Merry Christmas!

Sansa paused atop the crest of the hill, drinking in the welcome sight of Riverrun. She'd never been here before, never gotten to see the quiet beauty of the other half of her own bloodline. She looked over at her mother, watching her blink back tears at the sight.

It had been a hard road from Casterly.

Catelyn smiled at her daughter, clasping her hand. "Let's go introduce you to your uncle Brynden."

"Wouldn't he be my great uncle?" Sansa replied.

Catelyn laughed. "Yes, but don't tell him that."

...

"Hello nephew," the Blackfish greeted his family on the bridge into the castle. "Riverrun is yours."

Edmure clasped hands with his uncle and led his men inside. Margaery, Umber, Royce, and the others followed behind him.

Catelyn still waited on the bridge. "And this, Uncle Brynden, is my daughter, Sansa."

Sansa smiled. "Though I very much doubt you'll like me as much as her other daughter."

The Blackfish laughed, head tipped back and grin wide. "Gods, Arya was a treat. How is the little wolf?"

"She's down in Sunspear," Catelyn replied. "Though I was hoping you might have had word…?"

The Blackfish beckoned a maester forward. "If she's in Dorne, this might well be from her."

The maester handed Catelyn a letter addressed to her, bearing a wolf seal.

"And these, little lady," the maester added, handing a letter to Sansa, "are addressed to you."

Sansa's heart leapt into her throat. From Winifred, she could only hope–

To Sansa Stark. From Theon Greyjoy.

It was the first time in a long time that any letter between the two of them had been addressed openly. She tore into it.

Sansa,

Yara has agreed to my terms. The ironborn will be gone within the week, even if the Glovers don't come around.

Theon

Sansa pressed the letter to her chest, cut to the bone with her longing for him. His words were better than the finest poetry. Deepwood Motte was theirs again. Theon was… well, if not precisely hers, he was still helping as best he could.

She desperately wished he were hers.

But the maester was holding out a second letter.

Confused, Sansa took it, her confusion only growing as she noted the official Stark seal. Catelyn, the Blackfish, and the maester all watched as Sansa gingerly opened it.

I, Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, declare that my sister, the princess Sansa Stark, acts on my behalf in my absence, wielding my full authority.

"That's it?" Catelyn asked, after Sansa handed her the letter. "No word from Bran to me? To anyone else?"

"No, my lady," the maester replied. He nodded towards the letter. "That arrived scarce days after your band left from Casterly Rock."

Sansa wasn't sure what to make of it. She had known Bran the least of all her siblings and the Three-Eyed Raven had consumed what was left even of that. She assumed it at least must be good news, that Bran hadn't written of any bad. Until she learned otherwise, she'd take the letter for what it explicitly was: approval. Bran stood behind her and would continue to do so.

The Blackfish's face had turned grave. "I expected his letter would have the other news. I'd better wait till you're inside, with all the others–"

Sansa surged forward, grabbing her uncle's hand. "Tell me."

He frowned down at her. "News from the Wall. They say a Wildling army is on its way. Castle Black has requested that every man of the North make haste to their defense."

Curses ran through her head. She'd forgotten. Jon was in the wildling army's path. He'd survived it last time, but… She'd meddled with this world. There were no longer any guarantees. "How large?" Sansa whispered.

"100,000 strong," the Blackfish replied. "But surely that's exaggerated by criminals who've never seen real battles."

Sansa shook her head. This would be the same force that Jon had spoken of and she trusted his grasp of armies better than any man alive. "I'm afraid the numbers are true. We'd better speak inside."

The Blackfish passed a confused look to Catelyn, who could only shrug in reply.

Sansa entered Riverrun with the rest, plots and plans already swirling.

...

"Did you hear that Bolton tried to kill Sansa Stark?"

An ironborn tossed the news out casually between bites at the head table. Before conscious thought had passed his brain, Theon was on his feet. His hand gripped his sword, ready to draw… but his enemy was a thousand miles away, the incident long concluded. All Theon could do was wait for the gossiper to continue, Theon's nerves too fraught to even speak.

The ironborn across from the gossiper nodded. "Heard she killed Bolton for it."

Theon sucked in a ragged breath. She'd lived through it. He didn't care that his standing was drawing stares; he couldn't have sat if he'd been offered a longship for it.

The original gossiper took a swig of ale. "They say she ripped Bolton's throat out with her teeth. Turned as feral as an animal and wouldn't stop until she was covered in his blood."

The other ironborn made a noise of distaste. "Idiot. She didn't turn into a direwolf, she has a direwolf. Sicced the animal on Bolton in front of all her fancy lords. Then he screamed and wailed as it tore into him over and over, while every other lord cowered away. But not the Red Wolf. She just stood and smiled."

The first ironborn shuddered. "Give me a good drowning anyday."

Slowly, Theon released his grip on his sword. He called out to the two, "Where did you hear this?"

The first one turned, surprised at being addressed. "From the maester here. News from the Riverlands. Happened 'round abouts a week ago?" The man paused. "Say, you know the Red Wolf, don't you? Was raised with them. Is she as ferocious as they say?"

Theon grabbed his mug off the table, tipping it back until he'd drained it dry. "Worse." Yara had entered the hall, dragging an older woman by the arm. He slammed the mug down and walked away to join her.

Around the room, whistles started at the sight of Yara and the woman, even as Yara settled her at an out-of-the-way table.

