Blood. So much blood.

Margaery thought she'd seen enough blood to last a thousand lifetimes.

But here was more – only this time, it was all hers.

A harsh knock came from the door. "Margaery?" her grandmother called. "You've been locked in your room for hours, child. Is something wrong?"

Margaery adjusted her dress, splashing some water on her face to rid herself of the tear tracks.

When she opened the door, Olenna took one look at her granddaughter – and her face turned to sympathy. "Sweet child, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Margaery said, stepping away and further into her bedroom. The Tullys had provided them with excellent rooms, wonderfully furnished. Margaery tried not to think about it. "I'm just… I'm not…"

Grey Wind lay stretched across her bed, taking up the majority of it as confidently as if it were his own. His ears perked at her voice and Margaery drew her legs up onto the bed next to him, placing a hand in his fur. His tail thumped. It felt like cowardice, speaking to the wolf instead of facing her grandmother, but Margaery had never claimed to be brave.

"I'm not pregnant."

Olenna lowered into a chair opposite, studying her granddaughter. "I see. It would have been nice, carrying the heir of the North, but you'll make do. Edmure Tully is no king, but at least you'll be Lady of the Riverlands. Unless you want to get pregnant from some blue-eyed Northern boy as soon as possible and claim–"

"No," Margaery cut her off. She stared down at Grey Wind, running her fingers through his fur. Robb was dead. The world was moving on, the Starks were moving on, even Sansa was moving on. Robb felt like nothing more than a dream; this kind, lovely king who had chosen her over everything – and died for it. Not even Robb's armies were his anymore. Only Margaery and Grey Wind still belonged to him.

But what sort of claim belonged to his week-long bride, widowed and childless?

Olenna put a gnarled hand on Margaery's shoulder. "You need not worry that the Tyrells missed our chance at a queen. I'm sure the next generation will be along soon enough, with betrothals and backstabbings aplenty. If we could get that Florent bitch off the throne I could die happy, but all in due time." Margaery still said nothing and Olenna continued. "The Riverlands are fine, child. Edmure will treat you well – worship you, once you're feeling more yourself – and we'll have two kingdoms at our command, with allies in the rest. Once you get a Tully babe, we can have it fostered in the Red Keep or Winterfell and–"

Margaery smiled up at her grandmother. "I'm still not feeling well. I'd like to rest for a bit longer."

Olenna arched an eyebrow, seeing through Margaery's charade – and choosing not to call her on it. "Then rest, child. I don't miss those womanly bleeds, myself."

Margaery held her smile until her grandmother had left the room. The moment the door closed, she collapsed into Grey Wind, pressing her face into his fur.

Loras's last letter had spoken of his betrothal to a Tarly girl, with a wedding soon to follow. He had asked how long before he and his new bride would be riding up to Riverrun… for Margaery's own wedding. The Tyrells must have an heir – and the gods knew Loras would be slow making one.

Edmure was fine. He was the best she could hope for, now that she'd gotten the King in the North killed. Edmure was better than she deserved. But she imagined her long days in Riverrun stretching before her, Lady of this oft-attacked castle, raising dutiful Tully children as a dutiful, loving wife, and she just… She would be fine. She would never again be free, would never again know love or respect for her husband, but she'd never planned on having that, before. She would be fine.

Margaery wished 'fine' sounded less like a death sentence.

She buried her face deeper into the wolf's fur. "What am I going to do?" she whispered. But he had no response.

If Grey Wind and Margaery were all that remained of Robb…

Soon, only the wolf would be left.

...

The wind whipped at Sansa's hair as she surveyed the troops assembling before her. Tullys, Starks, and all the rest, riding North together for the last time. Edmure and his 18,000 would leave them at the Twins. Lord Royce and the few thousand men of the Vale were leaving today.

"My lady," Royce said, looking solemn. "I wish there were more I could offer, but…"

Sansa clasped his hand in both of hers. "I arrived to my family intact, thanks in part to your assistance. They will help me from here."

Still, Royce looked unappeased. "Baelish came at the head of my party. I intend to have words with Lysa about this horrid affair."

Sansa's smile grew tight. "Careful words, I would hope."

Royce studied her. "Yes. Careful words, indeed."

With a final nod, he headed back down the hill towards where the men of the Vale waited.

An unexpected figure rode out gracefully through the gates of Riverrun. Margaery sat sidesaddle on her elegant white mare, even as the Tyrell wheelhouse trundled down the bridge – without her inside.

