Daenerys stripped off her gloves as she slid from Drogon's back, glad that Tywin had ordered a saddle built. The days-long flight had been hard enough without her having to hold on the whole time.
"Your Grace." Barristan had come to meet her at Dragonstone's dragon pits and gave her a formal bow. Behind them, Drogon slunk off into the bowels of the castle, his black shape disappearing into the depths.
"Ser Barristan," she replied, falling into step with him as they ventured into the castle. "What news do you have for me?"
Barristan hesitated. "Not much, my Queen. The Vale still has not answered our missive, nor has Dorne. We think Doran might–"
It was the same as she'd heard before she left. "Where is Varys?"
"He left shortly after you did. Should be back from Harrenhal in two weeks," Barristan replied.
Daenerys wished Varys had been here to consult; a spymaster in a land she still barely knew was an invaluable resource.
"Lord Tywin expressed a… pressing desire to speak with you, upon your return," Barristan continued. "He is eager to hear how your negotiations went with the North. As are we all. If you wish to speak, your counselors await you in the war room."
"Very well," Daenerys replied. "I will speak to them. Once Drogon has rested, I will journey to King's Landing and speak to the rest."
Barristan gave another bow. "Very good, Your Grace."
Daenerys strode through the halls and into the war room, Barristan on her heels.
Tywin had already seated himself at the head of the table and she wondered if he thought himself the king and her a mere dragon rider.
But he stood immediately upon her entrance, as did Baelish, at his side. Balon Greyjoy was off with his ships, blockading White Harbor, and Grey Worm, Missandei, and Jorah were in King's Landing. With Varys absent, Tywin, Baelish, and Barristan were all who remained to her.
Stifling the sigh of exhaustion she wished to give, Daenerys slid into the seat at the other end from Tywin. Barristan took one at her side.
"So," Tywin began. "You went and treated with the North. In person, on dragon-back. I am relieved to find you unharmed, Your Grace."
He gave a dip of his head and she gave a slight smile in reply.
"How did they like your dragon?" Baelish asked, amusement curling his lip.
"Well enough, I suppose," Daenerys finally replied. "They shot a hole through Drogon's wing. It is not a serious wound and he will mend with a week's rest."
"And how did they like your terms?" Tywin asked.
Daenerys smiled. "Not at all. They will not so lightly defy me when we have marched my whole army north to support my dragons. Winterfell will not hold out long when Balon Greyjoy has cut off their harbor, you and Grey Worm have cut off the Neck, and I rain fire from above."
"No, they will not, Your Grace," Tywin replied, with a smile of his own. "Who did you treat with while you were there?"
Daenerys laughed. "Sansa Stark came out to meet me, as did Jon Snow himself, in a feeble disguise at her guard."
And your son, my lord Hand, Daenerys kept to herself. The Kingslayer, murderer of my father.
Tywin raised an eyebrow. "Your rival escaped you unscathed?"
Daenerys gestured at a servant holding a wine pitcher and waited as they filled her cup. "It seemed imprudent." As did killing your traitorous son. She took a sip. "Wintertown was not so fortunate."
"I'm not sure I catch your meaning, Your Grace," Barristan said, his brow furrowed.
She set her goblet down. "Winterfell was well-defended and one dragon will not be enough on its own to take it. But I could not let their defiance stand. Drogon and I carved our message in burning swaths through the nearby town."
Tywin raised his eyebrows, impressed despite himself. "No, they will not miss that."
"But… Wintertown did not oppose you." Barristan still struggled to understand. "And now it burns?"
"The North opposes me." Daenerys took another sip of her wine. "Any town that does not bend the knee will suffer Wintertown's fate."
Barristan leaned forward. "This is not wise, Your Grace. Not if you mean to rule these same people that you burn. Wintertown will be a beacon for the entire North to rally behind."
"And what should she have done, Ser Barristan?" Tywin asked. "Fly back home and leave the North unharmed, so they can celebrate their victory against her? That it was not a nice decision does not mean it wasunwise."
"Letting treason stand unpunished is what is not wise." Daenerys looked to Tywin, appreciating the nod of support he gave her in return. "The North will not so lightly defy me in the future." She stood, waiting as her advisors joined her on their feet. "Lord Tywin, send word to the ships and to Grey Worm. We march North and to war."
...
The heft of his practice sword felt good in Theon's hand, though lighter than he remembered. Perhaps that was because the Theon that had last sparred in Winterfell's ring hadn't yet seen war. Hadn't seen death. Hadn't had his heart tossed aside by the one he trusted most.
He shook his head to clear the thoughts.
Thankfully, Jon was grinning at him from the other side of the ring. "Fancy a go?"
Nothing in the world could have stopped Theon's answering grin. "None of these bootlicking lords will risk bashing in the brains of their precious king?"
"Nah," Jon said, his smile undimmed. "None of them can take me."
And then the two blunted blades were clashing. Theon and Jon danced and sprang apart, swung, and dodged, and–
Jon's blade smacked Theon in the arm.
"Gods' damned–!" Theon muttered, shaking out the arm.
Jon looked too smug for his liking and Theon charged.
"Beat him for us, Greyjoy!" Tormund called out from where he leaned against the outside of the training ring's edge along with some of Theon's crew. "Boy's too proud of himself!"
Jon laughed, parrying Theon's blow. And then Jon's own rapped Theon in the ribs.
Theon cursed, breaking off. He turned to glare back at Jon. "No one here can beat you? I find that hard to believe. Not the Blackfish, nor the Hound, nor…" He turned to the other side of the ring, where Oberyn and Brienne were sparring. "Nor either of them?"
Jon smirked. "Course they can. Wanted to see you try, though."
