Chapter 11: Blood in the Water Attracts the Sharks

The wedding ceremony was rather quick, though it was held twice: once with the Andal rites in the temple at Riverrun, and once in the godswood of the same castle, which stood on an island amidst the rivers.

Both Robb and Margaery seemed pensive, as if, despite expecting to take this step, they were caught off guard by having done it so soon.

For Robb, it felt like a sign of destiny to marry in the same castle that had witnessed his parents' union many years before, but he was saddened by the absence of his mother and all his siblings. Margaery fared slightly better, as she had her father and two brothers present, though he realized that her mother was also absent.

Given the haste—everyone would be leaving the next morning, leaving troops to defend the fortress—there wasn't time for a bedding ceremony as tradition dictated, much to the dismay of the majority of lords and knights who would have loved to see Margaery naked. On Robb's side, however, the women would have been very few anyway, including Dacey and Brienne.

Brynden chased away the onlookers, grumbling:
"Off with you! When we've won the war, they'll remarry in the Sept of Baelor, have a proper bedding ceremony, and you can stare at the girl's tits as much as you like! Now leave them alone! Who could possibly do their duty in bed with you lot gawking? Just looking at your faces would make me go soft, even if Jonquil herself offered to suck me off!"

When the doors to the chamber closed behind them, the two young people looked at each other, embarrassed.

"So… here we are…" Robb began, hesitant.

"Why? Would you rather be somewhere else?" she asked, sarcastically.

But, just like during the engagement, though this sort of thing was her forte—though she had long anticipated seducing him and turning him into her puppet—the speed with which things had unfolded and her lack of control over them made her slightly uneasy as well.

Robb approached. She was so beautiful he was a bit shy.

"I fear I lack much experience…"

"Don't worry, leave it to me…"

"Right… I forgot this isn't your first dance…"

"My lord, do you truly wish to speak of Renly Baratheon at this very moment? I thought I had a different effect on men" she teased.

Robb looked sheepish.

"Forgive me, my lady. I… I feel uneasy… but mostly, I fear I have trouble trusting people… especially of late."

Margaery sighed, but in a calculated way, only pretending to be annoyed.

"I'm not pregnant, you know. The Tully handmaids witnessed my moon's blood just last week."

Then she approached him affectionately and placed a hand on his face.

"What's the matter? Why don't you want to trust me?"

Robb hesitated before replying.

"The thing is… I need this alliance to work. And as the heir, I've always known I'd marry for political reasons, even before the war.

But… you're so good at making everything seem… like you truly believe it… like you actually want me… that it makes me pull back, instead, as though it's just another trap meant to ensnare me… to manipulate me.

And so, even though I know it's naïve or foolish to expect, I wish we could speak honestly with each other… so that perhaps this marriage can work, no matter how it began… as my parents' marriage did."

Margaery looked at him with a mix of impatience and compassion.

"My house has proven a loyal ally to your cause. You have nothing to fear."

"Do I? Because for weeks now, a doubt has been gnawing at me, and recent events have brought it back to mind.

When we defeated Tywin Lannister, and you came all the way to the edge of his lands… which of the two sides were you trying to help?"

"How can you doubt…?"

"I NEED to know! Or I'll spend my life looking over my shoulder! Wondering if I'm merely biding my time until the next betrayal… or if, just to become queen, you would have married anyone—Renly, Joffrey, or whoever else."

Margaery looked wounded.
"A wolf. Through and through. And to think I was warned. Yet Garlan speaks so highly of you…"

Robb felt embarrassed.
"I'm not cut out for diplomacy, it's true. And I fear you haven't seen me at my best… it's been a very hard time."

Margaery decided to take advantage of the opening. She gave him a provocative look and approached him again, speaking playfully, trying to change the subject.

"You've asked two very personal questions, my lord… shouldn't you show me the same honesty in return?
I'd like to know, too… if you've been with other women… if I should worry about you fathering bastards across the Seven Kingdoms…"

Robb seemed scandalized.
"I haven't… well, actually… once, in Winterfell… with a noble Northern lady… but we were both inexperienced… and she didn't conceive… I have a bastard brother, and I'd never want that life for one of my children."

His wife was pleased to have turned the tables. But then he looked her straight in the eye, with a gaze that brooked no argument.
"…however, YOU still haven't answered my question. Either of them."

This time, Margaery showed a flicker of irritation and pulled away from him.

"Damn you! NO! I'm not a maiden, but… it was a long time ago, and… it wasn't Renly… it couldn't have been… in truth, we never even…"

"So… the rumors about him were true?" Robb asked, horrified. Unlike in the Reach or Dorne, people in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms were far less tolerant.

"Unfortunately, yes. Or fortunately, depending on your perspective."

"And so… you would have married anyone, just to be queen? Even Joffrey?"

The young woman flinched and turned her back to him, offended.

Robb softened.

He was falling for it completely, but at the same time he held his ground.

"Don't misunderstand me… my lady: perhaps you think I won't trust you anymore if you tell me the truth, but it's quite the opposite.

I'll trust you far more if you tell me an unpleasant truth than if you keep on with a comfortable lie.

The past is the past. I understand that everyone acts in their own interest, and I don't doubt your house's loyalty now. But I may never trust you if you continue to lie to me."

"Damn it, YES. We came to support the Lannisters, on Littlefinger's advice."

She spat it out all at once, wounded.

"Although… to tell the truth… we weren't completely convinced… it seemed useful at the time, but… given the choice, we would have preferred to take them out of the picture… It's just that it seemed your mother and Brienne were involved in Renly's murder… or at least, Loras was so convinced…"

"Yes, I understand," Robb sighed. "I imagine it wasn't easy… believing the story about sorcery and shadow assassins."

Margaery turned toward him, her tone contrite.
"My Lord, I assure you that—"

Robb took her hands in his.
"There's no 'My Lord.' To you, I'm just Robb… Margaery."

It was the first time he'd called her by her name.

"Thank you. Thank you for telling me the truth. I know I forced you into such a painful test, but it was very important to me."

Margaery looked at him, surprised and, in some ways, admiring.

But then, she glimpsed something else in her husband's blue eyes.

"You… you're not just distrustful. You're also… insecure."

Robb looked away, as if in shame.

