A/N: We're back! Expect updates every other Monday until this chunk of the story is used up.

Sansa had been in this tent before. She'd seen these same lords discussing these same topics, the same angry tones, the same impassioned pleas. The last time, she'd watched eagerly from a seat hidden in the corner. Now–

Bolton looked up from the map spread before her, his blue eyes catching her own glazed ones. "My lady? Did you have anything to add?"

Now, she sat at the head of the war table, her lords gathered around her. Edmure Tully stood on one side, frowning down at the markers displaying which towns in the Riverlands still burned. It had been brigands, not Lannister troops… or so the townsmen said. Edmure called for Sansa to send an ear of Jaime's to Tywin for it. Others opposed, and on and on it went.

Royce stood next to Edmure, discussing some tactic or another. Sansa was glad for his clear head and dreaded when his men would part from their men after Riverrun. Royce had no quarrel with Tywin, he said, and he would trust Tywin's own self-interest to keep him from attacking the unallied men of the Vale on their way past Tywin at the Trident and back to their home.

Bolton, Umber, and Karstark took up the other side of the table, yet Sansa had added another to the Northern group: Maege Mormont. Her lined face studied the troop markers along with Umber and Karstark.

Sansa forced a smile up at Bolton. "No, my lord. Carry on."

He gave her an indulgent nod, not surprised in the least, and turned back to the rest of the room. "We'll have to make sure our eastern flank is guarded at all times. I suggest–"

Sansa had nothing at all to contribute. She'd been trained by her mother and her septa to manage finances, resources, to oversee a castle – while her brothers had been trained at war. Warfare had felt like a single skill in a leader's arsenal and Sansa had never lost undue sleep over lacking it. But men had fallen over themselves to follow where Robb had led. Perhaps it wasn't a coincidence that Sansa had been crowned Queen in a time of peace.

The tent flaps parted with a new entry. Only Umber's sigh drew Sansa's gaze up from the map to the newcomer: Margaery. As always, Grey Wind trailed dutifully behind her.

"My lady," Umber said wearily to her. "This is truly no place for womenfolk. Last time, you had your brother's army behind you. Now–"

"It was my father's army,my lord," Margaery replied, barely reining in her thorns. "My father who died fighting for the Northern War."

"Aye, and your brother chose not to avenge him." Umber gestured out towards the rest of the camp. "I can name a dozen Northern lords with more than twice the men you have with you now, thanks to your brother's cowardice – Northern men who shed blood for the right to be in this tent. You can't just–"

"Lord Umber," Sansa calmly interjected. "You address your late king's widow." To Margaery, Sansa added, "Thank you for joining us, Your Grace."

Margaery flashed Sansa a small, grateful smile. She settled into the corner chair that Sansa had once occupied.

Umber turned to Sansa with a look of distaste. "'Your Grace?' What do you think she's queen of, my lady?"

"The North," Sansa calmly replied. "At least until Bran marries."

Umber's distaste grew. "The North? Because she spent a week married to your brother? Do you think we ever even called your mother 'queen?'"

"You did not," Sansa replied with the same evenness. "You call her 'lady.' Because my father was never king."

"If you think we're going to use some royal bloody titles–" Umber started.

"Careful, lad," Bolton cut in. "You're addressing a princess."

His comment drew the expected chuckles from the men in the tent.

"No, I do not expect you to use 'royal bloody titles,'" Sansa replied, with a forced smile of her own. She was still a princess, no matter how they laughed. "As I would never dream of standing on ceremony with any of you. But you'll forgive me if I use the title for my sister that my brother gave her."

The thought of Robb cut through the room. Good. Sansa did not want him so easily forgotten, not by the men who had named him king, and not by the woman he had married. Umber looked away. When Sansa glanced at Margaery, her gaze was lowered to her lap, her face hidden.

Bolton tapped the map, drawing everyone's attention back to it. "Tywin has withdrawn his siege from Riverrun, but due to the instability in the region, our information on where his troops retreated afterwards is… limited."