Theon squinted at him. "You motherfu–" He swung his sword toward Jon with sudden speed. Jon struggled to get his blade up in time to block it, stepping backwards.
Theon continued pressing him and Jon continued giving ground. Until, finally, Theon pressed Jon into the wood of the railings, their blades locked.
"Better," Jon grunted, pressing back against Theon's blade with his own. "Showing off for her?"
Theon frowned. But he wasn't going to be thrown by the oldest trick in the book and waste a second looking over his shoulder. He slid his blade up and swung for Jon's head.
Jon dodged and sprung to his feet a pace away. He held up his hands in surrender, then reached for his water jug where it hung on the fence. "Again?"
Theon was breathing just as heavily. "In a minute." He nodded at Jon, though surreptitiously looked around the ring. What had Jon been on about? Sansa was nowhere in sight; only the usual bunch of fighters milled about the ring. Arya hung off the posts and the Hound looked surly next to her. Dacey Mormont and Nymeria Sand had found Tormund and they and Theon's men were grinning as Tormund told an undoubtedly lurid joke. Jaime hung over the bars by Brienne and Oberyn's spar, which was still ongoing as both fighters dripped with sweat.
"Backwards parry that!" Jaime called out, seemingly unable to stop himself. "What are you doing, leaving him an opening that wide?"
But Brienne didn't answer, too busy watching Oberyn's spear as he danced around her and wore her down.
On a whim, Theon looked up.
Oh, seven bloody hells.
Sansa stood at the railing of the upper level looking down on all of them, Margaery at her side. It shouldn't be possible that Sansa had grown more beautiful since he'd last seen her at Casterly's docks. Had to be the snow falling in the air, stark white against the red of her hair. He'd no idea how long she'd been there, watching him fight and make a fool of himself.
"Bloody perfect," Theon muttered, looking away. His sword itched in his hand – the only thing that could properly distract him.
"Ready?" Jon called out, hefting his own blade.
"Hey, that's not fair!" a high voice called from the other side of the ring. "I wanted to go next!"
Both men turned as Arya slipped off the railings and strode towards them, her spear in hand. She barely came up to Jon's shoulder.
"Do you?" Jon asked her. "When we sparred earlier, you said–"
"Not with you," Arya replied. "With Theon." Her grin was positively vicious. "With someone I can beat."
Theon drew his sword, no additional taunts necessary. "I'll go easy on you. Don't want both your king brothers ordering my execution."
Arya twirled her spear around her waist, then spun it in her hands so it flew as easily as a feather. "Your funeral if you go easy on me."
Jon's grin was wide as he retreated to the railings to watch their match with the rest of the spectators. Theon's men hooted in glee.
Arya charged. Theon knocked her spear away, thinking of Brienne's fight with Oberyn and knowing as the larger, slower fighter, he'd have to conserve his energy. He had no idea how good she was, and with him fresh from a bout, he might have to conserve quite a bit. Arya was fast, and struck again like lightning. Theon parried. She circled him and he let her, turning slowly to keep his eye on her.
"You didn't even say hello," Arya said and jabbed forward.
Theon struck back, forcing her to step aside. "I didn't what?"
Arya struck for his feet. He blocked and swung upwards. Again, she had to dance away. "In the hall, after the trial. You didn't say anything to me."
Theon frowned. "You were there?" He dodged her blow – a feint – which he had to hurriedly parry.
Arya rolled her eyes. "I was by Sansa's side. Neither of you seemed to–" She broke off, jumping aside to dodge his sword. "–remember that I existed."
Theon scowled, but was saved from answering by knocking aside a flurry of Arya's blows. No, he hadn't noticed her for a single moment. Not with Sansa running towards him, beaming at him, and then…
Cold.
Always so very, very cold.
"Hello, then," Theon grunted out, taking a swing toward Arya's leg. She blocked it.
"Why'd you come back North?" Arya asked.
Theon's gaze flitted upwards without a conscious thought. Arya caught his hesitation and struck. He realized his error. Theon turned, dodging her strike, and continued his turn to swing his elbow into her face. While she recoiled from the blow, he slipped his sword behind her spear and levered it from her hands.
With her hand pressed to her cheek and her spear on the ground, Arya glared up at him.
"What?" Theon said. "No one else is willing to fight dirty with a princess?"
Her glare intensified. But Arya bent to pick up her spear. She held its point leveled at his face. "Again."
Theon rolled his eyes. "Arya, come off it. I won and you–"
"Again!" Arya charged.
With a grin, Theon locked his blade against her staff, accepting the challenge. Maybe there were some things he'd missed about being home, after all.
...
"He fights well, doesn't he?" Margaery's voice was airy and dripping with implications. Sansa tried to ignore them. She was busy watching the fight in the courtyard down below.
"He's holding back for Arya," Sansa replied. "Look at how much slower their fight is than his with Jon."
"Mhmm," Margaery said thoughtfully. But when Sansa glanced at her friend, Margaery was smirking at her.
Sansa huffed, even as Margaery giggled. "Jon's not a bad fighter, either, you know," Sansa said.
"I know," Margaery replied, sounding at once proud and as if it were to be expected. "Though you've got quite the collection of good fighters in Winterfell. One might think you were up to something."
"Starting a war, perhaps," Sansa lightly replied. Margaery smiled in reply.
Below them, Theon had bested Arya again and again, Arya had demanded a rematch.
Sansa burned to talk to him. Burned to set things right.
But she hadn't the faintest idea how to do that.
And the way he just… ignored her, well…
That burned, too.
"Margaery, darling, would you be so kind as to tell your great fur rug to move?" a voice called from the room behind them.
Margaery sighed, turning to Sansa. Sansa offered her a small smile and Margaery clasped her hand.