"That's the truth, isn't it?" the young woman continued, surprised by her own words. "You fear you're not up to the task, despite all you've accomplished. You seem to constantly question what the right course of action is."

"Well, can you blame me? The situation keeps changing, and no matter how successful I am, everything still falls apart. It feels like the gods are playing dice with all our lives.
I used to have my mother to help me decide, but…"

"And you haven't thought—you haven't thought, Robb—that maybe you could ask for advice? From others, from me? That you don't have to carry that burden alone?"

"I… I'm learning, in fact, to delegate and ask for help. But at the same time, everyone expects me to always appear confident and know what to do."

"You don't always have to appear confident with me, Robb. I'm your wife, not your vassal.

It's a political union, true, but that's all the more reason: I have both the power and the influence to help you reach places you couldn't on your own."

"What do you mean?"

Margaery gave him a sly smile.

"Surely you didn't think… that marrying a Tyrell meant just acquiring her father's swords and money, did you?

Robb, my house has influence unlike any other in the Seven Kingdoms.

My mother is a Hightower; her family has ties to both the Citadel and the Faith. The Game of Thrones isn't just about swords. It's also about politics.

And while your Northern women sometimes govern in their husbands' stead or even take up arms, Southern women are taught much more than how to sing and embroider lace… They learn how to weave alliances and make decisions."

"So how could you help me?" he asked, intrigued.

"For instance, your idea of sending ravens to all the houses to denounce Stannis's crimes. A brilliant plan. But incomplete.
Imagine how much greater an impact it would have if, say, a week after your messages were sent… the High Septon himself declared Stannis illegitimate."

"Your family could really achieve that? Persuade the High Septon to… but on what grounds?"

"Grounds? Robb, don't you see? You're so fixated on honor and respecting formalities, yet you don't grasp the actual implications of rules and procedures. Every time a technicality is added to a ritual, it's not just to complicate matters for the sake of it. It's creating a potential loophole for the future.

The title of King on the Iron Throne has never been solely a hereditary political position. It's a religiously sanctioned one: only someone officially anointed with the seven oils in the Sept of Baelor by the Faith is recognized by lords and commoners as the rightful king. Being the previous king's rightful heir isn't enough: how many times, during the Targaryen reign, was the eldest son bypassed for one reason or another in favor of a younger brother?

But once officially proclaimed by the High Septon, that person was the king, and no one could argue.
Even Aegon II seemed more legitimate because he was crowned there, unlike his sister Rhaenyra. And the Blackfyre pretenders were never considered true kings for the same reason."

"And so, even if Stannis is Robert's rightful heir, since he hasn't received that anointing in the Temple…"

"…he isn't the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms," the girl concluded with a smile.

"In fact, one could even argue," she added slyly, "that the Starks, who knelt willingly only to the Targaryens… had every right, once their dynasty ended, to choose whether to remain part of the Seven Kingdoms or not. Your kind willingly bent the knee to Robert, too, but you're not obligated to do the same with Stannis… especially if he isn't officially recognized as king."

Robb Stark looked at his bride as though she were from another world.
"I… I could see for myself that you're incredibly beautiful, but…"

"…but no one warned you there was a brain inside this pretty little head? Well, now you know… husband mine.
And you're lucky… it's included in the package," she concluded, pleased.

Robb moved closer to her, suddenly feeling very fortunate. He rested his forehead against hers, breathing slowly, the atmosphere shifting.
"I'm starting to think… that all of this will work out…"

"Good…" she whispered, savoring the moment. "And now, start doing your duty, or all those people with their ears glued to the door will start worrying you're like Renly… but try to do a better job than with that Northern girl, if you can…"

"Gods… I get the feeling you'll never let me live that down, will you?"

"Who knows… Try to change my mind."

Arya couldn't forgive. And she wouldn't forgive, but for now, she had to put on a brave face.

It had taken days to evade the Brotherhood's pursuit, an effort made all the more difficult by the fact that they were both on foot—when they'd let him go, they had returned Sandor Clegane's weapons and armor, but had kept his horse—and further complicated by the fact that the Hound always moved in full armor, which slowed him down. Yet he was still quick enough to catch Arya if she tried to escape, of that she was certain.

At the same time, paradoxically, the fact that he was such a formidable warrior, that he needed her alive to claim a ransom, and that he intended to sell her only to a member of her family, made her feel strangely safe. Even someone she hated, but who was more familiar, was better, for the moment, than her new friends who had turned out to be traitors… ever since they'd sold Gendry to the Red Woman.

It was thanks to Arya that they managed to shake off their pursuers. Having become an expert in their tricks and usual routes, the girl was now a master at moving through natural environments unnoticed and traversing terrain where no tracks could be left.

It seemed that Robb's troops had moved west, so they headed there, albeit taking long and winding detours.

Eventually, they arrived at an inn near High Heart. Exhausted after several days of travel, they entered, seeking food and rest. Sandor had some money, and Arya chose not to ask where he had gotten it.

There were about half a dozen other patrons seated at different tables. The innkeeper served food and drink without asking questions. Three of the patrons looked like soldiers, and Sandor cautiously sat with his back to them to avoid being recognized, keeping his ears alert nonetheless.

Arya felt uneasy as soon as they entered, experiencing a sense of déjà vu. Gradually, she realized why: she had seen them all before.
Worse yet, all three were on her list.

Dunsen, with the bull-horned helmet that Gendry had forged for himself but had been stolen when they attacked the Night's Watch caravan.

Polliver, nearly as tall as the Hound but less bulky and almost entirely bald, carried as a trophy Needle, the small sword her brother Jon had given her and which he had taken when they captured her.

Chyswick, the disgusting soldier who often helped Ser Tickler torture prisoners at Harrenhal, tormented Hot Pie, forcing him into dark, creepy places, asking if he preferred to see ghosts—or become one.

She whispered to her traveling companion:
"We're in trouble. Those men are…"

"Gregor's men," he grunted. "Shut up and don't draw attention."

But as the three men got rowdier, drinking and toasting, they began to glance around.

