Sansa stood before the great oak tree. Ice gleamed in her hands as she held the hilt downturned before her, its swordpoint buried in the ground. Her dress was severe and Northern; the stitches in her neck puckered and fresh above its collar.
On either side of her stood Catelyn, Brienne, Margaery, Olenna, Edmure, Umber, Karstark, Mormont, and Royce. Behind them clustered their soldiers.
"Roose Bolton," Sansa's clear voice called out. "You have been charged with theft, with murder, with sedition, and with treason – for thwarting my commands, for attempting to kill me, for attempting to free Ser Jaime Lannister and attempting to pin my murder on him. For letting enemies into our castle. For arming them and clothing them in our own colors. For the vicious, brutal, and cold-blooded murder of Robb Stark, your liege lord, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North. You have been found guilty."
Roose Bolton stood before her, his hands tied behind his back, a noose tied around his neck. The rope trailed from it, draped over a tree branch above, tied to a weighted barrel far heavier than a man. Only a slim rope, complicatedly tied near her, kept the weight from pulling him aloft.
Sansa stared him down. "I, Sansa Stark, on behalf of Brandon Stark, King in the North, declare all lands and titles stripped from you and any of your descendants. I sentence you to die. Do you have any final words?"
Bolton looked at the gathered men and women before him. "Men from all your houses fought for me last night. For gold. For an end to this pointless talk of peace with the Lannisters. If you look for traitors, look at yourselves. Look at her. Sansa Stark, pretending to be a little child whenever she pleases while she plots with all of Westeros behind your backs. She'll play you all for fools if you let her."
Sansa stared at him impassively, waiting for him to be done.
"There were Bolton assassins in her tent, you spineless twat! Sent by you to kill a little girl!" Umber called out. Sansa looked at Umber, but his men were already shushing him. The time for debate had passed.
Bolton smiled. "Petyr Baelish spoke of that little girl when he brokered our deal with Tywin to infiltrate Casterly Rock. His only terms were that she and her mother were not to be harmed. A pity that I had to break that deal, wasn't it?"
Rage flooded through her and Sansa struggled to maintain even breathing. That Baelish thought she could be his prize, when he'd just killed her brother?! Around her, the other lords and soldiers peered her way, wondering what Bolton could mean.
Bolton continued, "Before taking Casterly Rock, I had barely dared breathe a word of mutiny. But somehow, at Robb Stark's wedding, Baelish knew to speak to me for assistance. Strange, isn't it? Even more strange a thing when Baelish was exiled shortly after – on rumors of misconduct with the king's sister." Bolton's smile gleamed, broad and predatory. "I wonder what information Littlefinger gleaned. I wonder who he gleaned it from."
Sansa saw red. Bolton might not know, but she did. She knew precisely what Baelish had gleaned.
"Ramsay Bolton," Sansa had said to Baelish, during the wedding. "You turn me over to him."
She had told Baelish where to get his allies. And so – he had found them.
And Robb had died.
Sansa took a deep breath, closing her eyes.
"Untie him!" she called out, feeling oddly distant from her own body.
"My lady?" A Stark soldier asked.
"Do it," Sansa replied.
The man slipped the rope from Bolton's neck. Murmurs of confusion came from the watching crowd. The Stark soldier looked at her, awaiting further orders.
"On his knees," Sansa said.
The Stark man kicked them out. Bolton fell to his knees in the dirt, looking up at her with confusion.
"Get a box." Hefting Ice in her hands, Sansa stalked towards him.
Lord Royce stepped up beside her. "My lady," he started awkwardly. "I know beheadings are the Northern way, but you have not trained in the sword. You do not have the strength necessary to kill with one clean swing–"
Sansa stared evenly back at him. "I never said that I wanted his death to be clean."
Bolton looked up at her – perversely pleased – as Sansa walked over to him. The soldier placed a box, bending Bolton over it.
She took a deep breath. But her nerves didn't need steadying, her fury hot and high.
With a yell, Sansa swung. The sword bit into Bolton's neck, but not through it. He twitched and writhed – Sansa wrenched the sword out, blood spurting from the gash. It splashed on her hands, on her face. With a snarl, Sansa drew the greatsword back, high over her head.
She swung again. The blade sliced down into his neck – missing her previous wound. Bolton grunted with pain. Blood splattered as Sansa pulled the sword free.
