Robb stared down at the war room table, his chest healed enough for him to lean on one arm, though delicately. "If Tywin Lannister's troops are on the move, our allies are still in danger."

He eyed the River Road, with the Tully and Tyrell forces only leagues ahead of Tywin's lions. Around the table sat Umber and Bolton, flanking Robb; Torrhen Karstark, shifting uncomfortably next to Umber; Oberyn and Varys, beyond the Northerners; and Theon and Sansa, at the far end. Behind Robb, Grey Wind slept curled behind his chair.

Maester Garthan had proven far braver than Sansa had expected, daring to stitch shut the direwolf's ruined eye. "Even great beasts need delicate care, now and then," Garthan had said, between stitches. As Grey Wind had kept still for him, only whimpering twice, Sansa's respect for the Lannister maester had only grown.

Varys shifted and Grey Wind lifted his head, his one eye glaring at the man. Varys looked away, gathering himself to speak, and Grey Wind returned his head to his paws.

"I've word that Lord Tywin's forces may no longer be the threat we feared," Varys said. The Northerners looked at him. Varys smiled. "Tywin Lannister has turned around. His twenty thousand men are headed back to Harrenhal."

Bolton frowned at the Spider. "You can't be suggesting that he's giving up? We've taken his home – the sign of Lannister strength and rule of the Westerlands. And Tywin Lannister, the Lion of Casterly Rock, is going back to his ruins?"

Varys shrugged. "Casterly Rock is the most defensible fortress in all of Westeros. I doubt he expected anyone would have such an easy time of besieging it." Almost imperceptibly, his eyes flicked to Sansa, then away.

Oberyn turned a knife over and over in his hands. "If I were Tywin, of course I'd still be coming for your throat." Robb snorted a laugh; Oberyn smiled in reply. "However, I'd be sure I had the siege weapons needed before I attempted it. There's no possible way Tywin will leave the Rock in Stark hands. But there's also no reason to expect he'd throw his men away on a pointless gesture. No, he'll wait to attack until he's sure it will work."

Robb's eyes flicked to Sansa. Oberyn's assessment of Tywin fit with everything she knew of the man. Sansa gave a subtle nod. Varys had been watching – and smiled.

"Very well," Robb replied to Oberyn. "What of Stannis?"

"The Baratheon troops have remained in King's Landing," Bolton said, pointing to the two stag tokens on the map. "I suspect they'll stay hunkered down for some time."

"Perhaps, but not necessarily by choice," Varys said. It burned at Sansa yet again that the North had such a poor spy network. "KingStannis has named a crabber's son his Hand of the King, named minor Stormlands lords for the other positions, and has deposed the High Septon, closed the Sept, and declared the Red Woman his High Priestess of the Lord of Light."

Groans and murmurs of disbelief came from the gathered lords. Few in the room held to the beliefs of the Seven, but even those that followed the Old Gods had no respect for the Lord of Light.

Umber shook his head. "Can't imagine the smallfolk look too kindly on all of that."

"They do not," Varys agreed. "But I wouldn't count on the smallfolk to oppose their new king."

He did not elaborate. Robb looked pained at having to ask. "And why not?"

Varys smiled. "The Lannisters have made a history of abandoning the common people, especially in King's Landing. There have been food shortages, riots–" He nodded sadly at Sansa. Next to her, Theon tensed. "–lawlessness, persecution by the Gold Cloaks, and a general disregard for all common folk from the previous King Joffrey. King Stannis has most certainly kept his troops in King's Landing." Varys ran his fingers over a yellow jasper stag token sitting on the city. "And he's been using them. It turns out, the smallfolk care far less about religion than they do about being safe in their beds. Lawbreakers are caught – and punished. The Hand of the King has made it his personal mission to ensure Flea Bottom is safe to all, and plans are even being discussed to implement a sewage system to reduce the stench." He smiled. "Though I'm sure they'll reconsider, after what happened here."

"There's no need to fear I'll try that again," Theon said. "Once was enough for seven lifetimes." The other lords around the table laughed.

