Angry Blogger's Author's Note:

Now seems as good a time as any to address the canonical things that are so stupid that I don't even want to mention them in my story for fear of undermining my FANFIC's plausibility:

1. The ice dragon

Some people liked it and I apologize in advance if this offends you. The wights are not shown to change in essence – instead, they endure past the point normal weapons would kill them and gain in aggression. My soul died when I saw the dragon breathing blue flames. (I'll assume it's blue flames because organs that breathe HEAT which BURNS should not be able to breathe WATER which turns into a SOLID, so I'll give it the benefit of the doubt even though blue fire is HOTTER. Why would being dead make its flames HOTTER?) If the ice powers of the Night King are strong enough to affect the dragon's fire then the undead dragon should have WEAKER fire, not change in essence. I think a rotting dragon breathing regular fire or that can no longer breathe fire would both have been perfectly fine and still really cool. One of GoT's strengths was ALWAYS how grounded the series was, especially in the gradual introduction of its magic. Making the wight dragon "cooler" by changing the color/nature of its flames is comic book logic. The ice dragon has no place in GoT.

2. King Bran the Broken, First of his Name

I don't care how bad Tyrion's argument for Bran was, how prone to assassination their new system of government is, or that King's Landing doesn't even have a weirwood tree. (It's a lie; I care.) But if the North has independence… how is Bran Stark still ELIGIBLE for that chair?! No one at that table was there as an individual. They were all present as representatives of their territory. By declaring the North's independence, Bran has made himself into a FOREIGN LORD. No one from the NORTH can be king of the SIX KINGDOMS THAT DO NOT INCLUDE THE NORTH. My word. D&D claim that they're going off of GRRM's outline for this but if they are, the nuances that made it work went entirely over their heads. As it stands, Hot Pie makes more sense on the Iron Throne. At least he's still a SUBJECT of the lands ruled by that throne.

If you've noticed that my Sansa conveniently "forgets" that these things "happen" in the future, this is why.

tl;dr

#KingHotPie

An upper sitting room high in Casterly Rock had quickly become Sansa's favorite. A stunning view of the sun-gilded coast stretched before the couch, the sound of waves muted into a soothing hum.

Theon's arm draped around her, his other hand held in her own. Her delicate fingers traced every callous on his hand, every hard-fought scar.

The two days since the wedding of the Wolf and the Rose had felt like a paradise that she wished would never end.

Theon leaned closer, his lips pressed to her neck. With a contented hum, she relaxed into him, tilting her head to bring him closer.

"Feeling better, now?" he murmured against her skin.

"Delightfully," she barely managed through the happy haze. Ironically, she felt her age – her first time ever cuddling with a boy, feeling herself warm at his touch. It was heavenly.

Theon chuckled, leaning back. "What's been bothering you?"

Sansa looked down, staring at his fingers as she twined them with her own.

"Sansa," Theon started again. "You've told me terrible things before, I don't know why now–"

"Baelish wants you dead."

When she finally had the courage to look back up at him, Theon was frowning at her. "You warned me about that months ago," he said. "What changed?"

Sansa ran her fingers over a thin white line scarring the back of Theon's hand. He'd gotten it taking Casterly Rock; a mark the other Theon had never earned, a sign that any number of things could still be changed. Tracing the line with her fingers again, she gathered her voice. "He's hired men to ensure that whatever happens to him happens to you. I told him anything that happens to you, I'd do to him double."

Slowly, Theon drew his hand away. "He's threatening you? With me? He's one man, he can't possibly–"

"He can," Sansa said. "And he knows my secret – or enough of it, anyway – to know to be wary of me."

Theon's jaw clenched. "If you'd told me, I'd have run him through in the middle of the wedding. Robb wouldn't have stopped me and we've the men to take his forces even if they tried to avenge him."

"Yes," Sansa replied. "That was why I didn't tell you."

Apparently he still hadn't taken Baelish's threat seriously. Theon sat silently, staring off at the sunset. "Do you think I'm in danger?"

"Yes. He could get any number of men close to you, ironborn especially, any place, any time. And I kissed you in full view of him and he's–"

"Jealous?" Theon said, with an entirely inappropriate smirk, given the stakes. Sansa nodded. "Good."

"Theon!" Sansa smacked his chest as he laughed. "Be serious!"

"Always." He caught her hand, kissing its palm. "It can't be a coincidence that he picked me. Jealousy, I know, obviously, but it means he's not targeting anyone else you care about – like your family."

Sansa frowned, considering the idea. "And you think that's a good thing?"

"Besides being rather fond of your brother, who's slightly important, yes. There's only one of me." She looked over at him in confusion and Theon continued. "Means he can't risk hurting me and wasting his one card until he means it."

"That's your plan, then?" Sansa said. "Do nothing?"

Theon shrugged. "He's one man, leading the smallest number of our allied troops. What harm could letting him live a little while longer possibly do?"

Sansa took a deep breath, closing her eyes against the flood of images of the harm Baelish had already done. She and Theon were alone, secluded in a distant part of the castle, but still Sansa slid closer to him, her lips pressed to the shell of his ear.

He grinned, expecting something quite different from Sansa's lips than a whispered: "Baelish started the War of the Five Kings."

Theon jolted away. "He what?!"

Sansa gave a slow nod. "If you've noticed that I don't hate Lannisters as much as the rest of my family, that's why. They didn't kill Jon Arryn; they didn't try to assassinate Bran." Only crippled him. "Baelish sent that assassin."

Theon swallowed. "That means he is willing to hurt your family."

"Yes," she replied. "Though I hope he'll be more careful now that he knows I know."

"What does he know?" Theon said.

"Little," Sansa replied. "That he protected me from Lysa Arryn, that he sold me to Ramsay Bolton."

Theon wrenched away from her. "He did that and you still let him speak to you?"

"What choice do I have!" Sansa cried. "I'm the only one that knows what he's like, the only one he'll speak candidly to! What else can I possibly do?"

Immediately, Theon grabbed her hand, stroking it reassuringly. Clearly, he hadn't meant to blame her, had merely been shocked and spoken rashly. He stared off at the waves for awhile before he spoke again. "Have Robb exile him."

"What conceivable charges–"

"Doesn't matter. None. Robb's the king – he can refuse Baelish entry to his presence. Hell, I can bar him from my castle."

Sansa's breath caught.

It couldn't possibly be that easy, couldn't possibly be solved by her allies barely raising a finger. "But… the Vale," Sansa said, knowing it for a weak excuse.

Theon shrugged. "So what if we lose their two thousand men? So what if Lysa doesn't send more? She might not have in the first place."

"We might not even lose the Vale," Sansa mused. "Not if I talk to Lord Royce, explain that it's only Baelish we object to, and Lysa is welcome to appoint any other Lord Protector in his stead."

Theon pressed a kiss to the side of her head. "See? You're bigger and badder than that mean old Baelish."

At least, we are.

That was her problem, Sansa realized. She'd been thinking too much like Baelish – in terms only of secrets and killing. If you shone the light of day on him, he scurried like a cockroach. Given enough time, she wondered if she could even out him and Lysa for Jon Arryn's murder.

A soft knock came at the door.

Theon stubbornly refused to pull away, his arm still around Sansa, his face pressed into her hair. "Who is it?" he called.

The door opened. "Am I intruding?"

Robb stepped in, a teasing smile on his lips. For once, the dark circles under his eyes had been banished. Sansa hadn't seen him look so at peace since before they'd left Winterfell.

"Of course," Theon replied with a grin, scooting an appropriate distance away from his king's sister. "What brings you to this corner of my castle, Your Grace?"

Robb shrugged, dropping into the plush chair next to their couch. "I can't come visit my two favorite people?"