"Alright, alright!" Yara grinned. "Quiet down, you savages. She's only here to talk."

Theon didn't want to know what they all found so amusing. Lady Glover glared defiantly back at him as he sat down across from her. Yara raised an eyebrow at Theon, asking if he wanted her company, but he shook his head. Instead, Yara wandered over to slap some of her men on the back, sharing in their broad grins.

Lady Glover's glare hadn't wavered.

Theon cleared his throat. "I know you didn't want to speak to me, but–"

"Still don't," she cut him off. "Got no need for ironborn here. Not you nor any of your kind."

Theon pursed his lips. "Still, I'd hope there might be–"

Lady Glover leaned forward. "Your people took my home, stole its people, raped our women and children–" She broke off, turning her head aside to compose herself. "No, ironborn. I've naught to say to you."

Theon sighed. "I know your husband. Lord Glover. I fought beside him, down–"

"You know my husband's older brother," the lady cut in. "Galbart's got no wife nor children. I'm Sybelle, wife of Robbett."

Theon frowned. "I've got no quarrel with any of you." She snorted; he bravely forged ahead. "I want to make things right."

Sybelle spat to the side of the table.

Theon leaned forward intently. "I'm getting your home returned to you. Yara's bringing the captives back. I'll pay reparations. Just tell me what you want. I have ships, I can patrol the waters and protect Deepwood until Lord Glover returns–"

"No, boy." Sybelle looked amused. "We don't need ironborn protection." But for all her disdain, she finally looked Theon over. "Ned Stark raised you, didn't he?"

Theon hesitated. "Yes."

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Think you're a man of the North, do you?"

He shifted away, even more uncomfortable. "No. But I'm… not entirely a stranger to your ways. I fought beside Robb. Swore to him."

Sybelle raised an eyebrow. "To defend his bannerman? To defend their homes?"

No. If she wanted him to turn and fight Yara, he'd not do it. But Sybelle knew that as much as Theon did. She crossed her arms, with a contented smirk at having caught him out.

But Theon wouldn't settle for that. He leaned closer, whispering heatedly, "I was ordered, by direct command of Sansa Stark, to come here and make peace. I'm going to do that. And if I have to ride down to the Neck to treat with your husband's brother, instead of with you, I'll do that, too." He sat back. "I'd rather spare myself the ride. But have it your way."

With a sigh, Sybelle gestured lazily at him. "Name your terms."

"The ironborn return their captives and I pay reparations for the rest," Theon said.

She was instantly offended. "That's it? You think you can buy us off with Lannister gold, after all the things your sister did?"

"Of course not," Theon said. "Nothing can repay that. Would you rather I not try?"

"What happens the next time?" Sybelle said. "Will you throw more gold our way, every time your kin want to whet their axes with Northern blood?"

"No." He took the topic as seriously as did Lady Glover. "Sansa agreed to spare punishment this once, for the sake of the treaty. If any ironborn violates it, and breaks Northern law in any way, they will be pursued by the full vengeance of the North."

Sybelle frowned at him. "Not the full vengeance of the Greyjoys? Otherwise, it's not much of a treaty, is it?"

Theon paused. She was entirely correct. "I don't speak for the Greyjoys. I can't–"

"You speak for your men." Sybelle spat to the side of the table. "You speak for Yara's, if you're getting them to leave."

Theon's pause grew longer.

"Do you speak for your part of the Greyjoys?" Sybelle studied him. "Or not?"

Theon tried not to visibly swallow, tried to hide his fear. "Yes. I speak for them. The treaty is through me."

She nodded. "Then I'll keep your Lannister gold. And you'll keep your word."

Slowly, Theon nodded in reply. He had no idea what he was agreeing to; no idea other than a faint sense that he'd never be able to pay it. But if he wanted to lead his men, his family, his people, wasn't this what it took? "I will."

"Good." Sybelle studied him. "Sansa sent you?" Theon nodded. "She's leading the armies, now?" Theon nodded again. Sybelle paused. "She any good?"

Theon smirked. "Better than you'd know." But he watched this proud woman of the North, even as she was lost in thought. She'd likely been humiliated countless times since Yara had taken her home. That her pride was intact was to her credit. He cleared his throat. "For what it's worth, I am sorry."

Sybelle looked at him. "It isn't worth much. But it isn't worth nothing."

...

Sansa had seen many maps, on many tables. This one spread across the gigantic wooden beast of a table, the ceiling of the main hall high and vaulted around it. The map detailed the towns and roads of the Riverlands up to the top of the North and its Wall. Harrenhal lurked at the bottom of the Riverlands, with the endless threat of its Lannister garrison.

Sansa watched as the Blackfish placed tokens behind the Wall for the 100,000 wildlings on the march.

"Are you sure?" Royce said, eyeing the map. "Wildlings never amass to any great size without splintering into petty fights amongst each other."

"We're sure," Sansa cut in, before anyone else could muddy the waters with skepticism. "They've named Mance Rayder their king and he has united them like they never have been before."

She fought her smirk down as the others in the room turned to stare. Well, she had to maintain the mystique of her spy ring somehow.

The three Tullys – Edmure, Catelyn, and Brynden – were joined by lesser Riverlands lords and Sansa's usual compliment of advisors: Umber, Karstark, Royce, Margaery… and Steelshanks, the Bolton lieutenant. Sansa had no idea how loyal or competent he was. So far, they'd lost five hundred more Bolton men, but almost a thousand still remained, under Steelshanks' command. It would have to be enough.

