror, as the realization of what was happening settled over her. I can't, can't let–

Sansa rose to her feet, gesturing at the men to quiet down. "Thank you for your kind words!" she yelled over the roar. "But we can't–"

Robb stood. Every man in the room fell silent. "For too long have we suffered under southern kings. No more. If Stannis will not give us our freedom – the North will take it! For the Iron Throne!"

Cheers exploded through the room. Umber clapped Mormont on the back, roaring with glee. Bolton gave Robb a pleased smile.

At Robb's side, no one was happier than his future queen. "For the Iron Throne!" she joined the cheers, her satisfaction glowing across her face.

After Robb had kissed her quiet, Margaery looked over at Sansa.

And smiled.