In his study, Bran sat behind his desk, reading the report on the damage to Wintertown. His hands were surprisingly steady. On the other side of the desk, Sansa clenched her own into her skirts to keep them from shaking. The remembered smell of burning flesh filled her nostrils. It had been everywhere. The town still stood – mercifully – but the dragon had carved burning swaths through its wooden houses and muddy streets.

Bran, Sansa, Jon, Margaery, Catelyn, and most of the nobles in the castle had been in the Stark delegation bringing food, nurses, and needed supplies to the town, but the sight would stay with Sansa for the rest of her life. More than one Northman had been burned to ash. More had been crushed by falling, burning timber. Others had been half-crushed.

Bile rose in Sansa's throat, remembering the mangled limbs, the pleading, desperate voices–

Bran lowered the report. "She can hit us anywhere she likes, can't she."

"Yes," Sansa replied, unable to keep from sounding bitter. "So long as she only targets our citizens. Facing an army could hurt her dragon."

"Oh, we'll hurt it alright. Jon has a plan." Bran sounded more furious than she'd ever heard. "If I were her, I wouldn't try that trick a second time."

Sansa wanted to hear more, but Bran shoved the report away from him. "But we have another problem."

Another?! Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought back the urge to make a vicious reply; Bran had hated the damage to their town more than anyone and taken it as a personal failing. He did not need her scorn.

"Do we?" Sansa evenly replied.

Her brother sighed, stretching a hand down to rest in Summer's fur as the wolf lay beside his chair. "Our emissaries returned from the Dreadfort."

Sansa's blood chilled. She'd been very glad to not have to think about the Boltons since she'd beheaded Roose; she'd been very glad knowing that she had two brothers to protect her.

"And?" she whispered, dreading the answer.

"We sent five men." Bran finally looked up at her. "One returned. He saw the others killed or taken as he ran. After months of refusing us entry, the Dreadfort is now in open rebellion."

Sansa swallowed. "We have supposedly loyal Bolton men in our army still, we have to–"

"We must have them," Bran replied. "You executed their lord for treason, but his men are still men of the North. We have used Steelshanks as a commander for the ones who wished to remain, but Steelshanks is not a lord."

"He's served us well," Sansa said. "We could make him one."

Bran's shake of his head was immediate and unyielding. "Steelshanks is not a Bolton. We should certainly raise him to a vassal lord, underneath his new liege. But Boltons have held the Dreadfort almost as long as Starks have held Winterfell. How do you think our subjects would feel if the keys to our castle were handed over to Ser Rodrik – instead of to our blood?"

Sansa grimaced; his point was more than valid. "Ramsay is worse than Roose. I purposely disinherited him in his father's sentence."

"I don't mean Ramsay," Bran said with vehemence. He pushed a different sheet of parchment across the table towards her. Five names were on it: three lords, a lady, and a commoner. Next to each listed the blood connection to the Boltons that they claimed, however distant.

"These are your options?" Sansa asked him, realizing.

Bran nodded. "All have brought petitions for inheritance before me. Some claims are better than others. Some are more loyal than others. Some might be able to muster the Bolton army better than others. But we must pick."

"Before we help them retake the Dreadfort," Sansa said weakly. It would not be an easy task.

"I am holding a trial tomorrow to judge their claims," Bran said wearily and Sansa did notenvy him. "I do not particularly look forward to tracing the roots of a rotting family tree and I have no way to know when they lie and say the Dreadfort will follow them."

"You could use a panel of judges," Sansa realized.

Bran's lips tilted into a smile. "And put you on it? Or Jon?"

"No," she said without hesitation, the plan growing stronger in her mind. "No additional Starks to tilt the outcome. The Lannisters did likewise for Tyrion's trial, when they wanted to make a show of it being fair."

Bran grimaced. "I don't want to make a show of it, Sansa. I want to be fair. But I would also like to not be usurped by a powerful bannerman whom I put into power."

"Use a panel," Sansa repeated. "Three judges: you, Steelshanks, and…"

"Glover?" Bran said. "He has a keener mind than many."

"Hornwood would be an excellent pick, were he here instead of back at Casterly Rock," Sansa said. "Manderly might do, but he's too distant from Bolton to care for much beyond his port."

"Maester Luwin would help with the rules of inheritance," Bran added.

"Consult with Maester Luwin beforehand," Sansa said. "Rules of inheritance won't change with what the petitioners say before you in court."

Bran nodded.

"I think…" Sansa started slowly, as the idea came to her. "That you should pick Lord Umber."

Bran studied her, waiting for the justification. "He's hardly keen."

