"How's the hand?"

Tyrion stood on the other side of the bars, glad he could visit his brother now that Jaime had been moved to an actual cell. A number of Stark guards watched from the corners of the dungeon.

Jaime turned his right hand over, his manacle rattling as he flexed every finger. Misshapen scars covered it, with lumps no hand should have, but every finger bent… most of the way.

"It's a hand." Jaime nodded at Tyrion. "How was the Blackwater? We heard no word and thought…"

That he had been killed.

"A good assumption," Tyrion said lightly, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. "Since I should have been. Had not the doting hand of our Red Wolf stretched out to spare me, that is. Yourself?"

Jaime frowned down at his ruined hand. "I had the Greyjoy boy wide open and was about to run him through when his damned direwolf grabbed me."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "The Greyjoys are indeed known for their direwolves."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Like I care which bloody beast ripped my hand apart."

He might not, but Tyrion certainly did. Sansa's direwolf. Perhaps it had been a coincidence – perhaps not. But while Sansa had said she didn't want to go to war with his family – while slaughtering Lannister men by the thousands – perhaps when it came to the two sitting here…

I will not make Jaime complicit in his father's death.

It has been quickly said – and even more quickly passed by – but Tyrion hadn't been able to get Sansa's sentence out of his head. Tyrion had been perfectly fine orchestrating that assassination of his own father. And Sansa Stark was the only one in the entire 100,000 men of the Stark alliance who called his brother 'Jaime.'

There was a secret buried somewhere in her words. Tyrion vowed to find it.

"Don't make that face," Jaime said. "You've no business plotting while I'm in a cell and you're barely better."

"I'd say I'm in a bit of a better spot than a cell," Tyrion replied. One of the Stark guards behind him shifted. Tyrion wasn't about to clarify that Sansa had put him in her closest circle, not with so many ears pretending to ignore the Lannister brothers' reunion. But as rumor had Tyrion as Sansa's spy anyway… let them guess.

"Do you remember, back when we were children and Mother used to tell us stories?" Tyrion began.

Their mother had died when Tyrion was born. Jaime leaned forward eagerly. "You always loved her stories."

Tyrion smiled. "My favorite was The Girl who Knew Things She Shouldn't."

"I don't remember that one well," Jaime replied. An intent gleam lit his eyes. "Tell it to me."

...

Sansa headed down to break her fast in the great hall, nodding at every familiar face she passed along the way. Sleep had still mostly eluded her, what little she'd grasped only in fits and starts.

She glanced around the room, taking note of the head table. Karstark leaned across it towards Catelyn, Edmure sat next to her, talking to Margaery, and on her other side–

Robb's seat was empty.

Sansa froze. She tried to take it in, tried to take a step forward, but Robb's seat was still empty. The great wooden chair seemed to mock her loss, continuing onwards when its owner hadn't. It was a Lannister chair and she hated it, wanted it burned, wanted–

Fingers laced through her own. Sansa jerked back, and–

Theon held her hand, his face as drawn and pale as her own. "It's only a chair," he said, having followed her gaze. "You don't have to sit in it."

Bile rose in her throat at the very idea. She was supposed to take Robb's place, to–!?

Theon tugged her onwards and, one leaden step at a time, Sansa followed. She left Robb's seat empty next to Margaery, sliding into her usual one on its other side. Across the empty seat, Margaery gave her a wan smile before turning back to talking with Edmure.

At the other end of the hall, a minstrel had started strumming, but Sansa couldn't make out the words over the sound of Torrhen Karstark's emphatic pleading.

"He killed my father!" Karstark bent closer to where Catelyn sat. Her mother's lips pursed in distaste. "You think he can do that and get away with it?"

"I am well aware of the Kingslayer's crimes, Lord Karstark," Catelyn replied. Her eyes flicked to her daughter. "And far worse ones we have to let stand. We all have to make sacrifices in the name of peace."

"Peace?!" Karstark hissed. "Of course that's what we get when a little girl–"

"Lord Karstark," Sansa cut in. "We have to free the Riverlands. If Tywin does not withdraw, if he attacks despite my warning, you will have your vengeance. I will let your hand swing the blade that kills the Kingslayer. Is that satisfactory?"

Karstark hesitated. He gave a jerky nod. "Yes, my lady."

Sansa nodded in reply. "Very good."