Edmure frowned at hearing his lands called unstable.

"You have spies, Lady Sansa," Karstark said hopefully. "Have you heard anything?"

But Sansa was forced to shake her head. She was as blind as any of them.

"The Lannisters will have 40,000 men," Bolton continued. "All combined, we have roughly 30,000. They outnumber us, but not greatly enough to prevent Tywin from worrying about choking on us in a frontal assault. At least, not with the way Robb had been handling him."

Sansa flinched. She knew Bolton well enough to know the comment had been deliberate; to get under her skin, to remind the men here that Robb's little sister was most certainly not Robb in any way that mattered, to remind them that the closest one to Robb was–

Bolton set the Stark token down on the map further up the River Road, at Golden Tooth. "Once we reach here, my lady, we're within range of Tywin's retreat. We must be on our guard."

"Aye," Umber said. "We don't want another attack like the Betrayal of the Rock."

"Aye," Sansa agreed, locking her eyes on the map to refrain from a sarcastic glance towards Bolton. "What is your plan?"

Bolton replied, "We arrange defensively – every night. Full watch, preparedness, and guards around the entire camp. It'll halve our speed north, but leave us more protected against anything… unexpected."

The other lords around the tent nodded agreement, Umber among them. "No matter that we hold Tywin's son, I'll sleep better at night if I know half our army is on the watch for lions."

Even more murmurs of agreement answered him. While the sentiment of protecting themselves sounded nice, Sansa couldn't help but wonder if Bolton was using it to stall. Yet until she could propose something equally convincing to the other lords, she would have to hold her tongue. None of these men had sworn to follow her; a command of hers that they didn't like was likely to become a command that they ignored. If she let them form that habit, she'd never break them of it.

Picking up the Stark wolf, Bolton set his own tokens down. "I'll take the Northern flank, as the road ahead is the most likely route of attack. Then Umber, you station your men to the west…"

As the tokens for the Northern army were placed on the map, the Tullys to the south, the Vale to the east, only one token was left to place.

Bolton set the lone carved wolf down snugly against the back line of his own forces. His smile down at Sansa was filled with all his usual icy friendliness. "Close to the vanguard, to preserve the Stark position of leadership, but far enough back from the front lines to protect you, my lady."

Sansa fought to keep her displeasure hidden. It treated their whole party as if the Boltons were in command, the Starks too weak to do anything more than be protected. More importantly to Sansa, it left her troops close to his. Something she liked not one bit.

Sansa reached for the token of Royce, hoping she could bring it up by Bolton. "Surely the Vale would not want to be on the front lines against an enemy where you have no quarrel, my lord–"

"No, my lady," Lord Royce cut in. "That is precisely where we should be. Lord Tywin will hesitate to attack wherever my men hold and make a needless enemy."

Sansa blinked. "But you said the Vale would remain neutral…"

"And it shall." Royce nodded. "The least I can do is use that neutrality to ease the burden on the niece of my lady's troops."

Sansa's smile for Royce was as heartfelt as it had ever been. But his helpful tactics left her Stark men as surrounded by Bolton's men as before, with no good options.

Bolton's eyes had never left Sansa. She looked down at the table again to gather her nerve. Her best defense was still pretending that she suspected nothing of his desires. Too many good options remained for Bolton if friendship with Sansa were on the table. Marriageable options… especially for Ramsay.

She smiled up at him. "These preparations look excellent, Lord Bolton. Thank you. I will, of course, keep the Kingslayer with me, to prevent any further difficulties." She turned to Maege. "See to it that my guard is doubled, out of an abundance of precaution for another escape attempt."

Maege nodded agreement. "Aye, my lady. I'll see to it they're good men."

"Thank you," Sansa replied. The simple words could never suffice.

"What of my men?" Margaery spoke up. "And what of me?"

Umber snorted. "You can all have this tent, once we're done with it. Should be enough space for the lot."