But Ice was heavy. Sansa screamed as she brought the sword down again and again, with nothing but her rage to fuel each blow. Bolton moved no more, even as she swung. His blood coated the blade, the box, the ground surrounding. Snarling as viciously as Lady, Sansa swung again.
Bolton's head fell from his body with a wet thump. It rolled down the hill, toward the waiting crowd. They recoiled from it with gasps.
Sansa stood, panting, over the rest of Bolton's corpse. Blood covered her face, her dress, her hands. She wiped the blood from her eyes to be able to see as she turned to survey the crowd.
At the front, Umber gave her a small, approving nod, even as Karstark shuddered away from her gaze. Catelyn hid her face behind her hand. Margaery looked only at Bolton's severed head, a sneer twisting her lips. The massed soldiers behind them looked on with horror.
A wolf didn't care – not for their distaste or their approval.
Sansa walked back down the hill, blood dripping from the sword in her hand, her blood-splattered face held high.
A scrap of song drifted from somewhere in the crowd. "...with vengeance in her sight."
When she passed, men immediately stepped backwards to clear a path. "Red Wolf," they murmured, in awe, in horror, in fear.
But they did not kneel.
Sansa entered her tent, grateful to have the cloth close behind her, hiding her from the view of the world. She looked down at her shaking hands. Ice fell from them, clattering against the dirt.
"My lady!" her guard said with horror. "Let me call your maids, to draw you a bath–"
Sansa felt herself manage a shaky nod, her entire body numb. Bolton was dead. She had killed him with her own hands, in front of all her army and all his men. Bolton was dead.
Chains rattled. A cloth smacked into her face.
Sansa looked up in confusion, holding the cloth in her bloody hands.
Jaime stared at her. "Clean your sword."
She bent to pick up the blade, glad to have something to keep her hands occupied. Even her guards were new, nearly all replaced or injured from the attack. Maege Mormont might never walk unaided again.
"Bolton taunted you and you let him win," Jaime said.
Sansa gestured down at herself, covered in Bolton's blood. "Does it look like he won?"
"Perhaps not," Jaime replied. "But it doesn't look like you did, either."
...
Theon jumped out of the boat, feeling the icy waters of the North splash around his feet. Gods, he'd forgotten how much colder it was here. And Deepwood Motte was even further north than Winterfell, was the furthest north he'd ever been.
But the stares he received from the worn Northern women were as cold as their waters, their eyes hard. Theon trudged the rest of the way to shore, pretending not to notice. An ironborn lounged on the docks, eyeing the newcomers with a lazy smile.
"My lord?" Podrick called out, Tyrion at his side. Theon turned. The two greenlanders – one short, one tall – trudged to shore alongside the rest of his ironborn. Werhalt hauled a boat up, yelling commands as his men splashed into the water.
They didn't fit, Tyrion and Podrick, in their finely embroidered clothes, bright colors, and Southern styles. But Theon didn't begrudge their presence; they made him look all the more iron-blooded in comparison.
"Keep your own counsel and choose those who share it wisely."
Sansa had written that, once, and he'd barely known what she meant. But he didn't know how to behave around his people, nor how to carry himself, nor how to find his place.
Tyrion knew even less of the ironborn than he did. But, if there was one thing this dwarf, Acting Hand of the King knew, it was how to lead when no one wanted you to. Besides, Tyrion reminded Theon of someone he desperately wished he didn't miss.
He was only her former husband.
Theon waited as the pair trudged up to him.
"Here," Tyrion said, out of breath. He gestured to Podrick. "Thought you might be cold."
Podrick pushed a black bundle towards Theon. "My lord Tyrion thought it might get wet, if he carried it."
Theon looked down at it. He knew this bundle; knew it well. "You raided my cabin?"
Tyrion wiggled his hand. "Told your first mate you'd want it and he let me right in. He watched to make sure I didn't take anything else. So, my lord? Do you want it?"
Theon scowled down at it. "Ironborn don't need fancy cloaks."
"Are you only here on behalf of the ironborn?" Tyrion asked.
Theon was about to protest, to shove it back and tell Podrick to wear the damn thing, if he was so cold–
"Get outta my WAY!" The slap echoed across the docks. Theon turned. An ironborn shoved forward towards them through the villagers, a worn old farmwife falling to the ground at his feet, clutching her face.