He could tell when he'd been dismissed and walked back to his own table.

At her side, Theon cut into his meat, taking a large bite. "Oberyn, huh?"

Sansa tensed. She'd been dreading this conversation. "It isn't like that."

"What isn't it like?" His voice was tight.

"It wasn't going to happen," she said. "I'd hoped to handle it quietly, without needing to let on."

"Why?" Theon took another bite. "He's a prince; you're a princess. It's a good match, isn't it?"

Sansa lost it. "He isn't–" You. Oberyn didn't believe me against all odds, rescue me from a castle, trust me enough to turn a war based on coded ramblings. She held her chin up. "I was trying to let him down gently. There was never any reason to say it, if I never meant to accept."

Theon paused, staring down at his plate. His wariness of her had drained away into some emotion she couldn't read. "Maybe you should."

"Theon?" Sansa leaned closer. Surely, he couldn't mean…

He frowned down at his fork. "You're leading an army to Riverrun and you know you can't trust… certain people. There's only two thousand Stark men – and that's assuming they'll all follow a little girl."

"And twenty thousand Tullys," Sansa said, trying to keep her tone bright. "I don't think my uncle's and my mother's troops will protect me any less fiercely than the Dornish would."

Theon smiled at her. "Of course." But he looked as uneasy as Sansa felt. His hand lay on the table next to her and Sansa laced her fingers through his. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Heavy footsteps that Sansa knew well approached the table. Theon frowned slightly as she let go of his hand.

"Sandor," Sansa smiled. "How can I help you?"

The Hound cast a sidelong glance at Theon before his gaze came to rest again on Sansa. "I think it's time I took my leave."

Sansa flinched as if she'd been stabbed. "Now? But…"

The Hound grimaced. Again, his eyes betrayed him as he glanced towards Theon. "You offered me meat and mead if I stayed till your brother's wedding. Don't want to overstay my welcome."

"You're not," Sansa insisted. "I can offer you gold, or, or–"

Laughter burst from further down the table. Startled, Sansa turned to see. Margaery hung on Edmure's arm, laughing again at some joke her uncle had made as he grinned. Revulsion bubbled inside of Sansa. She had to look away before doing something rash.

Theon stood. With an abrupt, "I'll see you later," he exited the room.

Margaery laughed again and Sansa had to get away. Motioning the Hound after her, she stepped into an adjoining hallway and turned to him with pleading in her eyes.

"If it's something I've said, or something one of my men has done, tell me and–"

"No, Little Wolf," the Hound said. Now that they were alone, the hint of fondness trickled back into his tone. "It's nothing you've done. It's not my place to be around you, is all." As the silence stretched, he looked away. "Don't bloody make me say it."

He'd stayed on her behalf, fought on her behalf, and whatever his feelings towards her were, the least she could do was to let him have them in peace. "I understand," Sansa softly replied. "Thank you for all you've done. It's more than I deserve."

He frowned, about to make some objection, but she cut him off. "Where will you go now?"

"Don't rightly know," he replied. "Perhaps home. Perhaps somewheres southward in the Reach."

A sudden thought hit Sansa. "What about Dorne?"

His frown deepened. "What about Dorne?"

A Tyrell bannerman walked past and Sansa exchanged a pleasant nod with the man, holding her tongue until he'd left their corner of the hallway. Then, she slowly explained, "My sister is leaving to Dorne with Oberyn and his family. She could do with a swordsman to look after her. One I would be happy to pay handsomely."

"You trust Oberyn," the Hound said, his frown never leaving.

"I like Oberyn," Sansa clarified. She said nothing more, simply studied the Hound and waited.

"Alright, Little Wolf," the Hound finally replied. "I'll do it. Though I expect the little brat will be more trouble than she's worth."

Sansa smiled. "Starks always are."

...

Sansa's parting with Oberyn was filled with smiles and fond reassurances, despite the heaviness that still lay on all in the castle. But Sansa had been dreading nothing more than having to say goodbye yet again to her sister. Finally, she dared to seek Arya out… and found her loading armfuls of weapons into a cart.

"Arya," Sansa drew out in concern. "What's all this?"

Arya set down her armful of pikes and glaives and swords. "Oh! You said I could have any weapons I could carry. You didn't specify that I had to carry them all at the same time."

Sansa was too fond to be mad. She pulled her into a hug. "I'm going to miss you. So very much. Try not to get yourself killed and learn all you can."