"Into the fray," Sansa muttered, and followed Margaery into the room.
It was a battlefield of an entirely different kind. Wylla Manderly sewed calmly away in one of the chairs, her long braid as green as the seaweed of her home. Alys Karstark placed confident stitches in a pair of gloves from the chair next to her. Lady Umber tugged on a piece of embroidery, strongarming it into place on her hoop. And on the other side of the room sat Wynafryd Manderly, chatting amicably with one of Margaery's handmaids.
Usually, Catelyn handled this horde. Somedays, Olenna did. But as her mother had been needed to oversee the resupply of the infirmary, and Olenna was abed with a chill, Catelyn had tapped Sansa to take her place.
"It'll be good to get a feel for the mood of the North, too," Catelyn had added. "Everyone lets their guard down while busy sewing and eager to gossip. Be careful to only watch the flow of the water, and not be caught trying to redirect it."
Next to Wynafryd, Lady Sutton was trying not to cringe away from the direwolf sleeping next to her chair.
"Grey Wind," Margaery called fondly. The direwolf rose in an instant, coming over to rest his scarred head on Margaery's lap. She stroked a hand through his fur as his tail idly thumped.
"Thank you," Lady Sutton said, adjusting her embroidery hoop. She still cast nervous looks toward Grey Wind.
Sansa didn't wonder why – the stories of what Sansa's direwolf had done to Sutton's cousin, Roose Bolton, were numerous and varied. Sansa picked up her own needlework, glad for the opportunity to distract herself with it. She wasn't sure of this new Bolton, nor of her other claimed cousin, the new head of their house. Lord Gideon Bolton and Lady Caryssa Sutton had never met before the trial and now the stability of the North rested upon their two backs.
"How fares your husband, Lady Sutton?" Margaery asked.
Lady Sutton smiled. "He fares well, indeed, as long as he is far from me."
Margaery feigned a gasp. Wylla Manderly chuckled.
Lady Umber gave a tight smile. "Caryssa, surely you cannot mean–"
"I do indeed mean," Sutton replied. "We both know I despised his bed long enough to deny him any trueborn heirs. I'd rather not be around for the making of the bastards."
She would have been a terrible pick for the new liege lady of the Boltons, Sansa saw immediately. With no heirs of her own, it only delayed the Bolton inheritance problem, and would have given a war-loving house a caustic embroiderer to lead them. No wonder Bran had passed her over.
Margaery handled it all with equanimity. "Where is your husband, then?" she asked Sutton.
"In the Neck," Sutton said. "The great, swampy, ill-gotten and foul-smelling–"
The door opened. Meera slipped inside, looking uncomfortably between the various women.
"Please, join us," Sansa said, and motioned to a chair at her side.
Relief washed over Meera and she silently took the seat, pulling out a shirt with a ripped seam and beginning to stitch.
Sutton pursed her lips at the sight of Meera.
"Do you need help?" Wynafryd offered innocently. "I know we haven't seen you here often before."
Meera looked up. "No, thank you." She looked back down at her large, uneven stitches. With a steady hand, she picked up the needle and threaded another large stitch – just as unevenly as the ones before.
Sansa had to fight back her smile. Wynafryd didn't try, smirking openly. Shifting her hoop imperceptibly closer towards Meera, Sansa pulled a stitch through with exaggerated care, her motions large enough that Meera could follow them. Meera's next stitch was an improvement, if now too close to the one before.
Wynafryd's smile only broadened.
"Lady Wynafryd," Sansa said to distract the other girl from her mockery. "How fares White Harbor?"
"Besieged," Wynafryd said, as if word had not already spread throughout the entire castle. "Now I've no idea how we'll manage to get supplies through to your brothers' armies, my lady."
Sansa bristled at the implication that the North was entirely dependent on the Manderlys. Though, the loss had certainly weakened them.
"And your grandfather?" Margaery asked, before Wynafryd's negativity could take hold. "How fares his health? I'm sure the long palanquin journey North must have been hard on him."
The look of concern on Margaery's face seemed so genuine that no one noticed her reminding them all that Wyman Manderly was too fat to sit a horse.
"Oh, he was sore for a full week," Wylla answered before Wynafryd had a chance. "But he's well enough, now, thank you. Though he misses all the fresh fish from back home."
Laughter carried around the group. Margaery's smile was all sweetness and she didn't need to look Sansa's way once for Sansa to share in it.
Gods, Sansa realized, yet again, I would have gone raving mad without her here with me.
The ladies resumed their stitching. Meera plunged bravely ahead, face pressed close to her work. Margaery, on the other hand, had never bothered to take her 'embroidery' from her basket. Her hands were busy picking seeds from a pomegranate – one she'd ordered imported to Winterfell's glass house.
"Did I hear that you'd spent yesterday on a walk with a certain young man?" Alys Karstark asked Wylla Manderly, a sly gleam in her eye.
Sansa braced herself. It had only been a matter of time before talk turned to her brothers. With both unwed, and declared kings, it wasn't a difficult guess.
"Well, yes," Wylla replied with a blush. "But there were quite a few of us, it wasn't as if–"
Lady Umber beamed as the girls giggled. "You must tell us, child."
"Well…" Wylla's blush deepened. "Jojen Reed was there, as was your brother, Torrhen," she added to Alys Karstark. "And of course, King Bran showed us all the best spots personally. He's so kind, you know."
Wynafryd squeezed her sister's arm. "Tell us! What did he say?"
"He said that the glass gardens are well-stocked, this time of year," Meera flatly replied from Sansa's side. The girls turned to look at her in surprise; they'd forgotten she existed. Meera looked up at them. "Sara Teems was on the walk, as well."
"And yourself," Sansa added.