Karstark opened his mouth, but Edmure cut in before he'd made a sound. "She'll be with the Tullys, of course."

Bolton raised an eyebrow. "Of course?"

Edmure had the grace to flush. "Meaning my sister. It's only proper for the womenfolk to stay together in a war camp. And we Tullys have the most comfortable provisions and the largest bulk of the men." He turned to Margaery with a gallant smile. "There's nowhere else you'll be better protected, my lady."

Margaery smiled back, appearing as enthralled with him as ever.

"What about Lady Sansa?" Karstark added. "She's womenfolk, too. Shouldn't she be with the other–"

"I should be with my men, Lord Karstark," Sansa replied, before anyone could pile on the stupidity. If she wanted Margaery's company – and two hundred troops! – Sansa could only push for them with delicacy. Anything more brazen could arouse Bolton's suspicions. "But I've sorely missed your company, sister."

"And I, yours," Margaery replied, as fondly as ever. She glanced towards Edmure. "But–"

"Sansa's place is with her men and a captive Lannister." Edmure cut in. "It's no place for a refined lady like yourself."

At the clear implication towards Sansa, Umber tried to hide his snort under a cough.

Sansa ignored it, forcing as fond a smile as she could manage. If Margaery wanted to be with Edmure, no number of armies would stop her. "Go, enjoy my mother's hospitality," Sansa said. "I would not dream of keeping you a day longer in a smelly war camp."

Margaery's smile in reply was as flawless as always. "I thank you, sister. And I adore your mother. It shall be a pleasant stay, indeed."

"Glad we've settled such important matters as whose sister will be staying with whose mother," Umber grumbled.

Bolton shot him a wry smile of agreement. "If there's nothing further, my lords…?"

The men took Bolton's dismissal, drifting from the tent. Bolton offered a nod towards Sansa as he passed, which she returned, wishing it didn't rankle.

Margaery exchanged fond pleasantries with Edmure, clasping his hand tightly within her own… and passed his hand onward, ushering him towards the exit of the tent.

As the last lords stepped through the flaps, Margaery remained behind. The smile drained from her face, leaving only her vacant gaze behind. "I can sway Bolton, if you'd like. Encourage him to be less of a problem."

"You can't," Sansa said.

Margaery raised an eyebrow. "You've no idea what I–"

"You can't," Sansa insisted. "He may let you think you've swayed him, but he won't be swayed. Stay clear of him. Please."

For a long moment, Margaery only studied Sansa. "Alright," Margaery finally admitted. "But at least take my men with you."

Wearily, Sansa shook her head. "As of yet, Bolton has no reason to suspect I know anything. If he does, his plan will change. I cannot afford that. I already used Jaime as an excuse to double my guards. I will be fine."

Margaery bent down. "Grey Wind? Do you think you could stay here and help Lady protect her lady for a while?"

The direwolf's one eye stared uncomprehendingly back at Margaery. When she walked towards the tent's exit, Grey Wind followed.

Margaery sighed down at her wolf-shadow. "I did try."

The first amused smile in days crept onto Sansa's face. "I thank you for the attempt."

Margaery took a step further, then stopped again. Slowly, she looked back at Sansa. "You know Robb loved you, right? Sometimes he forgot to show it, but he…" Margaery looked at her hands, unable to continue.

The few words had Sansa's face contorting to hold back tears. "I know," she whispered.

Margaery's jaw clenched and unclenched before she finally managed, "Don't die by the same man."

"When we get to Winterfell, Robb will have his vengeance," Sansa replied. "I swear it by all the old gods and the new."

Margaery gave a single, decisive nod. "Good." With that, she exited the tent, Grey Wind trailing dutifully behind her.

...

The sound of vomit hitting the side of the bucket filled the belowdecks of the Sea Bitch. In the middle of raising his dice cup, Tyrion winced, fighting back the urge to join in. Across from Tyrion, his ironborn dicing partner chuckled, amused that almost a week at sea had yet to cure Podrick's greenlander ways.