"I believe those would be Margaery and Arya," Sansa said dryly.

Robb chuckled, a blush spreading across his face even at that. Gods, he was in love.

"How do you feel about exiling Baelish?" Theon asked, kicking his feet up on the low table.

Robb raised an eyebrow. "For any reason in particular? Or…?"

Theon shrugged. "Because he's an evil bastard who threatened Sansa."

Sansa opened her mouth to explain, but–

"Done," Robb said.

Theon grinned at Sansa, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"I'd like to speak to Sansa, actually," Robb said, leaning forward in his chair.

"Alright," Sansa replied. "You found me."

Robb hesitated. "Alone."

Theon's eyebrows threatened to fly off his face. He'd always shared Robb's confidence and was the only one who shared Sansa's. The idea of excluding him was…

"Please," Robb said.

Theon jerked to his feet. He strode out of the room, offended down to his bones. The door slammed behind him.

The Stark siblings sat in silence for a long moment.

"When were you planning on telling me?" Robb softly said.

You'll have to be a bit more specific. But as he'd asked Theon to leave, Sansa could guess which secret he meant.

A long breath escaped her. "Never?"

Robb huffed out a laugh. "Any secret demons in Oberyn's past I should be aware of?"

Sansa said nothing.

"Sansa?" Robb pressed.

"He's fine," she stiffly replied.

"Does Theon know?"

"What do you think?" Sansa bit out.

Robb sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"Who told you?" Sansa asked.

Robb held his hand over his face, massaging his temples. "Margaery. She befriended Ellaria even though she can't stand the woman. I suspect it's mutual."

Sansa snorted at the idea of them as rivals. "And what – they discuss Oberyn's romantic interests over their mutual hatred?"

"No. Margaery commented on you and Theon and Ellaria looked coy. Margaery put two and two together."

Sansa slumped in her seat, wishing her pleasant illusion could have lasted even a single further day. She'd known it couldn't, but…

"Tywin is burning the Riverlands."

At Robb's words, Sansa's gaze jerked to him. "For how long?"

Robb shrugged, still slumped backwards in his own seat. "A week. Maybe less. If he heads towards Riverrun, we won't be able to get there before him."

Sansa thought back, trying to remember what she knew. "Riverrun has supplies for a siege. They can hold out. The Blackfish will know what to do, and–"

"And the common folk of the Riverlands, left to fend for themselves outside those walls, will turn against their new lord, Edmure. And their new Stark king."

Suddenly, his private weariness made complete sense. When you were king, this was what you received for a honeymoon.

"We've the forces," Sansa softly said. "Tywin knows not to stand against us, not openly where we could crush him."

Slowly, Robb shifted his gaze from the ceiling and to his sister. "Do we have the forces, Sansa? The Tyrell's 50,000 was to take the Iron Throne. They couldn't care less about the Riverlands. Edmure's 20,000 can match Tywin's, but I'd bet on a Lannister 20,000 every time. And Varys says boats filled with the Golden Company have already begun arriving from Essos. We've little idea how many reinforcements Tywin's bought."

"We still have almost 10,000 of our own," Sansa said, though it was a weak excuse. Even weaker: "And the Vale."

"Aye," Robb said. "And our men are more exhausted than ten of any other House." He shot her a sideways glance. "And you'd have me lose the Vale, exiling their Lord Protector."

"Robb, there's a chance I–"

Robb held up a hand. "I said I'd do it, Sansa. But we both know Lysa only moved because of Baelish. Any future help from her rests on him remaining here." He let his head fall backwards again. "So that he can threaten you, apparently. Gods."

They both knew what they hadn't been saying. Dorne. With a deep breath, Sansa plunged in. "Dorne doesn't care about the Riverlands any more than the Tyrells do."

"No," Robb agreed. "But for the Tyrells to willingly help in the Riverlands, we have to beat Tywin soundly enough that we can still take the throne after. Or, have enough men that we can do both simultaneously."

Internally, Sansa let loose a string of curses against the twice-damned Tyrells and their thrice-damned throne.

Walder Frey would have helped. His 5,000 would have stood against Tywin with the promise of no greater throne than the one Robb already held.

"We have something Tywin wants," Sansa said.

"Obviously," Robb replied, with a lazy gesture at the castle around him.

Sansa hesitated. "And."

Robb raised an eyebrow.

No matter where she was, she'd never trust any walls with this secret. Leaning closer, she whispered, "His son."

Robb snorted. "Yes, that was quite the surprise at my wedding. Thanks for that, by the way; Margaery found me immensely amusing. But no, I don't think Tywin will want Tyrion back."

Sansa waited.

Comprehension slowly dawned, as Robb's eyebrows climbed further up his face. "We have–?!"

Sansa nodded.

Robb fell backwards, letting out a breath. "Well." He glanced at his sister. "You think Tywin would sue for peace?"

It could only be a testament to how much Robb was enjoying being married that he hadn't expressed even a flicker of anger at her secret. Sansa couldn't help but smile at him, happy for his happiness. "He might."

Robb took a moment to study his sister, trying as ever to understand her. "You didn't tell Oberyn 'no.'"

"I did not."

"Why? You've wanted to stop me from taking this throne from the beginning. The King in the North doesn't need an alliance with Dorne."

Sansa looked down, worrying an edge of her skirt between her fingers. "We need men against the undead. I need Dorne against the undead. I have to keep Oberyn as my friend for as long as possible."

Robb raised an eyebrow. "Which is why you kissed Theon right in front of him?"

With a sigh, Sansa fell back against the couch.

Robb reached out, taking her hand. "It was my wedding; you were happy. I'm glad."

Sansa turned toward her brother, raising an eyebrow. "'Were?'"

With a shrug, he drew back. "You don't seem very happy right now."

"You kicked my happiness out of the room," Sansa muttered.

Robb grinned. But as he stared out at the sea, the soft roar of the waves crashing against the shore far below slowly leeched the levity from him. "I've already spoken with all my advisors. Every one of them agrees that I can take the Iron Throne."

Sansa's gaze snapped to him. "Without me? You excluded me from this, of all meetings–"

"I spoke to them individually." Robb looked back at his sister. "And as most of them said nothing more worthwhile than a simple, 'yes,' I waited to speak with you last. I figured you'd have the most to say."

Her breath rushed out of her. At least it had been a compliment. Sansa stood, smoothing her skirts. "Do you still have that fancy table?"

...

Sansa set two Baratheon stags at King's Landing, each token representing ten thousand men. She set two lions at Harrenhal – twenty thousand Lannisters. Robb added two golden elephants – twenty thousand for the Golden Company.

She looked up at him. "So many?"

"That's what Varys expects." Robb was grim.

With a matching grimace, she added the rest of the tokens at Casterly Rock: one Stark, one Martell, five Tyrells, two Tullys, and one Arryn. Ten tokens sworn to them; one hundred thousand men.

"That's assuming more of Lysa's support," Robb said. "And rounding Dorne's offer down."

"Her full support, even." Sansa added a smaller Arryn token, for the 5,000 remaining, and another smaller token for Dorne. 110,000. "This is your best case scenario, Robb."

At the other side of the table, Robb rested his fist in his palm, his eyes fixed on the board over top it. Sansa knew she'd never had more of his attention.

"Attack Tywin Lannister?" Sansa asked, looking at his forty thousand at Harrenhal. "Or sue for peace?"

"Tywin won't let us attack from our castles. We'd face him in the open field, where I'm sure he'd use the same whittling and delaying tactics I once used against him now against my own troops," Robb said. "We'd beat him, but not in anything shy of a year. Maybe two."

She was happy to defer to his military knowledge. "And that's assuming he doesn't pull any dirty tricks that whole time," Sansa replied. "No rebellions, no secret alliances, no assassinations. Unlikely."

