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A/N: I fully and with no apologies blame both starkyd7 and DaysOfFuturePast for this.
Also, if you haven't - Check out starky's Stargaryan fic Allegiance, its amazing.

Special thanks to prplmunky for the title suggestion. - I literally suck at titles.

Been revising the story, so I finally set down and figured out the ages of all the characters. I used took the Season 7 ages, and added two years. FF stars in 306AC, its been 8-9 years since Jon Arryn died for reference. Dany would be 24, while Arya is 19. If anyone wants, I'll post all the ages.

Chances are, some people are going to be out of character. But events have changed, and therefor the experiences of the characters have changed. Plus they are all older and a bit wiser.

UnBeta'd Revised: May 2017

Frosted Faith

The threads of fate are sewn by the gods, both great and small folk claim. What could have been is not always what has been or is. And each mortal was bound by the shackles the gods had placed upon them.
But the direction that the winds of fate blew changed seven years ago, when a raven arrived in the warm summer halls of Winterfell.

Arya 1:

Outside the world was dark. A dark that never lifted, the sort that sucked the joy and laughter from a person's soul until they were as cold and lifeless as the frozen world beyond the walls of Winterfell.

“Sweet summer child, you have never known a true winter. When days and weeks would pass with no sun to light the sky.” Words spoken to her by Old Nan; the elderly woman having passed in the early winter, when the snow drifts didn't yet threaten to swallow the town and Keep whole. Those words were usually a precursor to some tale or another about giants and wargs and things she thought only existed in stories. As a child, she hadn't understood those words yet. Had taken those stories at face value; as tales told to scare children into behaving.

But now, as windswept snow and ice lashed against the panes of her window, now when she could close her eyes and see herself through the hooded gaze of her direwolf, she wish she had paid more heed to her nanny.

At her feet, Nymeria lifted her massive head, ears perked and turned towards the chamber's door. Shaking off the thoughts of her old nanny, her siblings, and the cold blackness of winter. Arya sighed heavily, even as she reached down to scratch behind the ears of her nearly horse sized companion.

“My Lady, your Lord Father and Lady Mother request you join them in the Glass Garden.” Deep, like a heavy beat of a deer-skin war-drum, the voice from the other side of the door could only belong to one man in the keep.

Arya stood, uncurling her compact frame from the overstuffed chair she had placed herself in. By the hearth, Nymeria rose, letting out a jaw popping yawn as woman and wolf stretched to work the kinks from their bodies.

Another knock. This one louder, a bit more insistent than the first series. “My Lady? I know you are in there.”

Steel-gray eyes rolled, as she moved on silent feet across her chambers, pulling on her heavy gray furred cloak, tucking rabbit-fur lined gloves into her belt to be put on later. She attached Needle to her right hip. Though she had outgrown the short slender blade, it was a gift fromJon and outside of training, the only sword she could wear inside Winterfell without her mother causing a fuss.

Nymeria's ears perked up, no doubt hearing the hushed grumbles Arya could imagine coming from the other side of the door. She waited for the third series of knocks, knowing they were coming. He got like this anytime her father or mother bid him to do something. Needlessly afraid they would send him away. Do all bastards fear being unwanted their whole lives? Arya wondered, and not for the first time.

Finally a heavy fist fell against her door for a third round. “My La--- Arya! Come on already!”

With a victorious grin, Arya at last opened the door, her head tilted upwards to smirk at her friend. “I keep telling you Gendry, I'm no lady,” she quipped, even as dark blue eyes glowered at her from a soot covered face.

The master blacksmith grunted as he unfolded his massive arms from across his barrel chest. “I'm a bastard, and you're a noble woman. Regardless of who my father was, or what sort of things Maester Luwin tries teaching me.”

The odd pair began to move down the hall with Nymeria at their heels. Gendry towered over the Stark woman, his normally too-serious expression unseen as the pair launched into an animated discussion about the upcoming feast as they made their way along the covered walkways of the keep.

“If we have the resources for a feast, they should be spread to the people.” Arya argued, eyes shifting from Gendry's face to the walkway in front of them.

“I agree. But these feasts are good for morale.” The Smith glanced up and down the hall before lowering his voice. “Plus I think your brother and father are gathering the banners to talk about Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, The Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Kahleesi of the Great Grass Sea, titles titles, titles. She already holds Dragonstone, and rumor states has it she's taken Storm's End as well.” Arya didn't even bother to hide her admiration or excitement about the Dragon Queen, though she was quick to school her face into a bland expression as a servant came around the corner. She and Gendry both waited until the servant had vanished out of view before continuing their discussion.

“Winter is here, Gendry. She could burn down Casterly Rock, or melt the Red Keep for all I care.” Arya let out a slow breath as the Glass Gardens came into view, both of them. The pair paused at the door, Gendry itching to get back to the forge, and Arya dreading what her parents wanted to speak to her about. With her hand on the door, steel-gray eyes looked steadily up at her friend. “I care about the North, I care about my people, my family, my pack. If it means bringing the Lannisters to justice, and having a chance to find Sansa, I will happily be the Stark-Who-Knelt.”

Gendry's eyes widened at the admission, though any response he haddied long before it could even reach his tongue as Arya slipped through the door and into the Glass Gardens.

The warm humid air of the Glass Gardens made Arya's head spin after the bracing cold outside. She was quick to shed her thick cloak and gloves, taking care to hang the heavy cloth next to those of her parents by the door after tucking her gloves back into her belt. She moved deeper into the gardens, tryingto appear relaxed and casual.

It was odd for her parents to call on her like this. And in truth it made her a bit apprehensive. Doubly so when she noticed the lack of people within the gardens which were often bustling with gardeners and servants, more so especially now that they were in the thick of winter. She saw and heard nothing, with her own senses or those of Nymeria. Four years ago it would have scared her, the ease with which she could slip from her own skin and into Nymeria's, or any familiar animal in the hold, but now she was used to it, often not needing to even leave herself to see through her wolf's eyes.

A private meeting. With no servants or staff or guards to overhear. Stranger and stranger. Her left hand twitched with the desire to wrap her fingers around the comforting familiarity of Needle. She fought back the urge though as she passed the through a handful of fruit trees and saw her parents standing, heads bent together, quietly talking.

Arya stopped, and not for the first time, she briefly wondered if she would ever...

She shook the thought from her mind. Her parents' love for each other was a blessing. And such things were Dreams of Spring, and fantasies of girls like Sansa.

“Arya.”

Her father called to her.

----

Dany 1:

Westeros was nothing like she pictured as a girl, when her brother would tell her stories of the home she never knew. A season of war had left the kingdoms ill prepared for the Winter. She herself was unprepared for Winter, and her army was unprepared for Winter. 

She had taken the seat of her ancestors to make a statement, Dragonstone also being the former seat of Stannis Baratheon was just a bonus. She had captured Storm's End to further strike against the family of the Usurper, before finishing what Aegon the Conqueror had started at Harrenhal. In the short time she had been in Westeros, she had heard of the terrible things that had taken place in those ruinous walls, so she used them to display the might of her dragons for all to see.

With Storm's End under her control, she has taken Edric Storm as her ward, placing the Usurper's bastard into the care of Tyrion Lannister. The short Lion was intelligent and cunning, and perhaps one of only two men in her life that wasn't trying to use her.

'I wish three things from you you're Grace. To keep my head, for my sister to loose hers, and to see a fair ruler on the Iron Throne.'  