"Lord Varys," Sansa spoke up. She ignored the lords as they turned to her. "You said Stannis won't have remained in King's Landing by choice…?"

He raised an eyebrow, pleased that she'd caught that. "His troops are weary from the battle. Before he marches again, he'd need a worthy enemy. Perhaps those 'Northern traitors' that his Red Woman preaches about on the steps of the closed Sept?"

Robb sucked in a breath. "Stannis can't have heard that we declared for his throne, not so quickly–"

"He cannot have heard, Your Grace," Varys conceded. "Which means he was preparing to march whether or not you declared for it."

"It doesn't," Sansa said. Again, all eyes turned to her. She plunged ahead. "Stannis has always believed us to be traitors. That doesn't mean he's preparing for all-out war against us, not on the back of winning his own. There's no reason to assume he wouldn't consider terms, even some small agreement for partial sovereignty–"

Robb held up a hand. The dismissal burned Sansa as he turned back to Varys. "What siege weapons does he possess?"

"None, Your Grace," Varys replied. "But he controls the Street of Steel and can make whatever he sees fit."

Robb nodded. "See to it that Casterly Rock's forges begin making the same."

"It will be done, Your Grace," Bolton said.

Robb nodded again. "Umber, the food stores…?"

The rest of the logistics necessary for an army on the move began slowly to be hammered out. Robb was good at this, at home in command of these men gearing for a new war.

Sansa wanted to scream. They had no business anywhere near the Iron Throne, no business wasting so many lives in a fruitless battle. She'd tried to impress upon Robb the seriousness of the future, and he'd gone and done… this.

Theon caught her mood, casting an inquisitive glance over at her. Sansa shook her head. She couldn't explain, not here in front of men whose support Robb needed regardless of the Iron Throne.

Under the table, Theon's hand found hers. She squeezed back, grateful for the reassurance.

Eventually, Robb stood. "That will be all for now, my lords." He gave a grateful nod and they nodded in reply, filing one-by-one through the doors. Robb walked to a table at the side of the room, pouring more wine into his goblet.

Sansa remained seated until the rest had left, gripping Theon's hand tightly in her own.

Once the three of them were alone, she released his hand. Slowly, she stood. "Robb, think before you do this. Once you begin, you can't take it back. You'll have all the Baratheons as enemies, and–"

Robb set his goblet down as he faced the wall. "It already has begun, Sansa. You heard the men last night. Did you hear any choice given to me, then? It's the same choice I have now."

She stepped around the table, closer to him. "Robb, listen to me. There has to be some deal you can negotiate with Stannis, even if it's just a delay of hostilities. He'll fight the dead with us! We need the time to prepare in the North, we can't just–"

"I have listened to you, Sansa." Slowly, Robb turned away from the wall. His face was far more deeply lined with worry than he'd let show to his bannermen. "You've helped get me these allies. Stannis might fight the dead in the North, but what of the Tyrells? What of the Dornish? If we march home now, what happens to this force we've mustered? It goes home, Sansa. And the North is left with nothing but the hopeful help from a weak king."

"Weak?" Sansa said. "You heard Varys. King's Landing–"

"Has no allies. Every lord who bent the knee left for their own castles, their own keeps. Only Baratheon lords sit on his small council, a foreign Priestess in his Sept, and you think King Stannis will be enough, on his own, to help us against this army of the dead? No, Sansa. We cannot bend the knee."

"So, don't!" Sansa said. "Go North, go home! Take your Tyrell bride with you! No Southern troops will win against the North, in the North, especially not with winter coming! We will be safe from worrying about Stannis until the next spring, Robb."

"Safe?" Robb frowned at her. "In your previous breath, you'd have me ally with the man you just declared us safe from. Which one is it, Sansa? It can't be both."

Behind Sansa, Theon stepped closer. "Most people are enemies until you ally with them, Robb. That's how allies work."

"Now you're on her side?" Robb said, picking up his goblet and taking a long draught. "I could have sworn I heard a Greyjoy voice last night, declaring I should march on the Iron Throne."