Margaery turned her head, gaze flicking through the gathered troops.

With a quizzical expression, Sansa walked nearer, about to call her name–

But Margaery had spotted her target. With a gentle nudge, her horse cantered over to Edmure, her wolf following at her horse's heels.

Edmure frowned at her from the saddle of his own horse, even as he stepped it closer. "My lady, this is no place for gentle folk–"

"I've been in war camps before," Margaery replied, surveying the troops on the hillside. When she turned back to Edmure, it was with a beatific smile. "A lady's place is at her lord's side."

Edmure studied her, unsure how to take her words when paired with her behavior only a few nights before. He gave her a stiff nod and rode off to rejoin his men.

Margaery trotted her horse beside his as naturally as breathing, calling out greetings to a few of his Riverlands lords, who gave her cheerful answers in reply.

Sansa swung into her own horse's saddle. It was high time they began their march home.

At her side, Lady howled. Grey Wind returned the call, the direwolves' cries echoing across the field.

When Sansa rode north, twenty-six thousand men followed.

...

After days on the march, an early halt had been called. Everyone was enjoying their day of rest, with time to pitch tents properly, to cook the choicer cuts of meat, and time for the men to relax. It had been Brynden's idea, of course, but the moment she'd heard it, Sansa had readily agreed.

Worries about Frey filled her mind as she strode through the camp, exchanging idle greetings with the men as she passed. Catelyn would have to be her negotiator, again, as she was the noble Sansa most trusted, with the least value to Frey as a hostage. If Walder so much as lifted a finger wrong, Sansa would delight in crushing him – from both sides of the Twins. But until he did… she had no options but to play nicely. And pay nicely, as well, when it came to the price of their crossing.

The sounds of clanging swords drew her attention and her footsteps nearer. The men had cleared a ring in the midst of the tents with a rack of blunted swords leaning off to the side. All around the circle, bystanders cheered and hooted, leaning on boxes and seated on barrels to get a good view. In the middle, Brynden swung into a soldier, shoving the man down, as he turned to parry the blows of two more.

"On your feet!" he called to the fallen man. "Blow like that won't kill you!"

With a snarl, the man surged upwards– only to be knocked into the dirt by Brynden, yet again.

Sansa couldn't help her smile. Her great-uncle was a marvel and a legend: an able commander and a capable knight. Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew what she had to do, marching through camp and into her own tent.

"My lady." Four guards she did not yet know bowed to her. Desperately, Sansa missed the still-wounded Maege.

With a nod, she looked instead to the man who had not risen when she entered, sitting sullenly against the tent pole. Jaime stared up at her as she stared back at him, neither sure what to make of the other. He had protected her from assassins – only to threaten to finish the job, himself. She had helped kill half his family – and put her life on the line to save the other half. Those two would never balance for him, Sansa knew. But still. The only thing that they weren't to each other was 'nothing.'

Sansa gestured towards him. "Pull up his chain."

"My lady!" a guard said, looking skeptically towards the Kingslayer.

"Do it." Sansa's tone brooked no argument.

The three other guards bent to the tent floor, pulling at the stake, bit by bit. Jaime watched them, his confusion only growing.

Yet the process was too slow. "Oh, nevermind," Sansa said, motioning the guards aside. She stepped closer, drawing Jaime's eye. "Will you swear not to harm me nor any of the men in my camp for the rest of the day, nor make any attempt to escape?"

A guard chuckled. "Word of a Kingslayer's worth less than a sack of beans–"

Sansa held up a hand. The guard fell silent. She never took her gaze from Jaime. "Will you?"

His confusion hardened. "What does my lady have in mind for this oath breaker?"

"Nevermind that," Sansa said. "Will you swear to it?"

Jaime said nothing as he studied her. The moment stretched. Finally, he said, "I will."

Sansa gave a nod. "Very good. Release him."

"My lady!" the same stubborn guard cried. "But he's–"

Sansa turned on him with icy fury. "Was my command unclear?"

"Right away," another guard said, and bent to his chains.

Still, Jaime watched her, mistrust blazoned across every inch of his body.

His chains fell away. Slowly, Jaime stood, rubbing out his wrists.

"Follow me," Sansa commanded, and strode away from the tent.

Warily, Jaime did, her four guards on his heels.

Sansa sighed, but wasn't about to press the point. Her guards were new; the Kingslayer was dangerous. She might as well let them think they were protecting her, even if she knew from experience that an armed Jaime could cut through all of them.