It took ages for Tyrion to explain everything and to summarize all he knew. The unwanted son of the man who murdered her family had become one of her greatest allies, one of her most trusted advisers, and her Hand. Irony didn't even begin to cover it.

Hand of the Queen. The title made the Dragon Queen cringe. She understood the position, but the title was terrible, with potential for all sorts of low brow dirty humor and puns. Not that the name didn't get its share of mockery when a man set on the Iron Throne. But when I sit upon it? The jokes will be far worse than just implying that the Hand was there to wipe the Usurper's ass after he shits.'

Thankfully, Edric seemed to be a well-mannered and educated young man. He had been the one to surrender Storm's End to her when his uncle's castellan refused. His first words to her, calm and collected in the face of her army and dragons, had been to ask why she had chosen to make him a ward instead of simply imprisoning him. ''By land or by sea, Storm's End can weather anything. But not dragons. Storm's End surrenders your Grace. And I offer you my life if you will spare my small folk.”

For now the Stormlands were passive, knowing that she held Edric Storm. Stannis Baratheon was still out there, but with both of the Baratheon seats of power under her control along with Robert's bastard, she had little to fear from Stannis or his Red God.

That was the other thing that has taken her by surprise when she first arrived. R'hllor had become very popular. She had seen many night-fires in villages and keeps both large and small as she flew over Westeros. Worship of the Seven had fallen, with only the Crownlands and Westerlands still devout in their faith. The Reach was divided. The Riverlands also torn, with worship of the Old Gods surging with the onset of winter, though the Neck had always primarily worshiped the gods of Old. The Vale was a mystery. Tyrion said the Vale worshiped a mix of Old Gods and the Seven, with many houses worshiping both. Of the Iron Islands and the North, her Hand had only laughed at her when she asked the question. She had found out later from Ser Barristan Selmy that the Ironborn have always worshiped their Drowned God, and the Northerners the Old Gods, both with very few exceptions.

The first snow flurries in the south became proper snowfalls, with inches accumulating overnight. Dany found herself spending much more time in doors, learning more about the people of Westeros. What faith her people actually practiced was of little concern to her, it was only that the differences between regions and the rise of the Lord of Light was both surprising and fascinating. Tyrion had provided her with books regarding the tales and myths of the different regions, along with the histories of each of the seven kingdoms, geography, religion, governing, the major and minor noble houses and their histories, their lands, their politics and disputes. 

She understood why both Tyrion and Ser Barristan had her studying up on Westeros. How could she rule a land she did not know? But trying to condense a lifetime of education between small council meetings, war meetings, holding court and seeing to the care of those she had brought with her, along with those now under her rule gave her a massive headache.

Maester Gordon, an aged man with a full head of white hair and thin, long beard spoke to her, his mellow even-toned words a dull buzz in her ears as she watched the chain around his neck sway and clink with every movement. Silver, iron, steel, copper, plate steel, and black iron. She mentally ticked off the links in his chain. Her hand had brought her a Maester of war and crafts. The thought amused her. The young Queen supposed she should be thankful that her Hand had found a Maester that was even willing to tutor a Targaryen, and one who wasn't so foolish as to see her as incapable due to her gender, youth, or inexperience in matters of the state.

Dany also believed that he likely found perhaps one of the few Maesters that wasn't afraid to call her late father the Mad King to her face. It was refreshing, and it reminded her that she had a lot of work to do to earn the trust of the people of Westeros after what her father had done. Targaryen history had been the first thing covered, with Daenerys filling in the gaps based on her own experiences and what her brother Viserys had told her growing up.

“The North is ruled by House Stark. Lord Eddard Stark is Lord of Winterfell, and is married to Catelyn, formerly of House Tully. They have five children. Four years ago, their eldest, Robb Stark, was named King of the North by the Northern Lords after they declared independence and war against the Iron Throne. This was in response to the kidnapping of Sansa Stark, and the grave injuries Lord Stark suffered at the hands of the Lannisters when he went Kings Landing for his eldest daughter. She was married to Tyrion Lannister by his father. Sansa Stark-Lannister vanished after the death of Joffery the Mad-Boy King.”

Purple eyes refocused on the Maester. The secession of the North was something both her Hand and Lord Commander had glossed over. The kidnapping of Sansa Stark by then Prince Joffery had been like history repeating itself. The fact it lead to war, and nearly lead to the death of yet another Lord Stark only hammered in the similarities. 'Those who do not learn from history..' Are doomed to repeat it as it goes. The fact that Joffery Lannister-Baratheon was known as the Mad-Boy King gave her a small degree of spiteful pleasure.

Barristan had called the Starks honorable to the last. She had her doubts. The Starks were only men and women, the same as any other after all.

“King Robb is married to Talisa nee Maegyr of Volantis, Queen of the North. They have two children. Their eldest, a daughter Joanna. And a son, Aemon.” Dany sucked in a quiet, sharp breath at the name, a reaction that went unnoticed by the Maester as he continued his lesson.

'Aemon. They gave their son a Targaryen name?'

The Starks had, in her mind, shared an equal blame for the death of her family with the Baratheons. In Essos, in the Great Grass Sea, the Red Wastes, in Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen. She had thought about returning and destroying the houses of Lannister, Baratheon and Stark the way hers had been.

'Robb Stark has young children. They cant be more then a few years old. I'd be no better then the Lions that murdered Rhaenys and Aegon if I march on the North. A peace treaty perhaps? Would the Starks even accept it?”

“Lord and Lady Stark's youngest daughter and third eldest is Arya Stark. Lady Arya was responsible for the success defense of both Winterfell and Wintertown during an Ironborn attack some years ago. And is said to be a skilled rider and warrior. Rumor states she leads a small band of guardsmen on routine patrols and is something of a hero to the small folk. Bran Stark, second born son, had an accident eight years ago, rendering him a cripple. Shortly after the start of the War of Kings, he vanished. The youngest child is Rickon Stark, and the small folk state hes a quiet lad....”

Gordon's words faded out again. 'A woman who rides like a man?' Dany thought, picturing it in her mind: tall, dark haired, sword and shield, a lady-knight, clad in steel, with strong arms and warm eyes. The idea was as ridiculous as it was appealing, and she pushed it from her mind, ignoring the flush she felt rising to her cheeks.

The Queen continued to mused over the Maesters words, Eddard Stark is married to Catelyn Tully, whos sister was the late Lysa Tully, wife to the late Jon Arryn, their son, now lord of the Vale. 'And Sansa Stark is married to Tyrion, something I will have to ask my dear Lord Hand about later. '

House Tully were the lords of the Riverlands... House Arryn lord of the Vale.. Lannister, to which Tyrion is the rightful heir, the Westernlands...

Daenerys leaned back in her plush office chair in quiet shock as if struck, recalling Tyrion's words regarding House Stark.

“History calls it Robert's Rebellion, and credits him with overthrowing your House. But it was the deaths Eddard's father and older brother that sparked the rebellion.”
She could hear the imp now, chalice of wine in one hand during one of their many dinner discussions back across the Narrow Sea

“The win over House Stark, is to win the Iron Throne. Robert had a better claim to the throne, ironically because of his own Targaryen blood, but had Eddard Stark planted his ass in that thrice damned chair, no one would have contested it.”