"Equally unlikely that Stannis would sit for two years on the sidelines." Robb nodded agreement. "So – peace."

"Peace," Sansa replied, and moved Tywin's two lions and two elephants from Harrenhal into Casterly Rock. "And we attack the Iron Throne." She moved the tokens for Robb's army outside the gates of King's Landing. Stannis's two stag tokens looked miserably alone, surrounded by the hundred thousand men of Robb's horde.

She looked up at Robb. "By what right are we attacking the Iron Throne? The boy who killed Father is dead – thanks to the current King Stannis. Father died proclaiming Stannis's legitimacy. What quarrel do we have with him?"

"He won't give the North its independence."

"So you take his? Take the other six kingdoms' independence?"

"If necessary," Robb said. "Perhaps Stannis will strike a better deal once he realizes he's losing."

"He won't," Sansa said. Robb started to protest, but she cut him off. "He won't, Robb. I've seen him attack Winterfell with a scant thousand foot soldiers. He won't bend, not ever. Stannis will only break. By what right are we breaking him?"

Robb picked up a stag token, studying it in his hand. "If we have to take our independence by blood – so be it." He closed his fist around it.

"Then by what right will you sit upon his chair?" Sansa softly said. "Robert could at least claim Targaryen blood. Can you? Can you even claim Baratheon? To my knowledge, Robert's bastard has ten times the claim to that chair as you do."

Jon, obviously, had a claim – but he could no more command Robb's alliance with the Tyrells than he could lead Catelyn's Tullys – their two largest forces. Not to mention how difficult proving his Targaryen claim would be to any of their allied lords, or how unwillingly they'd follow a man thought to be a bastard till moments before.

Robb picked up the other stag token off the map, setting the lone Stark wolf in the capital instead. "We'll make a new dynasty. The Starks of King's Landing, who need never fear Southern tyranny ever again."

"Indeed," Sansa replied. "Because to the rest of Westeros, we will be the tyrants."

"Sansa." Robb rolled his eyes. "Freedom for the North is about the furthest from tyranny I've ever heard."

Sansa shook her head. "But to continue holding that throne, the North could never be free. It would have to remain one of the Seven Kingdoms – your entire claim to the Iron Throne comes from it. The North would still be ruled by some king in the South that, two generations from now, won't understand the importance of his his distant kingdom, his House name, or the meaning of its words: 'Winter is Coming.'"

Robb started to protest, but Sansa wasn't finished. "Regardless. You'll hold the throne not by right, but by force?"

Robb's eyes narrowed. "Aye. With five kingdoms behind me and the Westerlands subjugated, there's little one disliked Baratheon can do about it."

"Correct," Sansa said, and took the two Baratheon tokens from him. "You'll beat him. But if anyone can weather a siege, it's Stannis. Your win won't come cheaply." Two Tyrell tokens joined the discarded Baratheons, then a third. Robb nodded agreement, adding the smaller Arryn and Martell tokens to the pile of the dead.

One Stark, one Martell, two Tyrells, two Tullys, and one Arryn token remained on the map. Seventy thousand.

"Congratulations," she said. "You've conquered King's Landing. Now what?" She lifted the final Arryn token and put it firmly back in the Vale. Robb grimaced, but didn't disagree.

Sansa pointed at the Martell sun token. "I'm securing them with my marriage, I presume?" Robb nodded. Sansa tipped the sun over. "I'll have children with Oberyn, born with a claim to your throne. The next ruler of Dorne will be married to Myrcella Lannister. Do you really think his armies will fight for you? Or do you think the Martell armies will fight for Oberyn's child to overthrow you? When your death means your nephew, a Martell, will rule the Seven Kingdoms?"

"My death, my children's, and the deaths of Bran and Rickon," Robb corrected.

Sansa shook her head. "You took the throne through might, not succession. Why shouldn't they?" She picked up the Martell token and placed it at Casterly Rock, alongside Tywin's two lions and two elephants.

"We'd keep your hostage, of course, to ensure Tywin keeps that peace," Robb said.

"Of course," Sansa replied. "At least, we'd certainly try. There's a reason I haven't ever spoken his name."

Robb looked at her.

"Half the men here would die to see him dead," Sansa said. "The other half would kill you themselves for the gold Tywin would offer for that hostage's freedom."

They both studied the map. "Even if the Martells won't go so far as to side with Tywin," Sansa admitted, "They most certainly won't raise a spear against him in your defense. Not when his granddaughter is married to their lord. Not for a Stark girl married to only a second son."

Looking at the map, Robb didn't appear any happier than Sansa. He moved the Martell sun back to Dorne. "Aye."

One Stark, two Tyrells, and two Tullys remained at King's Landing: fifty thousand.

"And let's not forget which alliance my marriage isn't securing. Whose father hates us and would gladly command his people die to a man if it hurt the Starks." Sansa picked up a Greyjoy kraken, adding it to Casterly Rock.

Five tokens at Casterly Rock; five at King's Landing.

"Still, not terrible odds," Robb said with a crooked grin. "Assuming my talented sister can't influence at least a few of them for the better."

Slowly, Sansa set one Baratheon token at Casterly Rock. Then the other.

"You'll have annihilated their King Stannis and his line for no reason whatsoever," Sansa softly said. "You'll make enemies who would die for their cause."

"Tywin's seventy thousand versus our fifty thousand," Robb said. "That's not even including the defense the Red Keep will give me, or any extra troops I can raise as King."

"You won'traise any," Sansa said. "Not if all you fight for is your own might supporting your right to rule. No one will stand for that cause. In fact, I think the ones least likely to stand for it…"

She picked up the Stark token, tossing it aside. The gray stone wolf clattered emptily to the floor, bouncing off the stones and rolling away.

"Sansa," Robb chided. "Be reasonable. The North wouldn't abandon a Stark king–"

She closed her eyes. They did. Because you executed Karstark and married Talisa, when Jon and I tried to rally the North, they turned their backs on us. Because of you, Robb.

In this life, she'd kept him from making either mistake – so far. Eventually, and with Margaery's influence weighing against her own, he was bound to make a new one.

"I've seen them do it," Sansa whispered. "I've seen the North abandon the Starks because of you. You want me to be reasonable? Alright. I'll be reasonable."

With one arm, she swept the Stark-allied tokens off the table. With the other, she swept the Lannisters.

Robb jumped up in shock. "Sansa!"

She pointed lazily at one group of fallen tokens on the floor. "That's what Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons will do." She pointed at the other. "That's from the army of the dead. Take your pick, Robb. Either reason will be the end of Westeros if we waste one hundred thousand lives for your right to an iron chair and a shiny hat."

"And what would you have me do?!" Robb flung his arms wide. "Suppose I'm not an idiot and I've been listening to you this whole time, trying to gather men to fight Daenerys and the dead!" He picked up a fistful of tokens: Martell, Arryn, Tyrell, Tully. "None of these will fight for me unless I'm king!"

It wasn't a problem that Jon's heritage could solve – the problem was Stannis, the king Sansa had crowned. Opposing a just king made just enemies and worse, unjust allies, fighting only for themselves.

"Go home, Robb," Sansa whispered. "That's what I'd have you do. Go home and leave Southern politics for the Southerners. Bend the knee – or don't. Keep Casterly Rock – or don't. But go home."

Angrily, Robb scooped handfuls of stones and poured them behind the Wall, watching as they spilled overtop, sweeping down to surround Winterfell itself. Then, he smacked one lone Stark direwolf down in Winterfell, in the middle of the undead horde.

"This?" Robb said, with a furious gesture down at the lone wolf. "This is what you want for us?"

"We've made allies," Sansa said. "We're no longer alone."