"We've already put Wildlings on Umber's northern border," Sansa continued. "They haven't been a problem yet, but their settlement is only growing. And Umber is between them and Bolton to his south. If we move against the Dreadfort, now or in the future, we want it to be with Umber's approval and support."

"Or we could be giving the new Lord Bolton an ally in overthrowing us," Bran replied.

Sansa smiled, as the final piece of the idea came to her. "You say I splinter your vision, correct?"

Bran nodded.

"I've been part of this conversation," Sansa continued. "So, go, examine the splinters. And then decide."

...

Sansa had rarely gotten to see Bran's powers at work. His chair sat where she'd pushed it against the weirwood heart tree, its red leaves spilling around Bran's face as he reached to touch the weirwood's own carved face. Bran's eyes rolled back, white, into his head. And Sansa sat down to wait.

Her own thoughts were loud. Ramsay likely held the Dreadfort, likely with thousands of deserted Bolton men. Obviously, the longer he remained free or alive, the more danger the Starks were in. But would it be enough for Ramsay to attempt to ally with Daenerys? He could offer her dragons the sanctuary of the Dreadfort, but her army would still have to march through open territory to get to it. His was a castle the Dragon Queen could not easily use.

Bran's eyes rolled forward and cleared, surprise evident in their depths. He pulled his hand from the tree.

"We have company," he said, sounding oddly distant. "Take me to the main gate."

Sansa hastened to do as he said. She pushed his chair over the uneven ground, swearing softly as the wheels spun on patches of snow as they made their way back to the courtyard.

The great gates of Winterfell were already opening.

"Who goes there–" Sansa called. But before she could complete her sentence, a small shape was running around the gate – which apparently hadn't opened fast enough – and flung herself into Sansa's arms.

"Arya!" Sansa said, more surprised than if it had been Tywin Lannister hugging her. "Gods, Arya! I thought you were in Dorne–!"

Arya only had time to answer with a grin before she was throwing herself at Bran. She was deeply tanned, but muscled and lean like Sansa remembered her in her past life. Though this time, she was outfitted in Dornish leather armor under her furs, with Needle still proudly slung on her hip.

Bran was just as pleased to see Arya as she was him, but far less surprised than Sansa.

Sansa turned to a soldier standing guard near them. "Get King Aegon," she said. "He'll want to–"

"Aegon?" Arya's face twisted with disapproval. "Who in seven bloody hells is–"

But Sansa's command had been wasted. Jon raced into the other end of the courtyard, pausing only to search frantically around it. A retinue of lords followed him, looking ill-at-ease from matching his fast pace. Then, Jon spotted Arya. He ran towards her, his heavy fur cloak billowing in the wind.

Arya ran at him in return. As they neared, she jumped into his arms and Jon swung her around, laughing.

"Arya!" Jon said almost disapprovingly through the grin splitting his face. "You didn't tell us you were coming!"

"Apologies for the deception of my letter," came a voice near the gate. Sansa spun. Oberyn stood in their courtyard, looking strange with a fur-lined cloak flung over a thicker version of his usual tunic. A wisp of grey had touched his hair since she'd seen him last, though he still looked every bit as handsome. Behind him stood his three daughters, the Hound, Arya's direwolf, and twenty of Oberyn's personal guard. Oberyn caught Sansa staring and tossed her a wink. "I did not trust that a raven crossing the entire continent would not be caught by unfriendly hands."

Sansa couldn't risk the rumors that came with running, but she crossed the distance to him with as much speed and stateliness as she could. Oberyn grinned down at her. It was such a welcome sight that Sansa could hardly believe her eyes.

"Prince Oberyn," she said warmly, as she offered him her hand. "It is delightful to see you again and I thank you for returning my sister to us. The North is yours for as long as you please."

Oberyn took her hand, his warm, dark eyes never looking away from her own as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. "It pleases me quite a bit, Red Wolf."

But when he straightened, Sansa could hold to propriety no longer. She threw her arms around him. With a chuckle, Oberyn returned the embrace.

"Careful," he said. "Or my daughters will get jealous."

And Sansa let go, only to be pulled into successive embraces from each of the three girls.

Behind them, Sandor Clegane gave her a deep nod. Sansa threw her arms around him, as well, and ignored his deep sigh in return.

Oberyn and his girls were all grins as Sansa finally remembered the rest of her duties. "Shall I introduce you to the rest of my family?"

"You shall," Oberyn replied, and followed her lead to where Bran and Jon talked animatedly with Arya.

"This is my brother, Bran Stark, the King in the North," Sansa said.

Bran offered a hand; Oberyn took it warmly.

"And this," she said, turning to Jon, "Is my cousin, Aegon Targaryen, called Jon, the rightful king of Westeros and heir to the Targaryen rule."

Arya, who still had Jon's arm draped around her shoulders, leaned back suddenly to look up at him. "The fucking what?!"