At the time she hadn't thought much on it. More surprised by the fact the Usurper had had Targaryen blood in his veins. And after she hadn't had cause to look more deeply into Tyrion's words. But now she was beginning to understand. The Starks had blood or marriage ties to three of the other six old Kingdoms outside of the North. And then there were the rumors that one of the Usurper's bastards was at Winterfell. Giving the Starks footing in the Stormlands if true.

How, Dany wondered; how did one family consolidate so much power without the other nobility noticing? The Starks may be a bigger problem then she originally thought. Unless....

'Unless I can find Sansa Stark. If she is still alive and in Westeros then she'd have to be south of the Neck. I'll speak to Tyrion later about his wife. And about the fact he didn't tell me he was married to a Stark.' 

In front of her the Maester continued, moving on from the Starks to another northern house, and Daenerys' mind and eyes wandered to the outside world, watching as the snow fell lightly outside her window.

---

 Sansa 1:

In the weeks after Littlefinger left to answer a summons from the capital, life in the Eyrie had become a little easier. Her cousin grew stronger each day, more willing to study, to pick up a training sword, to be the lord he was born to be. The death – murder – of his mother and her aunt two years prior had grieved Robin, but ultimately, Sansa knew as she watched her younger cousin studying the wall map of the realm with a serious expression on his face: Aunt Lysa's death had been the best thing for him.

And with Baelish away at King's Landing, her work in turning her cousin from sickly Sweet-Robin to Lord Robin Arryn had begun in earnest. When Littlefinger returned to the Vale, he would find Robin no longer so easily controlled. Her efforts to make Robin into a proper lord won her the support of the local minor houses, allowing her to be honest with them. That, along with the fact she was recognized as Robin's most trusted as well as a Stark, allowed her to wield a great deal of influence.

She was careful how she used it though. Never too obvious, never with malice. An expressed worry of the people over a fine dinner had Robin demanding reports on the food stock for the Vale, and conditions of the winter grain. Tea with a few ladies had every house turning out old cloaks, donating them to the villages in Robin's name. A whisper into ears of a few lords, and at the next small council meeting trade was being shifted away from King's Landing to the Free-cities, and their fishing boats were staying closer to shore to better weather the winter storms.

The small folk of the Vale whispered. She knew this. Her true name spoken in hushed voices by the hearth. She would worry that such talk would get back to the Lannisters.

“Shes Sansa Stark I tell you. A Stark in a Vale in Winter is a good thing.” -

“The Stranger and the Others take anyone who harms the Lady Stark or Lord Arryn.”

The whispers were often followed by oaths sworn. Her father had been fostered in the Vale by Jon Arryn, and they saw Robin getting stronger, and knew it was her, not Littlefinger who was turning the boy into a man.

'I am safe for now. Lions and Flowers will not brave the Winter to seek a Wolf in the mountains where Falcons perch.' Sansa thought to herself. The eldest daughter of house Stark had thought to send a raven to Winterfell more then once since Petyr left, to let her family know that she was alive and well. But it was too risky. A raven could be intercepted. It could bring further wrath down upon their heads. And, as she watched Robin rub his face with both hands, she knew she could do more here in the Vale, than she could back at Winterfell.

'I would just be a pawn there. Sold off to yet another Lord. The Lords here look at me with hunger in their eyes. But none dare touch me. And Robin has shown no interest in sex or marriage, so focused on his studies and being Lord worthy of his father's name.'

They would have to move to the Bloody Gates soon, before the snows made the path impassable and trapped them in the Eyrie. She knew Robin was reluctant, still preferring the safety and familiarity of the Eyrie to anywhere else in the Vale. 'But neither he nor I can remain hidden here forever. Dragons have returned to Westeros. Though doubtless this Targaryen wants the heads of every Lannister on her way to the Iron Throne, that alone does not make her a friend. I do however not wish her to be a enemy.'

Daenerys Targaryen was a mystery. A new player to the Game of Thrones that Sansa didn't see coming, and couldn't predict. However, 'the enemy of my enemy' as the saying went. It would be a smart move for the Vale to at least contact this 'Mother of Dragons'. Given that her Aunt Lysa had kept the Vale and its banners out of the war, it was the only region that did not suffer greatly. The Vale's fields had not burned, its fathers and brothers and sons did not die on a battlefield nor rot away in some other lord's dank dungeon.

That put the Vale in a good position to negotiate. Even the Tyrells of Highgarden had suffered losses. And three royal weddings must have strained even their coffers. The Reach itself had had some burning and pillaging. But nothing like the Riverlands, Crownlands, and Stormlands. Sansa's thoughts went to her friend Margaery, 'Gods protect Margaery, this will be the third King she has wed. Once to a Stag, Twice to Lions. And then there was her imprisonment.' Margaery was perhaps the only other person in the whole world outside of her family to whom Sansa desperately wished she could write. 'All things in time. Margaery is cunning, she will survive.'

The Lords of the Vale hadn't proven to be much of a problem for her. Lord Royce in particular was supportive of her, along with Lord Hunter and Lord Egen. By contrast however Lady Waynwood and Lord Lynderly often cast dark looks seeped with suspicion in her direction ever since her arrival. She had thought the looks would have eased when she revealed her true identity after Littlefinger had murdered her Aunt, but if anything they had only increased in number and ferocity.

Lady Waynwood reminded her greatly of Olenna Tyrell. Aged, but by no means old, experienced, cunning, willing and able to play within the boundaries and expectations of a woman. And despite the initial kindness and care the head of House Waynwood had shown her during the inquest into her Aunt's death, she sensed that Lady Anya was beginning to understand that Sansa had her own game in play. That it ran counter to Littlefinger's was the only reason why the aged noble woman had not confronted her, Sansa suspected. That and Lady Waynwood wasn't sure what Sansa's goals are, nor if she was a friend or foe in old woman's own games.

Lord Lyndrely she had little interaction with. What his end goals were she couldn't begin to guess. But Sansa worked under the assumption that all the Lords and Ladies of the Vale were vying in their own way to place either themselves, or a child or grandchild on the seat of Arryn. Either by marriage to Robin, or by ousting her cousin.

'I will have to personally thank Cersei for teaching me the Game of Thrones... before I have her throat slit.' A thought as cold as the winds of winter.

Banishing thoughts of friends, family, foes and long games, Sansa drew herself upwards, straight and poised entering the room. She gave Robin a soft, warm smile when he looked away from the map at the sound of her foot steps.

“Cousin!” At ten and six, Robin had lost much of the sickly appearance he had as a child. Tall and slender, if he had been a woman he could be described as 'willowy'. To be true, his looks reminded her of how Rhaegar Targaryen was described, except that Robin had long dark hair he wore in a warrior's wolf-tail, half up and half down. Unlike the late Targaryen Prince though, Robin would never be a warrior of any renown. His greatest weapon was his mind.

'A sharp sword in a skilled hand can kill a man. A sharp mind can make or destroy kingdoms.' It was something she read, or overheard, Sansa couldn't remember which. But it fit for Robin. And from what she had heard, Jon Arryn had been much the same - a brilliant mind rather than a sharp sword.

“Robin. I wanted to speak to you.” Sansa swept across the room to stand beside her younger cousin, hand resting lightly on his upper arm as she tilted her head just to look up at him. Her actions were not flirtatious in any way, but she had learned that touch helped to ground him, and by looking up at him, she made him feel stronger and more powerful. Stroke a man's ego, or stroke a man's cock, and they are putty in a pretty woman's hands. It was rather laughable, but it was a weapon Sansa could wield like a bow or sword.

