"Isn't this a surprise," Tyrion said as he strolled into Sansa's study the next day. Loras and most of the Tyrells had already left; Sansa couldn't let on how glad she was that they were gone. Tyrion smiled. "It's not every day one is summoned to meet with the Red Wolf."

"Have a seat." Sansa gestured to the chair across from her, where a filled wine glass already waited.

Tyrion eyed it appreciatively before settling in. "Is this bribery, Sansa Stark? I must say, I believe it's working."

Sansa's polite smile never wavered. "I'd like to talk to you about Jaime."

"And there it is." Tyrion raised the glass towards her. "My money had you broaching the topic of my brother far before this. What, would you like me to give you my deepest promise that I won't free him? I know your threat was serious, now, that I'd be hung if I tried–"

"It wouldn't stop you." Sansa took a sip of her own wine. "Nor will it stop the inevitable accusations."

Tyrion paused. He hid the hesitation with a sip of his own. "Go on."

"So long as you're in the same camp as your brother, nothing but trouble will come from it." Sansa studied him, not sure how best to broach her possible solution. Nor, how well he would take her dismissal.

Tyrion swirled his wine. "What am I to you, Lady Stark?"

My ex-husband. The only Lannister who was ever good to me.

But as she couldn't say anything approaching the truth, Sansa smiled. "Someone I would dearly like as a friend."

He turned the glass in his hand, admiring as the light fractured through it. "These always were my sister's favorite glasses."

The unsaid accusation rang in the silence. Sansa's smile fell.

"No, Red Wolf." Tyrion set the glass on the table. "You're clever enough to know that I'm a risk, a liability, yet you invited me into your camp, seated me on your small council. I'll ask again: what am I to you?"

Sansa said nothing for a long moment. Mentioning most of what she knew of him would only confuse the situation more. "I knew how much you and your father hated each other," Sansa slowly said.

"Did you?" Tyrion replied. "I didn't. Go on."

Sansa paused. "And I thought, if there was a chance to sway you to our side–"

"You'd do it by killing my sister and nephews, attacking my home, and pretending you'd killed my brother?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow at her. "Just how much of a traitor do you think I am?"

"None whatsoever," Sansa said harshly. "Unlike the rest of the world."

Tyrion frowned. "I have been trying to figure you out since the moment I arrived. At first, I assumed you must be incredibly stupid–" Sansa scowled. "–but the longer I've been here, the more I've learned the opposite to be true, and the more my confusion has grown."

Sansa's scowl deepened. "My lord, I don't know–"

"Look at you!" Tyrion gestured his arms at the room surrounding them. "Not a single guard, not even your wolf to protect you while you meet with me! You surely know I've killed men in combat and you still sit unprotected!"

"I…" But there was nothing good that Sansa could say.

Tyrion's look was imploring. "Why do you trust me?"

"Because you are trustworthy," Sansa replied, finally finding her tongue. "If I have been mistaken, please correct me."

"I can't imagine who would have told you that, but–"

"I didn't need anyone to tell me," Sansa snapped. "I have eyes. Exactly one person has ever stood up to Joffrey for me. And it wasn't your sister."

Tyrion was silent.

More softly, Sansa continued, "Starks can repay debts, too, you know."

Tyrion picked up his glass. "I shudder to think of the debt you'll lay at my father's door."

Sansa studied him. "Will you help us repay him for it?"

He studied her in return. "Perhaps."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Depending on your brother's safety."

Tyrion smiled. "Among other things."

"Such as?"

Tyrion took a sip. "Such as where you plan to send me."

Sansa froze, pinned by his stare as he eyed her over the rim of his glass. Despite her superior knowledge of him, Tyrion had still read her like a book. Again, it reminded her how carefully she had to tread amongst these players.

She let her finger trace the rim of her own cup, knowing she couldn't muster the appropriate disinterest. "I would like you to go with Theon."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm such a renowned sailor?"

"Because you'll keep Theon as safe as I keep Jaime," Sansa replied. Her face was deadly serious. "In case you doubt my word towards your brother and in case Theon needs advice."

Anyone with eyes knew Theon was her soft underbelly – and Sansa had just rolled over and offered it to Tyrion. At least, she hoped Tyrion had taken her offer how it had been meant.