"Any word from the Lannisters?" Edmure asked.

The Blackfish shook his head. "Back at Harrenhal, as far as we can tell. No scouting parties have spotted them nearer in the Riverlands."

"Means they agreed to your terms after all, my lady," Umber said with amusement.

Sansa smiled. It did, indeed. "And Moat Cailin?"

The Blackfish placed tokens for their 4,000 Stark men, led by Glover and Manderly, to the north of Moat Cailin. "Taking it back as we speak."

It worried Sansa, knowing that their safety depended on a battle so distant from herself, that she hadn't even set in motion. If their larger army wanted to join the fight, it was a good week's ride away… assuming they could cross at the Twins. Which was a barrel that Sansa wasn't yet ready to open. Robb had sent those 4,000 men to Moat Cailin to handle the ironborn and Sansa had to remind herself that she trusted his judgment more than any alive.

She turned her gaze back to the Wall. Stannis had defended the Night's Watch against this attack, last time around. With Stannis crowned in King's Landing, this time around, and with an independent North between them, he was unlikely to repeat his previous decision. He might come to aid them, should they request it, but that request would have to come with an open invitation into the heart of the North. At the battle's conclusion, Stannis would settle for nothing save for the North bending the knee.

Sansa pointed to the wildling army at the Wall. "Uncle Brynden, what forces would you say we'd need to defeat them?"

"Nowhere near their numbers, for one," the Blackfish started. "They're untrained and disorganized rabble. You'll have to stop at Winterfell to resupply, but your host here should certainly do the trick–"

"She won't have this host," Edmure cut in.

The Blackfish paused. "Come again?"

Edmure gestured down at Harrenhal. "Tywin's forces are still a stone's throw away! They're still in the Riverlands! How do you expect me to defend my home and lands against him without my own army?"

Catelyn frowned. "Tywin's hand has been shown to be stayed–"

"It's his decision to make, Niece," the Blackfish cut in. "And our new Lord Tully is right that it may not be worth the risk. Which is why he will be staying here and I will be taking my two thousand men north with the Starks."

Shocked, Edmure spun towards his uncle. "Not without my direct command! Those are my men and…"

The Blackfish calmly stared him down. "It's smart leadership, my Lord Tully."

Edmure gradually heard the threat in his uncle's words; that the Blackfish would be taking those troops, with or without his nephew's approval. They were in public; it was better to approve.

Edmure smiled. "A wise plan."

The Blackfish gave a solemn nod. "Thank you kindly, Nephew."

Sansa gestured back at the map. "But if we have Glover's other 4,000 Northmen, plus the almost 10,000 men of the North here, plus your 2,000, Uncle…" She did the math. "Are 16,000 troops enough to defend against 100,000 wildlings?"

The Blackfish studied the map. "Trained and armored troops, most of whom are veterans of previous battles."

"With an able commander leading them," Umber added, with a grin toward the Blackfish.

Brynden chuckled. "Perhaps. Perhaps they'll be enough." He looked back at Sansa, his mirth falling away. "We'll make it enough."

But servants entered, carrying plates of food, and the maps had to be momentarily set aside. A roast pheasant was put where the Godseye should be. Vegetables marked Lord Frey's castle by the Neck. A wine flagon was placed instead of the Bloody Gate into the Vale.

The North was far away, with 4,000 troops and the Wall in between everyone present and their disreputable, distant wildling adversaries. It had been too long since any of the lords had been in a proper castle and it didn't take long before most had drunk too heavily. Neither Edmure nor the lesser Riverlands lords cared to begin with; they were simply glad to be home. Margaery laughed among the rest of them, whispering jokes to Edmure as her nose crinkled with amusement. Edmure laughed the loudest, his cheeks flushed all-too-quickly.

"It's not so hopeless as all that looked," Brynden said to Sansa. She was grateful that he'd selected the chair at her side, where they could easily whisper. "Armor, training, positioning, it all matters far more than numbers. Especially if we can arrive in time to reinforce at the Wall before the wildlings cross. There's only a few hundred men of the Night's Watch. 16,000 added to them will be more than enough."

"You're sure?" Sansa said. She knew Robb; she knew Jon. While both of them trusted Brynden's skill, she'd never met the man, herself.

He smiled patiently down at her, hearing the insecurity in her voice despite her attempts to hide it. "Wars are never sure. But they're better odds than you'd think. I'd not be going with you so easily, otherwise. And I'd have pushed Lord Tully for more than two thousand."

Sansa tried to hide her chuckle. Brynden caught it anyway, his eyes crinkling. She was quickly coming to understand why her great uncle had always been her mother's favorite relative.

"But that's all assuming…" Sansa gestured at the vegetables where Frey's castle should have been. "We still have to cross at the Twins."

He sat back with a sigh. "Ah, there's always that."

Catelyn had been listening from Brynden's other side. "Walder Frey won't be pleased by Robb's broken betrothal. He'll be even less inclined to be reasonable than ever."

Brynden snorted. "Is that possible?"

With a sigh, Catelyn looked around the room. "Walder likes nothing so much as a betrothal and we lost him his best one." Her gaze stopped on Edmure and Margaery. "I know you're fond of her, Sansa, but Edmure may be our best remaining option–"

"No," Sansa cut in. Catelyn tried to continue, but Sansa beat her to it. "I speak with Bran's authority, Mother. My answer is final."