Sansa added five Tyrell tokens to the lone Stark. Then a Martell. A Greyjoy kraken. Two Tully fish. An Arryn.

Her hand hesitated, then resolved. She added two Baratheon stags.

"That's a poppy-dream, Sansa," Robb said wearily.

"If these men are still alive, it's still an option," Sansa replied. "This can never happen if we've killed them all first taking a Southern throne. I've seen them fight the undead. Good men from every kingdom come and fight to protect the living."

Resting his head in his hands, Robb sighed. "I can't bet the fate of the world on the chance that we can convince enough men to believe in fairytales."

"We will, Robb! I've seen it, I–"

"No, Sansa," Robb said softly. "I can't risk it. You've said much; leave me to think it over."

With dread filling her veins, Sansa stood. At least he'd heard all she had to say. "I hope you'll reconsider."

His smile was weary enough to break her heart. "So do I."

...

"Lord Royce," Sansa said with her most perfect smile days later, holding him back after their latest war room meeting. Equipment had gone missing from many of the camps and the ensuing shouting match to pin the blame had come no closer to solving anything. "I'd hoped to discuss–"

"The exiling of the Vale's Lord Protector?" Royce said. His tone wasn't quite antagonistic, but it was far from friendly. "I never did catch on what charges your king sent him away."

Sansa hesitated. She hadn't even been present for Baelish's exiling, glad to leave that pleasure to others. According to reports, he'd taken the decree stoically. "King Robb declined to announce–"

"Yes," Royce said. "He declined. And now the rest of the lords King Robb's cousin sent down here to fight for him wonder when their turn to be exiled will fall. You'll ask our troops to fight for you with one side of your mouth and then exile our leader with the other."

"Was he your leader?" Sansa said. "I never realized his support with the Vale was so strong. I thought he was Lysa's emissary – and we've simply asked her to appoint another."

Royce studied her, unamused by her word games. "Robin Arryn is our leader. If Lord Baelish has his support, he has ours."

Sansa hesitated. The other lords had filed out, including Robb, caught in conversation with Mace Tyrell over his misplaced equipment. It was worth a gamble. "My apologies, my lord. I did not mean to offend. Robb declined to state the charges against Lord Baelish… out of a desire to protect me."

Royce paused.

Sansa swallowed, trying to hide her lies with the hesitance of a girl. "He took… liberties, my lord. We have no quarrel with the Vale. Only with Lord Baelish."

Royce looked away. "I see."

"As it would just be my word against his, we did not want to prolong the messy affair, simply…" Sansa sighed. "I am sorry, my lord, if my cousin Robin takes offense at this exiling of his emissary. It was not intended."

At least Royce's expression looked a degree less stony. "It is good to understand. A king who rules by whim is not a king worth dying for."

Sansa dipped her head in agreement. Royce returned her nod, exiting the room.

She let out a breath. It was less than she'd liked to have achieved, but at least it hadn't been an abject failure.

"Did he?"

Sansa spun towards the voice. The Hound stood in the doorway; he must have been waiting outside to escort her back. "Did Littlefinger take 'liberties' with you?" he asked again.

Sansa joined him, walking down the hallway as he fell into step beside her. "Enough of them."

A quirk of a smile tilted the Hound's mouth. "So, no."

She raised an eyebrow at the impertinence. "Enough to qualify."

"Still a no."

Sansa let out an irritated huff, her eyes locked forwards. After they'd walked the length of another hallway, she whispered, "Baelish threatened me."

The Hound's hand on her arm stopped her. "You don't need to do all your own fighting, little wolf."

She smiled up at him. "I can't have you run your sword through everyone who wants me dead."

As she continued on down the hallway, she heard the Hound mutter behind her, "How many sons of whores want a little girl dead?"

Oberyn Martell rounded the corner ahead of them, his smile dimpling at the sight. "There she is. Just who I've been looking for."

Sansa blushed despite herself, desperate not to stumble over her words. "It is a pleasure to see you, my prince."

As always, Oberyn took her hand, holding her gaze as he pressed a kiss to the back of it. "The pleasure, as always, is mine." Sansa's blush spread.

He dropped her hand. "Unfortunately, there is less pleasure involved than usual." He paused. "Your brother has summoned me."

"Oh?" Sansa tried to sound casual as a million horrible possibilities flitted through her mind. "Did he say what about?"

Oberyn's gaze flicked to the Hound before coming to rest back on Sansa. A gleam in his eyes made her suspect that Oberyn had been thinking about their dance at Robb's wedding. Their dance – and his offer. "He did not. He only told me to bring you."

Sansa turned around. "Sandor, if you wouldn't mind–"

But the Hound was already dipping a nod, his long strides eating up the hallway in the other direction.

Oberyn offered his arm. "Shall we?"

Sansa smiled, taking it. "We shall."

Inside, she was nothing but worried.

"How are you enjoying your little kraken?" Oberyn asked.

"I…" Sansa immediately flushed. "I mean, we…"

But Oberyn smirked, patting her hand. "I am not a jealous man, Red Wolf. I would never stop you from enjoying yourself. Not even if we choose to marry. Do you understand?"

Her flush deepened, surprised that after her last life, she could still be shocked by anything. "I… yes. I am still trying to figure out what I want."

"Good. Nothing better for that than young love." He winked. "I've quite a few daughters as testimony."

Her flush went even deeper, still.

Thankfully, they had arrived at Robb's study. Oberyn rapped on the thick wooden door.

"Come in!" Robb called.

Stepping inside and closing the door firmly behind, Oberyn dipped a nod as Sansa released his arm. "Your Grace."

"Robb," Sansa greeted, unsure if more or less friendliness towards her brother was warranted.

When Robb looked between his two guests, a spark of something lurked behind his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, feigning at casualness. "I have a message I'd like delivered to Tywin Lannister. I can't trust a raven with it, nor that he'd believe some scrap of paper for the truth. Nor can I send anyone to deliver my message whose head Tywin would prefer on a pike." A hint of a smile curled Robb's lips. "I need someone who I can trust to keep a secret, who Tywin can trust to speak on my behalf, and who will still leave that Lannister camp alive. I was curious, Prince Oberyn, if anyone you knew came to mind."

Returning his half smile, Oberyn dropped into the chair before Robb's desk, tipping the wine bottle into an empty glass. "I may know a man." He swirled the cup. "Though rumor has it he recently killed Tywin's pet Mountain. And sacked his castle."

Robb's gaze never wavered. "And as that man's family holds Myrcella, the only family left to Tywin and the only one with any conceivable royal claim, I can't imagine Tywin would risk his granddaughter's life to avenge a mad butcher of a banner man. Not even to avenge a castle."

Oberyn took a long gulp of wine. "I like to imagine us as friends." He winked towards Sansa. "Good friends, even. Yet I and my men would not ride the length of a kingdom for only a friend. Not without very good cause."

Robb's smile grew. "The cause is peace with the Lannisters, friend. Would you like to see the message?"

Oberyn frowned in puzzlement. "I would."

"Sansa?" Robb turned to her. "Why don't you show him?"

Her breath caught. Robb couldn't possibly mean… But he had to. A smile grew on her face. "I'd be delighted."

The three of them – the princess, the prince, and the king – meandered down into the deeper levels of the Rock, passing lounging Tully guards, Martells dicing with Bolton men, and Tyrell soldiers chatting amongst themselves. Until far enough down, the halls emptied. Sansa stopped before a lone metal door, pulling out a key.

Behind her, Oberyn exchanged a look with her brother. "And you couldn't tell me this message in your study…?"

Robb grinned. "Thought you'd want to verify the message for yourself."

Sansa finished wrestling with the lock and wrenched the door open. "My lords." She gestured inside.