"You want me to advise him as someone who isn't his family and a pirate," Tyrion guessed and Sansa nodded.

"The Greyjoys are notoriously not… long-term strategists," Sansa replied.

Tyrion snorted. "That they are not." But still, he studied Sansa. "Usually, I would threaten you, inform you that a homeless lion still has claws. But it seems you have already anticipated me, offering Theon into my power instead of the other way around. I would then bribe and cajole, except what friendship I would desire to win you already offer freely. I would then ask you what you want, so that I could do my best at offering it to you. However, this time I find that the reverse holds more interest." Taking another sip, he set the wine glass down decisively. His eyes locked onto Sansa. "What do you think I want, Sansa Stark?"

Sansa fought to keep her face perfectly cool and collected. "You want what family remains to you protected," she replied. "You don't hate your sister enough to be glad of her death, but you're wise enough to lay the blame for your nephews' deaths on Joffrey's own stupidity. You want power, you want respectability, and you want a place within the Lannister family and the realm. You are good to your friends, Lord Tyrion," Sansa concluded. "And I am good to mine."

Tyrion studied her even more thoroughly. "Would a friendship with the North benefit me?"

Sansa was solemn. "I would very much like it to."

Tyrion studied her for a long moment more before raising his glass. "To Theon."

Sansa raised hers. "To Jaime."

They both drank.

...

Sansa still sat at her desk hours later, reviewing reports and writing instructions. Disentangling the armies was hard, even without the Dornish and the majority of the Tyrell armies here to confuse it further. Every lord claimed a different portion of the livestock, supplies, and on and on it went. Even worse, the men occasionally pretended not to have received her instructions on divvying them.

A knock sounded at her door.

"Enter!" Sansa called, never ceasing her writing.

"My lady," an unfamiliar voice said. Sansa looked up, at a Stark soldier she still didn't recognize. "You sent for me?"

"I don't believe so," Sansa replied. "What were you told?"

The man looked even more confused than Sansa. "I was– we all were told to come up here by Lady Catelyn and speak to you on important matters."

Sansa's frown deepened. "Did she say which matters?"

"No, my lady," the man replied. "She just walked into the dungeon and–"

No. Terror flooded Sansa. If her mother had dismissed all the soldiers from the dungeon, it could only mean one thing.

Sansa raced around the desk, flinging open her door. The dungeons were far, were–

The soldiers guarding her door snapped to attention. "My lady! What–"

"With me!" Sansa cried, racing onwards.

Last time, her mother had freed the Kingslayer against Robb's command. Sansa had thought that with Arya and herself safe, there was little danger, little reason to watch for it–

But it had been a betrayal of Robb, before. Surely her mother wouldn't hesitate at betraying Sansa, now.

Sansa ran faster, her slippered feet padding along the stones.

Only Starks had guarded the dungeon ever since the execution of the Tully men and thankfully they stepped aside at the sight of their lady running towards them.

Sansa burst through the doors. Catelyn stood before the dreaded cell, Brienne at her side. The lady warrior stood armored and armed, her golden plate mail gleaming and greatsword at her waist. Both turned at Sansa's hurried entrance, even as Sansa stood panting.

Catelyn's brows drew together. "Sansa! What is the matter?"

"Mother," Sansa replied. "You need to leave the dungeons. Right this instant."

Catelyn pursed her lips. "As you say." To the confused Stark men who had entered with Sansa, Catelyn raised her voice to address them. "Leave us. We shall summon you after my daughter and I have finished."

Immediately, the Stark men snapped bows at her mother's words. Sansa's heart sank. The men followed Catelyn's command so unthinkingly that they hadn't even seen Catelyn's subtle mutiny against Sansa. They'd spent a lifetime obeying the Lady of Winterfell.

Only the three women remained in the musty stone dungeon, looking uneasily amongst themselves.

Catelyn held the key to Jaime's cell in her slender hand. Brienne's thicker hand grasped the hilt of her sword.

A dry laugh came from the cell. "How many Stark women does it take to kill a Lannister?" Jaime said. "One mother to hold a grudge, one leader to break her word, and one brute to swing the sword. Though, truth be told, I'm not sure I can vouch that they're all women."