Theon shifted uncomfortably. "I just think you should listen to your sister. She's not often wrong."

Before she could bask in her swell of gratitude for Theon, Robb set down his goblet with a resounding thunk.

"Do you think I can take the throne?" he asked Theon.

Theon hesitated. "I mean, I…" He glanced at Sansa.

"Do you think I can take it?" Robb repeated.

"Yes," Theon replied.

Robb turned to Sansa.

"Yes, you can take it," Sansa said in one breath. "But at what cost? How many men, how many dead–"

He waved a hand wearily, sinking back into his chair. "Everything comes at a cost. The only question is if you can pay it." A long sigh rattled out of him. Finally, he looked up at Sansa. "I'll think on your words. But if the reports are correct, we'll have allies arriving by the day and I can't even begin to deal with any of them without wanting to run them through."

Sansa's heart beat faster. "Allies? Surely you can't have called more banners for the Iron Throne already? Our armies won't be fit to move for a moon, at least, not if we have to build weapons–"

Rob chuckled, and it was the first time he'd looked truly happy all day. "Not for the war, Sansa. For my wedding. See to them, will you?"

In all her enthusiasm, she'd forgotten. Sansa blushed. "Of course, Robb."

...

The Tyrells were the first to arrive. Mace Tyrell blustered and preened and Sansa was more than happy to pass him off to Karstark to deal with. The man owed her for handling the other Northern lords for him, anyway.

Loras Tyrell, however, extended a hand to Sansa… and then brought her in for a proper hug. "I'm glad we'll be family soon," he said, and his smile seemed genuine. "If I have to lose my sister again, I'm glad it's to such an honorable lot."

Sansa smiled in return. "And I'm glad my new sister has such a gallant brother. It's high time we Northerners had a proper knight in the family, wouldn't you say?"

"I would, indeed." Loras offered his arm; Sansa accepted it. As they walked through Casterly Rock together, he continued. "What's this I hear about the Iron Throne? Reports have come in that Robb… declared for it?"

Sansa gave an awkward laugh. "Yes, well, all the soldiers got very enthusiastic, after taking the castle, and you know how ale makes men wont to say the most outrageous things…"

"Well, the Tyrells are all for it," Loras replied. "When we heard the news, a cheer went up through the entire camp. Should I see King Robb about water for our men? We've plenty, but it'd make me happier if we had a proper well we could go straight to–"

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. She'd as soon talk Stannis into getting off the Iron Throne as a Tyrell out of trying to get on it. "See Lord Umber, my lord. He is in charge of all our supplies and I'm sure he'd be more than happy to assist you."

"Thank you, my lady," Loras said, with a gallant kiss to the back of her hand.

...

The Tullys were the next to arrive. Between the Tyrell's 50,000 and the Tullys' 20,000, the hills around Casterly Rock had quickly become a sea of tents. Sansa didn't know how long even the hills would last before the horses stripped them bare. Large armies were not made for sitting on hillsides, but for attacking – as every lord here knew. It wouldn't be long before they marched east for King's Landing. That is, if Sansa couldn't manage to stop them first.

Thankfully, the newest arrivals brought surprises of a more pleasant kind.

"Lord Edmure," Sansa greeted with her most polite curtsey. "Thank you for coming, Uncle. We look forward to sharing our festivities with you."

He gave her a formal bow in reply, with his sincerest congratulations for Robb. Sansa had to wonder if she'd misjudged him; after all, this was the man who'd agreed to marry a Frey for Robb's war, and that marriage to pay for Robb's mistakes far more than for his own.

But Sansa wasn't left with much time to consider… as her mother crushed her in a hug. "Oh, my sweet girl. You grow more lovely every time I see you! And here you are, running Robb's castle like a proper lady! More competent than ten of his best lords, I'd wager."

Sansa beamed, returning the hug gratefully. "Mother. I've missed you so."Such simple comforts, and how long she'd been without them. As Queen in the North, she'd thought herself content, but here, wrapped in her mother's arms, Sansa wished she'd never have to leave.