“If this is about King Tommen requesting our banners to fight against this Targaryen Queen...”

Ah yes. She has almost forgotten. The letter that had arrived two days ago in the name of young Tommen, summoning the banners of Westeros to King's Landing. The other Lords had suggested sending a token force as a show of loyalty. Robin had ignored it.

“In part my Lord Cousin. I was actually thinking you should send a letter to this Mother of Dragons, and invite her here. Treat with her. The Vale has kept out of the war that has torn apart Westeros so far, perhaps it is time we test the waters.”

“I hear she has dragons,” Robin offered in reply, a thoughtful look on his face as he spoke. And then there was a spark, a bit of childish delight “I always wanted to see a dragon.” Sansa laughed, a soft honest giggle which she did not bother to hide from her cousin. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that Robin was only a year younger then Bran, but these moments helped remind her.

Robin turned his gaze back to the map, eyes boring holes into the space Dragonstone was clearly marked. “The reports say she holds both Dragonstone and Storm's End. And Harrenhal smoulders even still. She waits, but for what or how long is anyone's guess. A raven will show we are open to talks, that the Vale does not wish for violence or strife, no matter the season.”

Sansa could see his mind working over the problem the Dragon Queen presented. She could see a glimpse of the intelligence he inherited from his late father. But it was gone in the next breath.

“Compose the letter in my name. Have the Maester send it. Then send him to me.”

Something about how Robin spoke, the way his shoulders pulled inwards, slumping as if burdened by a great weight concerned her. The red-haired Stark allowed her hand to linger on her cousin's arm before she bowed her head. “As you will it, cousin.”

- - - 

Margaery 1:

Queen Margaery was less then pleased, though one couldn't tell by looking at her. Outwardly she was the picture of grace, beauty and poise. The very image of what a Queen of the Seven – Six – Kingdoms should be. Inwardly, though, she was seething. Varys' little birds had reported that Tyrion Lannister served as the Targaryen Queen's Hand. But Sansa Stark was not with her tiny husband. In fact, as far as even Varys could tell, the little dove had well and truly flown her cage, and left not so much as a feather to be traced.

It had taken all she had not to throw her wine in the Spy Master's face when he had referred to Sansa by that horrendous nickname. That the Targaryen Queen had taken up roost in Dragonstone came as no surprise, but that she had taken Storm's End, and according to rumor, had Edric Storm as her ward, was cause for worry. The young man, bastard to the late Robert Baratheon was well liked by the people of the Stormlands. And if Daenerys could gain his loyalty, she could legitimize him. And through him, gain the Stormlands. 

There was already whispers that Dorne would make overtures to the Dragon Queen. There was no love in Dorne for the Lannisters, less now than even before. And the news out of the Vale, little that there was, stated that Robin Arryn was calling his banners. The Small Council believed it was to abide by the royal order to send them to the Crownlands in case of Targaryen assault. But Margaery was not so sure. The Vale had little part in the Game of Thrones these last few years. And the sickly son of the late Jon Arryn was said to be weak willed and prone to fits. An ideal puppet, and one whose strings Littlefinger apparently pulled.

What worried her was that the news came after Littlefinger departed from the Vale. Which indicated the call for the banners came after he left as well, meaning someone else was now pulling the strings. But who – that was what worried her. The Vale could be a powerful ally, or a dangerous enemy. Their armies and coffers and food stores had not been depleted by the war. Tommen hadn't clued into the fact that it was no longer Summer, and like Joffery, he had a taste for extravagance. And the treasury was depleted. The Lannisters were nearly destitute, and Highgarden's own were strained to the point of bankruptcy. The Kingdom couldn't afford extravagance, not in Winter, not after the war, especially not with another one on the horizon.

The people would starve in the streets. The Militant Faithful had finally been leashed, but tales of lavish balls and dinners in the Red Keep while people went hungry in Flea Bottom would only cause them to rise up again. Or worse, the stories from across the Narrow Sea speaking of the Targaryen's beauty, kindness, and how she is loved by the small folk. 'Breaker of Chains' they called her. Many literally called her 'Mother' in their native tongue. These stories would cause a starving populous to quickly flock to the Dragon's banner.

Since her imprisonment by the Sparrows, she had lost much of the influence she had gained in King's Landing. To be sure, she still had Tommen's ear. More so now since his mother had cloistered herself in her chambers. But she saw the way the guards and servants looked at her. Thrice married, twice widowed. Lied to the High Septem. Didn't matter that it was to protect her brother, most equated it as lying to the Seven themselves.

The ones who didn't look at her as if she should have suffered the same fate as Cersei or worse, looked at her with hunger in their eyes. 'I am married to a boy' she thinks 'barely a man, and one who has never been truly taught how to defend what is his.' They see a beautiful woman, a Queen, unprotected. If it had been Cersei, Robert would have killed any of them, even fat, drunk on wine and exhausted by whores. King Robert had been a force to be feared. Tommen was not, and these men wondered if the Tyrell Queen was as much of a whore as the Lannister had been.

Sometimes Margaery hated that she had been born a woman. As much as she loved the intrigue of the court, finding it exhilarating and thrilling, a battle field she could actually better contend on. She was envious that Sansa had managed to escape. 'I hope you are well, I hope you are safe, and warm.'

As she had to do most days, the Queen pushed the thoughts of her Stark friend aside and focused on the matters she still had to attend to today. She was sending Mira Forrester back home as a token of good will towards the North. There were secrets that Mira knew true, but the loss of those secrets was worth a little good will from a Northern house.

The Tyrell-Lannister; Baratheon she corrected herself. The twincest of Jamie and Cersei was evident in the faces of their children and the madness of their eldest, and had been exposed. But the great game demanded that she now maintain the lie, make people believe that she believed that her third husband was in fact the son of the late King Robert, and not the son of the Kingslayer.

Now there was a interesting problem.A rift had formed between Jaime and his twin sister in recent years. She had seen Jaime's face after his first visit with Joffery, - his son - upon his return from being the captive of Robb Stark. His first face-to-face encounter with the madness he had sired. She had watched from the shadows as the Knight escaped to a dark corner of the Red Keep, had slid his back down the wall, his face covered by his remaining hand.

''The Mad-King Lives.'' The words that had tumbled out of Jaime's mouth had echoed in her head.

Joffery's murder had been a shock for all. But she remembered Jamie's face the most. The conflict in his eyes. The loss of a son he could have never acknowledged or embraced as his own had warred with the relief that the Seven-Kingdoms had been spared the reign of another Mad-King.

Most would say that Jaime's time as a captive, the loss of his hand, his travels with Brianne of Tarth and the death of Joffery had changed him. But Margaery had thought that it wasn't that Jaime had been changed; but rather he had been laid bare.

That day in the that empty hall she had seen Tommen in Jaime, and Jaime in Tommen. It had taken time, kindness and a gentle patience - displays of weakness were ill afforded in King's Landing. But slowly, she was able to uncover the man under the armor, the broken sense of honor buried under the knightly bravado.

In a twist of fate, Jaime was one of the few she tentatively trusted. A shame that he had lost the trust of both his sister and his father. There was no evidence that Jaime had helped Tyrion escape, but that didn't mean Cersei and Tywin hadn't ostracized the once golden son of House Lannister.

The thought of the head of House Lannister had her twisting her lips in a distasteful grimace. Margaery had to admit, Tywin's survival of his youngest son's attack had been an unpleasant surprise. When she had first heard that Lord Lannister had taken a crossbow bolt to the stomach, while on the privy no less, she had been hard pressed to contained her delight. Of those in King's Landing, only he and the Spy Master were her biggest threats.