Brienne flushed hotly but refused to look away from him.

"Mother," Sansa breathed, only now realizing that freeing Jaime had not been Catelyn's intent. "You can't… not seriously…"

"You killed my father's men, Sansa," Catelyn said, turning away from her daughter. "You had to, I know. But whose men will you be forced to kill tomorrow? How many more bodies of our allies will swing beneath trees before someone manages to succeed in restoring Tywin's son to him?"

"No, Mother," Sansa said, taking a step closer. "We have to risk it. Have to–"

"You are a child! You are my daughter!" When Catelyn finally looked at Sansa, tears glimmered in her eyes. "It is my job to protect you and I have failed. I will not fail again. Step outside, sweet. Go somewhere public. I will say to all that you convinced me to stop and no one will blame you for what must be done."

With a nod to Brienne, Catelyn turned the key in the door. The hinges groaned as Jaime's cell swung open.

The steel of Brienne's sword rasped as she drew it from its sheath. But she hesitated before stepping forward.

Her hesitation was all Sansa needed. She flung herself into the opening of the cell as both women drew back in surprise.

"No, Mother," Sansa said. "The safety of every person in this castle depends upon his. I gave my word. I will not let you touch him. Brienne, do not do this."

Behind Sansa, Jaime's chains rattled as he shifted.

"I am sworn to your mother," Brienne said, only her furrowed brow hinting at regret.

Catelyn looked annoyed. "Sansa. I will kill him whether or not you're here to see but it will be better for you if you are not. Step aside."

Sansa shook her head. "This is not right."

Catelyn sighed. "Brienne. Move her."

Thrusting her sword back into its scabbard, Brienne stepped deliberately toward Sansa.

"This is murder, Mother," Sansa said. "You swore you'd never dishonor Brienne and yet–"

A hand grabbed Sansa sharply by the throat. Her words strangled into silence. Brienne paled with sudden horror.

"Give them a moment to realize what they've done," Jaime whispered in Sansa's ear. He stood at the far edge of his chain's range inside the cell; his unharmed left hand clenched her throat tighter, readying to snap it with a single twist.

"STOP!" Catelyn screamed in horror.

Jaime smiled, his hand tightening around Sansa's throat. She let out an involuntary whimper. "It's quite funny, the things you Starks overlook. Like when your princess throws herself into a lion's cage. I think her life is worth quite a bit to you, wouldn't you–"

"You won't escape," Brienne stared him down. "The Starks will never let you leave, not even with Sansa as a hostage. Everyone here will see you dead for this."

"They will try," Jaime agreed. "But not before I take the princess down with me."

Every soft emotion in Brienne hardened into fury. "Sansa Stark fought to save your life against her own mother. This is how you repay her?"

Jaime shrugged. All his born handsomeness was wasted on the cruel, callous motion. "You know what they say about starving dogs and biting hands."

"They say not to," Brienne snarled.

Catelyn was still white with terror, watching Jaime's hand tighten and relax and tighten again around her daughter's neck.

"Your–" Sansa barely managed to squeak before running out of air. Curious, Jaime bent towards her. He stunk of prison, with dirt caked in layers on his skin. She'd never been so close to him and never wished him further away. Thankfully, Jaime loosened his grip on her throat a hair. She gulped air hungrily before trying again. Sansa rasped, "Your brother will not long survive me."

Jaime stared down at her, his face betraying nothing. Then, with a single push, he shoved Sansa out of the cell. Sansa fell into her mother's arms as Catelyn held her fast.

"Get it over with, then," Jaime said without emotion.

Brienne drew her sword. "Gladly."

"No."

Sansa's one word rang through the dungeon. Even though her voice rasped from abuse, all three of them stopped and looked at her.

"Sansa," Catelyn said with worry, brushing a hand through her daughter's hair. "He attacked you, threatened to–"

Before, Sansa had pleaded with her mother like a girl – and been treated like one. She could not afford to be seen as one ever again.

Sansa stepped away from Catelyn's embrace. She turned to Brienne. Though she spoke slowly through her aching throat, her words were no less clear. "You are sworn to my mother, but she is sworn to House Stark. Betray my command for hers again and I will return you to Tarth. I gave a direct command and I have not altered it. I will not tolerate another defiance."