"I'm telling you," Chyswick continued, "not having that leech Gregor as a commander anymore has been a blessing. Sure, for a moment it seemed like peace was coming here, which would've been bad for business…but soon Riverrun and Stone Hedge will turn into battlefields…and no one will notice if travelers get lightened of their coin—or if someone has some fun with the girls…"

"Yeah, but when the fighting starts, it's better to head northeast. Things should still be calm over there," Polliver noted. "After all, neither the Young Wolf nor Stannis will have much love for us…"

"Still better than riding with the Mountain," Dunsen confirmed. "He could've killed you just for looking at him wrong. I don't know what happened to him, but I hope those wolves in the woods, led by that giant she-wolf, tore him apart alive! That'd be funny—a Hound torn up by wolves! I never want to see that mutt again for the rest of my…"

He was about to say "life" when his gaze fell on the dog-shaped helmet of Sandor Clegane.
"Damn me…that's…"

Now the others turned as well, warily rising from their table and pushing their chairs aside. A chilling silence fell over the inn. The other patrons, sensing trouble, fled. The innkeeper locked himself in the back room. Arya swallowed hard. Sandor Clegane stopped eating and simply snorted.

Polliver reached for his two-handed sword while the other two fanned out to either side.

"Damn me if that isn't Sandor Clegane, little brother to our ex-commander. What are you doing here, Clegane? I thought you were dead in King's Landing."

"And I thought you were dead here in the Riverlands," he rasped. "Seems we were both wrong."

"Or maybe," Chyswick sneered, "that's just Clegane's helmet, but that's not him. Maybe it's his ghost. Or someone else stole it."

"Yeah, show us your ugly face, Sandor, so we can see if it's really you. Let's see the pretty face your brother shoved into the fire."

Sandor stiffened.
"Even the helmet you're wearing, Dunsen, isn't yours," Arya squeaked. "It belongs to someone else—and that sword, Polliver, you stole it from me."

They noticed her for the first time.

"Well, look at that…I've seen this girl before," Polliver smirked. "Strange how paths cross. So what's this, Sandor? You screwing her? Maybe you need a hand—or we could help you sell her to someone who likes little girls…maybe after ripping out that tongue of hers since she clearly doesn't need it…"

Clegane shot Arya a single glance before rising heavily. He turned, glaring at the three men with disdain, then cast a look at their table.

"You were eating chicken, too?"

Polliver looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "What kind of question is that?"

"It means I'll soon have to eat three more!" he growled, hurling a stool at Dunsen to his right as Arya ducked under a table.

Polliver drew his sword quickly, but Sandor was quicker despite his size. He shifted to the left, delivered a powerful kick to Chyswick that sent him sprawling into another table, then firmly grabbed Polliver's forearm to stop him from using his weapon and smashed his forehead into the man's face. As Polliver reeled, the Hound drew his own blade.

Arya crawled on all fours beneath the legs of tables and chairs, hoping not to be spotted.

Sandor was raining blows down on Polliver, who managed to defend himself, when Dunsen threw the same stool back at him. In an instant, Clegane turned and cleaved the stool in two with his sword, but the distraction gave Polliver an opening.

Chyswick, swearing and shouting, staggered to his feet.

Dunsen took advantage of Polliver's counterattack to grab Clegane from the side and stab a dagger into the gap above his belt where his armor joined. The man let out a bellow of rage.

Arya smashed a water jug over Dunsen's head, making him drop the dagger he'd just pulled from the wound before he could strike again.

Polliver landed a couple of hits, but most glanced off the Hound's armor except for one that grazed his left arm. Sandor swung his sword upward, slicing Polliver from thigh to shoulder in a shallow but long cut. The wound gave him a moment's respite.

Dunsen recovered slightly and drew an axe from his belt.

Arya grabbed the dagger he had dropped and rolled in the opposite direction.

Chyswick seized Sandor by his injured left arm and held him in place.

Sandor kicked Polliver's knee, causing him to drop to one knee.

Then Arya grabbed Chyswick by the collar from behind and stabbed the dagger into his neck and vertebrae once, twice, three times.

Sandor freed himself and preempted Dunsen's attack from the right, swinging the great sword in a wide arc that slashed horizontally across Dunsen's belly from left to right. Dunsen collapsed to his knees, staring at his entrails spilling through his hands.

Polliver struck upward, but Sandor deflected it with his armored left forearm. His opponent regained his footing, and the duel resumed.

Meanwhile, Chyswick lay face down on the floor, and Arya kept stabbing his neck as if possessed, repeatedly asking, "Do you want to see the ghosts or become one? Do you want to see the ghosts or become one?"

Sandor and Polliver locked blades in the narrow space between two tables. Despite his injuries, Sandor's greater strength made the difference. He pushed his opponent back against a table, then diverted the blade diagonally and slashed deep between Polliver's chest and left arm.

Polliver screamed. He attempted a counterattack, wielding his sword with only his right hand, but Sandor redirected his blade to the left, intercepted Polliver's sword with brute force, and sent it flying out of his hand. Then Sandor lowered his sword and drove it straight through Polliver's gut, piercing him completely.

At that point, he turned to Arya, who was still hacking at Chyswick's neck, chanting. Grabbing her by the collar, he said, "Enough, girl. He's already dead."

Arya snapped out of her trance, looking around as she panted heavily. Her heart raced, her eyes wild. She was entirely covered in Chyswick's blood.

She picked up the horned helmet that had fallen to the ground and clutched it to her chest for a moment. Then, with a venomous expression, she walked to Polliver's bag and retrieved Needle. The blade was in perfect condition, just as she had left it.

It felt good to hold it again.

Sandor approached from behind.
"If you want, this one's still alive. But not for much longer."

Arya stepped slowly and deliberately in front of Polliver. Her gaze was sharp and emotionless, yet she relished the moment.

"No, please. I…"

"You remember where the heart is, don't you?"

Arya slid Needle under Polliver's jerkin, into the center of his chest. Then she pushed upward. And smiled.

The commanders of the allied troops had roughly outlined their king's plan to their soldiers, lifting their morale somewhat. They were bitter and angry over the betrayal they had endured, eager for revenge, and reminded that they were still strong and could win.

The approximate numbers of the enemy forces, after losses in battle and defections, were as follows: 42,000 for the Allies and 58,000 for the Loyalists. The difference remained largely unchanged.