But Oberyn had gone still.

"Arya!" Catelyn yelled from the other side of the courtyard, and came barreling across at a run. "Oh, good gracious, Arya!"

Rickon ran at his mother's side. Ahead of both of them raced the pack of direwolves. Shaggydog, Summer, Lady, Ghost, and Grey Wind all surged to meet the long lost one waiting at the gates.

Nymeria charged across the courtyard, bouncing and wagging as all the other wolves yipped and circled and played.

The pack was whole.

And in the sweep of the rest of the reunions, everything else was forgotten.

...

"So?" Sansa asked Bran as she wheeled him through the halls of Winterfell the next day, the trial for Bolton inheritance about to begin. "What did the tree tell you?"

Bran rolled his eyes at her dismissive words but answered her honestly anyway. "It told me that I can't pick Umber. When I put him on the panel, Steelshanks and I disagreed with his choice of the lord. Umber resented us for it."

Sansa grimaced. It was a good thing that Bran had looked. "And the others?"

"Shockingly, the best thing it did was give me a better grasp on the petitioners," Bran replied. "Even when a brawl broke out, Lady Sutton remained unruffled. She seems more loyal than the rest, but her claims that the Dreadfort would follow her were… not-well founded," he answered diplomatically.

"And the others?" Sansa said.

Bran sighed. "One lord is horrible; he's the one Umber liked. Another is tolerable, but seems weak. The third… I'm not sure. Most unpredictable?"

"What about the commoner?" Sansa said, dreading Bran's answer.

He shook his head. "His claim would have had to be far stronger than the others' to make him a valid option. And it just isn't. He claims to be the trueborn son of a runaway son of Roose's grandfather. The others' claims are verified as cousins and through inheritance on the female line."

"You think he claims truly?"

Bran grimaced. "Who's to say? But I have my third judge."

"The commoner?" Sansa asked.

"No." Bran grinned up at her as she pushed him the last bit into the hall, reveling in the drama of it. "Lady Sutton."

A guard took over for Sansa, pushing Bran the rest of the way to the high table.

Sansa slipped into a seat at the side of the room, where she could more easily observe the rest.

Arya flung herself onto the bench next to Sansa with a sigh. "Mother says I have to be here. Gods, but I thought coming home would be fun."

"Then you've been away from home too long to remember it well," Sansa wryly replied.

Arya glared up at her. But Sansa's smile only widened and with a huff, Arya looked away. Sansa was glad to see her baby sister was still in her leather tunic, and not a dress, even under the watchful eyes of their mother.

At the far end of the room, the trial began. All four remaining petitioners were granted chairs before the high table and stood when asked a question. Bran let Steelshanks, on one side of him, and Lady Sutton, on his other, ask all of the questions. Sansa suspected it was because in Bran's viewings at the tree, he'd already asked his own. Steelshanks looked calm and focused, as usual. Lady Sutton, however, Sansa didn't know. The woman was older than Catelyn, though not by much. She kept her long graying brown hair held back in a loose bun, and had a thin, wiry frame. There was a shrewd look to her that Sansa would have said she liked on anyone other than a Bolton.

"Why isn't Jon up there?" Arya asked.

"Because we've declared independence," Sansa replied. "He's king of a different land."

Arya rolled her eyes. "Either he's a king or he isn't. Seems strange to pick a bannerman for a judge instead of picking a king." But before Sansa could reply, Arya shook her head, muttering, "King Jon. Bloody Aegon Targaryen." She shook her head again.

Sansa couldn't stop her smile. "How was Dorne?" she softly asked Arya. Trials were boring enough to grind her bones to sand. Thankfully, the two sisters were seated far enough to the side and back of the room not to be a distraction.

"Hot," Arya replied. Sansa waited, hoping more would be forthcoming, but Arya simply added, "Nymeria hated it."

"I can imagine," Sansa said. "Learn anything?"

Arya hummed. "A bit." She looked over at Sansa with a wicked gleam in her eye. "I can best Tyene. Sometimes, at least."

With a smile, Sansa tucked her baby sister close. "I'm sure you can."

"Sansa, poor girl, did as best she could," one of the petitioners was saying, and Sansa's attention snapped back to the proceedings as sharply as a whip. The pudgy man continued, "But it was a gruesome death, one that no lord deserved, no matter his accusation of crime."

Sansa felt her pulse suddenly pounding in her ears, remembering the heavy feel of Ice beneath her fingers, the tang of Bolton's blood in the air, spatters on her tongue–

"The crime of treason?" Lady Sutton asked the same, loathsome petitioner, who looked smug as he crossed his hands across his belly. Lady Sutton continued, "Tell me, Lord Berley, how do you punish traitors on your estate?"