"Hey!" an indignant voice said, with an elbow into Sansa's side to match. "You missed me too, didn't you?"

Sansa pulled away from her mother just enough for Arya to fling herself into the hug – and surprise Sansa more than if her sister had drawn a sword.

"Looks as if you missed me, as well," Sansa said with amusement.

Arya pulled away. With all seriousness, she replied, "Don't tell anyone."

And there was the Arya that she knew. Sansa's smile only widened. "I wouldn't dare. Besides, since I've missed you even more, I can't give away my own secrets, now can I?"

Arya grinned, knowing it for a joke. And then, after a moment's pause, "You wouldn't believe what Brienne's been teaching me! She's shown me how to punch, and throw a man – even twice my size! – and how to use the hilt of my blade as a club, and–!"

Next to Sansa, Catelyn sighed. "She's been like this the whole trip. It's incurable."

Edmure snorted. "At least Brynden found a new favorite niece."

Arya beamed at the mention of her uncle. "The Blackfish is the best! He gave me a set of Tyroshi throwing knives – just because he said he didn't use them! – and they have different birds on each of the handles, and I'm getting better at hitting knots in trees with them, even though I mostly keep hitting them with the handle–" Arya frowned at her sister. "What's wrong with you? Why are you crying?"

Sansa shook her head, unable to stop the tears flowing down her cheeks. She'd never seen her sister like this before. Never seen her still… a child. Sansa was physically almost fifteen, Arya thirteen, but she'd never gotten to see her sister so at ease, so happy, and so herself. Arya the warrior and Arya her baby sister had always seemed like two separate people. Seeing her like this – innocent, excitable, and strong – the tears wouldn't stop.

"Sansa?" Catelyn asked, all motherly concern in an instant. "What's wrong, child?"

"Arya," Sansa said, wiping away her new bout of tears, though her voice trembled. "There's some people I'd like you to meet. I think they'd like you very much."

"Alright," Arya said, still worried for her crazy, crying sister. "Where are they?"

Without any idea where they were going, Arya followed Sansa through the corridors of Casterly Rock. Sansa stopped outside one of the nicer chambers, immediately turning to the Martell soldiers standing guard.

"They're not here," the soldier answered automatically. "The prince and his daughters are down in the armory."

"Armory?" Arya breathed, following again as Sansa set off on the new course.

Sansa nodded. "Pick any weapons you'd like while you're there. As long as you can carry all of them at once and think you'd use them, they're yours."

"You can do that?!" Arya said, as if Sansa had offered her her choice of castles.

Sansa smiled. "I haven't chosen any prize from our captured loot. I doubt there's a man here who would stop me from claiming a few weapons as part of my share." After a moment's pause, she corrected: "I doubt there's a man here who could stop me."

"Only Robb himself and he wouldn't dare," Arya said.

The two sisters shared mischievous grins.

Sansa flung wide the armory doors. The walls were lined with spears, glaives, broadswords, bastard-swords, rapiers, morning stars, shields, halberds, pikes, lances…

"Have I mentioned lately that you're my favorite?" Arya said, barely daring to breathe. "Because you're my favorite."

"I know," Sansa replied smugly. "But you haven't seen the best part."

As they walked further into the expansive room, the sounds of grunts and thwacks filled the air.

"Move your feet!" a male voice called.

"I am!" a female called back. Another twack. "I don't need your help, Father!"

A side room off the main gallery of arms opened up as the Starks walked further in. A dirt sparring ring was marked in tile on the stone floor, with a dozen spectators leaning against the carved pillars of the cave. Oberyn leaned against the pillar nearest them, turning away from watching the pair dueling to cast a smile at the girls as they approached.

"That's the Viper," Arya said, full of awe. "He's one of the best fighters in Westeros."

"Essos, too, from what I hear," Sansa replied.

Oberyn, close enough to overhear, tossed a wink Sansa's way. "Only when I don't have someone better to occupy my time. Who's this with you, Red Wolf?"