Robb left 5,000 men at Harrenhal under Lord Tallhart's command before heading swiftly to Riverrun for the wedding.
The next day, Margaery departed southward with a 2000-person escort to return to Highgarden, a journey that would take weeks. She sent a raven to her brother Willas, asking him to contact the High Septon in Oldtown to arrange a meeting as soon as possible, especially if the Septon came to them.

Meanwhile, another 5,000 soldiers—nearly all those remaining from the Riverlands—under Edmure's direct command, entrenched themselves in the ancestral Tully fortress.

The remaining 30,000 men were divided into five units of roughly 6,000 each (about 2,000 cavalry and 4,000 infantry and archers per unit) under the commands of Robb himself (with Jason Mallister as his deputy), Greatjon Umber (with Marq Piper), Brynden Tully (with Loras Tyrell), Randyll Tarly (with Robett Glover), and Garlan Tyrell (with Harrion Karstark).

Garlan's unit was sent beyond the river, northeast of the castle, to prevent another three-sided siege like Jaime Lannister's and to protect the entrance to Blackwood lands. Brynden's unit followed, then continued north to besiege the Freys.

Greatjon Umber moved south to protect Pinkmaiden and Acorn Hall from potential attacks (and Marq Piper's presence helped rally local support), while Robb launched an attack on the Brackens, and Randyll Tarly moved north-northeast toward Harroway Town and Darry.

The idea was to spread out in all directions to make it harder for Stannis to pursue them effectively while controlling most of the Riverlands territory. Smaller units could forage more easily and move faster. They couldn't engage in large-scale battles but could conduct raids and ambushes. If necessary, they could send messengers to coordinate with allies for larger attacks.

Stannis, upon reaching Harrenhal and expecting another pitched battle, reluctantly left 10,000 men to besiege the fortress. He was pressured by his gold-hungry allies and feared that the garrison might otherwise launch dangerous sorties. He then headed west, convinced he would find the entire enemy force entrenched around Riverrun—only to discover they had employed a similar maneuver.

Leaving 15,000 troops to besiege the castle (from only two sides but in sufficient numbers to repel any counterattacks from Edmure or Garlan), Stannis realized the enemy strategy and pondered how to counter it.

Remaining as a single 33,000-strong army would make them slow, easily detectable, and impossible to supply. However, dividing the forces to pursue the enemy would expose them to counterattacks and ambushes.

He opted for a compromise: a 3,000-cavalry vanguard and reconnaissance force led by Lord Bolton, whose insight and knowledge of enemy tactics he trusted. The remaining troops were split into two 15,000-strong units: one led by his loyal and capable bannerman Justin Massey, heading south, and one under Stannis himself, pursuing Robb and Randyll Tarly.

Melisandre remained with him, while Davos was left in charge of Harrenhal's siege alongside the Freys (whom he disliked). Bar Emmon, unimaginative but cautious, was assigned to the siege of Riverrun.

A long war of skirmishes, ambushes, counterattacks, and pursuits was beginning.

Meanwhile, the rest of the realm was burning.

Yara Greyjoy stood at a crossroads.

For weeks, a revolt had openly broken out in the Iron Islands against her father Balon Greyjoy's authority.

The failure of the invasion of the North, the heavy losses they had suffered, and, most of all, the humiliation, had dealt a severe blow to the pride of the Ironborn nobles, and their frustration now needed an outlet.

Why, they asked, had Lord Balon insisted on invading the North, where there was little to pillage anyway?

Couldn't he have accepted Robb Stark's offer, who, in the meantime, had won his war against the Lannisters? If they had raided Lannisport while they had the chance, they might have gained independence from the Iron Throne and a vast fortune.

Instead, both the Westerlands and the Reach had been placed on high alert, and their fleets now guarded their coasts.

After the failure of the rebellion ten years ago, this was yet another demonstration of Balon's incompetence. His desire for petty vengeance had outweighed the needs of his people.

Since the nobles had gathered at Pyke to challenge his authority, her father had locked himself away in his old tower and hadn't come out.

Meanwhile, the various fleets had returned home, often not without skirmishes among rival factions. Old Wyk was in open revolt, as was Blacktyde, while Great Wyk was split into three factions—Sealskin Point, Hammerhorn, and Pebbleton. Harlaw remained loyal for the moment, except for the Ten Towers, which had declared for an alternative ruler. Saltcliffe and Orkmont, for the time being, were merely biding their time.

Yara didn't know what to do. She had perhaps two hundred men personally loyal to her—a significant feat for a woman in the Iron Islands—but while she agreed with the absurdity of the campaign, she didn't want to rebel against her own father or defend him against overwhelming odds.

Besides, he wasn't giving orders or formulating a strategy, secluded in his tower, perhaps conversing with ghosts.

It would have been simpler if Victarion were still alive, she thought. True, Balon's brother had been a valiant warrior but neither a charismatic leader nor a skilled politician. Still, his name might have united the factions and ended the infighting before it began.

Instead, her uncle was dead, poisoned by the arrows of those damned men of the Crag. Yara made a mental note to avenge him one day. She also remembered Victarion's final words as he lay on their retreating ship, delirious and in pain.

"Yara... when we return home... blood will flow. Promise me... whatever happens... he must never sit the Seastone Chair... or our people will be doomed..."

Just then, her other uncle, Aeron, the Drowned Priest, entered the room. His long green-gray robe, his unkempt beard matted with seaweed, and his fanatical eyes always unsettled her.

When he spoke, though, he said,
"Yara, the time has come. If we are to prevent the Iron Islands from destroying themselves, we must name a new leader in place of your father.

The men speak highly of your prowess in battle and your leadership. With Victarion gone, you may be the only one who can unite our people.
Submit to the ritual, Yara, and prove yourself worthy of the Seastone Chair."

Robb Stark gazed impassively at the smoldering ruins before him.

Once, this had been Stone Hedge, the ancestral seat of House Bracken. Now, after his forces had besieged and taken it, cutting down its soldiers and taking the treacherous lord's family and retainers hostage, they had looted it and set it aflame.

At first, the fire had only licked at the wooden beams, but as it spread, it weakened the supporting structures. Four hours later, the central tower had collapsed sideways, crashing into the main hall and obliterating it.

Amid the screams, tears, and despair of Lord Bracken's wife, daughters, and servants, their ancestral home would soon be nothing but stone and ash.