"Swiftly and firmly," he replied with a quick nod.

Lady Sutton frowned, about to speak again, but Steelshanks leaned onto an elbow from the other end of the head table. "How? Describe it."

Lord Berley hesitated. "In my grandfather's day, we had a horse thief who–"

"Lord Peel." Steelshanks cut off Berley's useless answer to ask the next lord, "How would you punish a traitor?"

"Hang them up by their thumbs till dead," the less-talkative man replied. "The traditional way."

"Yours was cleaner than that," Arya hissed at Sansa's side. "Traitorous bastard deserved more than what you gave him."

With a smile, Sansa gave Arya's hand a squeeze. "And what is it that you heard I gave him?"

Arya looked up at her sister and hesitated. "Chopped off his head yourself with Ice. But if you're saying you actually did let Lady maul his face until she ripped his whole head clean off–"

Sansa hushed her, fearing overhearing ears. "The former," she quickly replied.

She tried to ignore Arya's answering look of disappointment.

"Have any of you met Ramsay Snow?" Bran finally spoke up, asking the petitioners at large.

Sansa grew still. She'd spoken with Bran of Ramsay in the broadest strokes possible – Bran hadn't wanted to hear more than he'd already unwillingly Seen. But they had the element of surprise; few yet knew his colors and any who did might unintentionally speak too freely.

"I haven't had the pleasure," the pompous Berley said with a smile. "Though I believe Roose Bolton's bastard has been disinherited, regardless."

The next, Peel, answered, "He was nice and polite, when I met him on a hunt." Previously, Sansa had thought Peel better than Berley, but being either willfully or unintentionally blind were neither traits to recommend him.

"Terrible child," the final of the three lords, Pergemet, added. "I'd barely spoken to him before he began describing the Stark pelts hanging on the walls of the Dreadfort. The bastard is unbearably rude and every inch as bad as his father, if you ask me."

Sansa's grimace caught Bran's eye. He looked away, his face perfectly schooled, but she knew he'd understood: the final lord thought he could play to the Stark dislike of the Boltons to win their support. It made Sansa doubt the truth of even a single word he'd said.

Anyone who actually knew Ramsay would have said he was worse than his father, not merely as bad as. And Ramsay was never rude. The options ranged from Pergemet's never having met Ramsay to having met him and liking him – the only surety was that he was lying.

Steelshanks looked as grim as Sansa felt; he knew Ramsay well and spotted the lies just as easily. "And when you see him again, Lord Peel, what–"

"Lady Sutton may have set aside her claim in exchange for a vote," the commoner cut in loudly. "But I have not."

Steelshanks wasn't the only one taken aback; most of those watching the proceedings had forgotten the fourth petitioner. He spoke seldomly, with few words, and was even less often addressed by the panel of judges.

"Please continue, Goodman Gideon," Bran replied to the commoner. "No offense was meant."

Gideon glared at Steelshanks as if doubting the truth of Bran's statement. Steelshanks studied him levelly in return.

Gideon leaned as if to spit on Winterfell's floor – and only at the last moment thought better of it. "I've met Ramsay," he said finally. "At a distance, and he'd no idea we were blood. Oh, he's nice and polite when he wants something from you. Boy skins animals for sport." Gideon shook his head. "Doesn't even use the meat."

Gideon sat back, looking thoroughly disgusted.

The judges waited for more, but that eloquent speech had apparently been the end of it.

"I believe a few of you fought for my brother Robb," Bran said.

"I… was not able," Berley weakly replied. "My health was poor and it's a miracle that I'm able to walk now."

Bran gave an extremely cool nod to the man.

"Bolton left me behind to guard a fort south of his own," Peel replied. "Never dreamed the Dreadfort would be taken from the inside, I suspect."

Lady Sutton's smile was tight; it did not speak well of Peel that he had not expected it, himself.

"I fought for King Robb, may he rest in peace," Pergemet replied. "A great honor it was, being in his vanguard, alongside his giant direwolf–"

"Glover led the van," Steelshanks cut in. "Bolton led the reinforcements."

"Well, yes," Pergemet continued, undaunted. "Until Casterly Rock, after Glover had left. Then, I was able to sneak in and–"

"Then, Rickard Karstark died leading the van," Steelshanks said, even angrier than before. "Him and the Martells."

In the audience, Torrhen Karstark gave a solemn nod at the acknowledgement to his father. Oberyn had not attended this solemn, boring affair.

Pergemet started to speak again, but Steelshanks gestured him to silence and turned to the final petitioner.

"I didn't fight in anyone's war," Gideon said. "Wasn't asked. Stayed on my farm till I heard Bolton fell, and his boy disinherited with him. Ramsay isn't going to like that. And we're not going to like what Ramsay doesn't like."