The tail end of a sentence from a male voice echoed from within the cell. "...but it bloody hurts if I flex it like–"

A low female voice replied, "Do it anyway, you overgrown child. It's almost as if you've never had to work for anything in your entire life."

In confusion, Oberyn again looked to Robb.

Robb's grin never faltered. "After you."

Oberyn stepped inside. Even bald and in rags, their prisoner was immediately recognizable. His mangled hand lowered the sack of rice it had been squeezing.

"Ser Jaime," Oberyn breathed.

Jaime tilted his head back to squint up at him. "It appears someone still remembers my name. No one else in this bloody castle has got the balls to say it."

Brienne rolled her eyes.

"Maybe we just don't like hearing it, Kingslayer," Robb said, his good humor intact. "Ever thought of that?"

Jaime switched to staring up at Robb. "Last time I was your prisoner, I could hardly be rid of you for how often you came to taunt me. Now, you never visit." He pressed a hand over his heart. "Some men couldn't handle that kind of rejection."

"You'll survive," Robb said dryly.

"Will I?" Surprise colored Jaime's face. "That's lovely to hear. I thought your lady was prettying me up for the butcher's block."

"Not a lady," Brienne answered on reflex.

"The thought of a block has its appeal." Robb had a grim set to his mouth. "But you're more valuable with your head still attached. No matter what your family did to mine."

Jaime smiled up at Robb – but an edge lurked behind it. One that Sansa didn't know him well enough to read.

"Victory suits you, Young Wolf," the Lannister finally said. "Innocence doesn't."

Robb's boyish face crinkled in confusion.

"The sack of King's Landing?" Jaime prompted. "The Slaughter at the Blackwater? Ring any bells?"

"Stannis sailed past the wildfire–" Robb started.

Jaime cut him off with a scoff. "As if Stannis has the spy network necessary to know what his wife eats for breakfast, let alone the secrets to King's Landing's defenses. No. There is exactly one family with enough cunning and vengeance to have pulled that off." Jaime's face hardened. "Don't tell me what my family did to yours, Stark. You lost your father. We lost everything."

Good, Sansa couldn't help but think viciously, remembering every horrible thing Joffrey had ever done. They deserved all of it and more.

Behind Robb, Oberyn's eyes snaked towards Sansa. She stared resolutely ahead, pretending not to see.

Jaime tracked the motion. But Robb was done paying him any attention, turning to their Dornish guest. "Do you have any doubts that this is Jaime Lannister?"

"None," Oberyn replied.

With that declaration, the party of royals left the cell, Sansa pausing for a quick squeeze of Brienne's shoulder, a quick smile from Brienne in reply.

Well past the range at which they could be overheard, Robb halted in a private corner, turning to Oberyn. "If Tywin withdraws from the Riverlands back to Harrenhal, we let his son live. After that, we can begin negotiations for a peace settlement."

"That's it?" Oberyn replied. "After everything with Tywin Lannister, you'll settle for just… letting him go? For peace?"

"Well, I still have his castle," Robb said with a smirk. "And as the Kingslayer pointed out, everyone who killed my father is dead. So, yes. Why not."

"He's Tywin Lannister," Oberyn said slowly. "The man who sacked King's Landing after arriving to defend it. The man who ordered the Mountain to murder my sister. You can't trust him. Not for a minute."

"We don't plan to," Sansa said, sharing a look with Robb. "It's not like we'll be giving Jaime back. If Tywin breaks his word, we'll kill his son. Simple. It's how Father dealt with the Greyjoy Rebellion, isn't it?"

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "You're going to make Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, into a ward of the Starks?"

Robb's lips curled with amusement. "Precisely."

It felt glorious for Sansa to be in agreement with him. Oberyn looked between the siblings, noting their twin pleased expressions. "And after?" he asked.

"The Iron Throne," Robb replied. "We would be honored by your continued friendship, in whatever form that takes. A seat on my small council is yours, should you wish it."

Oberyn smiled, offering a hand. "Then I shall pray for fair weather and speedy returns on my journey. I would hate to miss such a battle."

Robb took his hand, pulling him in to clap him on the back. Oberyn lifted Sansa's hand to kiss it – and she wrapped him in a hug.

Chuckling, Oberyn returned it. "Until we meet again, Princess."

"I will be praying for your safe return," Sansa replied. "Please be careful."

Oberyn tossed a wink at her. "Never."

He sauntered down the hallway without a backwards glance.

"There are few enough good men in the world," Sansa murmured after Oberyn had left. "I'd hate to lose that one."

"Aye," Robb agreed. After a long silence, he spoke again. "You were right about Dorne." Sansa looked up at him, not following his train of thought. Robb smiled. "If we can make peace with Tywin Lannister, it's a wasted alliance. I think you can make a far better one."

Sansa held her breath. "You mean…?"

Robb nodded. "I mean."

In an instant, Sansa flung her arms around him, hugging her brother as tightly as possible. Robb couldn't help but laugh. "Peace with Tywin, first. Think you can keep Dorne friendly with us until then?"

"Oh, I think I can," Sansa replied dryly, finally letting go.

Robb kissed the top of her head. "And after, your marriage secures our alliance with the Vale."

Sansa froze.

But Robb couldn't keep his laughter in any longer, holding her at arms length as he grinned. "I'm teasing!"

"Robb Stark!" Sansa smacked his arm. "That was not funny!"

His grin was undimmed. "Absolutely hilarious."

She smacked his arm again, but Robb still only laughed.

"You've been spending too much time with Theon," Sansa muttered.

"And you, not enough." Robb's smile was fond. "After Tywin's been handled, I'd be honored if you'd let me…" He took a breath. "Stand in for Father. To give you away."

Sansa squeezed her brother tight, pressing her face against his tunic. He smoothed a hand over her back. "I'd love that," she whispered.

"In the Great Sept of Baelor, if you'd like," Robb softly continued.

Sansa shook her head. "The Godswood."

"At Winterfell?"

Sansa shook it again. "Whichever one is closest."

His chuckle resonated in his chest. "Aye."

Soft footsteps drifted down the corridor; unwilling to release him entirely, Sansa turned her head to look. Margaery and a horde of her ladies walked their way; with a careless wave, Margaery dismissed them. But as she ventured closer on her own, the smile she sent Sansa was full of sisterly affection. "He told you, then?"

Sansa nodded, finally letting go, as Margaery gave her a congratulatory hug of her own.

The moment the girls parted, Robb pulled his wife against his chest as she snuggled her head under his chin. He added, "You've my new queen to thank for betrothing you to Theon, Sansa. She pointed out that I'd been an ass and seen to everyone's happiness but yours."

Margaery smacked a playful hand against his chest. "I did not call you an ass!"

Grabbing her hand, Robb pressed a kiss to the back of it. "You didn't have to. Even your looks speak volumes."

Sansa was fairly sure Margaery's hatred of the Martells had done more for securing Sansa's new betrothal than any fondness Margaery had towards Sansa, personally. Either way, Sansa would take what kindnesses she could get.

"My looks speak volumes, do they?" Mischief turned up the corners of Margaery's smile. She bit her lip, looking up at Robb from beneath heavily-lidded eyes. "What about this one?"

"Um," Sansa protested, taking a step away in the corridor. "I can leave you two–"

"Duty," Robb replied, his face as serious as the grave.

Margaery hesitated. "Duty?"

He gave a slow nod. "It says you'll aid me in my duty to make as many Starks as possible."

Disgust twisted Sansa's face. She took another step back in the corridor. "That's… um…"

"Yes, it's all very dutiful," Margaery said dryly, her mischief undimmed. Hooking one crooked finger under the clasp in Robb's cloak, she walked backwards, pulling him behind her, and refusing to break eye contact. "We'd never dream of enjoying ourselves."

