Imry

Maidenpool revealed itself slowly. The large town peeked out from behind a narrow peninsula that jutted out and into the Bay of Claws. The walls were of pale pink stone and surrounded a harbour busy with fishing vessels and trading ships. The war has passed Maidenpool by for only a few months and already the smallfolk return to their lives as they were before. Though as the royal fleet grew closer to Maidenpool it became clear that not all was back to normal yet. The streets of Maidenpool were still framed by burned out buildings and rubble from where other buildings had been torn down. Bodies no longer filled the streets, but the swarms of flies made it clear that the streets had not been clear for very long.

From the keep and walls of Maidenpool flew dozens of banners, but chief among them were the crowned stag of King Stannis, the leaping salmon of House Mooton, the twin towers of Frey, and even the silver trout of House Tully, but most numerous of all were the banners of the North. The Ryswell horse, the crossed axes and crown of Dustin, and the banners of a hundred lesser houses, and above them all rose the white sunburst of House Karstark, and the flayed man of House Bolton.

As Fury made it's way into the harbour Imry straightened and silently buffed the silver foxhead brooch that held his cloak in place. The pier that Fury docked beside was crowded with men of noble standing. And three lords, William Mooton, Harrion Karstark, and Roose Bolton, were already standing in wait. As Fury came to a stop Imry made his was from the sterncastle onto the main deck. From below he could hear Maric Seaworth shouting commands to the oarsmen in the sailors jargon that Imry still struggled to understand. Within moments the gangplank thudded onto the pier and Imry cautiously stepped off the ship, and onto the plank. A few seconds of tottering later, as his legs adjusted to being back on solid ground, and Imry stood in the company of his fellow highborn.

The fleshy and pale Lord William stepped forward to greet him. "Lord Captain Imry, in the name of Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun, and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, I welcome you to Maidenpool. Please come and bring your captains I have had a feast prepared in your honour."

Imry bowed courteously. "Many thanks my lord, truly your generosity is without measure," Imry turned to face the northmen. "Lord Harrion, Lord Roose it is such an honour to meet the heros of Harrenhal at long last," just behind the northern lords was a gaggle of Freys led by a tall and round-shouldered man with a thin grey beard. Imry smiled. "Ser Aenys, I had not thought to meet you here."

Ser Aenys gave a slight bow. "My lord father bid me lead some of our men to the North. To give aid to Lord Roose as befits his being goodfamily."

"Excellent Ser, His Grace will be most pleased with Lord Walder," Imry clapped his hands together. "There is another matter," Imry said drawing a piece of parchment out of his belt. It was sealed thrice, with the Baratheon stag, the seal of the Hand, and the Florent fox and flowers. Imry broke the seals and read aloud the declaration. "In the name of His Grace Stannis of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the One True King of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm, his commands carried out by Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater Keep, Warden of the South, and Hand of the King. It is thus the will of the King that the title of Warden of the North be granted to Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, in recognition of his stalwart loyalty, and peerless courage." Imry gave the parchment to Lord Roose, for him to examine.

The new Warden of the North let a slight smile play over his pale features. "Hail Stannis King," he said. "Long may he reign."

"Long may he reign!" Imry and the surrounding highborn echoed.

"Come my lords," said Lord William. "The feast won't eat itself." With a wave the Lord of Maidenpool began to lead Imry and his captains to the castle.

The great hall of Maidenpool Castle was low ceilinged, many windows lined the walls, paned with coloured glass depicting the acts of the Seven. Lord William sat at the head of the high table, as was his right as host, but it was Lord Roose who sat in the place of honour at Lord William's right, that was the center of attention.

And well he should Lord Roose has delivered the North to the One True King. Imry stood and raised his goblet. "A toast to Stannis Baratheon the One True King of Westeros," he drank deeply and then raised the goblet again. "To Harrion Karstark and Aenys Frey, the heros of Harrenhal!" Another draught of wine. "And last but not least, to Roose Bolton the Warden of the North!" A cheer shook the rafters as the lords and knights drank deep of wine and ale.

Imry soon lost track of time as countless more toast were made for deeds real or imagined. The wine was ever flowing and he was ever drinking. At some point he stood on the table and began, to the the misfortune of everyone present, to sing. What he was singing he couldn't say, only that before long he was being pelted with food until he fell off the table. That was the last thing he remembered of that night.