"Why is that, Goodman Gideon?" Lady Sutton said.

Gideon scowled. "Cause it'll be bloody. Boy likes pain. Finds it fun."

Bran looked at Sansa, brown eyes meeting blue. They both knew that there was exactly one petitioner who knew what lay before him, knew what it meant to succeed Roose as the Bolton heir. Knew, and had judged it correctly. It was a pity that his claim wasn't stronger. And a pity he'd given so little indication of fondness for the Starks.

"Thank you for your thoughtful responses," Bran announced to the room. "The judges will now retire to deliberate on what we have heard."

Groans echoed from around the room as the audience levered to their feet. "Finally," Arya muttered from Sansa's side.

As the doors opened to release them from the hall, Sansa spotted someone in the crowd walking into the room.

Her heart caught. It couldn't be.

But there he stood. The salt had kissed his hair and his skin was more tanned than she remembered, but somehow his eyes were even more blue. Even thinking his name was beyond her. Somehow, Sansa knew that if she let herself believe that he was here, that he'd come for her yet again, when she turned around, he'd be gone.

He hadn't seen her, looking towards Bran's end of the room, and Sansa's feet moved without conscious thought. She threaded through the crowd, faster and faster, desperate to get to him, to touch him, and make sure he was truly real.

But he hadn't seen what he was looking for. He turned, headed back toward the door.

"Theon!" Sansa called, still caught in the crowd. He strode toward the door. "Theon, wait!"

His head disappeared into the crowd.

"Theon!" Sansa called, struggling forward. But others were calling to their friends and her voice was lost amidst them.

"Move, damn you!" Sansa commanded.

The few that had heard her stepped aside. Sansa writhed between, desperate to surge ahead, and–

There was a gap in the crowd.

And Theon stood looking towards her at the other side.

Slowly, he registered whom he was looking at, his gaze traveling the length of her.

Sansa's smile beamed across her face as she ran towards him. "Theon! You came! You–"

Theon took a step back.

Feet away from him, Sansa stopped.

Theon's expression was distrustful, every line in his body rigid with tension. He dipped his head. "Princess."

Confusion dug into Sansa like the point of a knife. She dropped a curtsy by rote. "My lord."

She couldn't help but remember a time in her past life on this very spot. A time when she'd flung herself into his arms at seeing him again; a time when Theon had gripped her just as fiercely back.

Now, she was as unsure of herself as she had ever been. Slowly, she approached, and thankfully, he remained. His face was unreadable and it worried Sansa fiercely.

"Theon?" she asked. Her hands fisted in her skirts, itching to touch him but knowing she'd rather cut them off than dare and be rejected.

But his only expression was a frown between his brows. "I need to talk to your brothers. Both of them."

With a fur-lined cloak slung over his shoulders, Theon looked a born Northman. He looked at home. The time away had added strength to his frame, but the call of the sea lingered in his eyes.

Sansa swallowed. "I'm sure they'd grant you an audience."

When Theon looked back at her, it was with another frown. "I know that."

"Right." Sansa looked away. She clenched her skirts ever tighter.

Theon cleared his throat. "Was there anything you wanted to say to me?"

In an instant, her gaze locked on him, wondering which words out of thousands he meant. She owed him countless. But Theon hadn't bothered to even look her way, squinting out towards the nearest window.

"About what?" Sansa asked.

Theon shrugged. "Your letter was vague. Sounded urgent."

"It was," Sansa replied, searching for the words she was willing to say and coming up short. "It's… well, it's war."

Slowly, Theon turned to look at her. His face was as blank as ever. "It is that," he finally said. "And it doesn't look good."

Right as Sansa was about to ask what he meant, banging on a table from the other end of the room drew every eye.

Bran was back, as were Lady Sutton and Steelshanks. The four petitioners rose before them. The crowd settled down where they waited as silence fell.

"We have come to a decision regarding the claimants for the seat of Bolton," Bran announced. Sansa was so proud of her brother, sitting at the front of the hall and ruling like the king he was born to be. With a dip of his head, Bran gestured to Steelshanks.

Steelshanks cleared his throat. "My vote is for Lord Peel."

Bran gestured to Lady Sutton, who smiled. "My vote is for Goodman Gideon."

A murmur filled the room. Sutton gave Gideon a wink.

All eyes fell to Bran. Thankfully, he seemed not in the slightest bothered by the scrutiny as he calmly announced, "And my vote is for Goodman Gideon."

Gasps broke out, Sansa's among them. A commoner was rising to head the second-largest house in the North. It had been done before, but in already uncertain times, it wasn't likely to make the Starks' jobs any easier.