Sansa knew exactly how well that wedding had gone, the last time. She would not risk it again. Not for any price.

Catelyn frowned, perhaps wondering why Bran had chosen his sister over his mother to act on his behalf. Catelyn looked at her uncle. "There's always you."

But Brynden laughed. "They'll not trade the loss of a king for an old goat like me."

Before Catelyn could speak again, Sansa said, "There will be no betrothals. Not to a Frey."

Catelyn took one look at her daughter's stony expression and dropped the subject. "What, then? It's not as if we can offer a ransom that he'll accept. It's not as if we can besiege the Twins, so–"

"Wait." Brynden sat up suddenly straighter. "We can besiege it." He looked over at Sansa, expecting her to have followed the same logic he had. Sansa stared blankly back at him. Patiently, he explained, "The Twins are nigh impossible to besiege because they have to be cut off from both sides of the Green Fork, something no army can do while needing to cross that same river. But after Glover's taken Moat Cailin, he'll have a host on the far bank of the Green Fork."

Sansa frowned. "Not a very large one."

"Almost as large as Frey's," Brynden replied. "Which is all Frey will care about. And if we can convince Edmure to lend his troops that far, we'll vastly outnumber Frey on the near side."

"Walder won't like that," Catelyn said. "He's already little love for our House." She looked over at her daughter, remembering Sansa's words about the Frey's desire to supplant them.

"Aye, we've well known that for centuries," Brynden replied.

"Less love even than you know," Sansa said.

A cheer went up from the other end of the table. Sansa turned to watch as Margaery threw a piece of pheasant to Grey Wind. The direwolf snapped it out of the air and another cheer rose. Edmure tossed a pheasant leg – Grey Wind ignored it entirely as it fell to the ground.

"You go again," Edmure said. With a laugh, Margaery picked up another plump pheasant leg, threw it – and Grey Wind snapped it out of the air. An even louder cheer followed.

Strong dislike rose in Sansa, seeing a Tyrell and Riverlanders treating a creature of the North as sport. Even less so, the wolf of their fallen king. Though, when she looked back at Margaery's face, there was a pinched look to her smile.

"Magnificent beasts, aren't they, Uncle?" Sansa called out, to distract the lot of them from their game. "You should have seen Grey Wind tearing through an army of Lannisters to protect his king."

"We saw Lady tearing through an army of Boltons to get to you," Margaery replied, pouncing on the distraction. "A ferocious thing for so sweet a pet."

Karstark snorted into his wine.

Unlike Grey Wind, Lady was not penned inside a castle. Whatever stressors had made Sansa's wolf snap at loyal men meant that she wasn't about to push her wolf so hard ever again. Sansa was safe enough among her allies; Lady roamed freely through the woods as she willed.

Edmure set down his wine heavily, some sloshing out onto the table. He reached past Margaery, stretching a hand towards Grey Wind. The direwolf leaned away from his touch. Edmure persisted, stretching further to stroke his fingers through the dense fur. Grey Wind endured, his sewn-shut eye as disagreeable as ever, his one good eye watching Margaery. Margaery held her breath.

"Magnificent creatures," Edmure agreed. He drew his hand away. Margaery let out her breath. Edmure leaned towards one of his bannermen. "Can you imagine how splendid a figure that wolf would make on our fox hunts?"

The bannerman laughed with his lord. "He'd scare all the game for leagues!"

Never looking away from Edmure, Margaery rested a hand in Grey Wind's fur. Her lips formed an indulgent smile. "A direwolf is not quite a pet, my lord. They do not command so easily and Grey Wind is quite taken with me–"

"Oh, he'll be well looked after, you can be sure," Edmure said, taking another gulp of his wine. He gestured loosely towards the entryway. "We've plenty of room in the stables to convert stalls into a proper kennel."

Margaery's indulgent smile froze. "A kennel?"

Edmure nodded, ignorant of her tone. "We take good care of our animals. They never feel the bite of frost or hunger and we need never be bothered by their yapping." He smiled, as if it had been a clever joke, and his bannermen joined him.

Margaery's smile deepened, the frost creeping further. "Grey Wind will not sleep anywhere but at my side. Surely–"

Edmure waved her comment away. "Too indulgent in his training, that's all. Every pup can be broken of that. A great brute of a beast's got no business inside a castle."

Edmure's bannerman leaned toward him again, nudging him with an elbow. "Besides, she'll soon have another great brute of a beast to share her bed!"

Edmure laughed, even as a blush spread across his cheeks. "You should not speak so in front of my lady." When he looked back at Margaery, it was with a wink.

Margaery smiled. She took a sip of her wine and said nothing.

After she had traveled all this way to secure Edmure, Sansa was not overly concerned about losing Margaery to a single bout of his oafishness. Still, Sansa hated seeing her have to endure it.

"Uncle," Sansa tried. "I believe the lady Margaery has some small fondness for the direwolf. Perhaps you should ask her how she would like it treated?"

Edmure snorted. "It's a wolf. Just because her last husband let it have its share of the wedding bed doesn't mean I've any reason to."

Margaery's chair screeched as she shoved it backwards. She was instantly on her feet, staring down at Edmure, her lip quivering. Sansa couldn't tell if she was holding back tears or fury.