Imry woke with a pounding headache and to piercing pain as the early morning sunlight streamed through the woolen drapes that tried, and failed, to block out the sun. "Geaugh..." he pulled his blanket over his head. "Fool of a Florent," he mumbled recalling Lady Olenna's nickname for him. Damn wine. He flung the blanket back, and forced himself upright. He made himself walk to the waterbasin and pushed his head under the water.

After a bath of cool water and changing into fresh clothes he felt almost alive. A breakfast of bacon, eggs, and bread filled his stomach, and a bitter potion from the maester brought some solace to his head. Now ready to face the day Imry joined his captains and the northmen.

They met around a table in a tower overlooking the Bay of Claws. Fat stone columns marked by carvings of salmon and seaweed supported a tall ceiling, wide windows and balconies gave in natural light and fresh air for a refreshingly open atmosphere. A wide table of varnished pale oak made for a fine council table, as the Freys, northmen, and the captains of the Royal Fleet gathered to plan how best to subdue the still rebellious North. Despite the pounding in his head Imry forced himself to focus on the map laid out before them. All the lands of House Florent could disappear in this kingdom and no one would notice.

A slew of wooden pieces marked out control of the North, the western coast was infested with krakens, while much of the east was controlled by flayed men and sunbursts, the southern parts were divided between the axes and crown of Dustin, and the merman of Manderly, save for a cluster of krakens around Moat Cailin. In the southeast Ryswell horses battled with Greyjoy krakens. The northern reaches of the map were the domain of mailed fists, Glover, roaring giants, Umber, and the direwolves of Stark. South of the Neck was a lonely wolf representing the last forces in the south loyal to Robb Stark.

Imry broke the silence. "Lord Manderly's sons were killed by the Lannisters were they not, perhaps if we approached him then-"

Lord Harrion Karstark cut him off gruffly. "The Manderlys practically worship House Stark, we'd have better luck getting him to burn down his sept than to betray Robb Onearm."

Plump Duram Bar Emmon spoke up. "But how are we to land the host without White Harbour as a port?"

It was Dale Seaworth who answered. "Ramsgate has a port does it not?"

"A small one," Lord Harrion answered. "Though Lord Woolfield is bound to Lord Manderly by oath and by blood to Lord Wyman. I doubt he'll willingly betray his liege."

"The sight of ten thousand men, and two hundred ships should be sufficient to make him compliant," Lord Roose spoke for the first time.

"Aye," Imry said agreeably. "And from there, we put White Harbour under siege."

Roose replied. "White Harbour's walls are strong my lord captain. It will take many weeks to cause a breach, and the Manderly fleet is not to be underestimated."

Imry grinned. "Not so my lord, not so. My lord uncle Alester Florent, has granted the Royal Fleet the use of six dragons. More than enough to ruin walls, be they of wood or of stone. Control of White Harbour gives us the White Knife," Imry gestured at the river that flowed north near to the gates of Winterfell itself. "And the White Knife gives us the North."

"I would not be so sure of that," Lord Harrion said.

"Why not? Unless I miss my mark Bolton, Karstark, Dustin, and Ryswell are four of the greatest houses in the North and as seen at this table are loyal to King Stannis. Robb Stark is on the run, and he has only the Manderlys, and when White Harbour falls that will mean nothing," Imry waved his hand contemptuously. "The Stark legend has outgrown the House Stark."

"And that is why Robb Stark is still a threat," Roose Bolton spoke firmly in his queer quiet tone. "So long as Robb Stark lives the North will never know peace. Unless he should truly lose himself to madness not seen since King Aerys," he grimaced. "Then wherever he goes he will find men willing to fight for him. Be they highborn or lowborn they will fight. From the Sheepshead Hills, to the Mountain Clans men will rally to him. If the North is to be ruled than Robb Stark must die, and he must be seen to have died."

Davos

The refuse of battle surrounded Bitterbridge. Ser Garlan Tyrell's host had retreated in the face of King Stannis' van, under the command of Ser Jon Fossoway, rather than risk being trapped against the walls. Even so blood had been shed as the Reachmen rearguard defended against the van and a sally from the castle, led by Ser Mark Mullendore.

King Stannis rode his horse down from the hills, his councillors and commanders at his side. Davos had a place of honour as he rode awkwardly at the king's right in his new armour, a gift from the king. The Red Woman rode at the king's left, since they had left King's Landing she was often close to the king.