Without thought, Theon grabbed the cloak, swinging it about his shoulders. Belatedly, he remembered that it had a Stark, wolf's head clasp in the front, but it was too late to change it out.
As the man approached, Theon waited. He rested one hand on the pommel of his sword, his cloak's black fur collar rippling in the frozen breeze, grey, embroidered kraken tendrils writhing down his sides and back. Behind him, thirty of his men assembled. Tyrion stood at one side of him before them, Werhalt, at the other.
The ironborn man approaching them stopped. "Captain Yara welcomes any ironborn to her town. You are?"
Theon squinted at him, not quite sure how to style himself. "Theon Greyjoy, Lord of Casterly Rock. I've come to speak to my sister."
The man grinned. "Then follow me."
Theon and his men fell in behind their escort. "Name's Gerren," the man said by way of introduction. "My job to keep the docks all orderly-like."
Theon looked at the sullen Northern faces on the streets around them, two washwomen pausing in their work to watch as they passed, to shake their heads at this great congregation of even more ironborn invaders. Suddenly, Theon was very glad Tyrion had brought his cloak.
"Where are all the men?" Podrick asked.
Gerren snorted. "Where do you think they are? Off on their King Robb's stupid war or in the ground where we put them. A few made good thralls, but not many. Robb already took the strongest."
Theon squeezed his eyes shut. Neither Glover nor Sansa would rest while Northerners were held in thralldom by ironborn. Bloody hell, Yara. As if my job wasn't hard enough already.
An old woman stepped into the road in front of him. She spat as hard as she could. Theon stepped back; it landed harmlessly in the dirt.
Gerren raised his hand to the old woman and she flinched away, expecting the blow.
Theon caught his arm. Gerren turned to him, furious, but Theon cut in before he could speak. "Take me to Yara. No delays."
Gerren wrenched his arm away. "Follow," he said sullenly.
"A good thing you missed," Tyrion said to the old woman as they continued past her. "Wouldn't have wanted to dirty a cloak stitched by Sansa Stark, herself."
The old woman's fear melted into a confused respect as she studied Theon. He couldn't risk looking at the woman, couldn't risk looking sympathetic as he kept his gaze locked strictly forward. He wished Tyrion hadn't said anything; from his other side, Gerren's dislike had only intensified.
Ahead of them, Deepwood Motte loomed. Layers of wooden walls lined the hill in tiers beneath the wooden hall. Many of the walls were blackened. At least one spike Theon passed was covered in a bloody stain. A body had been impaled.
Still, they trekked onwards. Gates opened before their party at a gesture from Gerren. They were led through the halls of the castle, past torn tapestries and gutted rooms. Outside the main hall, an ironborn held up a hand. "Yara's eating. After, she'll be happy to–"
Theon stepped past him and shoved open the doors. He strode into the hall, not caring if his men didn't follow. But he could hear thirty pairs of feet walking behind him. It was impossible not to feel a surge of pride.
An ordinary looking woman sat in the middle of the lord's head table, dressed in ironborn warrior's gear. Theon didn't recognize her face, but he knew who she had to be. At Yara's sides sat more ironborn, laughing in between bites.
Theon stopped in front of her. His men stood behind him.
Yara turned to study the newcomers and lazily eyed Theon up and down. "Hello, little lordling. Who might you be?"
He hesitated. "Theon Greyjoy."
Yara raised an eyebrow, leaning forward eagerly. "Come to join us?"
Theon clenched his jaw. He hated not being able to say a simple, 'yes.' Hated it with all his being.
Yara leaned back, her face guarded. "What for, then?"
Tyrion was right; he should have planned out what he was going to say. It had only gone so well with his father, the last time. Was he an ambassador of the Starks? Was he coming on behalf of Glover? On behalf of himself? He had no idea what he was doing. But Theon had already sailed willingly into this tempest. He would have to sail himself out of it.
"The Starks are sending an army this way," Theon started. "I've brokered a deal for you to not be here when they arrive."
"You have, have you?" Yara laughed. "I thank you kindly."
Down the table, her men laughed with her.
A muscle in Theon's jaw spasmed. "This won't be like before, fighting some few peasants the army left behind. The might of the entire North will unite behind destroying you, and they won't stop until they see you hanged!"