Meera gave a nod.
It had killed the air of gossip quite thoroughly to know that Wylla hadn't been the only lady. Especially one so unladylike as Meera.
Wylla shot Meera a bitter look; if Wylla was after Bran, the chances of catching him without Meera at his side were slim to none. Sansa was fairly sure he did it on purpose. If Bran couldn't be caught alone, he couldn't give offense to a vassal by spurning his daughter.
"Have any of you spoken with Jon, lately?" Wynafryd asked as if the answer meant nothing to her.
"I think he was sparring down in the ring earlier this morning," Margaery replied, equally casually.
"Ooh, I bet he cut a strong figure," Wylla gushed. "I love watching the men when they're in fine form. Just earlier this week, I saw him win a bout against the Viper."
"No, he didn't," Lady Sutton corrected her. "Oberyn called the match off when he accidentally nicked Jon."
"That counts!" Wylla insisted. "Jon's the finest swordsman here!"
Sansa, who didn't want to disparage her brother, said nothing. Margaery's smile looked ready to cut steel.
"He is certainly the finest looking swordsman," Wynafryd remarked with a chuckle. "I've heard it said that the way they swing a sword is the same in bed, when–"
Sansa cleared her throat. "Begging your pardon, but I'd rather not know how it's said when it regards my brother."
Wynafryd laughed and shot a conspiratorial glance Sansa's way. "Begging your pardon, Princess. I got carried away. That Theon Greyjoy's a fine swordsman, too, you know."
Sansa dropped her gaze to her embroidery, pulling her stitch viciously tight. "Is he?"
"Oh, yes," Alys added with suspicious enthusiasm. "He's much the finer match of the two, now that Jon's gone and declared himself king."
Sansa's fingers stilled. She kept her head down towards her embroidery, careful not to interrupt the flow of the conversation.
"I know," Wynafryd remarked sadly. "If only Jon had kept himself a bastard. Then any one of us could have had him."
Margaery feigned a casual laugh. "Surely you don't take Northern independence that seriously. The Six Kingdoms will still need a queen."
Lady Umber shook her head. "The only house that will support his kingship is the one that swore not to be ruled by him. What sort of king is that? What sort of castle will he give his queen?" She shook her head again as she threaded another stitch. "A grave."
"Much better off if he'd remained a bastard," Alys concluded sadly.
"Especially a handsome bastard," Wynafryd replied with a wink. "They're always welcome in any keep."
"So long as the lord of the keep isn't home," Lady Sutton said dryly.
The girls giggled madly.
A dreadful feeling settled in Sansa's stomach, hearing the girls degrade Jon so casually. But the one girl that looked worse than Sansa felt–
Was Margaery.
Abruptly, Margaery stood. Sansa had never seen her smile looking so thin. "You'll have to excuse me, my ladies." Margaery was almost brusque. "The cold wearies me so and I'll need to warm up before heading down to supper."
The ladies were all immediate reassurances and well-wishes for her health so far north.
Margaery accepted them all graciously but remained standing, refusing to take her own leave of the room. Grey Wind rose to his feet by her side. He stared out at all of them with his one good eye.
One-by-one, they seemed to remember that Margaery had married Robb – was still a Queen – and was their superior in every way. One-by-one, they took their leave of her.
Lady Sutton dipped her head. "Good eve'n, Widow Queen," she murmured as she left the room, leaving Margaery alone with Sansa.
The moment the door had closed behind Sutton, Margaery sagged into a chair.
Sansa put her hand on the other girl's arm and Margaery covered Sansa's hand with her own.
"We have to march." Sansa whispered the realization. "If we don't march now, the war will die before it's begun."
Margaery looked up at her with pain in her eyes. "My family is more than halfway across Westeros. By the time they get on the move… by the time we can meet up with them…"
Margaery trailed off, not needing to complete the thought. The Tyrell 50,000, across the continent, didn't count for even a fraction as much as 5,000 would, nearby. Sansa squeezed her friend's hand. They'd think of something. They always had. Margaery squeezed Sansa's hand back.
...
Theon wiped the sweat off his face with a rag, well-enough familiar with the North to know he wouldn't enjoy the sensation when the sweat froze. He shot a surreptitious glance up at the balcony overlooking the training ring. It was empty. Taking a swig from his water, he tried to pretend he didn't care, to pretend that he didn't wish a pair of blue eyes had followed him all through the many bouts.
"I almost had you on that last round," Arya grumbled, leaning on her elbows atop the railing.
Theon couldn't help ruffling her hair, grinning as she grimaced and pulled away. "Almost."
But all the onlookers at the training ring were caught up watching Oberyn's spar with Brienne. Finally, both duelists were flagging and the end could be any time.
"Who's your money on?" Theon asked Arya.
"Oberyn," she immediately replied.
Theon snorted. "Because he trained you?"
"Because he fights dirty." Arya looked up at Theon. "Even against princesses."
It looked as if she were right. Brienne had an opening – perhaps one of many – and instead of ramming her blunted sword into his face, she held her strength on the blow.
Oberyn pivoted smoothly away from it, his staff sweeping with his turn – and knocked Brienne's feet from under her. Before she could rise, he had spun it again, his blade at her throat.
"Do you yield?" he asked breathlessly.
Annoyed, Brienne batted the spear away. "I yield."
And then the Dornish prince was all grins, offering his hand down to Brienne and helping hoist her up. Her plate armor clanked as she groaned to her feet.
"Well fought, my lady," Oberyn said, raking an appreciative gaze her full length, from the toes of her boots up to her sweaty, matted, blonde hair.
"I'm not a lady," Brienne said reflexively. But a blush had overtaken her cheeks and she struggled to uncap her water jug, desperate not to meet his eyes.