"Goodman Gideon," Bran declared. "Do you swear to serve House Stark with your hand, heart, and voice?"

Gideon fell to one knee. "I do."

"Rise, as a courtier in the service of House Stark," Bran replied, then turned to the room. "I present to you Lord Gideon, of House Bolton, the Lord of the Dreadfort."

Cheers and applause echoed around the hall as Gideon rose. Most watched him with curiosity, Sansa included. The second strongest house in the North had a new leader. It remained to be seen what Gideon would do.

Theon leaned close to her. "The hell was that?" he whispered.

She liked feeling his breath against her cheek, even if he hadn't meant the gesture to be intimate. Sansa smiled. "House Bolton has a new head. Since Roose lost his."

Theon ran a hand down his face. "Drowned God, I'd forgotten how terrifying your sense of humor is."

Sansa's smile widened. "Come. Bran should be free now."

...

It was good to see Theon ruffling Bran's hair as they gathered in his solar. Good to see Bran grinning in return. When Sansa had last seen them together, a lifetime ago, Theon's every glance at Bran had been filled with guilt. The emptiness that had stared back from Bran had been just as horrifying.

But the door to Bran's solar was opening again. Jon stepped through, a dusting of snow still in his hair.

Theon stared at him. "This mean I have to bow to you?"

Jon's face was serious. "Damn right." Then a smile cracked across it.

And a moment later, Theon was grinning, both men embracing warmly.

As Jon turned away to speak briefly to Bran, Sansa heard Theon mutter, "Bloody Starks and declaring themselves kings."

Sansa's lip twitched. Theon noticed, staring at her. But as Sansa's eyes met his, he looked away.

Bran unrolled a map across his table. "Theon? You said your news was urgent?"

Striding over, Theon wasted no time and thunked a Greyjoy token down on top of White Harbor.

"You're blockaded," he simply announced, and dropped into a chair, kicking his feet up onto a stool. The three Starks stared at the map.

"How did you get here, then?" Jon asked.

Theon rolled his eyes. "What colors do you think I was flying?"

Jon huffed, still staring at the Greyjoy token.

"We suspected this might happen," Sansa said. "How bad is it?"

Theon shrugged. "Bad. Forty ships, as I saw. If my father means to rule the North, he's making a strong showing of it."

Sansa sighed. Manderly's miniscule fleet would now be worse than worthless – it was trapped, with no possibility of shooting down dragons and only of being taken and used against the North.

Jon's sigh held all the weariness of a king. "We have more bad news."

Theon raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Jon grimaced. "We're making an alliance with Jaime Lannister. We're going to need Casterly Rock."

Theon tilted his head. "Are you? That's a funny way of asking me for it."

Sansa shot a glare at Jon, who couldn't have done worse if he'd been trying. Jon looked ruefully back at her before Sansa continued, instead, "We're offering you command of our fleet, Theon. And the next best holding we have."

"Winterfell?" Theon grabbed an apple from a bowl, taking a bite. "Sure, I'll take it."

It was Jon's turn to glare. Sansa sighed.

"Moat Cailin," Bran cut in. Theon was silent. "It's not much, but–"

"No, it's really not," Theon replied.

"It's no Casterly Rock," Bran continued. "But it's near the Iron Islands. And we've been dredging the waters nearby so that the North can build a strong western port."

"Can't dredge much," Jon added. "Can't risk the security of the fortress. But it's not the lonely spit of rock it used to be. We've added scorpions, rebuilt walls–"

"You're missing half the terms of the deal," Theon said.

The siblings stared, waiting for him to continue.

Theon took his feet down from the table. "You're lucky that Tyrion's already proposed this to me, and with some tact. Tyrion rules Casterly instead, settles the riots and food shortages that have already begun and are only going to get worse. But he takes a wife of our choosing. Tyrion suggested Yara."

"Yara Greyjoy?" Jon said, incredulous.

Theon gave a nod. "If she'll have him. They get on well enough. We haven't had the chance to run the deal past her, seeing as she's, well…"

"With your father," Sansa finished for him.

Theon looked at her. He gave a slow nod.

"She's a fair choice," Bran replied. "Keeps Casterly in Greyjoy hands."

Something about it sat ill with Sansa. Though, she struggled to put her finger on what.

Theon nodded again. "That's what I said to him. Said I'd bring it to you lot, though."

Jon nodded as if that were expected, but Sansa recognized Theon's graciousness in the gesture. He had sworn to Robb as liege lord, not to either Jon or Bran. He owed them no duty of allegiance. He had no reason to involve them in how he disposed of his own castle.

"What does Tyrion gain from it, I wonder?" Sansa said.

Theon shrugged. "Well, he gets his home back. I get degraded to a Northern shitpile. Seems gain enough for the Imp."