Edmure looked up at Margaery in surprise. "There's nothing to be ashamed of in being a widow. Everyone knows you've been bedded before. As have most men, if they're being honest." He picked up her hand. She continued to stare down at him, saying nothing. He placed a kiss to the back of it. When she continued to say nothing, he risked a smile. "I'm quite looking forward to showing you how it's properly done."

Margaery wrenched her hand away. "You disgrace yourself, my lord," she spat. "Thinking you could ever stand where he stood. If you were half the man – a tenth the man he was, you would have enough sense to stop your mouth. Alas for you that you do not."

The hall fell silent. Edmure gaped at her. "My lady! I…" He frowned. "I hope you do not–"

"I mean every word," Margaery snarled. "We are not betrothed. I am nothing to you except your queen. Insult me again and it will be the last."

She stormed from the hall, silk skirts swishing behind her, and throwing open the doors as she passed. Grey Wind followed, as dutiful as always. He turned back to give a final glare at Edmure, then trotted behind his lady through the doors.

They closed with a resounding thud.

Edmure fell back into his seat, looking poleaxed.

Whispers spread like wildfire around the table. No one dared resume full conversation.

Sansa dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. "Excuse me, my lords."

She slipped through the doors after Margaery.

In the hallway, Margaery appeared as little more than a mass of silks huddled into the stones of the wall. Grey Wind sat dutifully beside her, on guard against all physical dangers. Sansa rushed forward to kneel at her side. She placed a hand on her shoulder, unsure what to say–

Margaery fell against Sansa's chest, sobbing all the more heavily. Sansa thought back to her own mother, making soothing noises as she rubbed circles into her friend's back.

"I have to marry him," Margaery finally managed through her tears. "I have to. There's no better choice for me, for my family–"

"I know." And gods, did Sansa understand unwilling betrothals. She never ceased rubbing her soothing circles. "I know you do. He's the best match by far… though it isn't saying much."

Margaery cried harder and Sansa felt her own heart break. Edmure wasn't horrible; it only spoke all the more of her love for Robb.

"But you don't have to marry him right away. Give yourself time," Sansa continued. "Time to grieve, time to heal, time to train Edmure not to be such a thoughtless ass. You're not ready to marry again."

Margaery gave a wet laugh. "It doesn't matter if I'm not ready. I don't have time. You have siblings, ruling Winterfell, in Dorne, at the Wall, and they've still time to grow and make families of their own. I've just… After Father, it's… It's just Loras and me. And Loras, well…"

Sansa gripped the older girl's hand. "He'll rule Highgarden perfectly well. You've a decade still to make a family before he has need of it."

Margaery shook her head. "All my family wanted was a queen and I…" She squeezed her eyes shut as more tears fell. Clearing her throat, she scrubbed the traitorous marks away. "The Baratheons won't take Loras for Shireen and any son of mine will be too late. I was the best hope of the Tyrells for a queen and now… look at what's left of us."

Sansa had to admit her point: with Loras preferring men and neither sibling married, let alone with child, the end of the Tyrell House was within sight.

"For what little it's worth," Sansa softly said, "You'll always be a queen to me. With our current king unmarried, the North doesn't have another. There will always be a place for you with us."

Margaery gave a hollow laugh. "What place is there for the Queen-for-a-Week of the North?"

The words had been dismissive, but Sansa knew she hadn't meant them. She squeezed Margaery's hand. "Whatever she wishes it to be."

"Don't mock me," Margaery snapped.

Sansa sighed. "I'm not. There's no getting rid of me, now that Robb made you my sister – not even if you become my aunt. And if you ever need to flee my uncle, remember that you have more options than just Highgarden."

Margaery's grateful smile wavered around the edges. She looked away, hiding its collapse. Slowly, she shook her head. "It would do me good to go home, if needs come to that. Where I can return in glory as a failed strumpet."

Sansa squeezed her hand again. Margaery gave no response, staring listlessly at the stones of the floor.

"What's this?" Olenna said, striding around the corner of the hallway. Catelyn followed on her heels. "A Stark had to wake me up and tell me about my granddaughter making a fool of herself at dinner?"

Instantly, Margaery launched herself at her grandmother, sobbing anew into her chest.

Olenna sighed. "There, there, sweet. Come back to our rooms and I'll get you nice and drunk while you tell me all about it." Olenna gave a nod at Catelyn as she led her granddaughter away.

After the Tyrells had gone, Catelyn wrapped an arm around own daughter. Sansa sank into her mother's embrace, grateful to have what family she had restored.

"Will she be alright?" Catelyn asked.

"I think so," Sansa said. She looked up at her mother from within her arms. "I care for her dearly, you know."

Catelyn sighed. "I know. As did Robb. Too dearly, some have said."

"Likely," Sansa replied. Whether it was the same with herself, she didn't know.

At least Margaery would remain with Edmure; a fate far better than wedded to Joffrey or blown to bits by wildfire. No matter how Margaery hated it, Sansa could rest in a job well-enough done. At least someone's fate had been decidedly improved.

But with Margaery back among her own family, Sansa's mind circled back to the problem still before her: Walder Frey. Her mother had negotiated with him the last time, but at the cost of a dear betrothal. In the lifetime before that, it had been two dear betrothals. The Blackfish had mentioned besieging the Twins, but if bad blood between the Tullys and the Freys was a concern, strong-arming Walder Frey into granting passage would not improve it. Sansa could not raze the Twins to the ground; not when the Freys hadn't betrayed the Starks in this lifetime, not when the Starks had been the ones to break faith with the Freys.