Sansa blushed under his steady gaze, though she raised her chin to hide it. "My sister, Arya. She's a fighter, too."

"I'm…" Arya said, instantly bashful. "I'm learning, at least. I'd like to be, but…"

Oberyn studied Needle sitting on her hip. "You know how to use this little blade?"

Arya rubbed its hilt nervously. "Brienne's been trying to get me to switch to a bigger one. She says I'll never be able to get through plate mail with it."

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "A girl your size shouldn't try." A humiliated flush stained Arya's cheeks; her gaze dropped to her toes. "Much quicker to get around plate mail."

Arya looked up in shock as Oberyn's whistle split the air. "Obara! I have a better partner for you!"

The duelists split apart. Loras pulled off his helm gratefully, dripping with sweat.

Obara flung her spear to the floor, glaring at her father. "I was beating him!"

Arya could only stare in awe at the female warrior.

"And you'll beat him again," Oberyn calmly replied to his daughter. "I have someone far more interesting for you to meet."

Obara stomped over to her father, her fury fading to confusion as she saw Sansa, and then, spotting the girl with her, open curiosity.

"Obara," Oberyn continued. "This is Arya Stark."

Obara studied the younger Stark seriously, instantly taking in her blade. "I didn't know the Starks let their girls train."

"I can outshoot my brother by twenty paces," Arya bit out before she could stop herself.

Obara only grinned. "I'll bet you can, Little Wolf. If your sister's anything to go by, I think the Stark boys aren't half so scary as the Stark girls." Stepping back into the ring, Obara kicked her spear into the air, catching it with a twirl. "I'll go slow at first. Show me what you can do."

Arya cast a worried glance at Sansa.

"Only if you want," Sansa said.

Arya drew Needle, instantly more confident as she passed the thin blade around her body.

On the other side of their father, the two remaining Sand Snakes watched no less eagerly.

"I think she'd take to the whip," Nym said. "Look at her grip on the backhand pass. She's waiting, calculating–"

Next to her, Tyene shook her head. "Knives. They'd never suspect it with such an innocent face. And I'll bet she's got the arm strength to put one through an eye."

Nym raised an eyebrow. "Bet you a gold dragon she can't put a knife through a target at twenty paces."

"You're on," Tyene replied.

"I'm sure–" Sansa started, breaking off as the two warrior women looked over at her. Clearing her throat, Sansa tried again. "I'm sure she'd love both the whip and the knife."

Instantly, both Sand Snakes grinned. "As you say, Red Wolf," Nym replied.

Oberyn chuckled at his daughters. "Go bother someone else. You're scaring the Red Wolf."

Tyene was instantly hurt. "We were only–!"

"I know," Oberyn said. "Now, shoo."

It was easier for Sansa to focus on the duel than the confusing exchange. In front of them, Arya caught a blow from Obara's staff, neatly stepping around it as she swung again. Sansa couldn't help but be proud of her sister, holding her own against a trained warrior – even if Obara was holding back… for now. Even at her most patient, Sansa knew it wouldn't be long before Obara had Arya in the dirt.

"My girls would never hurt her," Oberyn replied, stepping closer to Sansa to speak casually under his breath. "They just get excited. Especially with another girl to play with. I never would have expected one to come from the honorable, traditional Ned Stark." He raised an eyebrow at Sansa, waiting for an explanation.

"More honorable than you know," Sansa said softly, thinking of her 'brother,' Jon. "But far less traditional. I brought her here to see your girls, actually. Brienne's been training her, but they're so different. I'd get her another Water Dancer from Braavos, if I could, but they're hard to come by all this way to the west."

"Ah, a Water Dancer," Oberyn said with a smile as he watched Arya duck Obara's spear. "Of course. She has hints of the forms, but it has been too long since they've been corrected. If you're not careful, she'll soon fight like a great, lumbering, Westerosi knight. And without the strength or size to match it…" He shrugged ruefully. "She'll get run through like one, too." Abruptly, he realized he'd been speaking morbidly, and straightened. "Pardon, my lady."