The dead were already being gathered and stripped of their weapons and armour. Silent Sisters, septons, and maesters walked the injured giving aid or mercy as required. Amidst the blood and the cawing crows Ser Mark Mullendore waited for the king.

Ser Mark knelt before the king. "Your Grace, Bitterbridge is yours."

King Stannis said nothing as the army continued to march down from the low eastern hills. "As well it should. I trust there was no danger of the castle falling."

"None Your Grace, Ser Garlan lacked the numbers to press an assault, and with the bridge across the river we did not lack for supplies. As it was the siege lasted only a week before Your Grace's arrival."

"Ser Mark and Ser Jon you will send your outriders south. Follow Ser Garlan's movements and keep watch for any sign of Lord Mace or Lord Tywin."

"Yes Your Grace," Ser Mark Mullendore bowed.

"As you command, Your Grace," Ser Jon Fossoway said.

"Good. Lord Seaworth see to your command. Lady Melisandre with me."

Davos bowed in his saddle, still awkward in his steel plate. "Yes, Your Grace," he slowly turned his horse and left the king. He rode as fast as he dared over the even ground. What I wouldn't give to be on a ship right now. Davos made his slowly made his way down the great column that approached Bitterbridge. Atop the summit of a low hill he spied Ichiro waiting for him. Since the Battle of King's Landing the red haired Beikango had been working with Davos to prepare the dragonmen for the coming battles. Spurring his horse to go a little faster Davos joined Ichiro, who looked just as uncomfortable as Davos atop his own brown gelding, in waiting for the dragonmen to arrive.

The dragonmen were some of the last to come out of the hills. Near two thousand strong armed with dragons and now, on the advice of Ichiro and Ser Masuro, accompanied by three thousand men armed with spear, pike, halberd, and all manner of polearms. Most of them were drawn from the Stormlands where thousands of years and hundreds of wars with the knights of the Reach had taught the Stormlords the importance of a strong wall of foot. Like the dragonmen they had been divided into companies commanded by knightly captains, who in turn, took their commands from Davos. The Lord Commander of Dragons, Davos chuckled to himself, a bit grandiose for my tastes. Behind the ranks of soldiers came the dragons proper, their great iron or bronze bulk stowed in wagons pulled by dozens of oxen and horses.

"In my homeland," Ichiro said quietly. "All armies look like that. Rank on rank of foot soldiers with juki and yari and then the taisho. Ahem, hand-dragon and spear and dragon you would say." He looked farther afield eying the glittering array of the Florent knights. "It is a rocky land, full of mountains, our horses are not so great as those, or so numerous."

Davos waved as he spied Ser Aemon Thunder, his old sergeant, marching amidst the ranks, before asking a question of his own. "Do you have kings in your homeland? Knights?"

"Of a sort," he replied. "Like here there are nobles, but they do not rule land they only serve their lord as warriors or administrators or as traders. And there is not one king, there are none. There are many lords, some of land others of wealth. And then there is," he stopped his hands groping for the word. "Ah, I do not know your word but he is the Tenno, perhaps something like a king but... more so much more than a king. What word would you use?"

Davos shook his head. "I don't know, perhaps a maester would be able to say."

"Perhaps," Ichiro said. "I will see to my brethren," he bowed. "Goodbye Lord Commander."

"Goodbye Ichiro," Davos said as his friend departed.

Late in the evening, after having settled his men in a camp near the Mander, Davos retired for the night. His squire, a quiet lad named Willem Musgood, swiftly removed his armour and set it up on its stand. Davos patted the boy on the shoulder. "Go to bed lad, it's been a long day, and tomorrow will be just as long." Willem left for his own small tent, leaving Davos to enter his own bare canvas tent, furnished only with a set of folding furniture, a table, a stool, and a low bed padded with a straw mattress. He threw his cloak upon the folding desk and sat on the bed, head in his hands.

"Good evening my lord," the Red Woman said as she slipped uninvited into his tent.

Davos started to his feet. "M'lady," he waited for her to respond but Melisandre said nothing. "Was there something I could help you with m'lady?"

The Red Woman stepped further into Davos' tent, she looked around without any expression on her face before her gaze settled on his armour. She crossed the cramped space and laid a pale hand on the breastplate. "How does your armour suit you, my lord?"