Still Margaery had to admit a grudging admiration and respect for Tywin. He was a brilliant man. And though taking a bolt to the stomach had left him with some lingering ailments,he did not let them stop him from being a good Hand of the King, an excellent adviser and tactition.

Varys' qualities went without saying. The Queen found him often to be cryptic and two steps ahead of everyone else. It made her frustrated and envious in equal turns.

There was little she could do about either men at this juncture however, and she could not deny that between her and Tywin, Tommen was shaping up to be a fair-handed ruler. If only the Maesters could come up with a cure for that thrice cursed love of extravagance that would ruin the meager good will they had regained from the people.

She turned to begin the long trip back to the royal wing on the large circuit she had taken to walking when she needed to think while fall had given way to winter. Mindful of the eyes of the passing servants and guards, mindful and aware, greeting each look with a smile or a small nod or greeting. Always polite, always demure, poised and gracious even when face to face with one who would harm her. She pushed the thoughts of Lannisters and Spy Masters from her mind for now...

...returning instead to the problem of Daenerys Targaryen.

She had no illusions. If the Mother of Dragons attacked, the North wouldn't come to the Lannister's aid. Not in any season. She suspected that the styled Young Wolf, King Robb Stark, would have his armies on the field of battle again once Winter ended.

'The North Remembers” she whispered to herself, practically hearing Sansa's voice utter the words.

“What was that your Grace?” A mild, practiced tone came from behind her while the grease practically oozed over her, making her feel slimy just listening to it. Turning her head slightly, she found Littlefinger, with his smug little smile and carefully styled hair.

“Lord Baelish. We were not expecting you back at court for another week at least.” She greeted, leaving his question unanswered.

The smug man gave his false huffing laugh, pulling his rich, well made winter cloak closer to his thin frame. “The Seven granted me fair weather and clear roads your Grace.” He shifted, perhaps in discomfort - she hoped he had saddle sores – before continuing. “I was surprised to be summoned with Winter well and truly here. Surely the crown does not expect the lords and ladies of the Westeros to risk life and limb at the court's whim.”

Margaery gave a pleasant smile, and a tiny, innocent little shrug. “I'm afraid Lord Baelish that the King didn't feel it necessary to inform me as to the nature of the summons. Only that it was urgent.” Oh, she knew. Her grandmother had covered up her own involvement in Joffery's murder, but had provided her with all the evidence needed to pin Littlefinger for it.

She had planted the idea into Tommen's head to summon Petyr. She told her young husband how to word the summons. And she would coach him in the charges, the arrest, the trial. But not before she had her time with the slimy little vermin.

“But you must be tired from your journey. Come Lord Baelish, let me walk with you to your chambers.” Without asking, she looped her arm through that of Petyr, hiding her disgust and stamping down her instinct to recoil. With ease she turned them in the direction of Littlefinger's guest rooms in the Red Keep, gracing him with a warm smile. “I hear the Vale is absolutely stunning with snow in the Winter. You must tell me all about it. I've never been of course. Though I hope to make the journey with his Grace come Spring.”

- - -

Robb 1:

On the outskirts of Winterfell's training grounds, the guards watched as the yet another dummy's head was decapitated from the rest of its ruined body. It was the fourth one the She Wolf had gone through, since the guards themselves had all refused to spar with her after she had trounced a half dozen of them when she first had arrived.

None, not even their fearless Guard Captain who had served under Rickard Stark, Lord Eddard's ather, made a move to stop Arya as she set up her fifth training dummy, kicking the torn limbs and decapitated remains of the previous ones out of the way.

It was clear to Robb that his little sister was unaware of the attention her actions had gained her. She could see open admiration in the eyes of the men. Their respect was something Arya had fought long and hard to win. It had taken her years to get the Guard Captain to train her with the same regiment he had trained Bran, Jon, Theon and himself with.

But she was nine and ten now, and it was high time she lay down the sword to become a lady. Father doted on her too much. They all had. Allowing her to learn the sword. Giving her leave to hunt. Letting her consort with the small folk. Her first moon's blood was years ago; she should have been wed and bedded with children of her own long before now. The noble families were starting to whisper about her unseemly behavior.

Squaring his shoulders, Robb grabbed a training sword and entered the ring. Their Lord Father didn't have the heart to do this, and he himself wouldn't find any pleasure or satisfaction in beating his little sister down in this fashion. But it was time Arya was reminded her place as a woman.

“Master-at-Arms, remove the evidence of my sister's tantrum.” His voice carried across the yard, loud and clear, a field commanders pitch. The man in question leaped up from where he was perched on the fence to obey. A few guards helped to take down dummy Arya had been battering, and the remains of the others that had fallen to her dull blade.

Gray eyes glared at him from a few feet away. The outward stillness and calm of the woman-child across from him betrayed by the cold fire in her eyes. Stark eyes, Robb thought. It was hard to deny that he, like Sansa had the Tully looks. Arya was of the North.

Up on the covered mezzanine between the towers of Winterfell, he saw his wife and children, their parents, and younger brother. Around the training yard soldiers and guards alike gathered as well. Servants and staff and a few visiting small folk creeped in the shadows. A hundred eyes upon the two wolves in the center ring.

The knowledge of their audience made Robb inwardly wince. He would have rathered this beating not be a public affair. But there was no helping it now. Outwardly he drew himself up, a King in his castle. “Put down the sword Arya.” He did not ask, he ordered, commanded. And prayed to the old gods that his sister yield, even if she bowed like a man, and called him 'Your Grace' mockingly.

He wanted to scream in frustration when Arya did just the opposite. She drew herself up, shoulders squared, and chin lifted in defiance as she turned her body sideways and raised her blade. The basic form of the Water Dance. Grimly he raised his own blunted blade up, knowing that the cold anger that burned in his sister's breast wouldn't allow her to surrender without a fight.

He was as proud of her in that moment as he was angry at her defiance.

'Wolves blood' – 'She-wolf', 'Warrior-princess', 'Ice Dancer' 'Lady-Wolf'. Robb had heard the names the men and small folk called Arya, toasting her with strong Northern mead and pride written on their faces around hot fires.'

Unnatural', 'A woman-that-rides-like-a-man', 'Unseemly' 'Unlady-like.' The nobles whispered with the only exception being House Mormont.

The words spun around and around in Robb's head as the two wolves began to circle each other, winter boots breaking through the thin layer of frost and ice of the muddy sparring ring. On one side of the ring, Arya's friends stood, her direwolf as silent as her mistress. On the other, his own trusted stood, Gray-Wind's eyes focused.

Robb struck first, a straight forward trust to test Arya's reflexes. In hindsight, a mistake. He hadn't faced an opponent so small since he was a lad himself. His sister simply leaned back, away from his lunge, before dancing over the slippery slush and mud as easily as if it was hard packed dirt.

He turned to follow her, swinging his blade, each attack becoming more complex. His sister either danced out of reach, or simply deflected his attacks, redirecting them to throw him off balance, causing him to stumble, overreach and overextend.

Eyes of cold steel continue to stare at him from his sister's face. Not once had she attacked. And Robb knew she had had a number of chances. Tactically he retreated, putting space between him and his sister.

Again they circled each other. This time the King of the North tried a different tactic.