"Your daughters don't fight like lumbering knights," Sansa said instead.

"No," he agreed with a proud smile. "They're used to being the ones running them through." He gestured with his chin to Loras, at the side of the room, still dripping with sweat as he stripped off his platemail. "If you're trying to be clever in asking if we'll train her, there's no need."

Sansa swallowed. "I apologize, Prince Oberyn, if I've offended. I meant no disrespect–"

Bending to catch her hand, Oberyn pressed his lips to the back of it. "You could never, Red Wolf. It would be our honor to have your sister train with us."

She blushed with the force of a million suns. "Thank you, my prince."

"Oberyn, please." He winked, dropping her hand. "Although I must make it clear that we will not go easy on her. Your sister will most certainly come back covered in bruises, as my daughters did and still do on their bad days."

Sansa laughed. "Whatever your training methods, I know the Dornish don't hurt girls. She'll be safe with you."

"That she will," Oberyn said, suddenly serious. "You have my word."

Obara had tired of patience and with a sudden twirl of her staff, knocked Needle to the ground. Though, she waited calmly while Arya picked it up, before charging again. Arya stabbed forward, forcing the Sand Snake to disengage.

"About what my brother said, at the feast the other day…" Sansa couldn't help but dangle the bait. She had to know where the Dornish stood if she had any chance of leveraging her allies to stop Robb. "What are your thoughts on the Iron Throne?"

Internally, Sansa winced, wishing she'd managed a hair more subtlety.

Thankfully, Oberyn only smiled. He studied her out of the corner of his eye. "My thoughts? Or Dorne's?"

Sansa shrugged, knowing the action came off far less casually than she'd intended. "Either. Both."

Oberyn uncorked a flask, offering it to Sansa. She shook her head. He took a sip, buying time before replying. "You know I do not speak for Dorne. I'm far more curious as to why the Red Wolf wants to know the opinion of Dorne's younger son."

Sansa changed her mind. As Oberyn lowered the flask, she gestured to it. He passed it over with a grin, growing wider as the fifteen-year-old girl didn't flinch at the taste of the sour, strong liquor. She handed it back.

"You didn't come to serve a Northern king," Sansa finally said. "You came to get vengeance. You've gotten it."

"If you want us gone, you need but ask," Oberyn said, tucking the flask away.

"We welcome the Dornish as allies for as long as you'd like to stay," she instantly replied.

Oberyn waited. "But?"

"But after the wedding," Sansa slowly said. "How long would you like to stay?"

A commotion from the duelists snagged their attention away.

"I yield! I yield!" Arya said from the dirt, Obara's spear blade leveled above her.

Obara spun the spear away, looking triumphant.

Tyene rushed into the ring, falling to her knees in the dirt to hug Arya. "That was amazing! You were incredible!"

Arya scrubbed dirt off her face. "I was?"

Tyene rolled her eyes. "You didn't think you'd win, did you? Of course you were great!"

Nym stood above the pair, staring down at Arya. "Wolf Girl. Think you can put a knife through a target at twenty paces?"

"Of course I can," Arya said with instant temper. "I have throwing knives, I'll just–"

Tyene put a finger over Arya's mouth. "Nym never specified when you need to hit that target. Show me your knives, first. I'll make sure that when you show her, you don't miss."

Nym made an instant noise of protest, the beginnings of an all-too-familiar sisterly squabble following after. Tyene led Arya away to the far end of the armory, even as Nym and Obara continued the squabble.

Sansa couldn't help but grin, watching Arya so at home among her own kind. "They're marvelous," she said to Oberyn.

He made a murmur of agreement. "You asked how long I would like to stay?" His eyes glittered as he turned towards Sansa. "Depends if there's something worth staying for."

She raised an eyebrow, ignoring his shameless flirt. "What could tempt Dorne to stay north?"