"The might of the North?" Yara leaned her head on her fist. "You have numbers? Armaments? You've spent long enough with them; I'm sure you know how they fight."
Theon stared her down. Yara stared up at him, unconcerned.
"I am allied with the Starks, Yara," Theon finally replied. "I paid the Iron Price for that alliance. I won't go throwing it away for a wooden shit of a castle that you won't even be able to keep!"
Yara shrugged, stabbing an apple off a dish with her knife. "I have thirty ships. I'll be able to keep quite a bit, I think." She gestured towards him with the knife. "Pay the Iron Price for that fancy, tailored cloak, too?"
Her men snickered.
But Theon had had enough. "Yes," he said, throwing himself into the chair opposite her. "Killed Gold Cloaks to steal the Lannisters' greatest prize out from the heart of the Red Keep, itself." Picking an apple up off Yara's plate, he polished it against his sleeve and took a bite. "Then I killed more Lannisters taking their bloody castle. Fucking iron."
Yara's face split in a grin. "It's good to see you, brother."
Hesitantly, he returned the smile. "You too, sister." Theon gestured down the table for his men to join him. They took seats, a few giving nods returned by others of Yara's men.
Yara raised her chin towards Theon. "She stitch that for you, then? The 'Lannisters' Greatest Prize?' I didn't think they were guarding the cloak."
Theon looked down, trying desperately to hide his blush.
Werhalt slung an arm around his shoulders. "Aye, the Princess of the North. Leading thirty thousand men this way, herself, as we speak. You've, what, two thousand here, Yara?"
Yara went suddenly still. "Thirty thousand?"
Werhalt nodded, tearing a bite off a turkey leg. "Heading up from Casterly Rock. Likely north of Riverrun, by now."
"My father holds Moat Cailin," Yara said. "They'd have to–"
"Oh, they sailed a band north of it to White Harbor some time ago," Werhalt continued. "Moat Cailin's got no defenses from the northern side. Won't be more than a few days till they retake it. Then they'll be…" He marched his fingers, one step at a time, across the table to Yara. "Here."
Werhalt's hearty support caught Theon entirely off-guard. He'd assumed the ironborn was only in it for gold and a good fight. None of the same words, said instead by the Stark ward, would have had even a sliver of Werhalt's impact.
Yara looked down at the table, deep in thought. "Leave us," she announced.
Her men immediately stood, exiting the hall. Theon's men stood as well, though thankfully Werhalt hesitated, waiting until Theon's quick nod before leading his ironborn out after Yara's.
The moment they'd left, she turned to her brother. "The Starks aren't bothering with fighting the Lannisters?"
Theon slowly shook his head. "No. They're headed home. Headed here."
Yara looked away. "Fuck." When she looked back at him, there was iron in her eyes. "What's the deal you brokered?"
Theon couldn't help his small smile. "You're allowed to leave, you and every man you brought with you. The North won't retaliate, so long as you don't do anything further. No more pillaging, raping, or reaving on North lands or they'll punish you just as harshly as they would have all along. You return any thralls you took and any captives. I repay Lord Glover for what he's lost. And you… leave." Theon wished he'd planned out the end of his speech more dramatically.
Yara narrowed her eyes at him. "You repay? Why? What do you get out of this?"
It was a good question. He was left without a good answer.
Yara shifted closer. "You paid the Iron Price for that Lannister gold. And you're spending it here? On this shithole? I can always run to the sea. No army a kingdom away would catch any of my men in time."
"And the North will never ally with us again!" Theon replied. "They'll see you hanged if you ever set foot on Northern soil! If we pick a fight with the North, in the North, we'll lose every time. I bought us a way out. So we can pick battles we'll win."
Yara raised an eyebrow. "'Us,' is it?"
"You're my blood," Theon hissed. "I'll not sit back and watch as men I fought beside try to run you through."
Yara leaned back, studying him. She snorted. "An alliance with the Starks. The ones who killed our brothers and took you away. And now you want to play nice with them? Invite them to fancy parties in your fancy new southern castle?"
Theon was worried his desire for far more than that had already shown on his face. He tried again to hide it. "I rescued Sansa Stark; she owes me. She's leading the Starks for now and she agreed to this deal. But when she gets back to Winterfell, it won't be her deal to agree to anymore. If you don't take it, the Starks will hunt you down."