"Never." Robb grinned at her. "I think I–"

"Yes, yes." Sansa winced. "Please hurry up and find your room and spare your family the scars of enduring your happiness."

With one last fond smile at his sister, Robb followed his wife down the corridor, the newlyweds' giggles echoing through the halls.

...

Tyrion lay in the bed in his tiny room, drinking the swill wine the Starks gave him access to, and wishing it were easier for an alcoholic to get drunk.

"My lord." Podrick shifted on his feet uneasily. "You should…"

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, waiting, but Pod's sage advice never came. The boy had as little idea what to do with his situation as he did. "Thank you for that!" Tyrion said, refilling his wine glass. "Ever so helpful."

Apparently, he'd needled the boy into courage. "You should drink less."

Tyrion tilted the goblet toward him. "Ah, but then I'd have to replace it with some other activity. What do you propose? Mourning every member of my family, save Myrcella, and my father, who wishes I were among the dead? Plotting my vengeance for their deaths against the Starks – who saved my life? Or – I know! – trying to figure out why Sansa Stark spared my life or what in seven hells she wants with me!"

Or plotting my way across the Narrow Sea, Tyrion didn't say. With all these ships in Casterly, all it took was passage aboard the right one and a word in a friendly captain's ear.

As he knew where some of the Lannister gold stashes were hidden, he was fairly sure he could find a friendly ear. It only took waiting for the right moment.

Podrick frowned. "You said you were nice to Princess Sansa before she left."

"Nice." Tyrion snorted. "I don't believe the armies of the world turn upon being 'nice.'"

A rap sounded at the door.

"Come in!" Tyrion called, taking a long swig of wine.

Oberyn nudged open the door. "I hope I am not intruding."

"Never!" Tyrion replied and gestured at Pod to pull up a chair.

With a grateful nod, Oberyn dropped into it. He crossed his long legs in front of him, then shifted to lean an elbow on one knee, then stood.

"Whatever you've got to say, say it and stop worrying me," Tyrion said. "I've never seen you nervous."

Oberyn flashed a bemused grin. "Perhaps it would be best if I spoke to you alone."

"I've one friend left in the world and you're staring at him," Tyrion replied. "If whatever you have to say would end even that, hurry up and put me out of my misery."

"I think you'll find you have more than one," Oberyn said, and dropped back into the chair. He took a deep breath. "Your brother's alive."

Tyrion spat out his wine. "That's a poor joke," he said, wiping his face. "Especially for you. I'd thought–"

"The Starks are sending me to negotiate with your father and they showed him to me," Oberyn continued. "Jaime is alive."

Tyrion's mind shut down. "He's…?" he barely managed to ask. Oberyn gave a solemn nod. Tyrion swallowed back the rush of emotions. Alive. "And he's… he's here?"

Oberyn gave another nod. "I doubt the Starks wanted any but me to know, but as everyone else will know as soon as I tell Tywin, I figured you should be spared the rest of your pain. I know what it is like to lose a sibling."

Tyrion stood from the bed, clasping Oberyn's arm. Oberyn clasped Tyrion's tightly back.

"Thank you," Tyrion said emphatically, even as the tears fell down his cheeks. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome." Oberyn shot a grin up at Podrick. "But keep my secret, yes? Else the Starks will think me more than loose-lipped."

"I will," Tyrion vowed at his most solemn. "None will learn of Jaime's survival from me. I swear it by all the old gods and the new."

Podrick nodded agreement. "I won't tell anyone. By all the old gods and the new."

"Excellent." Oberyn gestured towards Tyrion's wine. "A drink with friends before tomorrow's journey?"

Instantly Tyrion poured him a new goblet, not stopping until the wine almost licked the rim. "May it never run dry," he said, passing it to Oberyn. "Apologies for the quality."

Oberyn's grin dimmed as he tasted it. Then he leaned back, kicking one ankle atop the other. "Have I ever told you about the first time I saw you?"

Tyrion passed a goblet to Podrick, even as he left his own untouched. This was a night to celebrate, no longer a night to forget. "I don't believe you have."

When Tyrion next saw Sansa Stark, his list of questions for her had only grown.

...

Hours later, all the good little boys and girls had long gone to bed. The castle's bustling hallways had emptied, save for their few sentries, and silent but for the sound of distant snores. Except, far beneath where the respectable folk slept, came a good hearty bit of laughter from the cellars.

Theon picked up the wooden dice cup, rattling it near his ear, before spilling it on the rough table. The dice spun to a stop – two fives and two sixes. Across from him, the ironborn groaned as he grinned.

"And all you fine folk thought I'd forgotten how to play," Theon said, pulling their coins into his own pile.

Rodrik scooped the dice back into the cup. He glared fondly at his men. "That's what you get for explaining the rules to my nephew like he's a greenlander."

Elgen, a captain under Rodrik, snorted. "No one who saw him fight would mistake him for a greenlander. Didn't need to lose at dice to know that."

Truth be told, Theon didn't much feel like being a good boy. He'd done his best to steer clear of Robb for the past few days, not sure what was going on. Robb hadn't told him. Sansa hadn't told him. So whatever it was, Theon wanted no part.

The dice clattered on the table as Rodrik tossed them. Two two's – and Rodrik scooped them up to roll again as money changed hands.

Elgen turned to Theon. "Where's the wind taking you after here?"

"Come again?" Theon frowned.

Elgen spat into the bucket on the floor. "You sacked this castle. Paid the Iron Price for it, good as any ironborn. Where are you off to next?"

"Aye," Werhalt, the other ironborn captain, added. "And send us the pretty little invitations before you sack the richest fucking castle in all of Westeros next time, eh boy?"

Theon's frown deepened. "I asked my father for help. I brought the plan to him. And he–"

"Is a miserable old sack of shit who doesn't know how to have any fun," Werhalt cut him off, saluting Theon with his cup of ale.

"Watch it," Rodrik cut in. "He's still the boy's father, lads." He placed a hand on Theon's shoulder. "Your father doesn't always have the most… reasonable view of things."

Theon's answering grin was weak. He hid it in a sip of ale.

"Still waitin' on an answer," Elgen said.

"To what?" Theon replied.

"If you'll come running the next time the Starks call," Werhalt laughed. "The Stark Whelp's on his way to the Iron Throne. You going to go with him? One little kraken, trudging across the endless plains?"

"I swore to Robb," Theon answered, unsure how offended to be. "My sword is his."

Werhalt snorted. "From the looks of it, one hundred thousand mother-loving greenlanders all swore their swords to your king. What good's one more going to do him?"

"It took this castle, didn't it?" Theon's blood grew hot.

"That it did," Rodrik said. He shot a glare at Werhalt, who shrugged.

Elgen spat. "And here's to the ones who died doing it."

He raised his cup of ale. The others followed, joining him in the salute and taking a drink.

Theon's ale tasted like ash in his mouth. His uncle had been right – men had died because he hadn't known who else to call for help. Theon's men had died. With the only ones left hating his guts, he'd be lucky if men ever swore to him again. Especially not ironborn. Not his own people.

Theon took a longer drink.

Werhalt nudged Elgen. "So tell me. That time you visited Lys–"

A sleepy howl sounded in the distance.

"What in the name of–" Werhalt turned, looking out the door of the cellar.

The sound of footsteps grew from somewhere further in the castle.

Theon frowned. For all the time he'd spent with the Starks, he still wasn't used to wolves. Earlier, all three of the direwolves had been given a full dead stag in the middle of the hall – to the amusement of the guests – and all three wolves had passed out like puppies after glutting themselves on it.

"Is that coming from nearby?" Rodrik asked him.

"Aye," Theon replied. "One of the direwolves, I'd wager."