The truth that protected her, Sansa thought as she waited for Jaime to catch up to her, was that Jaime was fully aware that she would fight to the death to keep him alive and unharmed. It was more than any other Stark man could say. Harm to her would only result in harm to him. He would do anything to escape, of course, but so long as it didn't come to that…

Jaime looked warily at her as he stood by her side. His freedom of movement was oddly unnerving. "A stroll? I'm sure there would be more willing companions in every tent in this camp," he said.

Sansa raised an eyebrow up at him. "More grateful ones?"

A smirk twisted his lips. "Likely."

Sansa shrugged. "Ah, well…" She continued her strides through the camp, Jaime keeping pace by her side as her guards trailed them.

The sounds of swords filled the air as they drew nearer. Jaime's expression turned curious. She fought to hide her smile as they wandered into the edge of the training ring. Men cleared the way for her, bowing, and Sansa stepped up to a crate, leaning atop it to watch the show.

Brynden faced two attackers, now, calling out commands and defending himself as heartily as before. At Sansa's side, Jaime watched with barely restrained happiness as the swords clashed and sprang apart.

He could have at least thanked me, Sansa thought with irritation, as Jaime was too busy to even look away from the sparring. But soon enough, Brynden had finished trouncing the men, pausing to gulp water from a flask brought by his squire.

Sansa wasn't exactly a subtle presence, on a normal day, and even less when her finery was surrounded by sweaty soldiers, bellowing as they sipped ale.

Brynden caught her eye with a grin. "Hello, Niece. Come to see what all the fuss of swords is about? Arya was a right pleasant…" He trailed off as he recognized her companion. Jaime shifted awkwardly.

Wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, Brynden wandered closer. "Kingslayer. Didn't expect to see you out of chains."

"Can't say as I did either," Jaime replied. "It appears foolish fancies strike even the most serious of Starks."

Brynden stared down at Sansa. "What are you playing at?"

For once, her motivations had been simple: Jaime liked swordplay and the Blackfish – Sansa had seen no reason to keep him from them.

"Oh, am I unsafe?" Sansa said with a tease. "Surrounded by our entire camp at war, and one single enemy?"

Brynden stepped closer to hiss, "He could still hurt you."

"He could," Sansa evenly replied, rubbing a hand idly across her neck. And had. Jaime at least had the good grace to shift on his feet, yet again.

With a sigh, Brynden stalked back into the center of the ring, taking his blunted sword back from his squire. "Alright, Kingslayer," he called. The men followed his gaze, as immediate whispers of, 'Kingslayer!' sprang up around the ring. Brynden turned, his grin wolfish. He tossed another blunted blade into the dirt. "Show me if you're as good as they say."

Jaime stiffened. All eyes locked on him, braced for his answer. Hesitantly, he looked towards Sansa.

"I'll swear that you're bound by oath," she whispered. "If you're concerned about your injuries. But it's a blunted blade. You will not be breaking your oath to take it."

Without another thought, Jaime strode into the ring. Slowly, he bent to take the blade from the dirt, testing its weight in his hands. Even from feet away, Sansa could see that his right hand shook.

A smarter man may have wanted to keep the knowledge of his remaining fighting prowess a secret.

Jaime was not a smarter man.

He hefted the sword with pure glee as he and Brynden circled each other.

"Heard you were crippled," Brynden said, gesturing with his own sword at Jaime's scarred hand. "Not sure how well you'll hold up."

Jaime tossed the blade in his left. "Heard you were old," he replied. "I'll go easy on you if you beg."

In an instant, the Blackfish was on him. Swords clashed, and swung, and clashed again–

And it wasn't long until Jaime was in the dirt.

He snarled out the vilest curses Sansa had ever heard as he levered back to his feet, leaning on his sword.

Brynden grinned. "Been locked up too long, Lannister! Seems the wolves have taken more than your hand!"

With another snarl, Jaime was on him. The swords clashed again, sprang apart–

And Jaime's sword fell from his hand.

Brynden waited as he grabbed it, yet again.

"If only we'd met in the field months ago," Jaime spat. "Before that damned wolf bit me. I'd have run you through as easily as breathing."

"Ah, 'If Only.'" Brynden laughed. "The favorite God of peasants and jilted lovers. Best get your next prayers to 'If Only' in order. I'll be reacquainting you."

Again, they battled. Through all of it, Sansa could tell one thing: both men were enjoying every moment. And unlike when Brynden had been sparring against the three soldiers, he was no longer holding back.