Davos was silent for a moment as he tried to order his mind in the face of this intrusion. "Well enough m'lady. Though the visor does catch sometimes," he paused and shook his head. "Makes it bothersome to shut. Was there something you wanted of me m'lady?"

Lady Melisandre rubbed the enameled black ship and onion with her hand before returning it to it's resting place beneath her cloak. "Perhaps you should ask His Grace for a new helm if this one is so… bothersome."

"I would not want to bother His Grace about such a simple matter."

She smiled and looked into Davos' brazier for a moment, when she turned to face him again the ruby at her throat pulsed and glowed bright enough to match the coals. "No you wouldn't would you. Are you a good man, Davos Seaworth?" she asked suddenly.

"I am a man," he said. "I am kind to my wife, but I have known other women. I have tried to be a father to my sons, to help make them a place in this world. Aye, I've broken laws, but I've never felt that I've done evil. I would say my parts are mixed, m'lady. Good and bad."

"A grey man," she said. "Neither white nor black, but partaking of both. Is that what you are, Ser Davos?"

"What if I am? It seems to me that most men are grey."

Melisandre seemed almost amused. "If half of an onion is black with rot, it is a rotten onion. A man is good, or he is evil."

A surge of wind made the canvas tent ripple like a sail. "You speak of men and onions," Davos said to Melisandre. "What of women? Is it not the same for them? Are you good or evil, m'lady?"

That made her chuckle. "Oh, good for certain. I am a knight of sorts myself, sweet lord. A champion of light and life. But I fear you are lost in darkness and confusion, Lord Davos."

Davos shook his head and twisted his lips in a crooked grin. "Lost like King Stannis?" He poked at her.

The pulsing glow of her ruby choker seemed to burn a little brighter at that. "You know not of what you speak, you are no more than an ignorant child, my lord. Grasping at straws and making mock of the servants of R'hllor. The king makes use of the His weapons, the dragons does he not? They are weapons of fire, the bright gift of the Lord of Light."

Davos shrugged. "Have it your way."

"His way rather," Melisandre cocked her head.

"Why did you come here m'lady? I hardly think it was to lecture me on my heathen ways."

"Very astute of you my lord," Melisandre stepped past Davos and closer to the entrance. "After speaking with His Grace I asked a favour of him. He lent me the services of young Devan for a few hours. As it happens I have no more need of him," she pulled back the flap of the tent. "Devan," she called.

A moment later Davos' son entered the tent. Melisandre turned to look at Davos one last time. "Goodnight my lord of Seaworth." Devan and Davos watched the Red Woman depart.

Davos knelt by his son's side, he put a hand on his shoulder. "It's been awhile hasn't it?"

Devan smiled. "Yes father."

Davos smiled in return. "Come on take a seat," he motioned for Devan to sit on the stool while Davos took the bed and reached behind it and into one of his saddlebags. "Now you are to never ever tell your mother about this." He pulled out a bottle of amber wine from the Summer Isles. "This was a gift from Salladhor Saan after we took King's Landing, and I'd thought to save it for a special occasion. But what's more special than an evening with my son." He pulled out a pair of wooden cups. "So why not share it with you, your first drink, eh?" He filled the cups and gave one to Devan.

Devan gripped the cup with both hands and took a sip, only to immediately spit it back out. "I thought it'd be sweeter," he gasped.

Davos patted his son on the back, threw his head back, and laughed.

Sansa

Though Goldengrove was smaller, it's walls and towers in better condition, and far more splendorous, Sansa could not help but be reminded of that day so long ago in Winterfell, when her father, Bran, and Rickon had still lived, and how they had waited on the arrival of King Robert.

Today's arrival would not be half so grand as that, Ser Daven was naught but a knight of a lesser branch of House Lannister. Even so the court had come out in all their finery to greet him. Queen Cersei took to the center of the courtyard, flanked by Prince Tommen, the Small Council, and Lady Bethany and her two daughters Serra and Elinor. The castellan of Goldengrove, Ser Marron Rowan and old man with a pot belly and a distant cousin of Lord Mathis, was present as well.

Slowly the gilded gates opened allowing Ser Daven and the lords of the host to ride into the courtyard. Ser Daven looked every inch a lion of war, from his gilded steel plate glittering in the evening light, to his cloth-of-gold cloak, to his great blond beard and long blond hair, that brought to Sansa's mind her father's bannermen. Ser Daven rode his horse before the queen and dismounted he then knelt at before her and Lady Bethany.