Brienne stared at her feet. She gave a deep nod. "Yes, my lady."

Sansa gave a nod in reply, hiding how desperately she sucked in air. She turned to her mother. "Betray me again and I will leave you in Riverrun." Catelyn frowned, about to object, and Sansa added, "The only thing keeping everyone here alive is the belief, of all following the Starks' command, that we are still in command. Be grateful that no one witnessed you defying me. If they had, no one would follow any of us ever again. The Starks will appear united, no matter the truth."

After a moment, her mother conceded, "That is wise, Sansa."

"It is," Sansa agreed, and had to pause to soothe her throat. "From this point, you will travel with your brother and the Tully men, since your sympathies lie with them. You are banned from my counsel and my confidence. If I need anything, I shall speak with my uncle, who has not yet betrayed me."

"Sansa!" Catelyn gasped. "You cannot–"

Ignoring the outburst, Sansa turned to Brienne. "Remove her."

It was a test – one that Brienne thankfully passed, urging Catelyn to leave with gentle murmurs and a light touch. Catelyn ripped her arm away from Brienne, stalking from the room with her chin high enough to hide her wounded heart and pride.

Sansa stared resolutely forward as her mother exited the dungeon, and Sansa pretended that her own heart wasn't breaking, that she didn't long to collapse into her mother's soothing embrace, that she didn't wish with everything in her for Robb to return for even a single day.

Sansa had never felt so alone in her life.

Finally, the door closed behind Catelyn. Brienne remained, looking uneasily at the cell.

"What do you want done with him, my lady?" Brienne said.

Sansa stared into the cell. Jaime's cold green eyes met her own hard blue ones.

She turned away, rasping, "So long as he lives and remains our prisoner, I don't care."

With calm, professional movements, Brienne locked the cell and passed the key over to Sansa.

Sansa gave Jaime one last stare, wishing that the Hound had been here. He would have at least punched Jaime in the face.

Feeling unsatisfied, Sansa pocketed the key and left the dungeon. The Stark guards waited in the hallway and she gestured them back inside, knowing she couldn't speak without giving her injury away.

Soothing teas would be the thing for the next few days, as Sansa tried not to speak and cursed ungrateful Lannisters and too-obedient swordswomen.

...

The horrid song about Robb's death drifted from the men Theon strode past on his way to the docks. "The king is but a child, his rose, a queen, and free."

He ignored it as best he could, stuffing down the desire to kill the singer. The sky was grey and blustery, whipping his cloak about his legs with each step.

Behind him, the wooden plank walkway stretched back to the sheer cliff where Casterly Rock loomed, casting all the ships below in its shadow. He tried not to think about the cursed place, not about who waited inside, nor her brother who never would again.

Rodrik stood on the docks before him and they clasped arms.

"I hear you're off to your sister, then," Rodrik said.

"Aye," Theon replied. Both men looked beyond to where the Sea Bitch waited, its crew pulling ropes taut, hauling cargo, and shouting commands as they prepared to make way. "The new men seem reliable," Theon said instead of a 'thank you' to his uncle for supplying them.

Rodrik heard it anyway, clapping a hand on Theon's shoulder. "It's a good plan."

And in his praise, Theon heard something else: a reminder of a previous lesson from his uncle. Theon cast a wry look over at Rodrik. "Every good plan would be better with more ships."

Rodrik smiled at the invitation. "I would if I could. But your father recalled me home specifically. I can no more disobey my king than you could yours." Rodrik cast a curious glance at Theon. "He charged me to bring you home, as well."

The words stung Theon, that their Greyjoy king, his father, was so clearly not his own king. But he shoved the doubts aside as quickly as he could. "You know I go to my sister, not to Pyke."

With a widening smile, Rodrik spread his hands helplessly. "And I'll tell your father that I did all I could to convince you," Rodrik said, practicing his speech, short as it was.

Theon chuckled. "Then I and my ship will be off shortly–"

Rodrik raised an eyebrow. "In his anger at me for 'playing pretty lords down at Casterly Rock,' Balon's letter recalled me home. Unfortunate for him that he was so specific." Sticking two fingers in his mouth, Rodrik whistled loudly enough to pierce the air of the docks. The ironborn needed no further words. Silently, they gathered around him and Theon. Some stood, some sat on upended crates, or on the wooden pillars of the docks; all waited and watched.