Arya hugged her back just as tightly before pulling away. "I can't wait! I've never been to Dorne, and I get to train with Nym and Tyene and Obara, and I'm getting better at using the spear, and…" Her enthusiasm fell as she looked seriously at her sister. "You're still looking after me. But who's looking after you?"

Sansa tried to keep from crying as she smiled. "I have Lady to look after me. Make sure Nymeria doesn't suffer too much in the heat."

...

"My lady, if I might have a word?"

Sansa stopped on her way back to the castle, her musings interrupted. "Of course, Lord Varys. What is it?"

Varys smiled emptily. "I'm afraid the North no longer has use of my little birds. I wanted to wish you farewell and safe travels on your way to Riverrun."

Sansa blinked. "You're going to Daenerys, aren't you?"

It might not have been the wisest thing to say. She was tired, hungry, already missing her family, and frankly, just couldn't be bothered with all the niceties.

Varys paused. "Perhaps." It was as good as an emphatic 'yes' from another man. Though he looked around, as if searching for the guards Sansa would call down upon him.

But Sansa remembered how he'd served Daenerys last time – and what had gotten him burned alive.

Instead, Sansa offered him her hand. "Farewell and safe travels, Lord Varys."

When he took her hand, Sansa stepped closer. Leaning up towards his ear, she whispered, "She is not the only Targaryen." His pulse jumped in her grasp. Before he could break away, Sansa continued, "And the one that doesn't burn people alive has the better claim."

Calmly, the two spymasters stepped away from each other. Varys's face betrayed nothing.

After a long moment, finally he spoke. "My little birds flew north of the wall, on your request. Save news of wildings on the move, the only songs they heard were children's tales. Fantastical creatures and horrors to frighten all the bad little ones into obedience." He studied her. "But you believe those tales, don't you?"

"I've seen them, Lord Varys," Sansa replied.

His expression never wavered. "What else have you seen?"

"You," she said. "Burned alive at her command."

A muscle in Varys's cheek spasmed. "For what crime?"

"Treason," Sansa simply replied.

Varys looked away. His eyes studied the distant horizon of the sea. "I hope this is not goodbye, Red Wolf."

"And I, as well," Sansa replied.

...

Even after the walk from the docks back to the castle, Sansa's head had yet to clear. Her sister gone, Oberyn, the Hound, Varys. Though Loras's declaration that the Tyrells were leaving immediately had been overestimating his army's speed, as the Tyrell army still prepared to depart for the Reach the next morning. Theon would leave for the North not long after that.

As Sansa neared her study, the two Starks guarding it who had been whispering together straightened to attention.

Sansa smiled. It was good to see men of the North. "Gelman I know," she said, nodding to the grizzled soldier, who nodded back. "But who might you be, brave soldier?"

The other man looked younger than Robb. "They call me Ned, my lady."

Sansa froze. She forced her smile to widen again, to speak words that were true, even if she didn't mean them. "A fitting name for a brave man of the North. I hope you continue bearing it well."

With a flush, Ned placed his fist over his heart, giving a slight bow. "Thank you, my lady."

Gelman nudged him. "Tell her."

Ned frowned at him. "I didn't think we should trouble her ladyship with–"

"Tell me what?" Sansa cut in.

Ned sighed. "It's the lady Margaery."

Sansa raised an eyebrow, not about to lower herself into asking a second time.

He looked away. "She's… uh… she's still sleeping in your brother's rooms."

Gelman shook his head. "It's morbid-like, my lady. Unnatural. There's plenty of fancy rooms in this castle. If she cared for him even a little, she shouldn't want to sleep in the same bed where–"

"Thank you," Sansa cut him off. "I will handle this. Please continue relaying what the men have been saying to me. It is valuable information."

Both men knuckled their foreheads, hearing the dismissal.

No matter how upsetting it was to hear that Margaery still slept in the bed that Sansa had last seen soaked in Robb's blood, she planned to do absolutely nothing about it. Sansa would soon be rid of the Tyrell's aid and their problems.

"Thank you, my lady," Gelman said. "We know you've important things to attend to."

Ned nodded. "He's been waiting for awhile."

Sansa tilted her head. "Who has?"