Queen Cersei smiled, and said courteously. "Be welcome cousin."

Lady Bethany curtsied. "In the name of my husband Lord Mathis, I welcome you to Goldengrove."

Ser Daven looked down and smiled in return. "Your Grace, my lady, you honour me with your presence, and if I may say you are both even more beautiful than I remember."

"You are too kind ser," Lady Bethany said happily.

Queen Cersei stepped forward and took Ser Daven by the hand and led him to where Sansa was standing. "Cousin may I introduce you to Lady Sansa Stark."

Sansa smiled and curtsied, saying nothing as Ser Daven stared at her.

Ser Daven smiled in return. "How wonderful to meet you my lady."

Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by Queen Cersei. "Come cousin, you must be tired from your journey, and Lady Bethany has prepared a family dinner for us."

As the crowds dispersed Lady Bethany took Sansa by the shoulder, and whispered in her ear. "Come my lady, tomorrow will be a long day, you should go to bed and get some rest, but first I have a special treat for you."

Lady Bethany took Sansa to her chambers where a number of seamstresses were waiting with a beautiful dress. Lady Bethany stayed and watched as they dressed Sansa in her new clothes, and adjusted them for her own figure.

The smallclothes were all silk, but the gown itself was ivory samite, burgundy silk, and lined with blue satin. The points of the long dagged sleeves almost touched the ground when she lowered her arms. And it was a woman's gown, not a little girl's, there was no doubt of that. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in ivory. The skirts were long and full, the waist so tight that Sansa had to hold her breath as they laced her into it. They brought her new shoes as well, slippers of soft grey doeskin that hugged her feet like lovers.

"You are very beautiful, my lady," the seamstress said when she was dressed.

"I am, aren't I?" Sansa giggled, and spun, her skirts swirling around her. "Oh, I am."

Lady Bethany clapped her hands. "Oh that dress brings me back. That's enough for tonight I think, time for bed Sansa." The maids obeyed their mistress, quickly removing the dress and settling Sansa down for her night's rest.

She was woken early in the morning by a number of serving girls who filled Sansa's tub with steaming hot water and scrubbed her head to toe until she glowed pink. Other maids trimmed her nails and brushed and curled her auburn hair so it fell down her back in soft ringlets. They then dried her and clothed her in her new dress.

Sansa was so at peace that she did not notice the door opening and Queen Cersei entering the room, until the queen snapped an order at one of the maids. "A few gems, I think. The moonstones Joffrey gave her."

"At once, Your Grace," her maid replied.

When the moonstones hung from Sansa's ears and about her neck, the queen nodded. "Yes. The gods have been kind to you, Sansa. You are a lovely girl," she turned to the maids. "The cloak," she commanded, and the women brought it out. It was a long cloak of white velvet heavy with pearls. A fierce direwolf was embroidered upon it in silver thread. Sansa looked at it with sudden dread. "Your father's colors," Cersei said, as they fastened it about her neck with a slender silver chain.

A maiden's cloak. Sansa's hand went to her throat.

"You're prettier with your mouth closed, Sansa," Cersei told her. "Come along now, the septon is waiting, and the wedding guests as well."

"No," Sansa blurted. "No."

"Yes. You are a ward of the crown. The king stands in your father's place, since your brother is an attainted traitor. That means he has every right to dispose of your hand. You are to marry my cousin Ser Daven."

Sansa backed away from the queen. "I won't."

"I understand your reluctance. Cry if you must. But know that a thousand noble girls would gladly take your place. For you are to marry a man who is young and handsome, and not some drunken fool."

"You can't make me," she stuttered objections. "The king is not here to give me away, I can't be married."

"Of course you can. Just as a father may have another take his place, so can the king. Ser Marron Rowan will give you away. Now you may come along quietly and say your vows as befits a lady, or you may struggle and scream and make a spectacle for the stableboys to laugh about, but you will end up wedded and bedded all the same." The queen opened the door, Ser Marron Rowan and Ser Boros Blount waited outside. "Escort Lady Sansa to the sept," she told them. "Carry her if you must, but try not to tear the gown, it was Lady Rowan's once."