Yara drummed her fingers on the table. "Father won't let them kill him for a stupid heap of rocks. He'll abandon Moat Cailin."
As all the Greyjoy rebellions tend to go. Tyrion's remark stung no less for its accuracy. "Yes, and Moat Cailin isn't anyone's home," Theon replied. "The North will care about the lives of the few soldiers they'd left defending it, but not even a tenth so much as they will about avenging Lord Glover."
Theon could tell Yara was considering his plan but hadn't yet made up her mind. It was time for a gamble: the truth.
Taking a deep breath, he looked at his sister. "I took Casterly Rock with the Starks and my thirty men. I lost all but four. Rodrik gave me six ships, which is plenty for an escort here, but far from enough to hold an entire territory. I took their castle, but if anyone in the Westerlands sneezes hard enough, I'll lose it just as quickly." Yara still studied him, her gaze unyielding. Theon continued. "I need your help, Yara. I can't hold Casterly Rock without you."
Yara stood. She clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Why didn't you start with that?"
...
Sansa shoved aside the fabric of her tent, taking a deep breath of the dewy, morning air.
Bolton was dead.
A smile filled her face. No matter the consequences, Bolton was gone and Ramsay disinherited. If it meant his ruler-less lands would foment an uprising that she had to quell, she would deal with that when it happened.
Baelish and Tywin still to go.
But that thought only broadened her smile. In Bolton's desire to rattle her, he had publicly named Baelish in Robb's murder. Baelish could never again dare to set foot within a hundred leagues of Stark territory.
Three soldiers passed by her tent. Sansa nodded at them, but they didn't respond, staring at something over her head.
She stepped further out of the tent to follow their gaze. The Stark banner had always flown next to her tent, a grey direwolf's head on a field of white.
During the night, someone had replaced it: a red direwolf now flapped on the breeze.
"Titles have power," Oberyn had once told her. "Far more so than names. Do not run from yours."
Still unsure of whether it was a compliment or an insult, Sansa decided to say nothing about the new flag. Instead, she began her march to the command tent.
A grey shape rushed from the woods, colliding with her at top speed, pressing heavily against her as it circled round.
"Lady!" Sansa laughed. "I'm alright. And it seems like you're feeling better."
Lady cocked her head, her tongue lolling from her mouth. Sansa smiled back.
The direwolf still favored a leg as they walked to the command tent; she'd been badly injured in the fighting, desperate to get to Sansa in time. Sansa couldn't help but wonder what Jaime would have done without her direwolf there to distract him.
A figure waited for her outside the tent, the armored swordswoman behind her giving her away.
"Sansa," Catelyn said, drawing close to her daughter for privacy. "I will stay away, if you wish it. But I can't help thinking of how I could have protected you, how Brienne could have protected you, if only–"
Her mother might betray her again; Sansa would have to be on guard for it. But stripping herself of her most steadfast supporter had not been the solution. Her mother was right – Brienne's presence alone during the attack would have more than made up for the lack of her direwolf. As it stood, in either of her lives, Sansa had only rarely come so close to dying. Though she tried not to let it influence her decision, she also missed her mother fiercely.
Sansa reached out, clasping her mother's hand. "I would be grateful for your presence. Please, join us." Catelyn squeezed her hand just as tightly in return, her face filled with worry and love. With a watery smile of her own, Sansa let go.
Sansa turned to Lady. "Did you get enough fighting out of your system? I'll be safe in there, but only if you can behave."
Lady gave her a skeptical glare in reply, offended that Sansa thought she had to ask.
"Good enough," Sansa muttered, and strode into the tent.
At her entrance, Margaery stood. "Princess."
The others in the tent followed her lead, getting to their feet. Some echoed Margaery's, "Princess," some said, "My lady," and still others murmured, "Red Wolf."
Sansa gave a gracious nod, settling in at the head of the table. She waited for the others to resume their seats. Margaery sat at Sansa's left; Catelyn, Brienne, and Lady stood behind her. To her right sat Umber, with Karstark, Edmure and Royce further down the table. Other lords from smaller houses clustered around the end. Sansa surveyed the faces, the stitches on her neck prickling. "So. What do you have for me? I can't imagine Bolton's men took kindly to yesterday's proceedings."