Tyrion tossed the cup. Dice skittered across the boards; a fair enough throw, if not enough to beat the ironborn's.

So far, while every ironborn had scoffed at the idea of joining Tyrion for a game of cyvasse, they had all welcomed the chance to teach a newcomer their dicing game. And they were especially warmed by the fact that no matter how much Tyrion seemed to win, by the end of the night, he always managed to lose it right back. Most of it, anyway. None seemed to notice that his starting pile had steadily grown.

At least Tyrion had known better than to let the ironborn teach him to finger dance.

The ship rolled over another swell – Tyrion shot a wary glance at Podrick, who had already raised the bucket back to his face.

Tyrion shoved his stack of coppers towards the ironborn. "Keep it, before I lose something more valuable."

"Your grog?" the ironborn asked.

"My dignity," Tyrion replied. But the man's laughter faded behind him as Tyrion climbed up the ladder, desperate for fresh air.

The sea spray smacked against his face, salty and crisp and bright as the noonday sun. He'd been sailing before, of course, even on long trips. But the journey from Lannisport to Deepwood Motte was something hardly to be matched – not even by going round the bend through the Summer Sea.

From what Tyrion had gathered from his ironborn dicing partners, with the wind at their backs, clear skies overhead, and as smooth of sailing as the Sunset Sea ever gave, their captain was still pushing.

Tyrion turned from the brilliant blue sea to survey the deck of the Sea Bitch. Men clambered over every inch, tying knots, loosing lines, and calling out to the rest. Some slept in patches of shade, some took gulps of their thick grog, but their captain stood proudly at the back of the ship, manning the wheel. Theon's reddened skin had already faded into a deeper tan, with new furrows dug next to his bright blue eyes.

On the whole, Tyrion had been surprised by how readily the rest of the ironborn had taken to the young Greyjoy. If one of them made a joke, Theon might have been too quick to laugh, too quick to match another's scowl with a scowl of his own, but Theon tied lines with the best of them. And none of Tyrion's dicing partners had anything but praise for the young Greyjoy's ability to fight.

If any noticed the absurdity of Theon's fleet being led by its smallest, least-capable ship, Tyrion had yet to hear more than an idle jest.

Tyrion made his way across the deck, coming over to stand at the captain's side. Apart from a quick glance down, Theon's gaze never left the glittering horizon.

"Good time we've been making," Tyrion said casually.

Theon grunted in reply.

"Any particular reason?" Tyrion continued.

Theon looked down at him. "Why wouldn't we?"

Tyrion shrugged. "If the goal is to arrive at Deepwood Motte before the Stark army, we're in no danger of being late."

Theon looked back at the horizon. "The Starks aren't coming to Deepwood Motte. They're heading to Moat Cailin."

"And as the Starks must first free the Riverlands, march to the Twins, and cross at the Twins before arriving at Moat Cailin, let alone retaking it…" Tyrion drew out. "I think it's safe to say we'd beat them to Moat Cailin if we swam."

Theon's scowl deepened. He started to reply when Fergas, his new first mate, sauntered closer.

Fergas nodded towards the distant horizon. "You'll see it now, if you look."

Theon locked his eyes forward, not following Fergas's gaze. "I've seen it," he replied.

"I haven't," Tyrion said, without the slightest idea what the first mate meant. With a snort, Fergas handed the far-eye to Tyrion and walked away.

Putting it to his eye, Tyrion searched the horizon, seeing nothing but the endless blue of the sea… and a slight, fuzzy set of bumps.

He lowered the far-eye. "The Iron Islands?" Tyrion asked.

Theon gave a nod.

"Ah," Tyrion replied. He wasn't sure of the exact nature of the situation, but was willing to hazard a guess. "Think your father will approve of your little voyage?"

Theon grinned. "I don't plan to find out." But for all the bravado in his answer, his knuckles tightened on the wheel.

"Let him chase us!" one of the ironborn called out, laughing. "We've a head start, the wind at our backs, and gold in our bellies. Balon can keep his piss poor moat."