Sansa tried to run, but Cersei's handmaid caught her before she'd gone a yard. Ser Boros said nothing, but Ser Marron took her gently by the hand and said. "Do as you're told, my lady. A wedding isn't be so bad." He smiled at her. "Starks are many things but none may call them craven, so be brave my lady."

Brave. Sansa took a deep breath. I am a Stark of Winterfell I will be brave. They were all looking at her, the way they had looked at her that day in the yard when Ser Boros Blount had torn her clothes off. It had been the Imp who saved her from a beating that day, and for a moment she wished that it was him she was marrying. "I'll go," she said quietly.

Cersei smiled. "I knew you would."

Afterward, she could not remember leaving the room or descending the steps or crossing the yard, and entering the godswood, where the sept was. It seemed to take all her attention just to put one foot down in front of the other. The castle sept was an open building the roof held up by seven great columns, surrounding the sept were seven great rowan trees, with images of the Seven carved into their trunks. The altar of the sept was placed atop a massive weirwood stump. A relic of the time before the Andals and the Seven came to the Reach.

Ser Daven himself was waiting for her, he wore a doublet of crimson velvet covered with golden scrollwork, fine leather boots worked with rubies, and a chain of rubies and lion heads. His great beard was washed and combed, and his long hair was pulled back into a tail behind his head. "You are very beautiful, my lady," he said courteously.

"It is good of you to say so, my lord," she did not know what else to say.

They stood in awkward silence for a few moments before Daven offered her a broad and callused hand. "Come, then. Let us do our duty."

So she put her hand in his, and he led her to the marriage altar, where the septon waited between the Mother and the Father to join their lives together. In the crowd she saw Ser Boros Blount there in Kingsguard white, guarding Queen Cersei and Prince Tommen. Ser Balon Swann in black and white silk, and other witnesses aplenty. The eunuch Varys, Jalabhar Xho, Lady Tanda Stokeworth, Pycelle trying, and failing, to cough quietly, and a dozen others.

The ceremony passed as in a dream. Sansa did all that was required of her. There were prayers and vows and singing, and tall candles burning, a hundred dancing lights that the tears in her eyes transformed into a thousand. Thankfully no one seemed to notice that she was crying as she stood there, wrapped in her father's colors, or if they did, they pretended not to. In what seemed no time at all, they came to the changing of the cloaks.

Ser Marron stepped behind her. Sansa stood stiff as a lance as his hands came over her shoulders to fumble with the clasp of her cloak. Despite his fumbling his hands stayed where they should. Then the clasp opened, and Marron swept her maiden's cloak away without a flourish.

When she was young Sanda had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp. Ser Daven did much of that though he did not kiss her, and his beard tickled her bare shoulders.

When Sansa turned, the big man was gazing down at her, his mouth tight. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Ser Daven replied hoarsely. "And take you for my lady and wife." He leaned forward, and their lips touched briefly.

I wish he was ugly, then it would make it easier to hate him.

The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell down upon them. "Here in the sight of gods and men," he said, "I do solemnly proclaim Daven of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

She had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.

The wedding feast was held in a small hall at the base of what was called the Sapling Tower. Small Hall. There were perhaps fifty guests; Lannister retainers and allies for the most part, joining those who had been at the wedding. The Rowans and their vassals were there as well.

From the way her husband had acted during the wedding she might have thought him to be made of stone, but it was in the feast that he seemed to come alive. Daven ate and drank in equal measure, standing at each toast, boasting and jesting with the guests. The feast seemed as endless as the fields of the Reach, though Sansa tasted none of the food.

She wanted it to be done, and yet she dreaded its end. For after the feast would come the bedding. The men would carry her up to her wedding bed, undressing her on the way and making rude jokes about the fate that awaited her between the sheets, while the women did Daven the same honors. Only after they had been bundled naked into bed would they be left alone, and even then the guests would stand outside the bridal chamber, shouting ribald suggestions through the door. The bedding had seemed wonderfully wicked and exciting when she was younger, but now all she felt was dread. She did not think she could bear for them to rip off her clothes, and she was certain she would burst into tears at the first randy jape.

When the music began to turn she put a wary hand on her husband's own large and calloused paws. "Should we dance, my lord?"

Daven looked startled for a moment, as if he had forgotten she was there. He smiled dutifully. "Of course my lady."