“I know about your potential betrothal to Ramsay Snow-Bolton” There, a flicker of rage, and a snarl that curled at Arya's lips. “You have no choice. You are nine and ten Arya, a woman grown. It is your duty.” His tone was chiding, the way he spoke to Rickon when he misbehaved, or refused to do something in his younger years.

“Had I been born a man, hunting, riding to defend the people, leading the armies, the guard - These would be doing my duty if I was a Lord of a holdfast myself.” Arya countered hotly. “But since I am a woman, I am too wed, and bare many sons for my lord husband.” She spat in the ground at Robb's feet. Around them, he heard a number of women give noises and words of agreement. “Ramsay Snow is the bastard of all bastards. The definition of bastard. And you would have me married a man rumored to rape his female servants, after he has grown hard while flaying one of his own men?”

There was a gasp from all in attendance. But whether they were from the words Arya spoke, or the sudden speed with which she attacked he didn't have time to consider as unexpectedly he found himself on the defensive.

Sparks danced off their blades as they would catch and lock for a moment, steel against steel. Robb felt one of his ribs give when a vicious elbow from Arya struck him on his right side, and he could see her favoring her left leg from where he had slammed his heel into the side of her knee.

Parting again the wolves circled. Around them, the gathered audience yelled words of encouragement to both combatants. Robb knew he had strength and experience and greater training on his side. But his sister had speed and agility, and fought in a flowing mix of styles she had picked up over the years.

“If not Ramsay, then how about Gendry?” He countered. A Stark and Baratheon marriage as it should have been between their Aunt and King Robert. At least this she-wolf and Stag were best friends, unlike their Aunt who couldn't stand Robert. “Hes your best friend, you could do worse then marrying a friend.”

He really didn't like airing out the private matters of their family in such an open forum. There could be Southern spies in the crowd eager to report to the Lannisters about the conflict between his sister and their parents over marriage. A weakness they could exploit.

The disgusted face Arya made would have been amusing under any other circumstances. And on the sidelines he heard the large blacksmith choke on his own spit. Arya stopped circling, her blade still held up, but in a more relaxed position. “I am not Aunt Lyanna reborn. I am Arya Stark.”

How his sister could fill one sentence with such contempt he did not know. But he could tell even the mental comparison, the suggestion of it, bothered her. Perhaps it always had, being constantly compared to a dead-woman's ghost. Compared and always found lacking. Even Aunt Lyanna had comported herself as a Lady when not riding or hunting or causing a manner of mischief – if tales were to be believed.

With her head still held up in pride. Arya retorted in a voice high and clear for all to hear. “I do not find it agreeable your Grace. If I must wed, I will....” She trailed off, then assembled as the entire family seemed to draw an inward breath, leaning in to catch a name. “Take no husband and bare no children. Your Grace. My Lord Father, I am more then the cunt between my legs.”

“Arya Stark!” The reprimand came from many people, his parents and himself the loudest and most outraged of voices at his sister's course language. Others had been shocked. Though Robb was fast to note who had not cried out at Arya's unlady-like words. His own wife being one of them.

“Arya. Go to your chambers. We will speak in private.” The voice of Lord Ned gave no room for argument. At his words Arya, with her long braid frayed and wild, her wool trousers and leather boots splattered with mud smartly bowed to their father.

“My Lord.” She acknowledged, concealed anger still shimmering hotly beneath the surface of her placid face. Arya turned to him then, refusing to curtsy, but bowed at the waist, proper and knightly. “Your Grace.”

Robb watched as she spun on her heel and at a brisk pace marched out of the training yard after depositing her blunted sword on the rack with the others. Gendry, Osha and Dacey Mormont – who he had noted had taken to following Arya's word rather then his own at times, followed in her wake. Once the quartet was out of sight, the training yard filled with the voices of all those who had witnessed the spar between brother and sister.

The Gods, new and old, must be laughing at House Stark right now.

AN: Right... so...rather or not theres a chapter two depends on the response I get. I know very little of where this fic is going, only that its Stargaryen.

Chapter Text

A/N: And here we are at chapter 2.Its heavily Arya centric, as there was a lot that needed to be said and done with her to move the story forward.

UnBeta'd (Rough) Revised: May 2017 (Now with more content!)

Frosted Faith
Swords and Maidens

- - -

Arya 2:

Life inside the walls of Winterfell and the village of Winter Town had been tense in the three weeks since the duel between the King-of-the-North and Arya. 'The Dance of Wolves' the small folk in the village called it. Rumors spread like wildfire about Arya's potential impending betrothal to either Ramsay Snow or Gendry Waters, as well as the possible legitimization of both bastard young men.

Everyone from commoner to noble had an opinion on the two suitors as well as the words the she-wolf had spoken during her duel with her King-brother. Some spoke in support of Arya; others offered alternative names of noble sons they believed better suited for Winterfell's beloved warrior-princess. Ethan Forrester, Brandon Tallhart, or even his cousin Larence Snow, were among the list of northern sons the small folk suggested.

Arya herself paid no mind to the whispers or rumors, choosing instead to spend her days hunting and patrolling in the Wolfswood, often leaving well before dawn and returning well after dark. The results of her notable absence was an influx of fresh killed game, and the tanneries, butchers and cooks in the keep and the village suddenly found themselves very busy. There was also a sharp decline in reported brigands on the roads, with many awaiting trial in the dungeons of Winterfell.

She didn't always go alone of course, that she took Nymeria went without saying. Often times Gendry, Osha and Dacey were also seen with her. The four plus wolf were as thick as thieves, as it the saying went. On the rare occurrence, soldiers or guardsmen would also join the she-wolf on her daily patrols and rides, returning with tales that she knew only made her parents and brother scowl, and noble tongues waggle.

She didn't care - let them talk. She spoke true when she said she would take no husband and bare no children. They couldn't force Gendry to marry her, and she'd cut the prick off the Bastard-of-Bolton if it came down to it.

Or slit his throat in our marriage bed before he can even harden himself before going to slay his father, she thought to herself. I could take the Dreadfort for my holdfast.

Arya thoughts continued as she watched from the very window of the Broken Tower from which Bran fell off as the Keep prepared for that night's feast. If she squinted, she could make out the banners of the noble houses that had already arrived in Winterfell for the festivities flapping in the bitter wind on the southern wall: House Dustin, Forrester, Hornwood, Karstark, Reed, Tallhart, Umber and Whitehill. Mormont and Mollen. Long and Glover. Condon, Glenmore and Marsh. Half the northern houses. The rest, including the three houses of Flints and the Boltons were expected to arrive soon, their retinues having been spotted by the patrols already.

Her mother was entertaining the noble ladies and their daughters in the glass gardens, where it was warm, and the scents of fragrant fruits and flowers filled the air as they giggled and gossiped over tea. Her father and Robb no doubt were with the men and eldest of sons, cups of warm honey mead in hand in the study, deep in discussions of politics and boastful tales of battle.

Gendry and Dacey, like Rickon and Theon she had seen in the training yard with the other young lords and sons, testing their mettle against one another in spars under the watchful eye of Winterfell's Master-at-Arms Rodrick Cassel and his son Jory, the Captain of the Guard. The she-wolf had attempted to join in, however Rodrick had sent her off, gently but firmly. Orders, he had stated, from both her parents and her brother.

Arya returned to her room to strip herself of her armor, only to be set upon by Septa Mordane and her mother's personal handmaiden, Jayne Poole. The pair had been waiting, on her mother's orders, to bath and dress her appropriately for the festivities. A fine dress of shimmering Stark gray, the color of ice and frost, had been laid on her bed as per her mother's decree.