Ned gestured inside. "I mean, he said he was waiting for you–"

"No one is to be let into my study while I am not there," Sansa said, and strode inside. It would be one of her advisors, but she couldn't be too careful, not with–

Lord Bolton sat on her couch. His icy blue eyes lifted to hers, a goblet held loosely in his hand. He gently lowered it to the table. Sansa flinched at the sound.

"My lady." Bolton stood, inclining his head to her. "Your men were gracious enough to let me wait inside. I hope you don't mind that I made myself at home."

"Not at all, Lord Bolton." Sansa forced her feet to keep taking steps into the room. She smoothed her skirts, trying to hide how her hands shook. She wanted to strangle this man, wanted to run from him and hide, had learned to fear every sound of his that meant Ramsay was close by, wanted to sink her teeth into his throat for Robb's death – wanted to sink them in and rip.

At least that thought brought a smile to her face. Bolton need never know her smile's cause. "What have you come to speak to me about, Lord Bolton?"

He took a step closer. Sansa had to hold her breath to keep from stepping away. "My lady, I come to you with serious tidings."

As with her soldiers, Sansa did not deign to ask a second time.

Bolton looked grave. "I come to you with treason."

Her heart lurched. She wanted her soldiers in here, she wanted Lady, wanted– "You know who killed Robb?" Sansa forced herself to say. She had no reason to fear Bolton – not so long as he didn't know that she knew his secrets.

"Oh no, my lady." Bolton's face never twitched, never gave away a single sign. "I come to you with the other crime you declared treason. I discovered a plot to free the Kingslayer. I have the traitors bound in my camp."

Seven hells.

Sansa closed her eyes, forcing a breath in – and out. She'd hoped to have time before she dealt with this, hoped for… any number of things.

She opened her eyes. "Lead me to them, Lord Bolton."

...

It had been too long since Sansa had walked through the war camp. The smells had already grown unfamiliar, the sounds of raucous laughter, of smithing metal foreign to her ears.

But Lady strode at her mistress's side, her ears pricked as she examined each passing soldier.

Somewhere in camp came snatches of the same song she'd heard earlier:

"A wolf, alone, on an empty throne,

where Lions fear his bite.

A wolf, alone, on an empty throne,

dies howling in the night."

Sansa hated it, hated whoever was singing it, hated whoever hadn't beaten them into stopping. Whoever had written the song glorying in Robb's death hadn't even bothered crafting an original tune, instead stealing openly from "Hands of Gold." It was fitting, for such a repulsive song.

But as she and Lady strode through camp, men turned at the sight. Spotting the direwolf, men from every House snapped salutes, whispering to their companions. More than once, Sansa caught mutterings of, "Sansa Stark," or, "Red Wolf."

Bolton walked in front, his back to both the Stark and her wolf, never showing an ounce of fear.

Dread curdled in Sansa's stomach at the thought of whatever he was leading her towards. She would have a hard enough time commanding these men already, let alone if she had to execute one of them.

Bolton pulled back the flap on a tent. "In here."

Lady entered first and Sansa followed.

Seven men sat bound in the dirt, their faces bruised and bloody. Four Bolton soldiers stood guarding them, lances in hand.

Sansa spun towards Bolton. "What is this?"

Bolton gestured at the captive in front. A Bolton soldier pulled the rag out of the captive's mouth.

The man glanced around at his fellows. "We thought Tywin Lannister would reward us, if we…" He paused to spit blood out of his mouth. "Jerrold, here, pulled dungeon duty yesterday and knew there were only five on guard at a time. So we was going to wait until we could get two of us on the same shift and then…" He looked in fear up at Bolton, and swallowed. "We'd off the rest and spring the Kingslayer."

"You freely confess this?" Sansa said.

The man's eyes jerked again to Bolton, saying nothing.

Bolton hooked his fingers in his belt. "Of course not. I've had my best men extracting the truth from the lot of them since this morning. No more than they deserved, discussing it so openly."

A new sort of dread curdled in Sansa's stomach. "You… tortured them?"

"Of course, my lady." Bolton nodded towards them. "You said anyone who plots and conspires. No man will ever admit that openly. It seemed to me implied."

Sansa clenched her jaw. "Never again, Lord Bolton. There are laws against torture, in the North. I will hold you to them." She had to risk commanding it, but both she and Bolton knew she had not the strength to enforce it.

He smiled his icy smile. "Of course, my lady. I believe that once will be enough to prove the point. No others will risk the chance of torture."