Oberyn's smile only widened. "You'd better be. I traveled all this way for the rumor of a lady worth fighting. Don't tell me it was a lie."
Her blush deepened. "I– well, I mean, I–"
"She had you dead to rights," Jaime practically snarled, coming over to Brienne and Oberyn's section of the fence. "At least five times I saw." Jaime turned his annoyance on Brienne. "The hell were you thinking, holding back when he left openings the size of Volantis?"
Brienne's blush took on a darker hue. "He's wearing leathers, Jaime," she snapped. "You want me to bludgeon a prince, simply for the right of you keeping your golden dragons that I told you not to bet?"
Jaime rolled his eyes. "You shouldn't have dueled him if you didn't know how–"
But Oberyn had broken away from them for his own water. Theon leaned over the fence, unable to stop himself. "Is that why you came, then?" he called out.
Oberyn looked up, surprised to see him there. But the prince ducked under the bar to lean against it next to Theon. Oberyn ruffled Arya's hair – the chit had the gall to let him, smiling! – and gave a nod to Theon, which Theon returned.
"It's been awhile, hasn't it," Oberyn said.
Theon grunted. "Hasn't it always?"
Oberyn gave a rueful grin at that, taking another swig.
Theon didn't know what to feel toward the man. He had liked Oberyn, once. Before the prince had proposed to Sansa. Before she'd hidden the proposal from him. Before she'd hidden her own proposal to Loras. A proposal that only the pompous ass's stupidity had saved the both of them from.
Theon felt his temper rising, even knowing most of it wasn't Oberyn's fault.
Oberyn gave a casual shrug. "Things in Dorne seemed… tense, to keep a wolf cub around. Even one who can fend for herself." He winked down at Arya.
Theon was surprised to hear Oberyn discussing his land's allegiances so frankly; even more so a divergence of Oberyn's own preferences.
"You've brought her back, now. But you're still here." Theon tried not to sound accusatory, but could hear his failure even in his own ears.
"The Red Wolf invited me to stay for as long as I liked." This time, Oberyn's grin had an edge of gloating. "Who was I to say no?"
"Everyone here was invited by her." Theon used all the willpower in his body to keep his tone civil.
"Yes," Oberyn agreed, without rising to the bait. "It will be interesting to see where it leads."
Theon was spared from having to answer by Tyrion calling his name from across the yard.
"I'm off to see the Starks!" Tyrion announced as he stepped up next to Theon. "They've yet to respond to my offer and I'm keen to hear from the pair of Stark brother-kings. Let's go see if they've decided what they want, shall we?"
With a parting nod at Oberyn, Theon fell into step with his Lannister companion, his thoughts swirling and dark as they made their way to Winterfell's great hall.
...
Sansa sighed down at the parchment before them. Instead of a map, it was names, and lists of assignments, and supplies they needed for the march, and–
Jon ran a hand down his face. "We've gear and supply in plenty. Although I'm loath to steal your quartermaster from Winterfell."
"I'll train another," Bran quickly replied. "Once you've all gone south, I'll have little better to do with my time."
The three Starks were alone in the great hall, alone at the high table, in the great, empty room.
Sansa raised an eyebrow, hearing Bran's meaning of 'Once Sansa is gone.' He would be rid of her splinters in his vision and Sansa hadn't the faintest idea what he'd look into, next.
"Brynden can continue mustering the forces while I'm gone," Jon continued, as lead settled into Sansa's gut. "My small party to take the lay of the Dreadfort is the best way, and he can reinforce me as needed."
The Dreadfort.
They couldn't even move south yet, not when it left Winterfell exposed to whatever machinations Ramsay had planned.
"Are you sure you don't want me with–" Sansa started, but her voice was weak.
"No," Jon said sharply. "If the raven I send is bad, well, I can't stop you from coming with Brynden. But seven hells, Sansa, there's no reason for you to see whatever horrors Ramsay has in store."
Sansa swallowed and forced herself to say the words. "You've fallen for them before, Jon. Followed his taunts as he shot at Rickon across a field, led your army from its defensive trenches into open battle, where–"
"Sansa," Bran cut in. "You've told us all this already. Who does Ramsay have to taunt us with? The ancient pelts of skinned Starks? There's no one he can use against us. We're all of us safe. It's a military venture. There's nothing useful that you can do about it."
Sansa searched for options. "Can't you… take someone with you? Someone wily, someone who…"
Jon stared levelly at her, thankfully unphased by the insult. "Who?"
She swallowed. Brynden, she thought, but he was needed as commander of the larger army. Jaime, she wanted to say. But his loyalty was as doubtful as his tactics, since Robb had run circles around him in the field whenever he had pleased. Oberyn, even if he agreed to go, had fallen prey to arrogance against the Mountain and been tricked just as badly. Tormund, Ser Rodrick, the Hound, Brienne… None were any better.
A name came to her, then, with a flash of annoyance that it hadn't been the first one she'd thought of.
"Theon," Sansa said.
Jon rolled his eyes.
"No, I'm serious, Jon," Sansa insisted. "He's clever in ways that few are. If Ramsay tries anything, I'd trust him to spot it."
"Fine," Jon agreed to placate her. "I'll take him with me. Is there–"
"Ask him, Jon," Sansa insisted again. "He's not sworn to you. He's not–"
The door to the hall opened. Theon poked his head through, then slipped inside. Sansa stopped mid-sentence, waiting as he approached.
"Oh, don't mind me," Theon said with a false gaiety. "Tyrion and I've just been waiting outside for the Starks to finish whatever business is more important than the Lannister alliance." He paused to look pointedly around the empty hall.