She had barely managed to escape the eager clutches of the two women.

It had taken a good two hours for both Jayne and the Septa to give up the chase. Arya had the good sense to hide herself in the top of the Broken Tower until the festivities began, knowing that the place was stubbornly avoided by all since Bran's fall.

Her mother would be furious later when she arrived in the outfit she had planned for herself instead of the gown chosen for her, and there would be consequences for it. However, the she-wolf refused to be anything but herself.

She was no more a lady than Nymeria a hound. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell, she was of the North, not some wilting southern flower.

- - -

The festivities were set to start momentarily, and Arya was only just finishing. It had taken her longer to get dressed than she had planned, having had to retrieve the parcel containing her outfit from where it had been stashed in the smithy had taken time.

The young woman who stared back at her in the dirty mirror was a surprise. The knee high black leather riding boots and snug wool trousers were her, and the boots hid the two knives she had tucked into them well. But the midnight blue top, low cut and skin tight showed a hint of cleavage she hadn't even been aware that she had. The long, shimmering sleeves with swirls of lighter blues and grays that looked like windswept snow were of a length more suited for her Lady Mother. The laced thigh length over coat, black dusting its way to a light gray towards the bottom, was clinched with metal waist belt.

Arya studied her reflection for a long minute, tucking dark strands of her hair behind her ears, choosing a half up and half down style with a long, thin braid at the back of her skull to keep it out of her face, leaving the rest of her hair to tumble down to below her shoulder blades in wild waves.

Straightening herself up, she lifted her chin towards the Stark woman in the mirror as she tugged on her gloves, then pulled on her formal cloak, Stark gray with a gray wolf pelt on the shoulders, and made her way out of the broken tower

The walk to the great hall where the feast was being held took only moments, and Arya ignored the way the few milling servants stopped and stared at her as she swept by, leaving whispers in her wake.

The two guards at the double doors to the feast hall straightened themselves as she came around the corner. Both of them were young men, and she had trained with them, bled with them and ridden with them on the field of battle. Tonight they stared at her with awe in addition to the respect they normally showed. The pair saluted.

“Lady Arya,” they murmured in low voices. For once Arya didn't mind the title, because this time it was spoken the way these same men would address her brother or father.

With a small smile, and gray eyes warm, she clapped both men on the shoulder. “Make sure to have Gage save you a strong bottle of mead for when you are off duty. And ask Tamra to bring you both a plate of food. And if Tam gives you grief, tell her it comes from me.”

The men grinned, then bowed their heads. “Thank you Lady-Wolf.” said from the guard on the left. The one on the right just smirked. “Get in there and show em who you are, She-wolf!”

Arya gave them both a wolfish grin and a wink before schooling her face and nodding at them to open the doors.

She swept in, and the great hall fell silent. The she-wolf kept her eyes trained on the raised head table, where her father and brother were both half out of their seats in shock. Her mother's face was torn between annoyance and a surprise delight.

Behind her she could hear the herald recovering from his own surprise to announce her.

“Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, Princess of the North!”

Arya was resolute, keeping her steps even, chin lifted in defiance. She ignored the murmurs, the gobsmacked look on Gendry's face, the hunger on Ramsay's face, and the delight on Dacey's face. She ignored the faint words that spoke of how she truly did look like Lyanna come again, now more then any other time.

Words are Wind.

She came to a stop just a few feet from the raised table of lords. Eyes the color of winter met those of her father, and the Tully blue of her brother and mother. Bending at the waist, Arya gave a deep bow, right fist over her left breast.

“Your Grace, My Lord Father and Lady Mother. Forgive me, I believe I am fashionably late.” A few chuckles could be heard throughout the great hall. When she rose, she could see a small proud smile threatening to break her father's usually stern expression.

At the center of the table, her brother rose, and with a sweep of his hand gestured to the open seat between their mother and his wife. “I suppose better late then never dear sister.” She inclined her head as more people joined in on the gentle sounds of amusement in the great hall. Bowing again she rounded the table and took a seat, continuing to ignore the way she could feel the hungry gaze of the bastard of Bolton on her form the whole time.

- - -

Eventually the noise level in the great hall returned to normal after her entrance, and her brother and father called for the feast to begin. Soon the sounds of merrymaking and revelry filled the hall, and staff laden with their burdens of food and drink moved in and around. Arya, despite her mother's light chiding, rose several times throughout to help one person or another with their burden when a heavy platter threatened to topple, or a too full jug was made to slosh over its rim.

Beyond that she comported herself as a lady, her manners impeccable, and not even the hawk eyed gaze of Septa Mordane could find fault.

Half-way through the third course - while her good sister was distracted with her niece and nephew, and Robb and her father caught in a heated debate with Lord Umber – she felt a gentle hand lay upon her arm. Turning her head, Arya found her mother looking at her curiously.

“I've never seen this outfit before, Arya.”

The she-wolf notice that a number of the other noble ladies perked up. Fashion was a popular topic, it used to revolved around the trends of King's Landing, but years of Northern independence had caused the ladies of the north to make their own fashion trends. Sansa, Arya thought, would have either been delighted, or horrified.

“It's new.” Seeing that Lady Catelyn was not yet satisfied with her answer, Arya sighed. “I bought the cloth from one of the passing traders, and commissioned Mistress Alanna in Winter Town to sew it.”

“Who?” This from Lady Sybelle Glover a few seats down.

“She's a little known seamstress in Winter Town. Her husband died during the War - I believe it was an arrow that he took for your Lord Husband, my Lady Glover.” She paused, seeing that she had the attention of several ladies at the table. “Everything from the fine stitching to the design is her work. As I stated, I simply bought the cloth and paid for her time. She has two young mouths to feed and needle work this far north is hard to come by. I go to her for all my wardrobe needs.”

That had gotten their attention. No one in Winterfell or among the nobility had been able to figure out who had been making Arya's clothes. It wasn't the seamstress employed by her family to be sure. Her mother had long since ordered the woman to only make her young daughter clothes befitting a lady.

Watching and listening to the women talk among themselves, Arya had to hide her smirk behind her goblet of mead.

Apparently, if a common-born seamstress was good enough for the princess of the north, all the noble ladies wanted to get something made or designed by such a skilled woman. She would have to warn Alanna that she might find herself with a sudden influx of business.

With the ladies properly distracted, she returned her attention back to her mother, who hadn't been sidetracked so easily.

“You didn't wear the dress I h--”

“And I never will.” Arya cut her off. “It's a fine dress mother, but... its not me. It's never going to be me.” Arya couldn't help the emotion that seeped into her words, practically begging her mother to understand. “I'm never going to be a lady like you or Sansa - like you wish I was.”

Arya swept her eyes over the room, finally settling on Gendry down at one of the lower tables as he arm-wrestled one of the Mormont soldiers, Dacey cheering him on. She wished she could be down there, just as she wished she could have joined her friends in the training yard that afternoon.

“It's just a matter of making an effort, Arya. Your outfit tonight, while not exactly acceptable for a feast, would be perfectly lady-like for everyday wear. Far better then dressing like a man.” Inwardly Arya sighed. She refused to turn to face her mother again, knowing the hope in her eyes would crush her. “Now then. Should I take this as a sign that you've given thought to your betrothal and you're amenable now?”

“No.”