They stood and took the floor hand in hand. Her husband was not a great dancer, but neither was he a boor. He danced slowly and sure footedly his face still, and his brows tight in concentration. Other guests soon joined them on the floor. Little lady Elinor danced with Prince Tommen, and a dozen western squires. Lady Bethany spun and danced with her husband's household knights and bannermen. Lady Crane took the floor with the exile prince Jalabhar Xho, gorgeous in his feathered finery. Cersei Lannister partnered first with Ser Marron and then, when the time came to switch partners, stole Daven away from Sansa.

Sansa seemed to dance for hours, for the first time in many months she was almost happy. But her relief was short lived for no sooner had the music died then she heard someone shout. "It's time to bed them! Let's get the clothes off, and have a look at what the she's got!" Other men loudly took up the cry.

Ser Marron stepped away from her but the void was soon filled with younger men, men with squeezing hands and pinching fingers. They lifted her up and flung her over their shoulders, pinching at her bottom and her breasts, pulling at her dress, laughing and singing drunkenly as they went. She closed her eyes to stop her tears from overflowing. The men carried her up the stairs, idly she heard the women shrieking behind her as they did the same to Ser Daven.

At last the flung her naked into the bedding chamber, Ser Daven was not far behind her. For a moment they both waited within their chamber, naked, listening to the guests pound on the door and shout suggestions and japes. Daven moved first taking the pitcher of wine set on the bed table and drinking deeply, disdaining the use of the nearby goblets. He pushed the pitcher into Sansa's trembling hands. "Drink my lady, you'll need your courage for tonight."

Sansa did as he said drinking the rest of the wine in a four great gulps, and feeling it boil in her stomach.

Daven was facing away from her, leaning against the carved wood paneling of the walls. "Do you hate me?" He asked without looking at her.

Sansa opened her mouth, but the meaningless courtesy died in her throat, I am a Stark of Winterfell I will be brave. "Yes," she said savagely, trying to put all her hate, her grief, her rage into that one word.

Daven didn't move as he spoke in turn. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't want this. But now we must do our duty, so come to bed and let's have this be over with." He took her hand in his and all but pulled her to the bed.

Arya

The great doors of the Iron Gate were open, as Arya and the other prisoners entered King's Landing. Everything I did, everything done to me, everyone who died to get me back home… and now I'm back in King's Landing.

The rusted gates gaped open like a mouth ready to swallow her, gold cloaks lurked in the shadows, their spears like fangs, and on the walls flew golden banners with black stags. The covered wagon Arya rode in was flanked by Bolton, Karstark, and Baratheon men, led by a short knight with a mouse on his shield. Behind her was a column of prisoners, mostly Manderly, Glover, or Talhart men who had followed their lords and stayed loyal to her brother. They had ridden hard and fast, following the road overland from Maidenpool to Duskendale, then down the coast to King's Landing.

Past the Iron Gate was Flea Bottom, or the ruins of it at least, it seemed as if half of Flea Bottom had been burned or torn down. But crews of men were dragging the wreckage away and already some new, clean buildings of stone were being constructed. The workings were overseen by Septons, gold cloaks, and men with foxes on their surcoats. Sansa would have known what House that meant, she felt a tinge of sorrow plucking her heart as she thought of her sister, I wonder if she's still here? I wonder if she's even still alive?

The wagon rattled past the ruins of Flea Bottom and into the wealthier heart of the city. The buildings were taller and more often made of stone or brick than ramshackle wooden scraps. There were signs of fire and battle here as well, but only in the corners in the alleys that hadn't been cleaned of ash just yet.

It was here that Arya's wagon and the prisoner's parted ways. The loyal northmen were marched up the Street of Sisters to Rhaenys Hill where the Dragonpit lay. Some of the men said Stannis had dragons, does he mean to have his beasts eat them alive?

Arya's wagon, however, turned east moving along the broad clean street that ran up Aegon's High Hill, straight back to the Red Keep. The crowds parted to let them pass, but didn't seem at all interested in them, far more concerned with their business, and keep clear of the ever present gold cloaks.

Before long the gates of the Red Keep loomed before her and high above her were spiked heads lining the walls. They were black with tar and some of them had already been stripped of their flesh by the crows. Still, Arya craned her head hoping, praying, that she would see Queen Cersei, King Joffrey or any of the names from her prayer. She'd almost given up when a bit of red caught her eye. Despite the tar, and his missing cheek, Arya recognized Ser Meryn's red beard and droopy eyes. One less name, warmth spread through her body as a smile cracked her silent mask.