But there was another person here who had dealt with the Freys before. To Sansa's knowledge, he was the only one who had handled them successfully.

"Mother," Sansa asked sweetly. "Which way are the dungeons?"

...

The damp of the river seeped into the stones beneath the castle, turning the steps down into the dungeon each more dank and slippery than the step before.

A mixture of Stark and Tully guards stood outside the thick, iron doors.

Sansa put on her most lady-like bearing. "You may go."

She'd brought her mother with her, expecting to need her help with the Tully men, but all six soldiers outside immediately began walking up the hallway. Catelyn stood stoically next to her daughter, saying nothing.

One guard paused, asking Sansa, "Them inside, too?"

She gave a calm nod. The guard opened the door with a piercing whistle. "Let's go, lads! The Red Wolf needs privacy."

Sansa calmly waited as the remaining guards filed past.

After they'd gone, Catelyn turned to her. "You'll be careful?"

Sansa smiled, grateful that her mother had known she wouldn't want even her ears to overhear. "I will. Thank you."

With a concerned nod, Catelyn followed after the guards up the hall.

Sansa pushed open the door. Many of the cells were filled with dirty prisoners in shabby clothes sleeping on piles of hay to keep out the damp. Only one interested Sansa. Jaime leaned against the bars of his cell, already cocking an eyebrow towards her in expectation.

Sansa made her way closer, knowing the steel bars protected her thoroughly – as long as she stayed beyond arm's reach. She wouldn't have to learn that lesson twice. "How have they been treating you?"

Jaime sighed, shifting on the hay. "Well enough, for a dungeon. They make threats, on occasion. If you're truly concerned, you should send that gigantic woman of your mother's here to knock them around. Gods, she could best them without even trying."

Sansa fought back a smile. "I will ask if she's willing."

Jaime studied Sansa further. "As much as I enjoy a good chat, I fear my well-being was not at the top of your priorities."

"It was not," Sansa said. Pulling a stool closer, she made herself comfortable on the other side of his bars. Jaime's eyebrow rose even further. She gave him a disarming smile, speaking low enough to keep her words from any of the other prisoners who might overhear. "What do you know of the Freys?"

Instantly, she had Jaime's full attention. He shifted even closer to the bars. "A stubborn, prideful, petty House, quick to improve their own lot and slow to aid anyone else's." He tilted his head. "Which you knew."

Sansa hummed agreement. "Your aunt married in."

"She did," Jaime agreed. He said nothing further.

He'd handled them well, before, but it wasn't as if it had been through knowledge of a secret tactic – and if it had, he'd be even less likely to tell her.

Sansa resettled her skirts. "How do you think they'd respond to threat of force?"

Jaime frowned. "What kind of force are you talking?"

Sansa smiled. "I'm sure you can imagine." She wasn't sure he could. But she didn't want to confirm their plans in a dungeon and if he assumed a different tactic, she wanted to know it.

He sighed, settling back against the wall. "Walder wants to be treated like one of the great lords. Forcing a crossing will do the exact opposite. He'll resent it till the day he dies." Jaime looked back at her. "And he already has plenty to resent the Starks for."

Sansa tried to hide her surprise. It was good advice, and barely even unwillingly given. She'd offer Brienne any boon to get her down here, if Brienne's presence breaking up Jaime's boredom was what he wanted in exchange for being helpful.

"If we need to treat him like a great lord," Sansa replied. "The only option that's been discussed is a betrothal. Which I am against."

Jaime grinned. "You know the Freys would march for your hand, don't you?"

"I'm aware," Sansa said flatly. "I'm not sure your father wouldn't march for my hand, if you offered yours."

Jaime snorted. He fell back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. After a while, he turned to look at her, a wicked gleam glinting in his eye. "I'm sure the Freys would like a match with the Lord of Casterly Rock." Sansa was about to protest that she couldn't barter their prize captive when he continued, "Offer them Theon."

She choked. "No." It came out with more venom than necessary. "He wouldn't be worth a thousandth to them of what he is to me."

Jaime's smile warmed, staring up at the ceiling again. "Arya isn't worth enough, but Bran?"

Sansa slowly shook her head. "Bran would abide by it, I believe, but it wouldn't solve anything. Bran cannot have children. I do not see the point in a betrothal."

"Catelyn," Jaime offered, his wicked spark back full force. "I imagine Walder is yet on the hunt for a new wife."

Sansa stood. "If you're going to mock me, there's no reason–"

Jaime held up a hand. "My apologies. I agree with you about the futility of a betrothal, is all. Barring your own hand," he had to add.

Sansa fumed. It was absolutely bloody ridiculous how often she had to defend her own lack of betrothal. The only good thing about her marriage to Ramsay had been that after enduring him, no one had pressured her to marry ever again.

"I thought your father had publicly denounced your aunt's match," Sansa replied heatedly. "Yet you would volunteer one even more useless–"

"So what else does Walder want?" Jaime ignored her, resting an arm on his bent knee.

"A good question," a voice said from the far end of the room. Sansa turned, startled. The Blackfish strode towards her, hand resting on his sword, disapproval on his face. "One I am surprised to find Lady Stark asking her prisoner. And not her advisors."

Sansa stared at him in horror. She needed his advice more than anyone's and she'd just offended him this greatly, seeking out a prisoner's advice over his own–?!

Jaime's grin broadened into glee at the Blackfish's presence. "I find she enjoys a… captive audience, if you will."