A torn scrap of cloth on one of the prisoner's uniforms caught Sansa's attention. "Whom do you serve?"

"Lord Tully, my lady," the ungagged one replied.

"All of you?" Sansa asked, begging it not to be true.

The man nodded.

Next to her, Bolton didn't even bother hiding his smile. Either she'd violate her word or damage her relationship with her strongest ally. If she knew Bolton at all, he'd found a plot by one of her strong allies – to make sure he left her no good options.

"Lord Bolton," she said, her voice clear and strong. "Summon Stark men to me, along with wash basins and food and drink. I will not have these men in fear of their torturers while answering my questions."

He couldn't conceal his grimace quickly enough. "As you wish, my lady."

Sansa waited, asking nothing, until Bolton returned with ten Stark men and stewards. The captives gulped down water eagerly.

"Thank you, Lord Bolton," Sansa said. "That will be all for now. Take your men with you."

Bolton frowned. "My lady, I must warn you, men are liable to say any number of things without the threat of pain to tell the truth–"

Lady growled.

"Thank you, Lord Bolton," Sansa said again. "I will keep that in mind."

With another grimace, he and his men left.

Yet even after they'd eaten and drank, as Sansa sat with the captives and listened, all of them said the same thing: they had done it. They had plotted to free the Kingslayer and kill good men to do it.

Seven. Seven confessed traitors that Sansa had to deal with. She'd meant the punishment to be severe on the first man convicted – severe enough to deter anyone else from making a second attempt. She hadn't meant it to be… this. Whether or not Bolton had arranged it, she had to deal with her pronouncement all the same.

She turned to her Stark soldier. "Bring Lord Bolton back in."

Bolton returned surprisingly quickly. "What have you decided, my lady?"

"From whom did you hear this plot?" Sansa asked him.

"From one of my trusted men, Henrik," Bolton replied. "He overheard the conspirators planning the dungeon duty rotation to figure out when they'd have their next chance."

"Bring your man in," Sansa said.

Bolton nodded at a man and a moment later he returned with a soldier bearing Bolton's colors.

"Did you hear of this plot to free the Kingslayer?" Sansa asked him.

"I did, Lady Stark," Henrik replied. "They was whispering round the fire and–"

"Did you report it directly to me – as commanded?" Sansa continued.

The man looked at Bolton. "Well, no, Lady Stark. I told my Lord Bolton, who said he would handle it."

"Yes," Sansa replied. "And he is not me." She turned to her Stark soldiers. "Take him."

At once, three Starks stepped forwards, heading towards Henrik.

"What?" Henrik spun, horrified. "I didn't– I told! I'm no traitor, I'm not–!"

"You are no traitor to Lord Bolton," Sansa said. "You are every inch a traitor to me."

Stark men grabbed the Bolton soldier, forcing him to his knees with the rest. He screamed his protestations even as they forced a gag into his mouth. Finally, he fell silent, exhaling a fearful moan with each breath.

Bolton stared at Sansa, his eyes cold.

She smiled up at him. "As you said, Lord Bolton. I believe that once will be enough to prove the point."

As his plan depended on Sansa enforcing her command to the letter, he could protest the execution no more than Sansa could. Bolton's voice was flat as an icy lake. "What is your decree, my lady?"

She turned towards the seven captive Tullys and one captive Bolton. "Any man who wishes to take the Black may do so."

She waited as no man moved. Finally, one Tully raised his hand. Sansa nodded and her Starks pulled him out from the rest.

"There are no others who wish to receive a second chance at life?" Sansa said.

A Tully spat. "Not in the blasted frozen North. We'll take your mercy, my lady."

Ice filled her own veins at the thought of what she'd soon have to do. "I announced that the punishment for this crime was death. This is my mercy," she said more slowly. "I would recommend you take it."

Another Tully raised his hand and was pulled out to join the other.

No other hands raised.

One laughed. "This is a joke," he said with a smile. "You're a little girl, you're not going to…"

She turned to her Stark man. "See that the two bound for the Wall are imprisoned–"

"With the Kingslayer?" Bolton said. "Then the next attempt to free him will gain immediate reinforcements."

"–in the camp," Sansa changed to say. "Chain them and post a guard."

"Wasting valuable men," Bolton said.