"Oh, many things, I think," he said, looking away. "Though I suspect you know them as well as I." Pulling out a knife, he twirled it over and under his hand as he spoke. "When you wrote your letter, Dorne's interests were more… complicated. With a Baratheon princess on our hands, our allegiances were sealed. Now, with Tristane betrothed to the incestuous, bastard, Lannister sister of a dead false king, Dorne's alliances are much more… available."

Sansa knew better than to insult him by asking after the welfare of Myrcella. Of course the ex-princess would be safe in Dorne. Sansa couldn't help but be relieved; after all her fears, the best royal Lannister had indeed been preserved from her family's fate.

"You've gotten your vengeance against Robert, against Tywin, against the Mountain," Sansa softly asked. "Do you want vengeance against Stannis?"

Oberyn turned toward her, studying her reaction. "What does the Red Wolf want? I suspect it may not be the same as her king."

"I am loyal to my brother, the King in the North," Sansa automatically replied. Though, the times she'd said the same about a far different king caught her by surprise. Instead of an answer, she decided to ask, "Why do you and your daughters call me the Red Wolf?"

He seemed as pleased by that question as by any answer. "Why do they call me the Viper?"

"Because you know poisons and are deadly quick in combat–"

He wagged his finger, stopping it a breath above her lips. "Because titles have power – far more so than names. Do not run from yours."

With a wink, he removed the finger, sauntering off after his girls.

...

There was one more ally that Sansa had been meaning to see for some time. The prospect was daunting enough without the fact that he kept watching her, scrutinizing her as if she was some sort of… She didn't quite know what, but it was unsettling, nonetheless.

Sansa knocked on the open door of his tiny, out-of-the-way room. "Lord Varys?"

"Sansa Stark!" Varys said, rising instantly to gesture her inside and pulling out a chair at the table where he'd been busy composing letters. "Sit, please, and tell me what brings you all the way down to this corner of the castle?"

Sansa sat, calmly smoothing her skirts. "How are you finding your stay here at the Rock?"

Varys smiled, sitting calmly across from her. "I am enjoying it quite well, as I am sure you know."

She did not. Her polite smile never wavered.

"I am surprised to see the Starks with so many friends here in the south," he continued, unprompted. "I have never known any Northerner to be so well-connected."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "I have found that one makes friends, when one is friendly."

Varys leaned forward, even more engaged than before. "And next you'll tell me that chaos is a ladder?"

Sansa startled backwards.

"No?" Varys said. "Not one of Littlefinger's, but familiar with him? Interesting."

"What do you want, Lord Varys?" Sansa said, entirely out of her depth.

"Normally, I would say, 'the good of the realm,'" he replied, calmly folding one of his letters and stamping his seal onto it. "But a different interest has caught my fancy, as of late." When he looked up, a cold calculation had filled his eyes. "I want to know how a girl, a mere hostage, a Stark stranded south, managed to run a better network of eyes-and-ears from under Lannister guard than I managed on their small council."

Her mouth went dry. "Lord Varys, I…"

He tipped his head, calmly waiting. "Yes?"

The silence stretched.

"Perhaps it has something to do with how her brother, the Young Wolf, has won so many battles?" Varys said.

"No," Sansa replied. "Robb's a talented commander. He doesn't need help."

Varys leaned forward. "You invited me into your camp, Lady Sansa. I tend to choose my friends carefully, but I'm curious as to why you offered me the invitation."

"I had no part in you being invited into our camp, Lord Varys–"

"No?" he said, never ceasing his study. "I almost find it conspicuous that you did not. If the whispers I've heard are correct, your King in the North does very little without the advice of his Red Wolf."

Sansa's hands tightened in her skirts. If only. But Varys hadn't been wrong – if she'd told Robb that Varys was a traitor, she had no doubt that he'd have been escorted from the camp – possibly without a head. Baelish would be, she had no doubt, and on nothing more than her same word.

"Answer me one thing, Lady Sansa," Varys said, with the utmost sincerity. "When you reassured Lady Margaery, during the attack on Casterly Rock, you spoke of a battle that you had witnessed. A stirring description, if I say so myself. Which battle was it that you were describing?"