Elgen shook his head. "Got no business, treating animals as fierce as that as if they're tame. No business–"

"No," Rodrik corrected. "The footsteps. That's not–"

Suddenly, the footsteps were very loud, indeed. Two soldiers in full Tyrell armor peered into the cellar.

"Evening," Elgen said. "Is something wrong?"

The first Tyrell drew his sword. Before anyone could move, he stabbed it through Elgen's chest.

The other three ironborn jumped to their feet.

The second Tyrell swung toward Rodrik, who threw an empty crate at him.

Theon dove behind him, searching for where he'd unclasped his sword. It had been uncomfortable to sit with and he'd–

The first Tyrell drew his sword from Elgen's chest, red spreading across the ironborn's thin grey tunic. Blood slid down the bared steel and Theon could hardly look away. Unarmed. They'd been sitting here, unarmed, and–

The Tyrell locked eyes with Theon.

Theon kicked over the barrel on which they'd been dicing. The soldier dove out of the way and Theon desperately searched again. His sword– Finally, he locked eyes on it, lunging for his steel as the Tyrell swung towards him.

He caught the blow with his scabbard.

Werhalt had grabbed a fire poker, helping Rodrik, who had found one of his axes.

The Tyrell stared down at Theon, pressing with his sword. Theon shifted his scabbard slightly and the moment he had an opening – pulled his blade free.

Off-balance, the scabbard tilted crazily. The Tyrell's blade smashed down to catch on the crate behind Theon's shoulder. Theon sucked in a breath; if not for his luck with the crate, he'd have lost an arm.

But the Tyrell had been just as surprised – Theon struck upwards, pressing the advantage, and surprised him further. Until, a few strokes later, his own sword sprouted through a gap in the Tyrell's armor. He turned to help his uncle – but he and Werhalt were smashing bricks into their Tyrell where he lay on the ground, until the soldier's legs stopped twitching.

Werhalt stood, wiping blood off his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "What the fuck was that?"

Rodrik stared solemnly and Theon followed his gaze. Elgen's body had remained where he'd died – sitting in a chair. A horrible death for a proud warrior. Blood dripped down the legs of the chair and Elgen's face was ashen, his empty eyes staring at the ceiling.

Theon's jaw clenched. Had he killed this ironborn, too? His loyalty to the Starks, his ironborn family's faith in him, in Theon's new Tyrell friends–

Faintly, another wolf howled.

And then Theon heard it: a crash of metal, from far away. Then more footsteps, and a distant shout, and–

"We weren't the only ones," Rodrik growled, hearing it too. "Something's going on here."

Sansa. She was in danger.

Before he could think better of it, Theon was running.

Too many people knew Sansa's secret; too many strangers were allowed in the halls. It was a terrible combination and he was an idiot for not realizing it earlier. Anyone could get to her, here. Anyone at all.

He snarled curses as he ran, curses about every damned Lannister who had made their damned castle so stupidly big.

More men fought in the hallway as he passed. Men in Martell armor against Tullys, Arryns against Tyrells, and on and on. Theon guessed the fully armored ones were the problem, as they had been for him, and struck out as he passed. But one group fought where no one was armored and Theon couldn't tell friend from foe. He simply caught the blades that struck at him and struck back, desperate to run past.

He passed Robb's door on the way to Sansa's. Maege Mormont stood before it in a nightdress, blood dripping from from her scalp, defending her king's door as fiercely as a mother bear with her cubs. Theon joined, striking at an armored Martell.

"Sansa!" he called to Maege. "Have you–"

"Go to her, boy!" Maege snarled, her axe biting deeply into the Martell's shoulder, before she ripped it free. Blood fountained. Three other northmen ran to join the fight beside her, stabbing into another armored soldier, and Theon didn't have to be told again.

Thankfully, Sansa's room wasn't far beyond Robb's. He just had to turn a corner, and–

He skidded to a stop. Three knights of the Vale in full plate-mail stood before Sansa's door, pikes gleaming and at the ready.

Theon didn't dare breathe. He was still in a shirt and breeches; there was no way his sword could even reach their mail before their pikes skewered him, let alone slip his blade through one of the few, thin chinks in the thick metal.

And, with a gesture, one of the knights spotted him. Their pikes lowered for battle. Moving as a unit, the three strode towards him, clanking with each step.

"What is dead may never die," Theon gritted out, leveling his sword at the knights in return.

A shape stepped up beside him. "Stupid fucking saying," the man muttered.

Theon glanced up at him – the Hound's ruined face glared back. Sweat plastered his hair to his skin and blood already dripped from his greatsword. He must have run here, too, and Theon had never been more happy to see another person in his life.

When the Hound hefted his sword, the knights of the Vale faltered. Snarling curses, he charged. Theon charged alongside. The knights took steps backwards but Theon wasn't vain enough to think it had been because of him.

As quickly as breathing, the Hound knocked one of the pikes from a knight's hand. Another stabbed towards him, but he batted him away, gaining enough time to stab the first through the armpit. Theon engaged the third, holding him off and hoping for an opening.

The thud of a body hitting the floor filled the air. And then, beneath the lowered helm of the knight facing Theon, the point of a blade sprouted from his neck. With a spurt of blood, the blade withdrew. The knight slowly crumpled to the floor.

"Fat lot of help you were," the Hound muttered, wiping his blade clean. Theon didn't care about the unfairness of the comment. He raced for Sansa's door, surprised to see a low, heavy chest pulled across it.

"Sansa!" He pounded on the wood. "Sansa, are you–"

"Theon!" Sansa's relieved voice called back. "What's going on, I've heard fighting, is everyone–"

"Are you hurt?" Theon called.

"No, but I don't know what's happening! I just heard–"

And suddenly, Theon realized what he'd been missing. The bodies of Sansa's guards lay dead on the floor, but the knights of the Vale had been standing here after killing them. They could have broken down the door at any time, could have captured or killed one of the most important people inside this castle, but instead, a chest had been pulled across her door. The knights had charged Theon easily enough, so whatever plot was going on they'd had a hand in, but…

Whoever had attacked Casterly Rock had wanted Sansa… safe.

A chill ran through Theon. It was the scariest thought of all.

Banging sounded from inside the room. "Theon! Let me out already, I think there's something blocking the door, and–"

Theon turned to the Hound. "You've got her?"

The Hound paused in surveying the hall to give him a single nod.

Theon pressed close to the wood. "Sansa, it's not safe. Stay here, the Hound's with you, and I'll be back as soon as I've figured out what's going on."

"Theon!" Sansa screamed. "Don't you dare! Let me out, I can help, I can–!"

"This isn't your fight, little wolf," the Hound drawled.

She was quiet at that. With a final nod at the Hound, Theon set off down the hallway. Now that Sansa was safe, he had another suspicion that he had to verify. Robb was safe with Maege Mormont, but there was an important prisoner in their midst – one whose father would do anything to rescue him.

"If I have to fight the bloody Kingslayer one more time, I'll–" Theon cut off viciously.

He passed Tyrion's room, surprised to see the dwarf with axe in hand as he cut down a Tyrell; even more surprised to see Oberyn there, spear twirling as he guarded Tyrion's back.

He passed the direwolves, still sleeping in a pile. Grey Wind struggled to raise his head, his one good eye blinking. He let loose a wavering howl. The wolves hadn't been sleeping, after they'd gorged… Theon realized. They'd been poisoned. The deer carcass must have been laced with something to keep them out of this fight. He hoped they'd be alright, but there was nothing he could do for them now. Nothing except run faster.

Once Theon had fought his way all those levels down into the depths, Brienne stood in the hallway, bloody sword in hand, two armored Tullys and three Martells dead at her feet.

She lowered it when she realized it was Theon. "Do you know what's going on?" Brienne asked, concern furrowing her brow.