Sansa ignored his comment. "Summon the lords for an execution," she commanded. "I will return momentarily to perform it."

Bolton stepped closer. "My lady, there is no need to dirty your hands. You have not the arm strength for a proper Northern beheading. Let me spare you the… unpleasantness."

Which would grant Bolton the public sign of wielding her authority. Sansa stared up at him, unflinching. " 'He who passes the sentence must swing the sword.' I may not have the arm strength, my lord, but they will still die by my hand." As she strode out of the tent, she called backwards, "Prepare nooses."

...

Warily, Sansa approached the great wooden doors. Tyrell soldiers guarded it on either side, but they paid Sansa no mind.

She'd stayed away from here, stayed away from this whole part of the castle after, after…

A spot on the flagstone caught her attention. It was still darker than the rest. Whomever had been given the job of scrubbing hadn't quite been able to get all the blood away, hadn't–

Before she could lose her nerve, Sansa knocked on the door. "Margaery?"

A low bark sounded from inside.

"Enter," a flat voice called.

Gently, Sansa pulled open the door.

Inside, darkness covered the room. Shutters had been pulled tightly over the windows; only the faintest cracks between the wooden slats let in any light at all.

"Are you alright?" Sansa said.

Only silence replied for a long moment. "What do you want?" Margaery finally said.

"I just need…" Sansa paused, swallowed. "I just need Robb's sword."

Dimly, she could make out the shape of a figure slowly shifting at the other end of the room. One of the shutters tilted, spilling light into the room. Margaery lay on one side of the bed, the other side empty. Sansa's throat clenched. Robb. She tore her gaze away. At the foot of the bed stretched Grey Wolf.

Sansa walked over, her hand raised to pet his fur; Grey Wind endured one stroke before turning his face away.

Margaery sat up in bed, still in only nightclothes despite the late afternoon. She stared at Sansa without comprehension, her face slack.

"Isn't your brother leaving tomorrow?" Sansa asked instead.

Margaery blinked. "Yes. And I'll be returning to Highgarden with the later group of Tyrells once they've finished the last of their preparations."

"Ah," Sansa said.

She stood there, awkwardly not knowing what else to say and without any desire to try. They could have been sisters, once. Could have striven side-by-side to write their will upon the world. It had been the two of them who had ensured the Lannisters couldn't reinforce at the Battle of the Blackwater – scheming and plotting together with no one else to stop them.

Instead, Margaery had chosen the Iron Throne; Robb had died for it.

"You needed his sword?" Margaery pressed. "What for?"

"I have to…" Sansa looked down at her feet. Whatever icy resolve had carried her through the day cracked at saying the words out loud. "I have to execute six men," she whispered. "I said I would, and I have to, and I can't let Bolton do it for me, and I need the sword of the North, Robb's sword, Father's sword, if I'm to be taken seriously–"

"Wait." Margaery stood, walking towards her closet. A pile of dresses lay upon an armchair and she picked the first one up – black – and pulled it on over her head. She stretched her arms backwards, struggling to do up the laces.

"What are you…" Sansa frowned at her. "What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed." Margaery glared back at her. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Sansa stepped forwards, taking the laces from her and pulling them tight. "I meant why."

"Because you're about to execute six men," Margaery said matter-of-factly. "And I'm not about to attend an execution in my nightclothes."

Sansa paused. That had sounded… almost like support. She tugged harder on the laces, tying them off.

Margaery stepped away. It took no effort of hers in searching to find the sword; all of Robb's treasured possessions lay on the table, precisely arranged and spread out on display. The sight of his tunic, his cloak, of the scattered reminders of Robb felt like a blade sinking into Sansa's chest.

Margaery turned, the enormous length of Ice sheathed in her hands. "Here."

But Sansa had a suspicion. For all that Margaery could still laugh, for all that she still slept in Robb's chambers, these were not rooms that others in the castle visited; the one who had preserved Robb's possessions so neatly… had to be standing in front of Sansa. Placing her hands on the sword, Sansa refused to take it from her. "Why do you still sleep here?" Sansa whispered.

Margaery raised the sword toward Sansa.

"Why?" Sansa whispered again.

Margaery shoved the sword viciously at her, not caring if Sansa caught it. Sansa's hands dipped under its weight; the hilt came up almost to her shoulder.