Rodrik turned to Theon expectantly. Thirty pairs of eyes stared at him from the rest of the ironborn. Rodrik took a step back, leaving Theon before them.

Theon sucked in a breath. If he had ever wanted a chance for the support of his kinsmen – this was it.

"Ironborn!" Theon called, looking between the sun-beaten faces. "My father calls my uncle home, back to the rocks of Pyke." He paused, but no cheers or cries to continue came, only the same sullen stares. Wishing he'd had time to prepare a speech, Theon could only charge ahead anyway. "My father's rebellion has taken land in the North, it is true. But the North marches home. We could go join my father – join and reinforce him against these Northerners. Shed more iron-blood to keep hold of Northern rocks and snow and piss-poor land we've already stripped bare."

The ironborn said nothing. But Theon guessed that he still held their attention. "Or we could put some use to the time we've spent down here amongst all the greenlanders. Time that's made us rich beyond our wildest dreams." He flung an arm backwards at the cliff overlooking them. "A Greyjoy holds Casterly Rock! The Lannisters have been beaten back so far that we can pillage the Westerlands for the next decade! Or, we could go fight for some more Northern rocks."

A few chuckles came at that. Theon had to fight back his victorious grin.

"We've heard your plan for a treaty," one of the ironborn said around a mouthful of chew. He tipped his head towards the crew of the Sea Bitch. "Offering peaceful terms to Yara if she gives up what she's fought to gain."

"Aye," Theon replied. "Where she can keep what she's taken without the North hunting us down. Where we can leave as free men and go proudly back to Pyke all the richer for it."

"You talk of riches," an ironborn with a sour face said. "Yet where were your thoughts for your kin when you sacked the Lannister Rock? You fought for the Starks to get your riches, not for your blood."

Murmured assents answered the sour man.

Theon stepped closer to him. To Theon's own surprise, the question hadn't irritated him – only left him amused. He bent closer as if speaking conspiratorially, though loudly enough for all to hear. "When I first hatched my plan to sack Casterly, I took it straight to my father. I told him we didn't need the whole Iron Fleet, that even a fraction could take the Lannister's castle from them. He told me I was a Stark whelp and to run back to my Stark masters." Theon shrugged. "So I obeyed my father. And my ironborn and I took this bloody castle without any help from him." He turned to the rest of the ironborn. "So now I am not asking permission! Not from my father, not from anyone! I sail North, to Yara and to freedom. Who sails with me?"

Silence answered him.

Not again, Theon dreaded deep within every bone in his body. Not another rejection from his people.

Still, none of the ironborn moved. A few shifted uneasily on their feet.

"I'll go." Werhalt stepped forward, one who had diced with Theon in the bowels of Casterly before the attack. He spat on the docks. "Though there had better be some bloody gold left."

"I'll go too," another voice joined in.

"And I," added a third… and then a fourth echoed him.

Theon waited. No one else joined them.

"Four of you," Theon replied, trying not to sound disappointed.

"Yes," Rodrik cut in. "Four of my finest captains." He gestured to the final one, fatter than the others. "Uther, here, commands three ships."

Werhalt grinned. "Are six ships not enough for the Captain of the Sea Bitch?"

Stunned awe spread through Theon's chest. Rodrik hadn't been offering Theon his men – he'd been offering his captains.

Six ships.

An abrupt laugh burst from Theon. Grinning, he slapped Werhalt on the back. "Six ships will do nicely."

Few as they were, these six ships were the beginnings of a fleet. The beginnings of Theon's fleet.

Rodrik tipped his head back towards the castle. "Seems you'll even have a proper sailor's send-off."

Confused, Theon followed his gaze. A lone figure stood atop the cliffs, though the bluff loomed far enough away that he couldn't make out their face. A sudden gust of wind billowed long red hair from the figure like a banner, striking against the grey skies behind.

Werhalt whistled, tossing a grin at Theon. "A send-off from a princess, ay? That's a mighty fine thing."