Theon shook his head. "I thought they were here for…"

Brienne looked down at her kills. "I expect they'd have sent more. Even if they didn't think I was worth this armor, if Tywin were truly after…"

"Yes," Theon agreed. "I know." Tywin would have sent his hundred best men to rescue his son, not five paltry soldiers. He looked from the bodies back at Brienne. "Stay here."

"Right."

What had Theon missed? What had the point of all of this been, if not to accomplish… something? The sneak attack would dent the Stark forces, but not more than they could handle, and at the cost of every attacker's life. So it couldn't be–

A sudden terror gripped Theon's throat. He'd seen Maege Mormont guarding the door, but… where was Robb? He'd always been in the thick of the battle, before, and it wasn't as if he could have slept through this.

No. It couldn't be. Not–

Theon was running, he was full out sprinting. The corridors flew beneath his feet, his sword lashing at any movement that neared him. He had to get to Robb, had to–

The giant wooden doors to Robb's room loomed at the end of the hallway. Theon raced faster, batting aside a spear that jutted towards him. The man wielded it poorly and Theon ran him through. Few of the attackers were left standing and all of them outnumbered.

He passed Maege, snarling defiance at a Tully, and as Theon reached for Robb's door, it slowly creaked open.

Margaery stood before the blackness of the open doorway. Theon recoiled. Blood covered her as thoroughly as a gown. It clotted in one side of her hair, the blood dripping down her collarbone, her breast, trailing down her hand.

She stared straight ahead, unseeing.

Theon stepped towards Margaery, as pale as if he were looking at a ghost. He tried to speak, failed, and had to work spit into his mouth before he tried again. "Margaery, he–"

Slowly, Margaery's gaze turned to Theon. "He kept me safe. He…" She spoke woodenly, breaking off at the last as she looked down at the blood covering her.

She turned her hand as she examined it, watching as the blood dripped off her slender fingers to pool on the floor.

"He kept me safe," Margaery whispered down at her bloodied hand.

"What's all this?" Catelyn said as she rounded the corner. "Barred in our rooms, and–"

She cut off at the sight of Margaery. Her hands moving by rote, Catelyn unclasped her outer robe, draping it over the girl. Margaery didn't seem to notice, her eyes never shifting beyond a blink.

"He's," Theon finally managed to ask. "He's not…"

Catelyn turned away, collapsing into the stone wall.

"No," Theon said, his voice rising in desperation. "No, he can't. Not yet, he just… he can't–!"

Arya stepped around Catelyn, startled by the sight of the bloody Margaery.

"Get her back," Theon said, surprised he'd even noticed through his shock. "Get her–"

"Come on, Arya." A strangled sob burst out of Catelyn as she gripped her daughter around the shoulders. "You don't want to–"

"Why?" Arya cried, instantly full of wretched understanding. "What's happened? Where's Robb, you can't–"

"No, sweet." Catelyn knelt on the ground, holding her daughter as tears streamed down her face. "Don't see him like this, remember him–"

Arya screamed.

...

From the moment the fighting had stopped, Sansa had known. The Hound had pulled the chest away from her door and she'd gone straight to Robb's room without saying a word.

Sansa shoved her way to the front of the crowd. Her mother and Arya huddled together on the floor, their sobs breaking anyone's heart with a spare left to break.

A Stark man stepped into Sansa's path, but a quick look from the Hound had the man stepping out of it again. He waited outside as she walked in, but she had to see. Had to know. Had to–

The moment she was inside his room, Sansa stopped. Someone had draped a blanket over Robb and placed his body back on the bed, but nothing could hide the blood. He looks so pale, Sansa thought. He could be sleeping. Could be–

"He kept making sure I was safe behind him," Margaery said, at Sansa's elbow. She hadn't noticed the other girl, standing in an unmoving vigil beside Robb. Margaery's borrowed robe hung open, forgotten, blood seeping through the thin garment. Underneath it, her skin was unbroken. "The whole time, even as he fought and I screamed, he kept one hand on my arm, keeping me protected."

Her empty gaze stared through Robb's lifeless body. "But he didn't know that the passage into the room they'd used was behind us," Margaery continued in the same bland tone. "Another entered and grabbed me and I screamed for Robb. The man held a knife to my throat and told Robb he'd cut it if he didn't surrender. Robb looked so afraid for me as he lowered his sword. That's when the rest of them slit his."

She gestured at his chest, at the stab wounds, and the pooled blood staining his slit throat. On his shoulder, the scar from the arrow he'd taken capturing Casterly Rock had almost healed.

"From the back, of course," Margaery said. "And the moment he was dead, they let me go. They just left the way they'd came. He died for me, and they just let me go." Finally, she raised her eyes from Robb's corpse, her first tears spilling out of them. "Why did they let me go?"

Sansa held Margaery tightly, burying her own tears into the other woman's shoulder. Margaery squeezed back just as fiercely. Inside Sansa's head was nothing but an endless refrain of, I failed. I failed him again. I tried and it wasn't enough and I failed and I was focused on politics and my brother is dead and it's all–

My fault.

"They left you alive so that you can marry again," Sansa answered the girl, letting the empty explanations hold her emotions at bay. "If they'd killed him before the wedding, you might have fulfilled your betrothal to a different Stark, like you did with Tommen. But with your marriage having been consummated for the last week, now you're clear of Starks forever. As a widow, you can marry anyone – even bloody Tywin himself – and help him take the Iron Throne."

Sansa was rambling. Margaery gripped onto her all the more tightly.

Theon walked in, still in a daze. "I have to… make sure. He might– He survived, with the arrow, and I have to–"

Sansa turned to Margaery. "Keep my mother from coming in at all costs."

Margaery gave a stiff nod. As Sansa watched, Margaery turned her face to steel, shoving her emotions behind her usual flawless facade. It lasted only a moment before it crumbled like the rest. Still, Margaery left, her back held straight, as tears coursed down her face. Sansa had never before seen Margaery look anything less than composed. And she'd never before looked more like a queen.

Beside Robb's pale corpse, Theon stood transfixed. He held Robb's limp hand in his own as if unsure what the pallor meant, waiting for the joke to end, for Robb to grin and admit he'd tricked them all so thoroughly.

Sansa felt hollow. She'd seen her father die, seen Rickon fall, and seen so many other bodies. Theon's. She'd tried so hard to stop Robb's. Tried, and still–

She remembered him smuggling her the last lemon cake, when they were children. She'd been so grateful that she cried. She remembered riding on his shoulders around the training yard as she hollered with glee and he whinnied. She remembered him holding her tightly, earlier this same day. Holding her and promising–

She couldn't think on it. Couldn't think on any of it without falling to pieces.

At least she'd been here for Robb, this time. At least there was that.

But Theon hadn't truly seen death. He'd been too young to remember the deaths of his Greyjoy brothers, too distant to truly mourn Ned. Whatever Ned had been for Theon, he hadn't been Robb, his King, his closest companion, the dearest thing to his own flesh and blood.

Sansa put a hand on Theon's arm. "Don't remember him like this. Come away, Theon."

"Robb… He can't–" Theon's voice shook. He looked down, eyes squeezed shut to drive off the pain. "I tried to get here in time. I was outside his door and I just… I left him here. He was dying on the other side while I, I left him, and–!"

"I failed him, not you, Theon," Sansa insisted. "Not you. Everything you did was to honor him as a brother. You never failed him. Not for a single minute."

At that, Theon crumpled into her. Sansa held him, feeling his body shake with his sobs. All she could do was rub a hand over his back, knowing words meant nothing. This pain could not be eased.

Slowly, her arms around Theon, she guided their steps out into the hallway. The door to Robb's room closed behind them.

A/N: I delayed posting this chapter until I also had the following one completed. It will be posted next Wednesday, 3/2.