Eventually, Jaime clung to a box at the side of the ring, his hand up in a sign to yield. Sansa could see how much making the gesture pained his pride.

"Another time, Lannister," Brynden said with a grin. "Once you've practiced against a few old women."

"Uncle," Sansa called out, as she spotted another figure amongst the onlookers, one who was trying to pretend that she wasn't watching the duel as eagerly as the rest of the soldiers. "Have you met my mother's sworn sword, Brienne?"

Brynden rested his sword point in the dirt. "No, I don't believe I have."

With more murmurs, the crowd parted around the woman in question, who stood head and shoulders taller than most of them.

"My lady?" Brynden called out. "Would you like a chance in the ring?"

Hesitantly, Brienne stepped forward, picking up a large training sword. "Not a lady. Just 'Brienne' please, my lord."

Jaime wandered back to Sansa's side. "This," he whispered, "I'm going to enjoy."

It didn't take long before Brienne knocked Brynden into the dust.

Sansa's grin was as wide as Jaime's.

Brynden had been tired, and off-guard, and he still stared up at Brienne in awe.

Brienne looked down at him, her face filled with a hesitating shyness over a deep-seated knowledge that she belonged nowhere better than here – in a sparring ring, sword in hand, besting men who had underestimated her.

But Brynden wasn't about to take his defeat lying down. Again, their swords swung into battle, and again, as the ring of their blades echoed long into the hours of the night.

...

Theon watched the supplies loading into the longboats for the Greyjoy ships, glad for when they'd be leaving this sorry Northern port behind.

"Things went well with Lady Glover, then?" Tyrion asked, sauntering up to his side.

Theon nodded. "She took my gold. I feel like a dirty Lannister already, buying friends out of enemies."

But Tyrion frowned. "What do you mean, she took your gold?"

Theon paused. He turned from watching the ships to stare at his companion. "I think the phrase is fairly obvious–"

Tyrion sighed. "Do you know why gold makes friends?"

Theon rolled his eyes. "Because everyone likes gold."

"No. Well, yes, but…" Tyrion cleared his throat. "Gold makes interests align. If you pay an ally off for a handout, they'll come crying again expecting more handouts the next time a lone ironborn steals so much as an apple. It makes it in their interest to complain. Pay them instead for something you want them to do."

Theon stared down at him. "This was your bloody plan, Lannister. And now you're telling me–"

Tyrion spotted Lady Glover on the other side of the street. "Ah, Sybelle! Just who I was looking for."

Tyrion headed towards her, as Theon was forced to trudge behind, pretending he knew what the Imp was up to.

Sybelle eyed them warily. "What do you want?"

Tyrion's charming smile was wasted on her. "We've need of your beautiful Northern cedars down at Casterly Rock."

Sybelle's wariness hadn't eased. "Buy some, then, and take them with you as you go."

"An excellent idea!" Tyrion's tone was too patronizing and Theon winced. Sybelle narrowed her eyes. "We'll take forty cedars for ten golden dragons, and the same again when we're back every four moons."

"Back?!" Sybelle snarled. "If you think I'll ever let ironborn ships into this harbor, then you're out of your godsdamned–"

"Fifty, then," Tyrion calmly said. "For fifteen dragons."

Sybelle still stared at him, her fury barely lessened.

"My ships would carry them," Theon added. "Not Yara's."

She looked between the two of them, saying nothing.

"Ironborn need plunder," Tyrion said. "Even honorable ones that are willing to make treaties. You can bar them from your harbor, and the honorable ones will listen. Or you can make hostilities not worth either of your time."

Sybelle tipped her chin towards Theon. "Isn't it shameful for an ironborn to buy something with gold when he could have taken it with his sword?"

"I can't take this," Theon said, beginning to understand Tyrion's plan. "Not fifty cedars every quarter of a year. The North wouldn't stand for it and eventually you'd stop bothering to cut them down."

Sybelle still eyed him warily. "Prices may change, boy. I'm free to renegotiate as I see fit."

Tyrion grinned. "And he's free to deal with a different Northern port, as he pleases."

Sybelle gave a nod. Abruptly, her whistle split the air. "Dava! I'll need fifty cedars loaded for the ships."

"Fifty!" one of her women replied with exasperation. "That'll take all morning!"

"Get to it, then!" Sybelle snapped.

As Theon handed over the coin, a commotion at the other side of the street drew his eye.