Brynden's scowl deepened.

"I am ignorant, Uncle," Sansa quickly volunteered. "Far more ignorant than I would like. The loyalty of the North is not so strong as for me to flaunt my ignorance openly enough to receive the advice I need."

Brynden continued scowling down at her.

Sansa looked at her lap, continuing more softly, "Bolton had the only keen mind in the North. I cannot maintain control of my father's House and lords while openly preferring only the council of my mother's."

Brynden continued staring down at her. "You'll be seen as more a girl and a Tully than a Stark and their liege lady."

Sansa slowly nodded.

Brynden sighed. He walked to the far wall of the dungeon, picked up a chair, and carried it back to settle in at Sansa's side. He glanced over at her. "Be grateful, Niece, that our guards reported their dismissal to me, and not to Edmure."

She sucked in a breath at the earned chastisement. She should have been more careful, especially of Edmure. Just because his advice wasn't keen didn't mean she should take him for granted. He likely would have been pleased to grant her an audience, here, had she only thought to ask for consent.

But Brynden nodded towards Jaime. "So, Lannister. What does Walder want?"

Jaime leaned forward, his face more eager than Sansa had ever seen. "Respect. You would likely be able to threaten a crossing out of him, perhaps even threaten a return of the Tully troops back home, once you've finished in the North. But I doubt you'll get anything you want from him ever again. And I very much suspect the Starks will want to be able to cross back into the South, at some point in the next century."

Brynden crossed his arms over his chest. "Stop wasting our time repeating things we already know."

"How can we give him respect that doesn't come with a betrothal?" Sansa asked.

Jaime's mocking grin returned. "Because you're not eager to be bartered–"

"Because it won't work," Sansa cut him off heatedly. "The whole reason Walder has so many children to marry off is because he doesn't give two shits about any of them. A betrothal won't secure anything except misery for one of us."

Jaime's grin faded at the truth of it. "There are other ways to secure respect. Trade was always one my father liked. Or you could volunteer to use your armies – and his – to harass someone he dislikes–"

"He dislikes the House whose dungeons you're sitting in," Brynden replied. "The one whose armies would be doing the harassing."

But Jaime had a point. That was how the Lannisters had secured Frey assistance for the Red Wedding, after all. She doubted the Freys had a strong enough opinion on Stannis to matter, but if Stannis decided to march North to attack the Starks…

"Trade won't be enough," Sansa said wearily. "Not to keep the Freys from Stannis, if he wants them."

Brynden and Jaime looked at each other, neither with anything worthwhile to add.

"Sometimes people dislike you, Niece," Brynden said. "When you know you've caused it, you make the best of the bed you've made."

Sansa sighed. She didn't like it – not in the slightest.

"You'll have a good trade route from Casterly," Jaime said. "Surely you'll want to keep that open. Make it worth Walder's while for the trade to go through his home."

With Tywin lurking in Harrenhal, no trade route near it would ever be secure. But as it was all they had, it would have to be enough.

...

Tywin Lannister gripped the railing of his ship as it tossed lines to the Meereenese dock. Gulls wheeled about overhead, fish merchants called out in simple Valyrian, and the stench itself almost knocked him off his feet.

"My lord," Petyr Baelish, at his elbow, said with an unctuous smile. "She's waiting for your arrival and I made sure to–"

Tywin strode forward, his heavy leather boots creaking with each step. The louse-ridden sailors hurriedly straightened the gang plank before him. Tywin walked down it and onto the docks, never breaking stride.

"Bring everything to the palace," Baelish called out to the workers. A translator echoed his request in Valyrian.

"Everything?" the translator passed along momentarily. "There is so much crates, and–"

"Everything," Baelish replied, and hurried to catch up to his benefactor.

Tywin had paused at the end of the dock, staring up at the hanging corpse of a man in fine robes, blood crusted around his eyes and down his cheeks.

Baelish cleared his throat. "A violent ruler, to be sure, but I believe she–"

"I did not require commentary," Tywin replied. Finally, he tore his gaze from the body and to Baelish. "What assurances have you been given about our safety?"

Baelish met his gaze. "Very little, admittedly. I don't believe she ever offers much, in case she later feels like changing her mind."

Tywin gave a nod. He had worked with worse. He strode onwards to the great pyramid of a palace as it loomed ever closer, birds wheeling low around its top.

Tywin should have been properly received at the docks, he knew. As befit his station, as befit any deal with a Westerosi House of his importance, whether or not she liked them.

If Baelish had managed to arrange anything at all worthwhile, it would be a miracle. The man had lost Tywin the Tyrells, then come to him with a plan to kill Robb Stark, Mace Tyrell, and Tyrion Lannister. A pity that Bolton had only managed two of the three.

A shrieking cry split the air.

Abruptly, Tywin paused, staring up at the pyramid. Those weren't birds.

"So, the rumors are true," he whispered.

Baelish chuckled. "Quite. And when you've seen them up close…"

But the largest of the three dragons circling the pyramid turned. Its head locked towards them and it flapped its wings harder. Immediately, the shape flew towards them, its speed immeasurable, with barely enough time to–

Tywin and Baelish flung themselves to the ground as the dragon screamed past overhead. It wheeled away, with another screaming shriek rattling the buildings as it went.

"By the gods!" Baelish uttered, shaken.