"As if you'd know," one of the other ironborn tossed back. Laughter replied from both sides.

Theon didn't hear any of it. Every thought, every doubt, every churning emotion grew to a dull roar inside his head.

"Prepare to cast off with the tide," Theon called mechanically over his shoulder as he strode for the bluff. What had felt a short walk as he came down felt like an eternity as he climbed back up it.

Until finally, he stood face to face with Sansa. She was as breathtaking as always, with brilliant red strands of hair windblown about her face and a fur cloak up to her chin over a more Southern dress. He couldn't help his smile; likely she'd meant the high furs to add authority. Instead, her slim frame looked as if she drowned in them.

"Hello," Sansa said and it was so polite, so reserved and unaffected that Theon's smile fell from his face.

"Hello," Theon replied coolly.

Loras Tyrell. Loras fucking Tyrell, who preferred men and had never shared a word with Sansa except when forced. If Loras had been a shred less of a coward and sought to avenge his father's death, instead of flee from it, Sansa would be his wife.

Theon's face pulled into a scowl.

Sansa said nothing, staring down at her fists as they pulled and played with the edge of her cloak.

"Did you want something?" Theon pressed. She still said nothing. "Or was it someone else you came to see?"

Sansa had the gall to look hurt. "I…" With a sudden breath, she steeled herself, spine straightening as she stared off at the sea. "I wanted to ask if you'd take Tyrion Lannister with you."

Theon raised an eyebrow.

Sansa took another fortifying breath. "I think he would–"

"Done," Theon replied. "Anything else?"

Finally, Sansa looked up at him. There was something pleading in her eyes, but he couldn't read their depths. "Don't trust him."

"I've been learning that," Theon said.

She looked down again, pulling nervously at the edge of her cloak. But the motion made the high fur collar dip. Theon's gaze caught on it.

There was a bruise around her neck.

"What's this?" Theon stepped involuntarily closer, brushing her hair back to take a better look.

Sansa jumped away as if his touch had burned her. "It's nothing!" she said so quickly that it was an insult to lies.

Theon stopped. The mark had been from a hand; he was sure of it. Helpless rage swelled and rolled through him at the thought that someone could have done that to her, that she would be hiding it instead of tanning the man's hide, and that she would be hiding it from him. Theon wanted to watch the man staked to shore as the tide rolled in. Wanted to hear the man scream for having dared do that to his–

Theon stomped the thought down. She wasn't his. She didn't want him avenging anything. She had tried to be Loras's; she would have been Oberyn's if only his army had come with Randyll Tarly.

"I… I was in the dungeon," Sansa started haltingly. "My mother was there, and–"

"You don't owe me any explanation," Theon cut in, not wanting to hear the new lie. "You've made that perfectly clear."

As much as he wished that she'd told him before going to Loras, the worst part was that Theon hadn't the faintest idea what he could have countered with to stop her. How did he expect to be worth more than 50,000 men? What use did she have for his love with Robb needing to be avenged? Would Theon have sold himself for that end? Quite possibly.

"I came to see you off," Sansa faintly whispered. "To wish you well."

A bitter reply jumped to his tongue. He fought it back. "Thank you," he said awkwardly instead.

She steeled herself before facing him and Theon hated it. He hated hearing with what precision she chose her words. Hated how guarded she'd become with him. He longed for the days on the road with just the two of them and her wolf. He longed for the times she'd told him anything and everything, when she had seemed so fragile and precious and trusted him to be her protector. In all his hunt for belonging, he had never in his life felt more sure of his purpose than then.

He knew she needed to be strong, now. She couldn't afford to be seen as fragile and precious, no matter if it were still true. But to force herself to be strong against him felt like he was being shattered from the inside out.

"I have one final request before you leave," Sansa said.

"Name it," Theon replied.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, her blue eyes staring up at him from under long lashes. "Kiss me?"

His mouth crashed against hers. The kiss was hard and bruising as she tugged him close, her fingers pressed desperately into his back. His hand tangled in her hair, drifting unconsciously lower.

His hand brushed her neck. Sansa stilled like a frightened animal.

"Can I kill him?" Theon whispered against her lips, his hand delicately cupping her injured neck.