"No, please!" A Northern woman clung to the arm of an ironborn carrying an ornately carved box. "That was my husband's! Please, I beg you–"

Two children watched from the doorway of the house behind her.

Without conscious thought, Theon was already striding across the street, his gut churning with an instinct for trouble.

The ironborn man yanked his arm away from her roughly. "Be glad I didn't take more."

The woman flung herself forward, clutching at his back. "Not Galrick's chest! Anything but–"

In one motion, the ironborn turned, drew his knife, and slit the woman's throat.

She fell to the ground, clutching the bleeding wound. Blood spilled from it as she collapsed, the life slowly leaving her eyes.

Movement stopped all along the street. Horrified Northerners and wary ironborn all studied the scene.

Theon was still striding toward the ironborn. The man gestured down at the corpse he'd made. "You saw, Greyjoy. Got in my way, she did, and–"

In one motion, Theon drew his sword and ran it through the ironborn's guts. Gasps echoed down the street as the ironborn joined the woman on the ground, clutching his innards as futilely as she had her neck. He gurgled his last as the life left his eyes.

In the doorway behind, the eyes of the two children watched it all.

"That was one of Yara's men." An ironborn Theon didn't know came up to him, with fury in his eyes. "You've no right to–"

"We have a treaty," Theon replied. Slowly, he turned to the rest of the street, taking in the horrified Northerners and ironborn alike. "We have a TREATY!" he yelled to all the staring faces. "I agreed to it! Yara agreed to it! If none of you savages knows what a fucking treaty is, step up right now and I'll show you!" He waved his bloody sword toward the lot of them, knowing he looked a lunatic and unable to care.

Yara stepped through the crowd, drawn by the commotion. Her face was hard as she looked to the two fallen bodies, then to the bloody sword in her brother's hand.

"Theon shed iron blood," one of her men said to her. "He's got no right–"

Yara backhanded the man across the face. "He's got every right," she slowly said. "How else should he handle a traitor? Talk nicely to them?"

"Traitor?" another ironborn said, and spat. "For breaking a greenlander treaty to reave?"

Yara's gaze could have lit fires. "For disobeying direct orders. You two!" She pointed to where two ironborn lounged at the side of the docks. "Toss Quint's body in the sea where it belongs. And don't let me or Theon catch anyone else with so much as a knife in your hand till we say so!"

Theon could feel his hands shaking as Yara strode towards him. "Did he… did you…" But he couldn't bring himself to finish the question, couldn't make himself ask if she'd known the man he'd killed. He knew what the answer would be.

Yara stepped closer. "Clean your sword," she hissed at him before storming away.

Theon rubbed a cloth down the blade, a corner of his mind noting how red the cloth had turned. The rest of him was too busy thinking of the dire repercussions if he'd had even a shade less of Yara's support.

He risked a glance at Tyrion. The other man returned the look, his face as ashen as Theon's own.

One thing was certain: if Theon had any chance to thread the needle of this ironborn alliance with the North, he couldn't do it without Yara.

...

Catelyn rode up the hill towards Sansa and her waiting army, the Twins looming behind her mother.

"How bad is it?" Sansa asked.

Catelyn grimaced. "He's asking for a tenth of every trade that comes through here." She hesitated, forcing herself to say the words. "And a silver moon for every man."

"Silver!" Sansa swore. They had the money, but she'd hoped what Robb had allocated from Casterly would last them farther than a few trips through the Twins. The idea of the man who had killed Robb last time, being the one to profit from them, now–?!

"Pay it," Sansa snarled, wishing there were any better options. "And whose hand is he after for his children, this time?"

A small laugh came from her mother. Sansa spun, confused by the sound.

Catelyn smiled. "No one."

Sansa waited. Surely, that was too good to be true. "No one?" she finally repeated.

Catelyn's smile turned mischievous. "I believe I was able to convince him that all my children are disobedient rebels; quite outside my ability to promise away. I… believe that was the cause of the silver, however."

Sansa shared her mother's pleasure. "A small price, then, indeed."

Catelyn wrinkled her nose in amusement. "I tended to agree."

Sansa took a bracing breath. It was time to cross the Twins. Which meant it was time for her to say her goodbyes to the lords who had traveled this far with her.

She rode over to the party at the base of the hill, dismounting before her uncle Edmure. She embraced him warmly. "Thank you, Uncle. You have been beyond kind to my family and we shall not forget it."

Edmure chuckled, returning the embrace. "Take care of Brynden for me."

"I will," Sansa said, with a soft smile.