Robb forced himself to ignore their cries. Once, he had fought alongside these people and would have done anything to protect them, but war was war.

He turned his horse away, passing the hostages. He had given strict orders that no harm was to come to them, but he instructed a messenger to send word to Stannis Baratheon's advancing army, poised to besiege Riverrun: if Jonos Bracken didn't withdraw his troops and abandon his support for Stannis, one of his family members would be executed every week.

Once the music starts playing, you can't stop dancing

The ravens sent by Robb Stark caused chaos in the North.

The Northmen, accustomed to viewing themselves as a single, united land, were aghast at the thought of harboring traitors among them.

Orders were sent to the houses near Bolton lands to attack the traitors' holdings and, if possible, capture Ramsay alive.

Hother and Mors Umber, the massive and formidable uncles of Greatjon, stormed towards the Dreadfort with their forces, expecting to find it besieged on three sides by other loyalist houses.

Growing wary, they wondered how many others might have turned traitor to the Boltons. But true to their banner's spirit, the roaring giant, they pressed on.

What they found surprised them: the Dreadfort was completely abandoned. There was no trace of Ramsay Snow or his men.

A similar fate befell Marlon Manderly, the corpulent yet capable cousin of Wyman and captain of his troops.

Marching into the neighboring lands of the Hornwood with five hundred men, he found traces of combat here and there, the small castle with its gates wide open...and desolately empty.

Exploring all the rooms one by one, they made a macabre discovery that enraged them to their very cores.

Inside a high tower of what had once been her ancestral home, Donella Manderly, widow of the Hornwood, lay lifeless on the floor. Her terrifying thinness suggested she had starved to death, as did a horrifying detail: the fingers of her right hand had been bitten off, and her mouth was smeared with blood—she had eaten her own fingers in a desperate attempt to survive.

Beside her body lay a letter, scrawled in blood.

The poor Donella couldn't handle the impact of my virility and decided to start fasting to recover her strength.

Apparently, she couldn't handle the fasting either, and the years caught up with her, claiming her life.

No matter. A septon can testify that we married before a weirwood tree, and thus I am the rightful heir to her lands.

Soon, however, I will fill this loss in my heart by marrying a younger, more beautiful woman who will bring her lands as a dowry.

Tell the traitor Robb Stark and the pups of Winterfell that their hours are numbered.

Ramsay BOLTON
(Recently legitimized by the one true King, Stannis Baratheon, in the name of the Warden of the North, Roose Bolton)

Bran heard Maester Luwin enter the great hall, where he was growing accustomed to ruling in his brother Robb's stead.

The elderly Maester seemed even more distressed than usual, holding a handful of papers, parchments, and other documents.

"What news, Maester Luwin?"

"Not good, my lord. Your brother Robb's suspicions are well-founded. The Boltons are attempting to incite rebellion among some houses against us."

"Where is Ser Rodrik Cassel?"

"He is busy recruiting the additional two thousand men your brother ordered to deal with the threats. I do not wish to sound alarmist, but it is possible the enemy may target Winterfell itself."

Bran thought for a moment.

Was it really possible? Winterfell and the North had never been taken—not from the outside, at least. But from within...

He wished he still had those prophetic dreams he had been having since falling from the tower. By interpreting them correctly, he had been able to give Rodrik Cassel good guidance during the Ironborn invasion. But even without them, he told himself, he had to rise to the occasion. Rickon was only six years old, and it was his duty to protect his brother and the North in Robb's absence.

"Tell me more. What do we know so far?"

"We have received several messages from both loyalists and traitors. It appears that Ramsay Snow had been planning this scheme in detail for quite some time.

Let's start with the Cerwyns: Lady Jonelle, unmarried and thirty-two, is currently leading the house. A knight from a minor house, Kyle Condon, the former right hand of the late Lord Medger, had been in the South until a few weeks ago...but recently returned North and seems to be a man of Roose Bolton.

He proposed marriage to Jonelle and suggested she declare for the Boltons, usurping her younger brother Cley, the rightful heir. Fortunately, Lady Jonelle was cautious and clever: she pretended to accept, allowed Ser Condon into her lands, and then had her guards capture him."

"Good. What else?"

"Barbrey Ryswell, the current widow Dustin, has declared for Roose...but at present, it seems her remaining men have not risen up. It is uncertain how much influence she has over them. That woman has hated the Starks for years."

"But we were warned about her, weren't we?"

"Yes, by Dumfryd Dustin, one of the unmarried uncles of the late Lord, who is in the South with your brother. All the others remain here."

"And could these Dustin uncles assist us...if we managed to contact them without Lady Barbrey finding out?"

"That's an excellent idea, my lord. I will see what I can do."

"What about the rest of the Ryswell family? How many of them remain in the North?"

"The two younger sons of Lord Rodrik, ironically named Rickard and Roose, while the eldest, Roger, is in the South with his father fighting for Stannis."

"Have they raised their armies still in the North?"

"Not yet, but it is certainly only a matter of time."

The young lord gazed at the large map on the table.

"The Ryswells," he finally said, "cannot attack Winterfell without first passing through Glover or Cerwyn lands...the latter through the Dustins...or via the Tallharts...but near them, there are two lakes…"

"Indeed. Other houses to the west shield Winterfell from treachery if they remain loyal. Since the Bolton lands are adjacent to your family's, directly to the east, this is where the greatest danger lies."

Bran studied the map again, uncertain.

"Isn't it strange?" he finally said. "Ramsay tried to claim the Hornwood lands, directly south of his and adjacent to ours. The Dustins declared for the Boltons and tried to court the Cerwyns, whose lands they would have to cross to get here…"

"What do you mean, my lord?"

"It's as if they're trying to encircle us from both the east and the west...Maester Luwin, messages must be sent immediately to the Glovers and the Tallharts. I think Ramsay may have promised them something, just as he did with Lady Cerwyn."

Luwin's eyes widened. Since when had this boy grown so sharp?

"A keen intuition, my lord. But…"

"And if that's the case," Bran continued, "we'll promise them clemency for not telling us...as long as they not only refuse but also reveal the content of the offers. So far, Ramsay Snow has had the advantage of secrecy…"

The elderly Maester smiled. "But now we can turn it against him…"

While returning back, uncertain about their next move, Hother and Mors Umber found themselves caught in a snowstorm.