"I'd heard tales, my lord, of the wars–"

He shook his head. "I know the sound of tales, my lady. You told Margaery that you had seen a battle and you did not lie."

"My brother and Theon fought the Lannisters, and–"

Varys's frown intensified. "I grow weary of having my intelligence insulted. I would prefer to speak to you as an equal, but if you insist–"

"The Battle of the Blackwater," Sansa said. "Make of that what you will."

Varys paused. "Interesting. Most interesting."

But if he was going to force her to give up her games, there was no longer any reason to hide her fangs. "And you, my lord, desire a Stark on the throne, 'for the good of the realm,' do you not?"

He paused again. "I admitted as much, coming into your camp. I assumed your party to be amenable to the suggestion, else I would have been thrown out, and not shown the highest courtesies by your Queen."

Margaery. Of course it was bloody Margaery who had been talking to him. "And Lord Umber? Did you enjoy his company, as well?"

Varys's smile was full of pride and admiration. "It takes very little to enjoy a loyal fool's company. A few choice sentiments in his ear, and…" He shrugged. "Though I am particularly fond of my phrase, 'crush the North beneath Southern boots until they lick them.' I thought he delivered it most stirringly."

"And Prince Oberyn?" Sansa added.

Varys stopped. "My dear girl, it's no fun revealing secrets when you don't already know them. I do hope Umber was more than a wild guess."

Sansa took a moment to think before her next words. She'd revealed far too much already. If she didn't manage to get Varys on the defensive, he'd think her weak – and be twice as dangerous.

"If you oppose Stannis, why not go straight to Daenerys Targaryen?" Sansa looked him in the eye, taking her turn studying his reaction. "Why go to a wolf with no claim on the throne?"

Varys blinked; as good as a flinch, in a lesser man. "Daenerys is a mere girl on the other side of the world, one not worth worrying about."

"Worth enough to try to have her killed," Sansa said. "A wonder that you didn't try again."

His eyes narrowed. "Robert wanted her dead, not I. I've done any number of vile things in my time, all for the greater good of the realm."

"Why a Stark without a claim?" Sansa repeated. "It's chaos worthy of Baelish – not you, my lord. What good could possibly come from upsetting the North and Westeros so thoroughly?"

Varys's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I thought I'd made that obvious. I make it my business to know things. I despise not knowing them."

"Speak plainly, Varys," Sansa said, narrowing her own eyes.

"I thought I had. Very well. When I looked at the current affairs of the realm, there was one person upsetting them – and doing quite a thorough job of it. Whatever you are, be it prodigy, seer, or blessed by the gods…" He leaned forward, steepling his hands. "I am… not fond of dark magic. I do not yet know whether I should be fond of you. I do not know whether what you do serves the realm, or needs to be opposed – by any means necessary. Is that plain enough for you, Lady Stark?"

Sansa gripped her skirts, fear and anger flooding her veins. "And you despise not knowing."

Varys tilted his head. "I would much rather serve the realm together. How possible that is depends entirely on you."

She gave him a tight smile. "Or on whether I have you thrown out of the castle by the morning."

Varys's smile in reply was fully patronizing. "Oh, I'm afraid it's far too late for that. Your brother has grown quite fond of having a spymaster in his council, especially as he prepares for his next war. Whatever you are, my dear Sansa, is not quite as valuable to him."

She clenched her fists, trying to tame her fury. Ice was useful – the cool, clear calm of calculation; rage made her stupid. Slowly, she eased her ragged breaths back under the barest control. "Have you birds in the North, Lord Varys?"

"Birds fly any number of places."

"Have you birds north of the Wall?"

He paused. "I have not found birds that far north to be of much use, I'm afraid."

"Get some," Sansa said. "Send them as far north of the Wall as you can, and wait until they don't come back. Or if they do, their songs will be far worse – and you won't believe them."

Unable to manage a curtsey, she stalked from Varys's room without another word.