She moved down the line, clasping hands with various Riverlands lords.

"You Starks seem only to travel when there's a war," Olenna said, raising an eyebrow. "It'd be a pity if you kept that tradition."

Sansa couldn't help but smile. "I shall endeavor to change it."

And suddenly, there was the final figure for Sansa to say her goodbyes to. She clasped hands with Margaery, but the traditional goodbyes she'd given to the other lords felt hollow on her tongue. A thought struck Sansa, that if Margaery were marrying Edmure, there was no reason for her to have spent weeks on the uncomfortable road, just to see more of that often-obnoxious man whose castle she could have waited comfortably behind in.

No, Sansa had a growing suspicion that Margaery had come… for her.

Still, she was holding the other girl's hand and still, she could not find the words to do her feelings justice.

Margaery's smile was as perfect as always, but Sansa could have sworn she saw Margaery blinking back misting eyes.

"I…" Sansa started, feeling like an idiot. Through it all, Margaery had been by her side. She mourned Robb just as fiercely, in her own way, and Sansa had trusted her with her true council, and trusted her advice more than any other, and… and…! "I will be lost without you," Sansa finally said.

Margaery looked down. "No. You won't. You're plenty clever enough for all the North without me. But I will be desolate without you. I will miss you dearly."

Sansa couldn't tell if the words were sincere or not; she crushed Margaery in a hug. The other girl embraced her back just as tightly. "I have another sister," Sansa whispered. "But I've never had so true a friend."

Margaery embraced her ever tighter, with no words to say.

When finally they let go, Sansa looked over at her uncle, realizing he had still been keeping his distance from Margaery ever since that disastrous dinner. Sansa had failed in her duty to her friend; failed repeatedly. She had one last chance to make it right. "Uncle?" Sansa called.

Edmure wandered closer, casting a wary look towards Margaery.

Sansa smiled. "I believe I have an apology to make. My sweet sister has taken great pains not to risk offending my love for my brother. But I know it was a short union; I know how fleeting those ties are when severed. I'm afraid I may have caused injury to you, Uncle, in the process of protecting me. I know there was no harm meant."

When Edmure looked again at Margaery, it was with more warmth in his gaze.

There were tears in Margaery's eyes when she looked up at him. "I did try ever so much not to hurt her with how much I…" She cut off in a tear-filled smile, implying her care for Edmure rather than saying it.

Edmure took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. "Your heart does you credit, my lady."

"My lord Tully!" one of his men called. "The hostlers want to know if–"

"I'll sort it out," Edmure muttered, dropping Margaery's hand and walking away. But he snuck one last glance back at her before he left.

The moment he was gone, Margaery took Sansa's hand.

No words were needed from either girl. They knew the lies and lives they had to lead.

"I expect an invitation," Sansa simply said.

Margaery laughed. "I expect you in the front row."

And then Sansa flung herself on her horse, knowing that if she didn't leave now, she never would.

...

Margaery watched the troops riding away behind Sansa, the thundering hooves and creak of wagons leaving her behind for the last time. She could almost picture Robb riding next to his sister, clad in furs atop his white stallion, turning back to look at her with that perfect, boyish smile–

So she looked away.

Next to her, Olenna chatted with Tyrell attendants and Margaery couldn't look at them, either, couldn't risk them trying to draw her into cheerful inanities. She picked an empty spot on the horizon.

Margaery was fairly certain her friendship with Sansa was strong enough that the North would ride at her call, should Margaery request it. It would have to be enough. Correspondence could maintain it… to a degree. If she missed having an equal, someone with whom she could plot and scheme and be herself… well, Margaery would have to keep that to herself. Edmure wanted a dainty, simpering thing and Margaery had plenty of practice. She would be fine.

Between the North and the Riverlands and the Reach, the Tyrells would control almost half the country. It was doubtful Theon could hold the West for long, so Margaery would have to ensure she kept a watch on that front, careful to befriend whichever Lannister took it from him–

A howl rose from her side.

With a mounting horror, Margaery turned to look at Grey Wind. The direwolf howled again. From the quickly retreating army, another howl rose to answer him.

"Grey Wind!" Margaery said fiercely. "You can't be here! They're leaving without you!"

Still, Grey Wind howled.

Margaery shoved him. The wolf looked at her, surprised. "You have to go! They're leaving, don't you understand?! You belong with your family, in the North! With Lady, your sister!"

Grey Wind stared at her, uncomprehending. Lady howled, further in the distance. Longingly, Grey Wind answered.