Sansa had meant from marrying Yara, but– "Then why give it up, Theon? It is yours, you know."

Jon's frown was instantaneous. "We swore to Jaime that we'd–!"

"Negotiate with Theon for its return," Sansa cut in. "Which we are doing at present." She turned back to Theon, waiting expectantly.

Theon looked between them. "You're befriending the Lannisters?"

"Yes," Sansa answered for the others. "Tyrion is at odds with his father and having him as the new head of his house would be a wonderful boon to us."

"Would it?" Theon replied. "What do you get out of it?"

Sansa blinked.

"Well, I have a Kingsguard," Jon replied.

"A very loyal one," Theon said with an admirably straight face.

The room was silent.

Theon shook his head. "Tyrion doesn't control anything of the Lannisters. Who would follow him over his father?" Jon frowned but Theon continued before he could speak. "And the other lion of yours has sworn before four kings not to inherit or bear titles. He's not worth much to you beyond his sword.

Theon jerked his head towards the great hall they'd just left. "It'll be the same as with the new Lord Bolton: Tyrion will need your support if he's to rule anywhere or lead anything."

"Are you saying we could give that same support to you?" Sansa asked.

"No," Theon replied. He took another bite of apple. There was a new scar on his hand. Sansa wondered where it had come from. "Just make sure you're getting something in return for it." He looked at Sansa. "I've learned that the hard way."

Sansa turned away, her cheeks flaming at his many implications. With the barest politeness, she replied, "If you want something more than Moat Cailin, name your price."

He could even name her as his price, she still couldn't keep from thinking.

Theon's snort held no humor. "I've been granted enough boons by kings. A spit of rock will do me just fine."

Sansa shoved her heart's sudden ache away. "And Yara? What do you think of the match?"

Theon shrugged. "A good enough one, as matches go. Who else would we want to give him? Arya?"

Jon's wince was instant. "She'd hate that."

"She'd do her duty, same as any of you," Theon replied. Sansa wasn't so sure.

Bran frowned, staring down at the map before them. "Arya's the only one of us left who we can use to secure an alliance. Rickon's too young. And, since Winterfell will pass to him after me, he must remain in the North. No, we can't betroth Arya idly. "

Theon threw a quick look to Sansa, full of confusion, but she didn't notice.

Sansa was lost in thought, studying the map of Westeros.

...

Tyrion clutched his mug of ale, stunned to be able to sit freely with his brother deep in the cellars of Winterfell. Another thing he hadn't expected to see was that same brother out of his rags and cloaked in finery again – even if it was the Stark, furred variety. But Tyrion had to ask, "You were in earnest?"

"Of course I was in fucking earnest," Jaime replied, slamming his mug on the roughhewn table. "I bloody get myself freed from the Starks' deepest dungeons, get myself across a bloody fucking warfield to get to her and her damn dragon, and she can't even let me ride double down to King's Landing to see her own Hand of the Queen."

Tyrion studied his brother. For all Jaime's protests… "You couldn't think she would entrust herself to your care. The Mad King was her father, after all."

Jaime's mouth twisted. "It was worth the attempt. And worth it to know for sure. We've got to get a message to Father. If she has this little faith with him, this early…"

"I suspect Father already knows," Tyrion replied. It was Jaime's turn to study his brother, but Tyrion took his time setting his mug down. He examined the rings on the table, from previous mugs, from previous years the tree had lived.

"Tyrion," Jaime said warningly.

Tyrion sighed. "When Cersei married Robert, it wasn't as if Father named Uncle Kevan her heir." Jaime still studied him and Tyrion continued, "Father named Myrcella the Dragon Queen's heir. He never expected you to make one with her. He's using her betrothal with you to make sure she can't marry anyone else."

Jaime looked away, his jaw clenched. "Myrcella's the only thing I have left of…" His head fell, staring into his hands. His voice was much softer. "I have to help her. With everything I have, Tyrion."

"I know," Tyrion replied. "We both will, even if Father tried to kill me. But…" This was the tricky part. The benefit of having the sulky Greyjoy and the quiet Podrick for companions during the last half year was that Tyrion had spent plenty of time with his own thoughts – little though he liked those thoughts. He sighed, knowing it wasn't going to go over well. "Imagine Queen Daenerys lives for another decade. Or even two. Rules well. Or doesn't. Father – and the two of us – will have time to build up support for Myrcella among Daenerys's army and her supporters and we can make the transition of power from the Dragon Queen to darling Myrcella as smooth as possible."

For all that Cersei had always called Jaime the stupidest Lannister, he wasn't slow. "And if Daenerys doesn't last a decade?"