Tywin smiled. Petyr's bravado hadn't lasted long at all. The good mood alone was enough to last Tywin the rest of the walk to the pyramid, past endless barbaric guards, and into the throne room itself.

He paid no mind as the great doors opened before him, paid no mind to the countless advisors and knights arranging themselves on the steps, and paid no mind to the lady herself, perched atop the endless heights of her newly won throne.

Tywin marched to the base of the steps, took a knee, and bowed.

He heard belated footsteps behind him as Baelish did the same.

Silence followed.

"This is Lord Tywin Lannister, Your Grace," Varys's smooth tones finally said. "Lord of the Westerlands, Warden of the West, and–"

"I know who he is," Daenerys replied.

More silence followed. Tywin made no move to straighten from his bow, no move to say anything whatsoever. He was offering her his neck, in form and in truth, because no one ever did anything worth remembering by shirking from death.

"You were Hand of the King to my father," Daenerys finally said.

Tywin looked up. Her white curls fell across her shoulders in waves, her white gown cinched and draped to the utmost elegance.

"I was," Tywin replied.

Daenerys drummed her fingers on the arm of her marble throne. "Until your son killed him. And you betrayed the king you had served, pillaging and raping his city."

It was a tricky business, keeping your head attached when contradicting a king. Fortunately, Tywin had experience.

"My son killed him," Tywin agreed. "Ending a complicated rule of a complicated man. You'll find it hard to paint Aerys with a single color stroke, Your Grace."

The queen raised an eyebrow. "No? His enemies frequently refer to him as nothing more than the Mad King."

"I served your father faithfully for twenty years," Tywin replied. "I was fully aware of his faults and his virtues."

Daenerys studied him. "Yet still you betrayed him in his direst hour."

"I resigned my post when he stole my heir for the Kingsguard," Tywin said. "By the end, he was truly mad."

"And you have the audacity to come and treat with me," Daenerys said. "His daughter, as if we are still allies? You offer me ludicrous terms for a traitor and a rebel." Her eyes flashed with anger.

"No." Tywin rose to his feet, well aware that she had not given him leave. "Your father was my ally and I served him faithfully – until he discarded that alliance. After his reign had been lost, I served the new king faithfully and his new alliance." He paused, taking her measure. "I offer you that same alliance – one that no Westerosi king has survived long without."

Daenerys continued her study of him, her fingers tapping their rhythm on the throne. "Your daughter was consort to the last king – and now you will settle for your son as my consort. And yourself as my Hand."

Tywin gave her a gracious nod. "Your advisors here are strong warriors, foreigners, and schemers, but not a one of them has ever had to rule anything larger than a hovel. You need the support of Westerosi lords, Your Grace."

Lannister was not a name to be trifled with, Tywin barely kept from adding. It commanded power and respect throughout the continent and beyond. But the counter to his remark would be too obvious, with his son and castle in Stark hands. He burned with the indignity of watching everything he'd built crumble before his eyes.

"You propose I marry my father's murderer," Daenerys said, with all the incredulity the statement warranted.

"A cripple, now, by all accounts," Varys added.

She turned to him. "You support this?"

Immediately, Varys winced. "In part, Your Grace. Lord Tywin is right that we cannot win the Iron Throne without support from Westerosi Houses. A Great House is better than we could have hoped for, and with little loss on our part."

"Is Lannister still a Great House?" Barristan Selmy asked. "I thought I'd heard that a Greyjoy boy controls your seat."

Tywin fumed. "Lannisters pay our debts," he bit out. "And the Starks have earned more than they can ever afford to repay."

"They rack up more every day, then," Barristan continued, "Since I believe they still hold captive the very son you'd like to wed to Queen Daenerys."

Every ounce of Tywin's self control focused on keeping his face from curling into a sneer. "If Queen Daenerys had nothing to offer my House in return, I would not be here."

"You cannot fight the Starks without us?" Daenerys asked.

"I don't want to fight them," Tywin snarled. "I want to crush them into dust upon the snow. I want no one to utter the name 'Stark' without shuddering at their fate. A goal I was led to believe that Queen Daenerys shared."

She gave a slight smile.

"And you want your son back unharmed," Barristan said.

"Of course," Tywin replied.

Daenerys stood. "I refuse to bed the man who killed my father. You will have to make a better offer, Lord Tywin. Otherwise, this meeting is at an end and you will have wasted a sea voyage."

"So don't bed him," Tywin said. "Wed him and send him back to rule the Westerlands for you. Drink moon tea and be discreet."

Daenerys paused, tilting her head. "There must be a catch."

"You will need an heir," Tywin replied.

Her smile was terse. "I cannot bear children, Lord Tywin. There will be no heir; not with the Kingslayer, nor with any other."

Tywin's gaze never faltered. "Name Myrcella Baratheon."

The room held its breath.

"She is a strong choice, Your Grace," Varys added. "As the rightful heir to the Baratheon line and betrothed to a Dornish prince–"

Daenerys held up a hand. Varys fell silent. She never lifted her gaze from Tywin.

"I have twenty thousand of the best armed and armored fighting men in Westeros," Tywin continued. "I have forty thousand men of the Golden Company, ready to sail at my word. We have siege weapons and a strong fleet. I have knowledge of the lands, territories, and castles of Westeros, with experience in battle against them and plans to destroy them."

Daenerys calmly considered his words. "Then what have you been waiting for?"

"Dragons," Tywin replied.

Slowly, Daenerys smiled.