Jon rose to his feet. "We're in the middle of planning a war. If you would wait outside, it shouldn't be long, now."
"He knows, Jon," Sansa whispered. When Jon turned to her, she added, "He knows everything."
Jon's eyebrows rose.
"Why don't you join us, actually," Bran cut in before anything else could be said. "I know I said just Starks, but I'm sure we could make an exception."
Bran had said no such thing, but it saved Jon from looking rude.
Jon took the lifeline with a warm half-smile and gestured Theon towards a chair at their table. "Please."
Warily, Theon approached, but he stopped short of sitting at the table, his hands gripping the back of the chair. "What're you planning?"
"The assault on the Dreadfort," Jon replied.
Theon shot a quick look to Sansa that she almost missed. He looked back at Jon. "Ramsay Snow has it?"
"Yes," Jon replied. "And we're on our way to oust him from it. Interested in coming with?"
"Only if you let me kill the bastard myself," Theon replied with fervency.
Both Bran and Jon looked surprised by that, but as they looked to Sansa for answers, she kept her face smooth. She would never tell a soul about what Theon's other self had gone through, would never rip that privacy from him.
"Aye," Jon said. "If we get the chance, that I can do."
Theon gave him a sharp nod as if that settled it.
Jon shuffled papers around. "Now. Tyrion. He's waiting outside for an answer that I don't know how to give."
Bran looked equally grim.
"Actually," Sansa started. "I did have an idea."
"One that'll work?" Jon asked.
"It might," Sansa replied. "It's always a gamble."
"Good enough for me." Jon stood and clapped a hand on her shoulder.
It seemed like he was on the verge of leaving and Sansa looked up at him in confusion.
"Tell me how it goes," Jon said. "I've got troops to ready and you know the Imp far better than I."
"But…" Sansa's confusion had only grown. "I have to make guarantees, and offers of our own, and–"
Jon shrugged. "So make them. I'll stand by whatever you decide." With another protest growing on Sansa's lips, he leaned closer. "I'm no good at this part of the Game, Sansa. You made me declare for the crown. You deal with him."
While Sansa was still recovering, Bran added, "And I'm not the king of the Lannisters. Jon, if you could take me from the hall, then Jojen and I can make our way to the storerooms and oversee the inventory in progress."
Jon wheeled Bran out of the hall through a side door. Sansa watched them go, longing for their support. It hadn't taken long for her to grow spoiled by having her family surrounding her.
"Do you want me to leave, too?" Theon offered.
"No," Sansa quickly replied, trying to wrangle her whirling thoughts. "Please stay," she added.
"Alright," Theon said. He came around to her side of the table, facing the doors, but only stared at the chair next to her. Instead of taking it, he pushed it back in and remained standing, leaning against a pillar.
Sansa's lips pursed. Sitting would have looked like an equal, lending her his full support. Standing… Well, she appreciated the smaller show of support, anyway.
"You've done this before," Theon said, as always, reading her like a book. "You've done it a thousand times."
Sansa looked up at him, but Theon was staring straight ahead, with none of the warmth she'd grown to depend on.
"Yes, but never officially," she replied.
Theon looked down at her, a frown still drawn between his brows. "So? You had me broker terms of war to a knuckleless man in the back of a fishing bar. This is your former husband. What are you so worked up about?"
He was right, of course, and even through his irritation, she could hear his support. Sansa smiled up at him; Theon didn't return it. And with a deep breath, she turned to the door and said, "I'm ready."
...
"Enter!" a strong female voice called through the thick, oak doors into Winterfell's great hall.
The Stark soldiers guarding it stepped forward, swinging the doors open behind them.
And then the long walk was ahead of Tyrion, the cavernous room stretching before him, empty of any witnesses in the wings.
At the other end, Sansa sat behind the head table. She watched him with the calm assurance of a queen as Tyrion strode into the room, trying to muster confidence. She'd been absurdly friendly with him before, sparing his life for no seeming reason whatsoever, but it looked as if that friendliness may have cooled. Regardless, depending on her irrational fondness was a good way for Tyrion to get himself killed. Picking up a goblet, Sansa took a sip of mulled wine, eyeing him over the rim as if alliances between mortal enemies happened regularly for her. Perhaps they did.
Theon lounged at her side, but Tyrion wasn't sure if he should take the other man's presence as reassuring. They were friends, of a sort, but Tyrion held no delusions of where his recently forged friendship would fall if pitted against Theon's ties to Sansa.
Coming to a stop before the table, Tyrion swept a quick bow. "Red Wolf."
Sansa smiled. She gestured to a goblet on her table. "Wine, my lord?"
"Thank you, princess, but I will abstain," Tyrion replied.
Sansa's eyebrows rose, as surprised as he was.
Tyrion had planned arguments for Jon Snow. They were convincing ones: pledges of loyalty to the recently-raised bastard and veiled flatteries that a frostbitten warrior would never spot.
Starks were stubborn, loyal, honorable, dutiful, and ultimately – unfailingly predictable.
But Tyrion had not planned on addressing the Red Wolf. And he would not face a surprise of theirs with dulled wits.
"Theon has brought your proposal for a treaty to me," Sansa started, her face still as inscrutable as ever. "But I'd like to hear it from you."
Tyrion smiled, lacing his hands behind his back. "Very well. There have been riots, food shortages, and uprising in the Westerlands. Horrible things, with people starving–"
"I am aware," Sansa cut in.
Tyrion forced his smile back on. "Of course you are. Perhaps not of the magnitude, but…"
"Your lord father has kept the West's fighting men garrisoned in Harrenhal for going on a year," Sansa replied. "He has spent their taxes hiring the Golden Army. He has spent their lives ferrying the Dragon Queen to her new throne. The West has been ruled by a Greyjoy lord not of their blood, with only ships at his command, and no land army to stop the bandits rampaging through their farms and villages. I am aware, my lord Tyrion."