Margaery turned away. "If that's all–"

"Wait." They'd worn golden Lannister crowns at their wedding, but Robb's dark metal Northern crown lay with his possessions on the table – as did a smaller, more delicate one that matched it. Sansa couldn't help but smile at the sight. Robb must have had it made. If Margaery were coming to an execution to support her, the least Sansa could do was see the once Queen in the North properly attired. Setting Ice down, Sansa picked up the smaller dark crown. "Your Grace, if I may?"

Margaery turned, confused… and then caught sight. A smile crossed her face before she turned away again, shaking her hair out over her shoulders. "Yes, do. But make sure to pull my hair back into some severe enough Northern style to hide that it's an absolute wreck."

Sansa blinked at her. "Don't you have an army of lady's maids…?"

Margaery glared back at her. "Do you want me at your execution or not?"

Sansa sighed, gathering the older girl's hair into a tight bun. "Not my execution," she muttered. "Not yet."

...

Sansa led the procession of nobles down the hill and into the heart of the war camp. Maege Mormont walked next to her, carrying Ice in her hands. Sansa was glad Maege had recovered enough to offer; Sansa would have looked silly carrying a sword almost as tall as herself.

Edmure trotted to catch up to her. "Sansa, be reasonable. You can't kill men for trying to free the Kingslayer–"

"I am killing them for treason, Uncle," Sansa replied. "I pleaded with them to take the Black. They refused."

"The Black is as good as a death sentence!" Edmure said. "They didn't understand, didn't…"

"What part of a direct command from their lord did they not understand?" Sansa replied.

"They're not your men," Edmure said. "They're mine. You can't go executing my men!"

"I believe you pledged your support to the King in the North. We are currently preparing to free your home, Uncle. Are you withdrawing that support?"

"And you are not the King in the North!" Edmure snarled. "Your younger brother is King, back in Winterfell. You're just the only Stark that's here."

"Yes," Sansa replied. "And as the only Stark that's here, I wield his authority."

They had reached the bottom of the hill. A sharp wind blew through the camp, snapping the banners on their posts. Before them, the nooses dangling from the great oak swayed.

Catelyn cautiously stepped closer to her daughter. "Sansa, what's this I hear? You're having an execution?"

"You reason with her!" Edmure gestured at his sister and niece, stalking a few steps away.

"Yes," Sansa grimly said to her mother, not wanting to explain.

Catelyn spotted Ice in the hands of Maege Mormont. "Sansa, let one of the other Northern lords do the job. Lady Mormont is a fine warrior and a loyal companion, but I can't imagine it will be received well, having a woman as your executioner."

Sansa simply said, "She's not." At least her mother hadn't tried to dissuade her.

Edmure shook his head, drawing near again. "This is madness. No Lannister is worth all this. Sansa, you have to–"

"She has to what?"

Theon strode down the hill, joining them in front of the tree.

Edmure frowned at him. "She can't do this. She has to show mercy, make it a whipping, or–"

"She gave this proclamation yesterday," Theon replied. "I didn't see you complaining, then."

"Of course not," Edmure said. "I didn't think she'd actually…" He glanced over at Sansa.

"Right," Theon replied. "Neither did anyone else, which is why they all ignored her and plotted anyway. She has to do this."

With a swell of gratitude, Sansa reached for Theon's hand. He laced his fingers through her own. "Do you need me to…?" He nodded in the direction of Ice. "I've never wielded a greatsword, but…"

"No," she said.

Edmure stepped closer to her. "Sansa, you've no reason to assume Tywin Lannister will even accept your terms! You'll have killed good men for nothing. Just wait, just a few days, until we've heard a reply from him."

Looking up at him, Sansa shook her head. "My command was not conditional upon Tywin's acceptance. It is still treason, Uncle. Delaying to see if Tywin decides in our favor is an act weak enough to ensure he decides against it."

The rest of the lords had gathered at the bottom of the hill. Lord Royce was bent in discussion with other lords of the Vale. Umber's and Karstark's faces were unreadable. And as always, Tyrion studied the lords surrounding him.

The Tyrells walked down the hill, two black-robed figures with dozens of their men following behind. Loras was solemn. Margaery's hand rested on his arm as she stared ahead with the grace of a queen. Her black dress fluttered in the wind, strands of hair whipping from beneath her dark crown. From across the crowd, Margaery gave Sansa a nod.