Arya's wagon rumbled through the gates and into the heart of the Red Keep. Without wasting a moment her guards took her from the wagon and escorted her into the maze of hallways and chambers, leading her unerringly to a small chamber where a pair of maids and a bath of hot water were waiting. Arya was stripped, washed, brushed, and dressed up in a new frilly southron dress. She silently endured the torment. When the maids were done the guards returned. They lead her deeper and higher into the Red Keep. Arya quickly began to recognize the halls, tapestries, and even the doors. They're taking me to the throne room.

The open doors of the throne room were guarded by a squad of guards armed with clubs. The guards didn't so much as look at Arya as her minders led her inside. It was much as she remembered it from the few times Septa Mordane and her father had managed to make her attend the boring court. That being said the Iron Throne looked much more intimidating from the great marble floor than from high in the stands along the walls.

There were many others waiting at the court, but her guards led Arya past almost all of them, save for a tall man with grey eyes and massive eyebrows, and plump woman with greying brown hair flanked by two brown haired boys, both of them younger than Arya.

The massive bulk of the Iron Throne loomed over them, like some great monster, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the person sitting high amongst the barbs and blades of the Iron Throne. A girl about Arya's age in a high necked dress of black and gold, her black hair fell to her shoulders, a grey mark covered half her face, and a silver tiara atop her head. Surrounding the base of the Iron Throne were three knights of the kingsguard in white armour, snow white silk cloaks, and with swords and queer clubs at their belts. Arya didn't recognize any of them.

The Small Council was gathered to the side of the Iron Throne, two old men one in blue with crabs on his mantle, the other in dark green robes. There were two people with great big ears, a silver haired man with a well trimmed beard, and a tall thin woman with a moustache, and an empty chair as well.

As Arya took her place before the Iron Throne the guards around the throne room stamped their clubs on the floor, and a handsome man shouted. "Hail Shireen, the Princess of Dragonstone!"

"Hail!" Echoed the lords and ladies, including the two waiting with Arya.

The girl, Princess Shireen, leaned forward slightly. "Lord Yohn Royce," her quiet voice was barely audible. The man with the bushy eyebrows stepped forward and knelt before the Iron Throne. Shireen continued. "We the court are so very pleased that you accepted His Grace's offer and have come to be His Grace's Master of Laws. Please come forward and sit, take your rightfully earned place upon the Small Council."

Lord Yohn Royce stood and bowed to the princess. "It is an honour to be called upon by His Grace and you, My Princess," then walked silently to where the Small Council was sitting, taking the empty chair.

Shireen looked upon the plump woman, who was waiting in a blue dress between the two boys. "Lady Marya Seaworth," the woman and her sons ventured forward. "Long has your husband, Lord Davos, served His Grace loyally and in turn your sons have served just as loyally and they have all been rewarded for it. It was feared by some that, given your husband's duties, it might be many more months or even years before he could leave court and return home to you," Shireen smiled. "And so we bring you and your youngest sons here so that you might greet Lord Davos upon his return. As a gesture of our gratitude I would invite you and your sons to dine with me."

Lady Marya stood and curtsied, her sons bowed. "You are too kind My Princess, of course we accept your generous invitation."

The princess smiled waved her hand, summoning a servant from the shadows. "He will take you to your quarters."

"Thank you My Princess," Lady Marya bowed again.

"Lady Arya Stark," Princess Shireen called on her to come forward.

Arya closed her eyes and gathered her strength, fear cuts deeper than swords, she walked forward and looked up to face the princess. From here she could see Shireen more clearly, see her square jaw, her big ears, the greyscale that marked her cheek. She's ugly.

The princess smiled from amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. "Often have I heard about the honour and bravery of House Stark, Lord Eddard himself in particular. It is in memory of Lord Eddard's bravery and the great friendship he bore with King Robert, my uncle, that you are welcomed to King's Landing. I hope that we can be friends as well."

Arya tried to summon her anger, to refuse, to shout, to scream… but what's the point? Yelling didn't help at Harrenhal. She closed her eyes, if I can be Weasel and Nan then I can make them think I'm a perfect little lady. What would Sansa say?

Arya forced a smile to appear on her face and made what she hoped was a perfect curtsy. "My Princess, nothing would please me more." Blech!