"No," she whispered back. No matter how he had braced for it, her rejection cut through him like a blade. But Sansa continued, "It was Jaime Lannister."

Theon started. The one person they couldn't kill. "Well, shit. Wait, how…?"

"It's a long story," Sansa said. "But at least Brienne locked him up again."

Apparently, Brienne had been there for the Kingslayer's attack and yet Sansa still hadn't planned to tell Theon about any of it; had hidden her injury from him under a too-thick fur cloak.

Slowly, Theon drew away, his hand falling back to his side. He stared at her. "So long, Princess."

Her hand made a last, futile reach towards him before falling away, empty. "So long, Theon."

He could have sworn she was holding back tears before he turned away. He couldn't risk discovering it was true; couldn't risk breaking his heart for her yet again.

So he stormed down the walkway to the docks, glad his look was thunderous enough that men cleared his path. Near the Sea Bitch, the Imp waited with a servant in tow.

Tyrion hefted a bag higher on his shoulder. "Sansa said for me to–"

"Get onboard," Theon snapped.

"Come on, Podrick," Tyrion said to his servant. "Let's not make the nice man angry."

Theon joined his crew in the casting off, glad his previous sail down to Casterly had restored his sea legs. The seven ships of his fleet pulled away from the docks, heading north as the spray of the sea breeze hit his face. The rolling deck of his ship felt a bit like home… if he chopped off the pieces of himself violently longing for the home that he left behind.

He was sure if he looked back at Casterly, at the top of the cliff, he would see that same brilliant red hair streaming in the wind.

So Theon didn't look.

...

Days later, Sansa still felt as if her mind and hands moved by rote. She lifted one paper, read it, sorted it into a different pile. Then lifted another. Read it. On top of the pile.

Sansa had declared that Tywin had a week to withdraw from the Riverlands before she cut off pieces of Jaime. Six days after that, Tywin had burnt the town of Bechester to the ground. None were left alive.

While the news was horrible, Tywin's specific timing of the atrocity within her allotted time meant he was very likely… agreeing to her terms. At least, Sansa could hope.

She lifted another report. Read it. Put it atop another pile.

In only scant days, the men of the Vale, of the Riverlands, and of the North would all leave Casterly Rock. They would march for home, for Riverrun, and who knew what else. They needed supplies and armaments and…

Thinking about them felt easier than thinking about Theon. She had all but forgotten about Loras the moment he'd left her sight. But, obviously, proposing to another wasn't something Theon took lightly. The shards of his broken heart felt like they were turning to water between her fingers; the more she tried to grasp the pieces back, the more slipped away, drifting out of reach. And now he was gone.

The door to her study opened. Her guard, Ned, stuck his head through. "My lady, it's–"

"I don't think we still need introductions," Margaery said, sweeping past with a smile. Grey Wind strode in behind her.

Ned looked uneasily at the direwolf before slipping back out the door.

In the large, silent room, Sansa raised her eyes to study the other girl. Gone was the Margaery hidden in a nightdress in Robb's darkened chambers. She still wore mourning black, but the dress was fashionably cut, her hair expertly curled and draped along her shoulders. Grey Wind lay by the door, his head on his paws.

Margaery's smile for Sansa was all sisterly warmth; Sansa gave her barest smile in return. "Can I help you with something?" Sansa said. "I believe Lord Ashford was leading the remaining Tyrell troops home tomorrow. Unless that's changed?"

Margaery stepped closer. "Lord Ashford has everything for the departure under control. I wanted to discuss something of a slightly… more interesting nature."

Sansa watched her. The charming act Margaery was still putting on rankled deep in her core. Sansa felt as if she'd never truly smile again; it made every one of Margaery's smiles feel like blades. "What did you want to discuss?"

"I was wondering…" Margaery rested a hand against the top of the desk, looking entirely at home. It struck Sansa that Margaery may have rested her hand in that exact place before, with the exact same pleading tone in her voice. Only, the Stark she was entreating would not have been Sansa – but Robb.

Margaery smiled again, finally with a hint of her natural-seeming affection. "I was wondering if you truly wanted the rest of the Tyrells to leave?"