Another called back, "Gold makes us slow, you inbred halfwit."

"Better an inbred than a greenlander," the first replied with good humor. "At least a sister's better than a wolf to keep my bed warm!"

Laughter followed. Theon didn't join.

"Greenlanders are fine enough for salt wives," another ironborn joined in. "After you break them a bit. Theon knows." The man gestured over his shoulder. "He's got a proper little salt wife back at Casterly."

"And a proper greenlander king to swear to," a third said. "Good thing he's not there anymore to hold us to–"

"Back to work!" Theon yelled. "Too much jabbering on my bloody deck!

The men did as told, their talk down to mutters amongst themselves.

Theon looked away, off the side of the ship. The small little bumps of the Iron Islands were almost within sight.

Surreptitiously, Tyrion studied him. The ironborn continued their crude jibes more softly – about greenlanders, wolves, and every other manner of creature. At least they'd lowered their voices enough that Theon could pretend not to hear them, no matter how the furrows in his brow deepened.

Tyrion cleared his throat, never one to resist prodding at an open wound. "Did you know," he said conversationally, even as Theon startled, abruptly remembering the dwarf's presence. "That with my squire's head currently making love to the bottom of a bucket, you're the only person of culture left in this entire fleet?"

Theon looked insulted.

"My apologies," Tyrion quickly continued. "But if I can't get a glass of wine and a conversation about something other than raping, gutting, or voluntarily losing fingers, I'm liable to fling myself overboard."

Theon looked around. "I mean, I don't think…"

But the ironborn had drifted back to their tasks, no one close enough by to even overhear.

"I promise not to tell," Tyrion cut in.

Theon scowled down at him.

But thankfully, while Tyrion knew how to talk, he also – sometimes – knew how to keep quiet. Before being shoved together on this boat by the loving hand of the Red Wolf, he and Theon had barely shared a handful of sentences. And while Theon appeared to be close in her confidences, Tyrion had never spotted a trace in the other man of Sansa's confoundingly misplaced faith in Tyrion. Which meant – whatever its cause – that Theon was as ignorant of Tyrion's purpose here as Tyrion, himself.

Tyrion smiled steadily up at Theon, careful to ooze as much mystery as he could muster.

Theon's scowl deepened. "Fergas! Take the wheel. I'll be in my cabin."

...

"Lord Bolton." Sansa smoothed down her instinctive surprise, striding briskly into her tent to hide the slight hitch in her step. "I did not expect you to oversee such menial tasks personally."

"Of course, my lady," Bolton replied easily. "We can't risk losing any more men for it, can we?" A hint of a vicious smile lurked in his eyes.

While she couldn't quite find the humor in the memory of so many bodies swinging from nooses, at least it hadn't been an open taunt. "No, we cannot."

Heavy chains clanking together cut through the conversation. Jaime stumbled through the tent flaps, Stark men surrounding him. He still looked haggard, but at least his hair had begun to grow back in. It had only been a few weeks since she'd announced his presence and already he'd begun to look like a proper Lannister again.

"Are you sure you want him in here?" Bolton asked, a note of worry in his voice. "There's no need to keep him in your tent, itself, what with–"

"I am quite sure, Lord Bolton," Sansa replied. The Bolton man leading the Starks looked at her questioningly. Sansa gestured towards the far end of her (quite large) tent. "Over there will be suitable."

Bolton smiled down at her. "Surely you don't expect to have guards in here, in your tent with you, to watch him."

"I do," Sansa said. As if to underscore her point, Maege stepped through the tent flaps, Sansa's guards Jorret and Ned at her heels. They joined the men at the other end of the tent, watching as the stakes were driven into the ground, one strong mallet swing at a time.

The regular thuds reverberated through the tent.

Sansa smiled up at Bolton. "Was there anything else?"

"No, my lady," Bolton replied. He gave a nod. "Sleep well."