Theon's frown was immediate. Tyrion was fairly sure she hadn't meant the description as an insult to him; the boy had done more than as well as he could and despite everything, trade still flowed through Lannisport up and down the entire coast. It was the reason anyone in the West could still eat at all.
"Your proposal?" Sansa prodded.
Tyrion cleared his throat, discarding all the rest of his planned words. "I would swear fealty to King Jon and reclaim Casterly Rock in his name. Men would desert from my father's army, if given another Lannister to whom to swear–" To Sansa's credit, her face remained as unmoving as if he'd made a reasonable claim. "And I would marry a wife of King Jon's choosing, carrying her family's support with me in this cause."
"We would get a Lannister vassal," Sansa repeated.
Tyrion dipped his head. "King Jon's first vassal, actually, seeing as your brother Bran refused to kneel." A million cripple jokes entered his head, but bravely, Tyrion fought them back.
"And you would take a wife of our choosing," Sansa continued. Tyrion dipped his head again. "And in return, you would receive a castle we control. Anything else?"
"Lannister support," Tyrion reiterated. "And subduing the unrest in the Westerlands with my Lannister name and men."
"In return for a castle. A castle whom we have been supplying and defending," Sansa clarified. "A castle that Lord Greyjoy, here, has maintained through all the trials that plague the West at present. A castle that thanks to his efforts, we are not in any danger of losing."
Theon's eyes flicked towards her momentarily, a pleased look in their depths. Then he was back to staring at Tyrion.
"A castle that is my home," Tyrion replied, a hint of steel filling his voice. "If King Jon plans to rule over all the kingdoms, and not just the North, it is in his interest to return our castle to its rightful rulers – who will support him. He cannot gain further allies in any of the Seven Kingdoms while holding Casterly Rock. The Starks cannot act so outraged that Balon Greyjoy claims to rule them while submitting the West to the rule of a different Greyjoy."
And finally, a hint of warmth touched the smile on Sansa's face. "Your terms are acceptable, my lord Tyrion. However…"
Right as Tyrion was blinking in shock at the whiplash from her change, a new fear clenched at his gut. "However?"
"You shall swear fealty as a vassal to King Jon, who shall declare you Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West," Sansa continued. "And, at the conclusion of the war, once Jon rules in King's Landing, we will gladly cede our holding of Casterly Rock to you."
Tyrion should have expected it; the Starks had a war on at present and little interest in his home falling to savagery. "And what of the Westerlands?"
"You shall take a wife of our choosing, as you said," Sansa replied. "And use her family's support to reclaim order in the West – but your Lannister troops, and your wife's, will fight for King Jon on our way to the South and your home."
Those… might actually be decent terms, Tyrion was shocked to note. "I'll send a raven to Yara in the hour and see if she agrees…"
But Sansa was shaking her head. "We already have an alliance with the Greyjoys." She gestured to Theon, who raised an eyebrow in amusement. "There's no need to waste Jon's only sworn vassal on the same alliance. No, my lord. You will be marrying…" Sansa savored the moment, the vicious wolf. A smile cut across her face. "Lady Rosalyn Frey."
Tyrion must not have heard correctly. "Rosalyn… Frey?"
Sansa gave a deep nod. "Engage her father's support and you shall have his 5,000 men to establish order in the West. Fail to get Walder's support…" She shrugged. "And your task will be much more difficult."
"Walder Frey is no friend to the Starks," Tyrion said. "He would need cajoling, and bribing, and may not ever agree, not even with that."
Sansa shrugged. Her smile was full of teeth. "Then tell him you're planning on betraying us. He may be interested in aiding you with that."
Theon spun towards her in horror.
Sansa took a long drink, her hand on the goblet not showing the slightest quiver.
Tyrion stood gaping at her. She was playing a dangerous game, uniting the Houses of Frey and Lannister even more strongly – two families with grievances against the Starks. She was trusting Tyrion – to an irrational amount, yet again, gods dammit. Or perhaps planning some even more complex betrayal, herself.
"You're a skilled courtier, my lord Tyrion." When Sansa spoke, this time, her tone was direct. "And an unsurpassed negotiator. We shall have to pass an army south and across the Twins would be our preferred route. An alliance with Walder Frey would benefit King Jon greatly, as would Frey's 5,000 troops reinforcing us almost as soon as we leave the North. It will be an incomparably valuable alliance, should you be able to forge it. One that would benefit both Stark and Lannister as greatly as any I could imagine."
One that will give me the power to cut off the Stark supply lines at the Neck, Tyrion knew. But, surely, didn't Sansa know this just as well?!
She took another sip of her wine, still watching him.
It was a gamble. A gamble on friendship, a gamble on their new peace, a gamble on winning the Great Game.
A gamble that armed both Stark and Lannister more strongly, and placed their blades against the other's throat.
Yet Sansa still watched him.
One hand might hold a blade at the other's throat, but the other was still extended in friendship. Sansa had not mistreated Tyrion; she had saved his life, had risked her own to save Jaime's, had included Tyrion in her counsel, had given Tyrion as an advisor to Theon while ruling his home. She had always wanted Tyrion's friendship – and never needed him weak in order to trust him.
"As Baelish caused the conflict between the Lannisters and Starks," Sansa had once said, back in those halls of Casterly, "I expect he'd have every reason to kill Jaime to keep us from being able to end it."
Striding forward, Tyrion picked up the pitcher of wine from her table. He poured it into a goblet, not stopping until the wine neared the rim.
Tyrion raised his goblet to Sansa. "To the Lannister, Stark alliance."