Sansa blinked, not sure she was understanding. "I believe there are almost ten thousand Tyrells still encamped–"

Margaery waved the numbers away. "And Ashford is leading them home. They're my brother's men – and good riddance. I was referring to two hundred of those men." Leaning closer, she drew her words out more slowly. "The two hundred that are mine."

Sansa didn't know what game Margaery was playing; the last time Margaery had played, Robb had died for it. But two hundred men were two hundred men and an offer at friendship, no matter what other motives, was still exactly that.

"All the men you can spare would be welcome," Sansa cautiously replied. "How far were you intending to lend them?"

"Lead them, I think you mean," Margaery corrected with a conspiratorial smile. "But I can't say as I'm entirely sure. One taste of the outside world and I'm ready to go anywhere but home. You wouldn't have any objections to that, I would hope? I do not believe my grandmother and myself would be too heavy of burdens on your journey north?"

For all that Sansa wished Margaery found it a little harder to smile after her husband's death, it was still a fine proposition. Standing from around her desk, Sansa finally gave Margaery a proper smile in return. "No, I do not believe you would be. And I'd welcome the company."

"Wonderful!" Margaery said, and pulled her in for a hug. "I shall go tell Grandmother the good news."

For all Sansa's misgivings, she did not have to wait long before her questions were answered.

As the caravan of horses and men and supplies rode from Casterly Rock, Catelyn rode with the main force of the Tullys, Brienne at her side. The look she sent her daughter was so full of pain that Sansa had to look away. Umber and Karstark rode with their men and Bolton with his. Royce led the men of the Vale. Jaime lay listlessly against the bars of a Stark prison cart, jostled against them with each bump. Sansa rode at the front of the caravan with her two thousand Stark men, Lady at her side and the grey wolf banner rippling in the wind behind her.

Margaery spared a quick smile for Sansa before letting her horse fall back to ride beside another. Grey Wind loped next to her as Margaery smiled at Edmure, listening attentively to everything he said.

Of course. Of bloody course with how the Tyrells had gone on about needing heirs, they hadn't meant just Loras. With a king out of reach, there were only two unmarried Lords Paramount remaining: Robin Arryn and Edmure Tully. The choice was obvious – and he was within striking distance.

Every titter and smile passed between the two lanced Sansa through her core. She remembered when Robb had been the recipient of those same smiles, when it had been his jokes that brought that same laughter to Margaery's face. And for all the life of her, Sansa couldn't tell one whit of difference between the smiles Margaery had given Robb and the ones she bestowed upon Edmure.

A snatch of song drifted to Sansa from somewhere in the caravan and loathing flooded her veins. She recognized the tune and couldn't take one more note about Robb's death.

"Stop that noise!" she called out, uncaring if she offended. The minstrel immediately fell silent.

Sansa rode on in angry silence, trying to blot the words from her mind.

To her surprise, Margaery murmured a farewell to Edmure and spurred her horse forward to ride next to Sansa. Their horses plodded on in silence for a moment before Margaery said, "Does the song offend you?"

"A bloody song glorying in my brother's death that can't even use an original tune?" Sansa snapped. "Of course it does."

Margaery leveled a glare at her. "I had to commission it quickly. What did you expect?"

Sansa whipped toward the other girl.

"They'll sing songs about you, whether you want them to or not," Margaery softly explained. "Make sure the songs they sing are sung the way you've written."

Still, Sansa had no reply.

"Oh, minstrel!" Margaery called out gaily. "What was that song you were singing?"

The minstrel looked uneasily about him. "'A Wolf Alone,' milady."

Margaery turned to Sansa expectantly.

Clearing her throat, Sansa said to the minstrel, "I haven't heard it all the way through. Sing it for me?"

As the armies marched north, his clear voice carried over all of them.

.

The Pack is strong and wild,

Disdains the bended knee.

The king is but a child,

His Rose, a queen, and free.

.

A Wolf, alone, on an empty throne,

Where Lions fear his bite.

A Wolf, alone, on an empty throne,

Dies howling in the night.

.

The Pack, it mourns its leader,

Their howls heard out to sea.

The Lion roars his laughter –

The North Remembers thee.

.

A Wolf, alone, on an empty throne,

Retreats from blood to ice.

A Wolf, alone, on an empty throne,

With vengeance in her sight.