"Go, Grey Wind!" Margaery screamed, shoving him again. Around her, Tyrell men drew back in concern. Still, the wolf didn't move, his expression hurt and confused. The Northern troops riding across the hill drew further away. Tears streamed down her face as Margaery shoved her direwolf again and again. "Go, you have to go! You'll die here, don't you understand? They'll lock you in a cage! They'll lock you in and you'll never get out."

She could barely see through her tears as she shoved the gigantic beast again. "You can't have Robb," she whispered. "Robb's gone and he's not coming back. But you can still be with your sister. You can still be free like I can't."

Grey Wind didn't comprehend, only looked wounded as he stared at his mistress. Trying to help as best he knew, he licked a giant tongue up Margaery's face.

She collapsed, sobbing, her arms around Grey Wind's neck. She buried her face in his thick fur, trying to compose herself. But she couldn't. No good options came to her… Except one. "Bring my horse!" Margaery called out. "Have my maids follow with my belongings!"

"But, my lady," one Tyrell man said. "What are you…"

The horse had arrived. Margaery flung herself into the saddle; the horse walked backwards a step and Margaery grasped the reins loosely, guiding it with ease. Grey Wind heeled at her side, as always. Her hair streamed behind her like a banner in the wind and she raised her chin high. "I am Margaery Stark, former Queen in the North, and I am going home. Follow me, if you will – but you will not stop me."

For a long moment, no one could do anything but stare.

Olenna looked around at all of them. "Well? What are you waiting for? Saddle our men to ride." Olenna raised an eyebrow up at her. "We go where our queen commands."

Grateful tears fell as Margaery smiled.

...

The first tower of the Twins loomed above Sansa. She'd split their group into two parties; no matter the deal her mother had made with Walder Frey, Sansa would never trust him. The first group held herself, her mother, and the Stark army. The second group held the two thousand Tullys, Brynden at their head, along with a disguised Jaime and Brienne to guard him.

Brynden's face had gone grave when Sansa named the parties, knowing exactly what she was up to. Sansa and the Starks were bait and if Walder sprang that trap, she would need Brynden safely out of it to free her, muster the siege, or avenge her death. Her uncle had given her a slow nod, fully understanding.

She couldn't risk Jaime in the first group; couldn't risk giving Walder any sort of hostage to sweeten the bargain of betraying them.

Slowly, the gates of the Twins creaked upwards before them. The silver changed hands – Sansa winced even thinking about the price – and the Starks began their march across the stone bridge.

"My lady," one of Sansa's men said. "There's a rider."

Sansa turned, surprised…

Margaery galloped up the hill, Grey Wind running at her horse's heels, tongue lolling happily from his mouth. More slowly, behind her trudged the Tyrell two hundred men, along with Olenna's wheelhouse.

The grin Margaery flashed Sansa was wild and free.

"What's wrong?" Sansa said. "My uncle, is he–"

"I decided to take you up on that offer to visit Winterfell, after all." The mischief in Margaery's eyes was back as strongly as… as… when Robb had been alive. Margaery raised an eyebrow, daring anyone to challenge her presence. "Surely you've a place for a widowed Queen in the North among you?"

Sansa's heart leapt at even the thought. "Always." She struggled to clear her throat around the sudden knot. "The Queen in the North!" she called to her men.

"The Queen in the North!" her men answered. "The Widow Queen!" others added.

Margaery's smile grew.

Behind her, the Tyrell wheelhouse continued trundling up the hill, not stopping by Brynden's men and the second party.

Sudden terror gripped Sansa. Margaery was most certainly a prize worthy of taking hostage – or of enacting vengeance upon. Sansa gripped her mother's arm. "Mother, if you would join the Lady Olenna in her wheelhouse?"

Catelyn frowned. "Sansa, why–?"

"Please," Sansa insisted, without time to explain.

With a nod, Catelyn rode back to it, dismounting to exchange quick pleasantries and step inside.

Margaery rode closer to Sansa. "You're worried," she whispered.

Sansa dared only one, slow nod as she rode with her men onto the stone of the bridge. "I told you about Frey."

Margaery still studied her. "Your mother made a deal with him."

"As she did before, for Robb to marry his daughter." Sansa shot her a sideways glance. "Does any Frey know your face?"

"Roslin," Margaery replied. Without a word, Sansa unclasped her cloak, handing it over. Margaery swung it around her shoulders, pulling it close to hide her fine dress. She pulled the hood just deep enough over her head to avoid attracting notice – without hiding enough to look suspicious.