Sansa raised her own back. "Long may Jon reign."
"Long may Jon reign," Tyrion echoed.
They both drank.
Tyrion wasn't sure what to do with his instant status as one of the most important lords of the Stark army. Try not to get himself killed, he supposed. Whether he betrayed the Starks or not, Lannisters were not well-liked in the North – and he was the least of the Lannisters. The chance of his death always loomed. From my father, as well.
"Rosalyn Frey?" Theon questioned, pouring himself half a goblet.
Sansa shrugged. "I'd have had him snare Lysa Arryn, if I thought he could do it," she said into her goblet.
Tyrion smirked. "Believe me, princess: I've tried."
...
An hour later, Tyrion left far more tipsy than he'd entered, and Sansa herself wasn't seeing straight, even having consumed less than half the wine he had. Gods, but the dwarf could hold his drink.
But Theon was leaving the hall behind Tyrion and Sansa was sober enough to realize that wasn't right.
"Theon," she called out, trying to get up as her skirts pinned under her chair leg and she struggled to free herself.
Theon stopped halfway down the empty hall. "Yes, Princess?"
She frowned again, hating that he'd started calling her that. But she'd untangled her feet, leaning on her chair for support. "I'd hoped we could talk."
She missed him fiercely. Even just this small meeting had been torture, how he'd barely spoken, even over the mulled wine. She couldn't stand this gulf between them, this gulf that had formed for no good… well, maybe for a good reason, one that she'd caused, but her head was too fuzzy to remember what.
She wanted him back.
"I'd hoped we could talk," she repeated more softly when he still hadn't replied.
A long sigh dragged out of him. "I believe we just were. I'm tired, Princess. Sailed a long way in response to a letter." He gestured a hand toward a distant part of the castle. "I believe Prince Oberyn is less fatigued, if you're in need of company. It's a shame Loras couldn't make the trip."
And Theon strode off down the great hall without another word, leaving Sansa alone in his wake.
...
"Jon!" Margaery called across the courtyard. Her breath plumed in the air as she wove her way between the men saddling their horses, the wisps of snow falling in the early dawn growing heavier by the minute.
Next to his horse, Jon stopped and turned towards her. With one glance at her face, desperate and in distress, he murmured farewells to the lords waiting at his side, including Jaime, and crossed the distance to Margaery. Snow crunched under his tread. Jaime turned to fixing the saddle of his own horse; he had experience pretending not to exist.
"What is it?" Jon whispered the moment he neared Margaery, taking her gloved hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.
Margaery swallowed. It had seemed a simple thing, in her head, but saying the words aloud was another matter entirely.
"Every day that we wait, your claim grows weaker," she finally whispered. "Daenerys won't attack Loras – not for something so petty as a rogue sister marrying her rival. Not and lose the support of every lord in Westeros by attacking when Loras has done nothing to her."
Jon's frown deepened. Then again, he always looked distraught when deep in thought.
"Let me stand by your side," Margaery continued, stepping closer. Her hand had never left his own and her slender fingers tightened over his. "Let me fight for you in my own way. I'm done waiting in the shadows. I'm tired of hearing the gossip against you, the petty squabbles, without being able to put an end to them–"
His mouth was against hers. She responded instinctively, pressing into him, pulling him closer, her hand gripping desperately at the furred front of his cloak–
Finally, Jon pulled away. "Alright," he breathed against her lips. "I wasn't looking forward to waiting, either."
She smiled, struggling to catch her breath in the frozen air. Her gaze remained locked on him, pretending all in the courtyard weren't staring in shock at their public embrace.
"As soon as I return," Jon said with solemnity, dropping her hand. "We'll be wed."
Margaery's heart pounded in her chest. She hated promises, hated still waiting, still a secret, hated knowing he was heading to face a man so evil that Sansa had told her almost nothing of her own history married to him.
But Margaery couldn't delay an army. Couldn't ask him to do that.
At least, not and have it work.
She reached for his hand again and Jon gave it. With her other, she tucked her lacy handkerchief under the bands of his armor. "Announce it," she whispered. "Don't let all of Winterfell think you only a Stark errand boy."
Amusement twisted Jon's mouth. "Am I not?"
"Jon!" she protested, and his grin widened.
"Alright," Jon laughed. "I'll let them know I'm your errand boy, too."
Before she could protest again, he strode back to his horse, swinging up into the saddle with the grace of a born warrior. "Lady Margaery and I are betrothed!" Jon called out to the gathered men and women in the courtyard. "We will be wed upon my return. We ride for the Dreadfort. Hyah!"
With a crack of his reins, Jon was off. The men in the courtyard swung into their own saddles, their horses following behind Jon's and out into the falling snow. Lord Gideon Bolton rode beside him, with Steelshanks just behind. Karstark and Glover followed after that, as Jaime spurred his mount past them all to rejoin Jon at the head of the column.
Theon blew Margaery a saucy kiss as he rode off behind the rest and she caught it with a smile, pretending every horse hoof from their company didn't feel like a blade slid between her ribs.
Barely a hundred men rode with Jon. She had to remind herself that this was only the forward scouting party, that Jon knew what he was doing, that Robb hadn't died from the battle taking Casterly Rock, nor from the arrow that had hit him.
No, it was a different kind of blade that she had to protect Jon from. And that he'd just given her the power to do. She looked forward to making those Northern rat-bastard ladies eat their words. Jon was a king and he was Margaery's and she would make those ladies kneel.
Margaery turned to the lords, ladies, and servants gathered in the courtyard, her most beautific smile already in place, with her words graciously accepting their congratulations already on her lips.
But she looked around in surprise, realizing Sansa wasn't there.
And no one had come to see off Theon.