Amid the blizzard, however, they noticed a sizable group of armed men approaching in the distance. Wary, they ordered their men to form a defensive circle, leveling spears and nocking arrows.

Mors gripped his two-handed axe, while Hother readied his massive sword.

"Who goes there? Announce yourselves or prepare to die!"

"We come in peace," shouted a voice in reply. "We are men of the Karstarks!"

Soon, a man in his fifties stepped forward. He was bundled in heavy coats, his fur-lined hood pulled up, and he carried no weapons, coming as a parley. He had a long beard and hair of ashen brown streaked with gray, his sharp, resolute features weathered by years.

"Well, I'll be damned!"

"Hother, Mors, good day to you. You should remember me, but I'll introduce myself anyway—I am Cregan Karstark."

"Rickard's cousin! Condolences for your loss."

"Thank you," the man replied, though he didn't seem particularly grief-stricken.

"Are you here as ordered by the Stark pup to help us deal with those Bolton traitors? Well, you're a bit late, if you ask me. If it had been up to you, we'd have faced them alone. What held you back?" asked Hother.

"Yeah, and either way," added Mors, "the castle was empty. The bastard has fled."

"I'll answer your questions, gentlemen. In truth… I've come to ask for your help."

"Help? What do you mean?"

"Can you promise that what I'm about to say will remain between us?"

"What's with the secrecy? We are bound to report to the Starks of Winterfell."

"Especially if it involves this treachery. Don't tell me that you…"

Cregan hesitated. Finally, he spoke:
"In a way. A few weeks ago, we received a proposal from the Bolton bastard, shortly after the news of Robb's defeat in the South. He claimed that soon all loyalists would be dead, and the Boltons would be proclaimed Wardens of the North by the Iron Throne."

Both of Greatjon's uncles spat on the ground at those words.

"And he added that if we sided with them, we could have whatever we desired. In particular, he suggested I seize Lady Alys, my cousin's only daughter, marry her, and declare myself the new Lord of Karhold by swearing loyalty to the Boltons."

"Treachery!"

"Infamy!"

"But as you see, I didn't do it."

"However," Hother added with a sharp glare, "you didn't report it to the Starks of Winterfell either."

Cregan looked at his feet. "I… I admit, for a few days, I considered it. As you know, my two poor wives have died without giving me heirs, and I've always come second to that madman Rickard… If Harrion, my cousin's last surviving son, doesn't return from the war either...
...But in the end, I didn't go through with it. Or maybe it was because I hesitated for so long that my father Arnolf and brother Arthos took matters into their own hands. They tried...to usurp my birtright, since...my brother has sons, and i have none".

"What? They seized the girl?"

"Let's say they tried. Arnolf and Arthor gathered a group of loyal soldiers and attempted to capture her. But young Alys, though only sixteen, is tough as steel—a true woman of the North. She had sensed the danger, gathered the help of fifty guards, and… barricaded herself with water and supplies in the great tower of the castle, the one perched on a rocky pinnacle accessible only by a rope bridge… and then she set it on fire."

"Well, I'll be!"

"She's got guts, that girl!"

"And that's when I made my decision. I gathered three hundred men loyal to me and came to ask for your help. I couldn't send a raven—my father controls the Maester and the rookery—and I didn't want to fight my father and younger brother and become a kinslayer. But I also couldn't leave poor Alys there."

The two uncles of Greatjon scrutinized him for a moment longer.

"Well! Better late than never! We'll send messengers to Winterfell with this news, and then… lead the way, Cregan! You'll make up for your hesitation by helping us save your niece!"

"And don't worry! We won't kill your kin… though I can't promise what the Young Wolf will want to do with them when he's back up here."

Alayne Stone had grown well-acquainted with all the residents of the Eyrie.

During the three and a half months she had spent there, the dark-haired girl had become a comforting and helpful presence in that snowy castle atop the mountains.

She greeted Mya Stone, the wild and impertinent girl who led mules up and down the narrow rocky path to the castle. To Sansa, the girl in some ways resembled Arya: a hopeless tomboy. Yet despite her messy, short black hair, Mya was strikingly beautiful, with a cheerful face and stunning blue eyes. She claimed not to remember her father, though almost everyone knew she was one of Robert Baratheon's bastards.

Sansa thought about that word. Bastard.

Now she was a bastard, too.

Despite her role and the respect she held at the castle—even if it wasn't often mentioned to her—she knew. She kept it in mind and acted accordingly.

This made her think of Jon.

She missed him. She missed them all, but she realized, she missed Jon, too. Now she understood better how he must have felt.

Over the years, she had been kind to him but cold, polite but distant. Partly, it had been her mother's influence, but partly it had been what was expected of her.

And now, all she wanted was to hug him and tell him she was sorry.

She shook herself from her thoughts. Sansa had a half-brother who was a bastard, but Alayne didn't.

Alayne made her way to the castle kitchens, where she unexpectedly found Miranda Royce giving instructions on how to serve the guests.

As always, the buxom young widow linked arms with the bastard daughter of the Lord Protector and began chattering away, flitting between topics and firing off questions about her and her father so quickly that Sansa struggled to answer without giving herself away. Still, the daughter of Lord Nestor Royce (cousin to the more famous "Bronze" Yohn Royce and former regent of the Vale during Jon Arryn's tenure as Hand) was always a treasure trove of information, and it was always worth listening to her… if one could get a word in edgewise.

After all, the castle was abuzz with preparations for the upcoming tourney to be held soon in the Vale: many noble lords and knights would be in attendance. Half the time, Miranda gossiped about this or that knight, such as when she revealed that Michel Redfort, youngest son of Lord Horton and current squire to Lyn Corbray, had taken Mya's virginity—and that the girl foolishly believed she could marry him.

The Great Tourney was meant to determine the members of a Falcon Guard—a sort of equivalent to the White Swords for the Lords of the Vale—and to appease the insufferable little Robert Arryn, an eight-year-old brat who behaved as though he were three. Lately, his bouts of convulsions and trembling had become more frequent, whatever his ailment might be, and the castle's Maester now often put him to sleep with potions. Being raised by Lysa Arryn would have ruined anyone: if Jon Arryn's widow and Catelyn's sister had seemed unstable before, Alayne could now say with certainty that she was unhinged. However, Petyr's arrival, for whom Lysa harbored a consuming obsession, had, for the time being, overshadowed the unhealthy relationship she had with her son.