Tyrion hesitated. "You tell me, Jaime. If she's gone tomorrow, who will her army of Unsullied follow? Her Dothraki? Her dragons?"

Not Myrcella.

Jaime studied him in silence, neither of them needing to say it aloud.

"So we buy her a decade," Jaime said. But Tyrion could hear Jaime's desperation to believe his own words. It was a lot to ask of a family who'd been through three wars, with few allies left to speak of, and not even their own castle to their name.

"How many more Wintertowns and King's Landings do you think there will be in a decade?" Tyrion took a long gulp of his drink. "I'm not sure how much of the Seven Kingdoms will be left for darling Myrcella to inherit."

Jaime squeezed his eyes shut. "Gods, Tyrion, spit it out already. The Starks have no choice but to kill Myrcella to secure their claim and it's the stupidest thing the two of us could ever do to go against Father and split our family's strength. There's a solution you've already found. Stop making me dance like a Braavosi trained monkey and say it already."

Tyrion smiled. Dipping a finger into his ale, he drew shapes on the table.

Jaime frowned down at it. Then, suddenly, comprehension dawned. "You can't seriously mean that to be a map–"

"The North," Tyrion began, pointing down at the topmost blob, then the rest in turn. "The Iron Islands, the Vale, the Riverlands, the West, the Reach, the Stormlands, and Dorne. Now. Which of these are Stark allies and which are Daenerys's?"

"The Riverlands and the Reach are the strongest Stark allies," Jaime replied, his disdain instantly forgotten in the love of the game. "Though Sansa is friendly with both the Iron Islands and Dorne."

"Unlikely she can keep both," Tyrion replied. "Seeing as there's only the one of her."

Jaime shrugged in agreement, staring at the map. "And the other Iron Islanders just assaulted King's Landing in exchange for rule of the North. The Vale is undecided. The fighting might of the West is under Father with Daenerys. The Stormlands have no leader, but they would die before joining the Dragon Queen who killed Stannis after Robert killed her family. Leaving Dorne."

"Dorne, whose prince is betrothed to Myrcella and set to become consort to the heir of the Dragon Throne," Tyrion replied. "Margaery may be in Winterfell, but look again at the map. Loras and his army are secreted back behind the Dragon's breast. The Tyrells can't sneeze without the dragons hearing, let alone sneak past them."

Jaime nodded. "The Tyrells are the bulk of the Northern army. The Starks can't bring war to Daenerys without them," Jaime continued. "We both know Daenerys won't leave the Starks alone, even if they stay in the North. But in a war against the North, in the North, with winter coming…"

Tyrion nodded. As long as the Starks refused to kneel, Daenerys would assuredly fling her armies at Winterfell until she had nothing left. "The problem is that the army she'll be spending – slowly freezing to death in the North – is Father's. Father's men, Father's food, Father's gold. We'll be the most destitute family in the realm by the time the Dragon Queen dies and we have to keep Myrcella on a throne."

"So? What are our options?" Jaime said, looking annoyed.

"So we end the war against the North," Tyrion replied. "If the Dragon Queen must conquer the North, for the gods' sake, make her wait until after the winter. Then, winter will have worn the North thin and not us. If Daenerys won't see reason…" He shrugged. "Then Myrcella succeeds her earlier than planned."

Jaime frowned. "Lovely words for assassination, brother. But how do you convince a queen on the warpath to abandon it? Especially one as fond of her Lannister allies as I've just shown."

"Simple, really," Tyrion replied. "You make her allies even more fond of you. No one wants to waste their men on a war if they don't have to."

"Father." Jaime pointed down at the map, going through the list of Daenerys's allies that he'd just made. "The Greyjoys, and Dorne."

"Dorne hasn't yet joined the fight," Tyrion said. "Easy enough to convince them not to start. And I'll leave convincing Father to the son he didn't try to kill."

Jaime glared at him, but saw where Tyrion was heading. "Leaving the Greyjoys." Comprehension dawned. "Leaving Yara."

"Leaving Yara," Tyrion replied, raising his glass. "A far more reasonable pirate than her father, and one with whom I've shared a mug of ale countless times in the past few moons. Even if Balon won't see reason regarding the North, Yara will. Easy enough for us to call in the favor of that assassin: empty Driftwood throne, then Kingsmoot that we can sway in favor of my darling pirate lady wife. Yara leaves the North alone. Then, with our marriage, the Lannisters rule the Iron Islands. With that, we rule the entire Sunset Coast."

Tyrion knocked his mug back, draining it dry.

Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Conveniently also stealing the birthright of the cleverest Stark's strongest ally."

Tyrion gasped. "The one who took Casterly Rock from us? Why, brother! I had no idea!"

But when Tyrion refilled his mug, it was with an unabashed grin.