Karstark cleared his throat. "They did not. Of Bolton's three thousand, we have lost… half. Already. More leave every hour."
"Deserters," Edmure snarled. "Loyalists to a traitor lord. There is a penalty for desertion, and–"
Umber turned to him. "Do you think every Bolton man is a traitor? Some of my men fought for him. Some of Karstarks. A little girl is leading us, telling us that war with the Lannisters wouldn't keep our hands all pretty-like. And then she goes and butchers their lord, of the second strongest House in the North, and expects them to follow her?" Umber spat to the side of the table. "No, Tully. Call for that and even the loyal ones will leave her."
"You think she shouldn't have executed a traitor?" Edmure replied heatedly. "One who killed Robb and tried to kill her?"
"Of course she should have!" Umber yelled to him. "She shouldn't have butchered him like a rabid dog!"
Further down the table, Royce added, "He deserved dignity in death; for his men's sake if not his own.
"My lord, I beg to disagree," Catelyn added. "He murdered Robb, his king. Any death is a fitting one."
"Of course," Royce added soothingly. "But when trying to keep the allegiance of men, typically the manner of their lord's execution…"
Squeezing her eyes shut, Sansa offered a quick prayer for patience. "Whether or not Bolton's death deserved dignity, I did not give it to him. I have no quarrel with his men and they may leave as they see fit."
"Robb's first betrothal was for only twice as much as we're now losing," Umber muttered.
Sansa turned to him. "What would you have me do about it?"
Umber sat back in his chair, giving her a hard stare. There wasn't much she could do and they both knew it. "Not butcher me, next."
His remark received scattered chuckles.
"What do you plan to do with Bolton's lands and castle?" another lord, further down the table, asked.
Yet another reminder that Bolton was gone. Sansa couldn't stop her smile, inappropriate though it was. "A question for my brother, I think. I do not believe there is any pressing urgency."
"Whoever inherits the Dreadfort inherits a shitstorm," Karstark said. "Begging your pardon, my lady. For all the treachery that Roose Bolton was, his men are loyal, used to his ways, and used to following an old name. I've a notion they'd little like someone else sitting in his castle – if they'd even let his replacement past the gates."
"All the better to delay reassignment, then, until we know what we're dealing with," Sansa replied. But she had another thought. "Not all his men have left, yet. Do any of you know loyal lieutenants of his that have stayed behind?"
Karstark hesitated. "I know one. Steelshanks, they call him. I've no idea how loyal he is to you, my lady. But he has remained. So far, anyway."
Sansa nodded. "Have him brought. If we've any chance of keeping the rest of Bolton's forces, they must have a leader and representative here."
"A representative? Edmure said. "For a murderer and a traitor?"
"For his men," Sansa steadily replied. "They are men of the North. If they had no part in Bolton's crimes, they will have no part in his punishment. I would be glad for their service."
Karstark nodded to one of his men, passing along the command. He left the tent.
Royce appeared pleased by her answer. Though he added, "Do you expect the men to rely upon you, my lady, for their marching orders?"
Sansa took a deep breath. She had to delegate power – now – or she would lose all of it – forever. Worst yet, she had to delegate it wisely. "I expect the men to follow me, Lord Royce, through my appointed General," she answered calmly. "Until we reach Riverrun, my army will answer to Lord Umber, as the most veteran military man of the North."
Surprised faces answered from the others of the tent. Umber looked the most surprised of all. From the beginning, Sansa had always favored Torrhen Karstark. But Karstark was barely less green than she was, and the stronger the stance Sansa had to take, the less Karstark had supported her. That was not sustainable.
Edmure had been another option that Sansa had discarded just as quickly. Though he commanded the bulk of the men, he had made foolish decisions in her last life when left to his own devices. He needed someone in command of him. When it came to military decisions, that could not be Sansa.
Umber, on the other hand, had loyally followed Robb while missing fingers. Despite his dislike of Sansa, he had stood behind her toughest decisions. Sansa would fight to earn the same loyalty he'd given Robb.
Umber gave her a solemn nod. "And after Riverrun?"
"After Riverrun, I hope to convince the Blackfish to join our cause," Sansa replied. "To which you would still be his second, Lord Umber."