Despite their dislike of the Lady Regent's swift and less-than-prestigious second marriage, the Lords of the Vale had no choice but to accept it. Over time, many had approached her, urging her to declare for Robb Stark, who had sent several ravens with such requests, but the woman had always refused. Now, all of them were gathering for the Tourney… and they were certain to plot against their new Lord. He had left years ago as the heir of the Vale's least important house, grown up as a ward of Lord Hoster Tully at Riverrun, risen to Master of Coin, then Lord of Harrenhal, and finally… returned to the Vale to marry the Regent and become their ruler. No, they could not stand him.

Still, Baelish was thoroughly used to being underestimated. It had been the story of his life since Edmure Tully had nicknamed him "Littlefinger" (for coming from the Fingers and being short for his age), yet he continued to climb the social ladder, brick by brick.

Many of the Lords' secrets had been uncovered by Alayne—whom no one paid attention to—and revealed by Sansa to Petyr, who frequently met with her in secret. During these encounters, he often gave her little lessons in politics, no doubt pleased to seem brilliant, explaining, for instance, the rivalries among the Lords of the Vale and how he exploited them to his advantage.

House Royce had its rivalries with its cadet branch and also with House Corbray, whose Lord, Lyonel, had lost a wife and sickly son years ago. Lyonel's younger brother, Lyn, was a skilled knight who had slain Llewyn Martell during Robert's Rebellion, avenging his father and earning their house's ancestral Valyrian steel sword, Lady Forlorn. The two brothers despised each other, but Lyonel had no other heirs, and the house was in dire financial straits. Now, Baelish was maneuvering Lyonel by arranging a marriage for him with the daughter of a wealthy Gulltown merchant, solving two problems in one stroke, while the younger brother was easier to sway—with money, boys, and pleasures, apparently. Thus, one great house was already on his side.

Alayne reflected on these things as Miranda bombarded her with chatter, eventually confessing her attraction to another young knight, Harry Hardyng, who would compete in the tourney, and her hope to marry him. Sansa flinched.

That Harry was undoubtedly as skilled as he was handsome, but also rather audacious. Alayne often drew attention wherever she went—with her hair of any color, it was inevitable, though she preferred to keep as low a profile as possible—and Miranda teased her playfully for this.

Or is it jealousy? Behind this friendly facade of compliments?

I remember Harry. Just the other day… he made me some rather explicit advances. Better that Miranda doesn't know.

King's Landing was boiling over. Months earlier, the Young Wolf (whom Stannis's troops insisted on labeling a rebel and traitor) had sent word across all Seven Kingdoms that Stannis Baratheon had burned Edric Storm alive, and the populace was in turmoil. Already scarred by the city's assault, with its accompanying rapes, looting, and destruction, the people had rejoiced at the executions of the Lannisters… only to realize that burning people alive was precisely what the Mad King had done.

From the early days, small gatherings of people began forming at street corners—first a few, then larger and larger crowds—to listen to self-styled preachers. They railed against moral decay and corruption, not only among the nobility but also within the clergy of the Seven. They claimed that the High Septons had become indistinguishable from lords and merchants: rich, fat, and corrupt, they preached well but practiced poorly, and no longer had the authority to guide the people.

According to these preachers, it was the sins of the people themselves that attracted disaster upon them. Therefore, they must pray, repent, and purify themselves to banish the evils above their heads. At first indirectly, then increasingly openly, these preachers began to denounce Stannis himself as an enemy of the faith, and thus of the people, as he worshipped a foreign god who demanded human sacrifices. The fish rots from the head.

The fact that the new High Septon—who had remained in Oldtown since his election, initially due to his predecessor's fate in the bread riots, later because of the siege, and then for murkier reasons—had finally declared openly that King Stannis Baratheon was illegitimate for not being officially consecrated by the Faith and for being the follower of a foreign God-only reinforced the obvious and brought the situation dangerously close to breaking point.

So much so that these preachers, while agreeing with the High Septon's opinion, nevertheless rejected his authority, claiming that "a sycophant of the nobility draped in gold and purple is unworthy to represent the people before the gods."

To embody this vision, they roamed barefoot, clad in rough fabrics, with disheveled hair, spending all their time, when not preaching, helping the poor, hungry, and sick, decrying the indifference of the powerful. These reformers called themselves "sparrows," symbolizing humility and their tendency to "sing" their faith everywhere.

Finally, the Sparrows took the ultimate step—which some believed had been planned from the beginning. They elected their own High Septon in opposition to the official one: a robust man in his late forties, with disheveled hair framing a bald crown and a thick beard.

Charismatic, energetic, and tireless in his sermons, the High Sparrow, as he was called, soon began preaching openly to ever-growing crowds, which the city's Gold Cloaks no longer dared disperse for fear of riots. Eventually, he grew bold enough to declare his intentions outright: it was necessary to recreate the Faith Militant that had once served the Church, to protect the faithful, and to form new divisions of Poor Fellows and Warrior's Sons to cleanse corruption from the realm.

While reporting, as always, to Petyr in one of his private chambers, the new Lord seemed so pleased with her work that he wanted to reward her. He had kissed her before, usually gently, but sometimes for longer and expecting her to reciprocate.

Sansa had long understood that she was the weakness of the former Master of Coin, but since her cover depended on him, she didn't dare disobey him… and pretended to willingly comply. And he pretended to believe it.

He was in love with my mother, that much is clear. And my Aunt Lysa, on the other hand, was in love with him. No one truly got what they wanted. And he… he sees me as a replacement for my mother. Certainly, he wouldn't mind if…

"You seem thoughtful, my dear. What's on your mind?"

"I don't understand what's so good about the news I've brought you. On other occasions, I could tell there was something important, even if I didn't understand the meaning, but…"

"My dear, news is more or less important depending on who receives it. And the same fact can be more or less important depending on how you can use it to your advantage. For example, the fact that Miranda Royce wants to marry Harry Hardyng so badly that she openly talks about it is excellent news."

"And why?"