After he'd exited the tent, Sansa surveyed the rest of the men with a sigh. She certainly didn't want soldiers stationed in her tent with her, but tents themselves were far from secure. Then again, the safety of castle stones hadn't yet done her family much good.

"Awfully cozy, don't you think?"

Sansa snapped her gaze to Jaime in surprise; she'd forgotten he could speak. Seven hells, don't make me regret this.

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "I was informed that the wheeled cage wouldn't fit under the tent poles. I'd be happy to leave you out in the rain, if you do anything obnoxious."

Jaime shrugged, his chains rattling, even as they were staked further into the ground. "I'm told I snore."

Sansa snorted. By your sister? she would have said, were Cersei still alive. As it was, it seemed too cruel, even for Sansa.

The final swing landed on the stake. It tugged on Jaime's chain, making him stumble backwards, then forwards to catch himself.

But that last step was closer to Sansa. Immediately, a low growl filled the tent. Jaime flinched as the shape of Lady, slunk close to the ground, stalked across the tent towards him. She never ceased growling. Jaime stood straighter the closer the wolf approached, desperate to remain motionless and not to cower.

"Shhh, girl, it's okay," Sansa murmured, sinking a hand into the wolf's fur. After a few strokes, Lady's growl sunk to a low hum.

"He's close so that we can keep an eye on him," Sansa explained to the creature. "Not because we trust him. If he does anything you don't like, you go ahead and take off the rest of his hand."

Vaguely appeased, Lady settled down at Sansa's side, her eyes never leaving her old enemy.

Jaime swallowed. "You think it understands you?"

Sansa shrugged, petting her beautiful, perfect direwolf. "Insult me and find out."

Unconsciously, Jaime rubbed the jagged wolf-scars on the back of his right hand. "I'll pass."

Grabbing the chain, Maege held it taut, measuring off the distance from the far end of the tent towards Sansa, and pulling an annoyed Jaime along with. When Maege held the manacle surrounding his wrist, she shook it, rattling the three feet of chain trailing from it.

"This is as far as he can go," Maege said. She eyed Sansa as if she were a particularly willful child. "You stay well clear of this, you hear?"

"I will," Sansa replied. "But he also knows what will happen to him if he hurts me."

Jaime looked away, remembering the threat made in the bowels of Casterly Rock - Tyrion would not long survive her.

"Good." Maege thrust Jaime's wrist away from her. She nodded toward Sansa's end of the tent. "You've curtains aplenty for decency's sake, even with this lunacy, and I'll be right here beside you the entire time."

"Maege, there's no need," Sansa protested. "I'll be fine, you shouldn't–"

But Maege was already flicking open her bedroll by the entry to the tent. "Pardon me, princess, but I wasn't asking."

Knowing her own safety was one less thing to worry about when it was in such capable, loyal hands… There weren't words enough to express Sansa's gratitude.

"Thank you," she could only reply.

Maege gave a gruff nod. "Here," she said, and drew Ned Stark's sheathed sword from the rest of her gear. She set it on a stand. "I'm honored to carry it when you need, but you shouldn't let anyone forget that it's yours."

Sansa could only manage a nod. Her father had been killed by it; Rob had died wielding it. Now the sword was hers, for good or ill, until it could be returned to Winterfell and Bran.

"Beg your pardon," Maege said, her thoughts running parallel, and ducked out of the flap before her tears could fall.

Slowly, Sansa walked to the sword. The hilt still felt enormous in her hand – the steel heavy and cold.

"Seven hells," Jaime muttered from his end of the tent. "It's almost as tall as you."

"I killed six men with it," Sansa vacantly replied. "I could barely swing it, and six men still died."

"Your skill in battle knows no bounds," Jaime said acerbically.

She shot a glare towards him. "It was an execution."

"For trying to free me. I think you can understand why I'm less than sympathetic."

Her glare hardened. "I'd have done the same if they'd been trying to kill you."