Sansa let out a sigh of relief. Gods, she would have gone crazy without Margaery around to properly scheme with.

They rode further onto the bridge. It was a long way across the Green Fork. Nothing but the sound of clopping horse hooves filled the air.

They drew nearer to the gate on the far side of the bridge, still firmly shut. Nearer still, and it was still down. A frown grew on Sansa's brow.

Then, suddenly, the gate on the far side of the bridge began to rattle closed. Sansa spun, ready to race towards it– but even if her horse could clear it in a gallop, most of her men were unmounted.

"Ready, men!" Umber called. Around her, the Stark soldiers drew weapons.

At the nearest tower of the gate, Frey archers sprouted, with arrows nocked and drawn.

"Get down, my lady!" one of Sansa's guards said, riding in front of her. At her side, Margaery shuddered away, trying to hide behind more soldiers.

But Sansa spotted a grey old man atop the battlements, swallowed in his fine robes.

"Hold!" Sansa called.

With a chuckle, the old man walked further forward. "Well met, Stark!" Walder Frey called down to her. Next to him, his archers still waited, their bowstrings still taut.

"Well met, Lord Frey," Sansa answered calmly back. Her own archers waited beside her. They had no crenellations to hide behind, but their aim was good and true, with plenty dead Lannisters to show for it.

"That's a mighty fine wheelhouse you have there," he said. "Funny little emblem on the side, though. Looks like a golden rose."

"Yes, funny, isn't it?" Sansa replied. "My mother likes it so and insists we make her a Stark one, once we get to Winterfell. I'm sure the Tyrells would be happy to sell you one, as well."

Catelyn opened the door of the wheelhouse, about to step out. A Stark soldier ordered her back inside.

Walder snorted. "I'll bet they would. Looks like you've got soldiers with golden roses on them, too."

"I do," Sansa replied, without any further explanation. Her business was her own, and none of Walder Frey's. There were a million reasonable explanations that she could give for the soldiers' presence, but all would sound untrue when he was already expecting her to lie.

Walder smiled. "I've been having second thoughts about our bargain. Your mother negotiated for your men to cross this bridge. She said nothing about the price for my opening of the gates – especially not for bloody fucking Tyrells. I believe it'll be an extra 500 dragons–"

"No, my Lord Frey." Sansa maintained careful control of her calm. "The terms of our deal were clear. If you insist on breaking that deal–"

"Like your king did our first deal?" Walder's eyes were hard, even from the distance.

"My brother is dead, Lord Frey," Sansa replied. "You have received your justice. If you would like vengeance, instead, my men would be happy to oblige you. I have two armies at your gates and another at my call. Each of my three armies has greater numbers, better arms, and more experience than yours. They're already upset that we lost the chance to crush Tywin Lannister into dust. We'd be happy to do it to you, instead."

Walder chuckled. "You would try, Red Wolf." He waited a moment longer. "Open the gates!"

Sansa's army didn't waste a moment, exiting onto the far shore. Brynden's party crossed the bridge right behind them.

Sansa didn't take an easy breath until the Twins had vanished over the southern horizon.

A/N: So, we have sort of a good news, bad news situation.

Bad news: I know these last few chapters took ages to come out, and unfortunately the next one will take even longer. I don't know when. The plot is still under control, and I'm EXTREMELY excited to share the next bits with everyone, but I'm just too dang busy to give this story proper focus. I'd also like to wait until I have a few chapters wrapped, to keep from posting them piecemeal like I have been. But, that will obviously take even longer.

Good news! I have a COMPLETELY WRITTEN smaller fic that I've been holding onto, and whose first chapter is now posted! There will be 6 chapters in total and I'll be posting a new one every Monday until it's done. It's a much more light-hearted, cracky version of the same premise as this story, but with Jaime as the one reliving his life.

(This new story was literally written because I was annoyed at how little Jaime we got to see in the North Remembers, and so vented my frustrations into another fic (good luck keeping the timelines straight ever again ;-;))

Hopefully 5 more weeks of The Wolf Cub and the Lion will help make the interminable wait for the next chapter of TNR more bearable!

Love you all.

(also, I was re-reading pieces and realized that I'd established the Starks as having 7k at Casterly, before losing more Bolton men, instead of the 10k I'd recently been writing them with. Whoops. I need to go back through the recent chapters and clean them up to match, but giving the Starks only 6k… hoo baby, that hurts.)