Umber nodded again, as more pleased murmurs followed from the rest of the tent. "Aye, my lady. He's an able commander."
Edmure drummed his fingers on the table. "After all this, after yet another assassination attempt, are we still discussing peace with the Lannisters? Bolton may have been a snake, but my uncle is ten times the general that Tywin Lannister ever was. We've almost his numbers. We could finish him off, drive the Lannisters from the Riverlands for good."
"Do we even know where the mother-fu–" Umber coughed. "Do we even know where Tywin Lannister is?"
Edmure replied, "No, but our scouts have his men retreating eastward, back towards Harrenhal. If we–"
"We are still pursuing peace," Sansa cut in.
"He tried to kill you!" Edmure replied, aghast.
"I don't believe he did," Sansa said lightly. Silence fell across the tent. "Bolton said the terms for Tywin's help included protecting me," she continued, hating having to say the words. "So when Bolton sought to kill me, he assumed that help from Tywin would be ended. It is why his plot included the death of the Kingslayer."
"It didn't," Umber said, frowning. "He tried to free the bloody Kingslayer and frame him for your murder."
"And then the entire might of our armies would have turned out to hunt down and execute my Lannister murderer," Sansa replied. "Not to return him to his father. Which means Tywin's wrath would have fallen upon whichever House swung the blade, instead of Bolton's own. If Bolton blamed me for trying to forge peace with the Lannisters, executing the Kingslayer for my murder would be the best way to ensure those hostilities continue."
It would have been the Tullys, Sansa knew. Between her own mother's wrath and the wrath of Edmure for Tywin's treatment of the Riverlands, they would have gleefully executed Jaime in Sansa's absence. Then Bolton would have secured the loyalty of the largest force in their army, as the Tullys would have no other choice except continuing the fight with Tywin. And, if Tywin had a chance to besiege Riverrun before Bolton arrived, the Blackfish would be tied down defending it, unable to usurp Bolton's place commanding their army. Win or lose against Tywin, Bolton would win control of their forces… which would win him control of the North.
Bolton had been inside her tent when Jaime was first delivered; he'd calculated the exact number of men needed to distract and take down her guards. But direwolves fought like demons and were unpredictable in the best of times.
Sansa was fairly sure that all Bolton had been waiting on was the absence of her wolf.
Umber nodded at something another lord had said. "So, we continue our pace to Riverrun. Full watch every night, half-speed–"
"Actually, I believe the half-speed pace that Bolton set was a ploy," Sansa cut in.
Umber paused, looking annoyed. "A ploy?"
Sansa nodded. "A stalling tactic. So that he could prepare for his attack before we reached the safety of Riverrun."
Umber pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ploy or no, it's still the safest way to travel."
"Not as safe as a castle–"
"Would you have us scurrying like kicked dogs?" Umber looked angrily over at her. "Because that's what it'll look like to all the great lords of Westeros if we run all the way home to hide in our river castle. It'll look like a little girl got scared."
Umber stared her down.
Sansa swallowed. "Very good. Thank you, Lord Umber."
He gave a gruff noise of assent. "As I was saying, we ride at half-pace to Riverrun. Puts us there only a few days behind our original schedule."
Royce nodded. "And gives the wounded an easier march."
Sansa looked down at her hands. Maege Mormont had only left the infirmary to attend Bolton's execution – and still Sansa hadn't thought of their injured.
After Umber had finished ironing out the details with the other lords, he turned to her. "Anything else, my lady?"
"No, my lords," Sansa replied. "Thank you."
As the men drifted from the tent, Sansa headed to the infirmary. It was long past time she checked on the injured who had fought for her. She had no idea how Robb had managed all of this. Though, perhaps he also would have been exhausted after an attempted assassination and an execution. Sansa allowed herself a small smile, hoping he would have been proud of her.
An arm slipped through hers. Sansa turned, startled–
Margaery smiled. "A task better with company, yes?"
Sansa's relief was instant. She leaned into the older girl's shoulder. "Always."
The two of them walked off to the infirmary arm-in-arm, Lady and Grey Wind following behind.
A/N: I will likely leave it here for awhile, hopefully around a few months. When I have an update on when I expect to have the next chapter ready, I'll update this note with the next posting date.
Also, if anyone knows of any Syril Karn/Dedra Meero fics with a sense of humor, send them and I will love you forever.