Sansa stepped forward as Maege followed behind. Sansa gave a nod to the Stark men holding the traitors. Nooses were slipped over their necks.

"Do you have any last words?" Sansa said. She listened to each of them in turn as they wept, or were silent, or screamed and raged.

Then she turned to Maege. The hilt of her father's sword felt cold in her hands, felt enormous. Sansa pulled. With a singing rasp of valyrian steel, the blade pulled free. She pressed its point into the dirt, holding the hilt before her at shoulder-height.

She raised her eyes to the waiting men.

"In the name of Brandon Stark, King in the North, I, Sansa of House Stark, sentence you to die."

And she swung the sword. Six times she swung, until six ropes were severed, and six bodies danced beneath the boughs of the tree.

Sansa watched. She watched until the last body stopped.

"You did well," Maege whispered. "Your father would have been proud."

Instantly, Sansa had to fight back tears. Perhaps he would have been, but more than anything, Sansa knew he'd have been horrified that she'd had to.

Gods, she missed Robb.

Maege's hand rested on her thin shoulders.

"Thank you," Sansa weakly replied.

Taking the sword from her, Maege slid it neatly back into its sheath. Sansa was grateful yet again; she couldn't have done it without struggling and looking like a pathetic child.

Sansa turned back toward the gathered lords. Her mother looked away, her eyes closed to keep from seeing her daughter. She turned and marched up the hill, away from the gruesome sight. Royce gave Sansa a nod. Theon looked proud. And–

"By the gods," Loras swore, aghast. "The North lets little girls be its executioners?"

With a quick frown, Margaery nudged her brother.

"It is the old way," Umber replied. "We don't believe in letting others be our executioners."

"Aye," Theon cut in. "He who passes the sentence must swing the sword."

Loras shuddered. "She hasn't even bled and she's taken six lives. I've never been so glad to have turned down an offer of marriage in my life."

"Loras!" Margaery hissed.

Horrified, Theon looked for the truth of it from Sansa. Her frozen panic was all the confirmation he needed. With a snarl, Theon lunged for Loras. Whether to use fist or sword, no one knew, for before Theon had taken a step, Tyrion had stepped between them.

"He jests!" Tyrion said loudly, with a tight smile to Loras. "To match your own poor one."

"It's not a jest!" Theon snarled. "I'll gut him, I'll–"

Loras put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Every Tyrell man with him stepped forward. "Will you?" Loras replied with cool assurance.

Theon fell silent. Tyrion remained between Theon and the Tyrells, eyeing the latter uneasily.

Loras gave a nod. "I should hope it was a jest." Turning away, he strode back up the hill, the Tyrell men following behind. Margaery shot one last worried glance back at Theon – and then followed her brother.

Theon stalked away from Tyrion. "You heard him! He– he said–" Theon started to look at Sansa, but couldn't meet her gaze. He turned away.

Tyrion sauntered closer. "Let me give you a piece of advice from my brother – never start a duel that you don't know if you can win. Of course, my brother nearly always won, but the point is still the same."

"It wouldn't have been to the death," Theon said bitterly.

"So when you inevitably lost, you'd enjoy making the requisite apology?" Tyrion replied. "Fascinating. I would not."

"I can beat him." But not even Theon sounded like he believed his words. When he finally managed to look back at Sansa, his face was hard and cold. "But maybe she'd prefer I didn't."

Sansa took a step towards him. "Theon, I…"

He turned away, every step up the hill taking him further from her.

But she had proposed to Loras; they both knew it. Every excuse she'd given Theon for not telling him about Oberyn rang hollowly in her own ears. She'd meant every word of her proposal to Loras; if had had accepted, she would already be married to him.

Theon continued up the hill to Casterly, never once looking back.

"Give him time," Tyrion said.

But time she didn't have. The Dornish had left, the Tyrells were leaving, Theon was leaving. When the North left, Sansa would have to leave with them – would have to lead them.

Edmure still stood staring at the tree. She'd forgotten her uncle entirely.

Sansa stepped closer, unsure what she could say. "Uncle, I…"

"You know exactly who will make the next attempt to free the Kingslayer." Edmure turned to look at his niece, but there was something dead behind his eyes. "And you invited him into your camp."

He strode back towards Casterly with the rest, shooting a sneering look at the other lords as he passed.

Sansa looked at Tyrion. Tyrion looked back.

Edmure was right.