Jaime raised an eyebrow. Brienne and Catelyn still rode north in their party, even if banished to the Tullys. But other soldiers lingered in Sansa's tent, listening. Mercifully, he only said, "No, not quite."

Sansa touched her neck, the mark Jaime left there having mostly faded. "No, not quite."

Though whether her words were in agreement or against, Sansa didn't rightly know.

...

Tyrion had never been in such a bare Captain's cabin. Theon stalked to the one roughhewn cabinet, yanked it open, grabbed a bottle of wine, pulled the cork out with his teeth, and set it sharply on the pittance of a table.

"Here." Theon gestured to the bottle. "Wine."

There were no glasses. Taking a sip directly from the neck, Tyrion muttered, "I feel more cultured already."

Theon grabbed it from him, taking a swig of his own. Just watching him drink it hurt Tyrion, chugging Arbor Gold like swill – and without even a moment of decanting. The new Lord of Casterly Rock.

Tyrion cleared his throat, looking away. The cabin had few items beyond a cot and the longbow propped against the wall immediately caught his eye. "I've heard you're a decent shot," Tyrion said.

Theon shrugged, passing the wine bottle over. "Not much use on the water. Few ironborn even bother to learn."

"Then if you find a way to make it useful, you'll be invaluable to them," Tyrion replied.

Theon narrowed his eyes, studying the dwarf. "Why are you here?"

Tyrion took the bottle back. "Well, for some unknown reason, Sansa Stark thought it'd be nice to keep me around. Perhaps she's always wanted a pet dwarf, or–"

Theon waved his comment away. "I don't care about that. Why are you here? Sailing north with me?"

But Tyrion could only stare blankly at the man. He knew. Whatever ridiculous reason Sansa had kept Tyrion alive, Theon had treated it too dismissively to possess anything other than full and complete knowledge. It made sense, as Theon had been her negotiator with Davos, but as Theon had seemed to dislike Tyrion, if anything, Tyrion had just assumed it had come from ignorance.

Theon knew Sansa's secret, and she hadn't even told Theon why I was coming with him.

"For my pithy remarks, of course," Tyrion answered, taking a sip of the wine to hide his hesitation. "I've heard I'm a true joy in conversation over a dinner table. I'm sure we'll be having plenty of parties as we travel, no?"

But Theon hadn't enjoyed his jest, still studying Tyrion.

Tyrion let out a long exhale, annoyed to have to state it bluntly. "Jaime, obviously. Together, we're a liability. Separate, we're each other's liabilities."

Theon gave a nod, still studying him. "Then I'm your nursemaid."

And I'm yours, Tyrion barely kept from replying. With a Greyjoy holding Casterly Rock, with ironborn fleets sailing the Sunset Sea unchecked, free to rape and reave across the Westerlands as they saw fit, nursemaid to that Lord Greyjoy of Casterly Rock was a position Tyrion would have killed to hold.

And when it came to raping and reaving, Tyrion had a strong suspicion that he and Sansa understood each other perfectly.

"So, nursemaid, what are your plans?" Tyrion peered down into the bottle, pleased to note how much remained. "We sail North, and then…?"

"Talk to Yara." Theon kicked his legs up on a stool. "Convince her to leave. Pay off Glover. You were there when we decided it."

"Yes, and after?" A long moment of silence followed, with no reply. Tyrion looked up from the bottle. Theon stared blankly at him and Tyrion continued, "You do have a plan for after?"

"After what?" Theon sounded defensive. "We'll have freed the North and reunited with Yara. I'll be able to do whatever I want."

"Which will be what?" Tyrion tried not to press. "I'd expect the way you'd handle Yara would be quite different if you planned to leave with her back to your father, than if you were to convince her to join the Starks."

Theon's scowl was deep and immediate. "I'm not going back to my father like some dog."

"To the Starks, then?" Tyrion asked.

Theon looked away, his face unreadable. "What would a fleet of ironborn ships do in the North?"

Tyrion gently replied, "I was hoping you would know."

Theon grabbed the wine, no response available beyond a long, steady drink.