"Because he is absolutely beneath her, that's why. And if sweet Miranda spreads the word, or goes to ask her father, Lord Nestor… he'll worry that his daughter might secretly marry below her station, or sleep with Harry and end up with a bastard in her belly. After all, good old Harry has already fathered two bastards with different women."

Sansa began to understand.

"And so, he'll have her married off sooner than planned, and to someone else—is that what you mean? And that will work to your advantage?"

"Close, my dear. Close." Petyr took her hand in his.

"As strange as it may seem, it's Harry who's important. Not just to me, but also to you."

"To me?"

"Indeed. Let me explain. First of all, it's much easier to marry him off than to find a good match for her, do you follow?

Now, Harry, who seems so useless—he's a ward of Lady Waynwood, another one of the Lords who doesn't look kindly on me, and has no lands or titles of his own—has a particularity that few know about. He is the sole heir to Robert Arryn, the second in the genealogical line to rule the Vale."

"What?"

"Yes. Isn't it extraordinary? Genealogy is a strange thing." He made her count on her fingers, still holding her hands. "Harrold Hardyng, our Harry, is the son of a Waynwood, who in turn is the daughter of Lady Alys Arryn, the only sister of the late Lord Jon… and since Jon Arryn's other brothers are dead and his nephews were killed during Robert's Rebellion…"

"…Harry is second in the line of succession… after little Robert?" Sansa exclaimed, astonished.

"Exactly, my dear," declared Petyr, clearly very pleased with himself. "Few know this detail, and those who do all assume he'll never actually become the heir.
BUT poor little Robert is sickly… it's possible he might not reach adulthood…" he said with a sadness that even seemed genuine.

Sansa understood the subtext but didn't comment on it. Instead, she wanted to show she understood:

"But if, before that happens, you fathered a child with Lady Lysa…"

"He would become the heir to the Vale, of course. Or rather, the other Lords would have to approve that succession by gathering to vote."

So that's why you're buying them off one by one.

"Alright, but why would this be an advantage for me?"

Petyr grinned. "Now we come to the juiciest part. As you know, three months ago, following Robb's defeat, King Stannis Baratheon declared that the Freys are the rightful Lords Paramount of the Riverlands… and the Boltons are of the North."

Sansa frowned. "Yes, but Robb Stark hasn't been defeated yet. It'll be hard for them to claim such titles, with all the other houses against them."

"That's true, but Robb could be defeated very soon, along with his allies.

In that case, the Boltons would return to the North as victors and take Winterfell… as for your brothers, it's likely that, to save them, Maester Luwin would have them flee across the Narrow Sea."

Sansa's face was like a blade of ice.

"You don't like that prospect, I see."

"Of course not."

"I understand, and we can prevent it. Once back in the North, Stannis won't be able to interfere in their affairs… unless he wants to bring his entire army by sea… and if a change of guard were to occur at Winterfell… and the new rulers recognized his dominion over the Iron Throne… even someone like him would accept the accomplished fact."

"New rulers?"

"Exactly. Listen. I'll convince Lady Waynwood—the poor thing has significant debts someone will have to pay—to let me decide whom Harry Hardyng will marry. And he'll marry soon, while Robert is still alive and Lysa is not yet pregnant."

"Whom?"

"You, my dear."

"Me?"

"Of course. Imagine the scene: everyone awaits in the nave for Harry the Heir's bride. And, wonder of wonders! Instead of Alayne Stone's dark hair, they see the auburn hair of Sansa Stark.

Your identity is revealed in a spectacular fashion, and suddenly, the presumed heir of the Vale… has married the heir of Winterfell.

The Lords of the Vale are proud; they won't let those filthy traitors, the Boltons, take the seat that rightfully belongs to one of their own. The Knights of the Vale are the best in the Seven Kingdoms and know how to fight on ice… they'll sweep away Roose and his bastard… and you and Harry will rule Winterfell. Better than nothing, don't you think?"

Sansa was dumbfounded.

"What do you say? Don't I deserve another kiss?"

Author's Note:

Hi all, and good holidays, for those who celebrate Christmas.

This chapter and the next one will feature multiple POV's that will advance the story. Game of Thrones never was only nor primarily a war story, although mine has a strong military element. But it will all come together, eventually.

Robb and Margaery bedding scene was important. They need to start knowing each other and trusting each other. Which isn't simple. I envisioned trust between the two Houses, so different, would be not a given, even when the spouses seemed so well matched. Robb shows uncertainty again, but it's one of the last times.

Denouncing Stannis with obvious grounds and even having the Faith discharge him openly is HUGE, in Westeros...although it can lead to unintended consequences...like the rebirth of the Faith Militant...that was already rising anyway...entirely on its own?

Arya and the Hound at the Inn find and kill different people in each continuity (book and show). Here i made a mix: since i made her order Jaqen to kill Tickler and Amory Lorch at Harrenhal, now she finds someone else...namely, these three are good, because they are all the Mountain's men...so they could recognize Sandor, and Arya can retrieve not just Needle, but even Gendry's helmet. The scene is however similar. Arya becomes an actual killer.

The North is, however, boiling. Many Houses are being tempted to sway their allegiance to the Boltons...or, better to say, many family members of Lords, with an interest in doing so, are being bribed.

Bran and Luwin are doing what they can...but there's much more than what has been shown here.

In the Fifth Book there's a thing the fans call The Great Northern Conspiracy...many houses apparently siding with the Boltons, but perhaps plotting something...and others actually siding with them. I draw some inspiration from it. The cadet branch of Karstarks have been inverted: Cregan is here the one who falters, while in book was actually chasing Alys...and his brother and father have become the villains.

Yara is being tempted to take the Crown of the Sea for herself...the Iron Islands are a bad place...but who is the person they are all warning her about?

Now, many of you won't like Petyr taking advantage of Sansa to kiss her. Neither do i.

BUT. This happens in the book, too, and there she's 13.

So here is just a little...less worse, i suppose.

Sansa is experiencing a similar path as the books: pretending to be someone else, learning to be a spy and understanding politics.

Some of Littlefinger's plans for the Vale, including her marriage to Harry Hardyng are from the books, while the chance to use the knights to win the North for her is similar to the show.

Sansa's part also clarify there's a little time skip, and also all of the following chapter will take place in that frame.

The title of the chapter is particularly apt: after all bets are off, EVERYONE is trying to take advantage of the situation...causing even more chaos