“Bu-”

“I spoke true. I will not be taking a husband.”

Lady Stark studied her youngest daughter, seeing the same resolute look on her face she had so often seen on her husband's. Sighing, she held back her desire to slump tiredly in her seat, well aware of the eyes upon them. “Then perhaps you mean to become a Septa or... the gods forbid a silent sister?”

“I've never really worshiped your Seven. I keep to the old gods.”

A few of the noble ladies nearby gasped. While her viewpoint was common in the North, a majority of the nobility at least always swore by the new and the old gods. Arya however had just publicly stated she didn't.

The young woman could see how put-out her mother was, how horrified, and disappointed once more by her youngest daughter.

“Just... stop, mother.” Arya said, still refusing to look any place else but forward. I will always disappoint you. You'll never be proud of me like you were Sansa. I've accepted this. Tonight, this outfit,it's a gesture of good will. A compromise without me trying to be something I will never be.'

From the corner of her eye she could see her mother turning away from her. She knew her mother was just trying to reach out, to form a connection with her. For all the good it did either of them, her mother never listened to her, didn't really see her, Arya wasnt sure if it was because she couldnt, or simply didnt want to. 'I'm not Sansa, I'm not a lady like she was. Fit for court and courtship.'And where did that get Sansa in the end? Betrothed to and kidnapped by a psychotic prince turned mad-king. Married to a dwarf, and now missing.

Would I even know Sansa if I saw her? Would she know me? Sansa would be better able to navigate the courtly intrigue that the North's independence had brought to Winterfell. She'd be better equipped to know how to act, how to dress, what to say.

Arya didn't know. But that was because Arya was a warrior. And according to Osha, Arya had more in common with the people beyond the wall than she did with the southern 'kneelers'.

“Theres old blood in you A'ya. Old blood carrying older magic. Don't let these kneelers kill what howls in your veins.” It was a miracle that her mother had even allowed Osha to eat in the great hall during feasts, but Arya could see the wildling woman, dressed in trousers and a long tunic and jerkin, wrapped in a heavy cloak.

- - -

Half way through the feast, but before the guests could get too deep into their cups and partying, her father stood up and called for silence. Though Robb was King, her father's voice and words still held great sway and weight over all assembled. A hushed quiet quickly descended on the great hall as small folk and noble alike turned their gaze upon Eddard, waiting.

She, like the rest of those gathered, watched as Lord Stark stepped down from the raised table, his limp less pronouced the usual, though he was leaning heavily on his cane when he came to a stop to stand on the vast floor before the high table

“My brothers and sisters. My friends and honored guests. We are gathered tonight to bring levity and light in winter. In these past few years we have lost much, and we have grieved these losses together. We will remember them.”

“The North Remembers!” cried every voice in the hall.

“Spring brings the promise of renewal and rebirth. Which is why I have invited the unattached sons of every house to stay here at Winterfell in hopes my youngest daughter Arya will find her match to be married after the first thaw!”

From the men in the hall, low and high born alike, there came a clamor of of ruckus cheers, clapping, stomping and the banging of tankards and utensils on tables at this announcement. Arya scowled, biting down hard on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. By one of the large hearths in the hall, where the Starks' direwolves had curled themselves together for warmth, Nymeria gave a menacing growl, Lady matched her sister, both she-wolves echoing Arya's anger. Those nearby quickly fell silent, eyes on the she-wolf, whose hackles were clearly raised though she had yet to rise.

Ned waited for the hall to quiet, and then a moment longer to make sure Nymeria wasn't about to attack anyone before he continued.

“But marriage is a dream of Spring. And we still have the threats and trials of Winter to face first.” With a small gesture of his hand, Gendry and Master Mikken came forth, each man with a cloth-bound bundle in their arms.

“Robb and Arya, come forth.” Both the Young Wolf and the She-Wolf rose from the seats, coming down from the Lord's table to stand before their father in front of the assembled lords and ladies of the North.

“You are both summer children. You had never known war or a winter's chill until you were both near grown.” Both her and her brother wore the same serious expression as their father's as he spoke, his voice carrying to the furthest corners of the great hall.

“Yet when the North was threatened, when it was grievously wronged, it was you Robb who answered the call to lead, raising banners and leading the armies of the north to victory after victory in the south.”

“King of the North!” shouted someone in the back, the call echoed by all before once more there was silence.

“When our people were under attack by the Ironborn, by bandits,” Ned continued, “and wildlings, and predators, it was you, Arya, who rode to the defense of the people, time and time again.”

“Lady-Wolf! Warrior-princess of the North!” A different voice proclaimed, and those gathered echoed, many also howling like wolves.

At the table, Arya could see her mother frown at the chorus. But it had her standing a little taller, a little straighter, squaring her shoulders to hold the burden of the respect, love and acceptance from her people.

“Winter is dark, Winter is cold, and often long. It brings threats and dangers both great and small. You have both, in your own ways, risen to answer the call of the people. And I know you will both do what you deem necessary to continue to protect and care for the people of the north.”

Steel eyes so much like her own shifted from her brother to her, the corners crinkling in a smile that didn't reach his lips. Looking between his two children, Arya watched their father study the both of them.

“So it would be wise for me to give you both a weapon worthy of you.”

With a gesture, their father motioned Master Mikken and Gendry forward. Arya was hard pressed not to look at her friend and demand answers, but she remained as still as stone.

“Ice has been the sword of the Kings of the North for hundreds of years. Passed from father to son. Unlike the Kings and Lords of old I found myself with a dilemma. One sword, but two worthy children, neither of which the type to wield a greatsword.”

Arya sucked in a sharp breath, eyes locked on her father. She had noticed the absence of her father's greatsword Ice, which she had thought strange, for their Lord Father was never without the Starks' Valyrian Steel blade. She had dismissed her observations though, in the wake of her anger and hurt.

“Robb. To you I gift a blade worthy of any King, North or South.” Master Mikken step forward then and passed the bundle he held to Ned, who unwrapped it to reveal a hand-and-a-half sword in a scabbard that was a smaller replica of the one that had held Ice. Arya watched with baited breath as their father presented the sword to Robb hilt-first.

He drew it, and as he pulled the blade free, it sung. A bastard sword; it was a shorter, thinner replica of Ice in both design and appearance, exacting in its details down to the dark, smokey blue hue of the blade.

“This is...”

“A sword with out a name as of yet. Forged from Ice.”

Everyone was stunned, down to the last man, woman and child in the Great Hall. No house, no Lord, great or small would give up a Valyrian Steel weapon. And yet by sacrificing the very blade which had been passed down through the Starks for generations, Ned had turned one blade into two. With reverence, Robb sheathed the sword carefully, then held it carefully in his hands, scabbard and all, as if it was a new born babe. “Winter's Bane.” He declared after a moment of intense silence.

“A fine name for a fine sword, son.” Lord Stark said before motioning for Gendry to pass him his own bundle.

“Arya. My furious wolf-pup.” There was a look of such pride on Ned's face, but it was also colored with a unnamed sorrow. “It is a difficult path you have chosen to walk. And I fear I have reached the end of my ability to protect you from the dangers of that path, and expectations that come with being a woman grown in a world of men.”

With care, her father unwrapped the smaller bundle, revealing another sword - this one smaller in size and length than Robb's.

The scabbard was ironwood covered by hardened black leather, with ancient northern designs dating back to the First Men etched deep into the treated hide. The fittings were steel, and polished to a high shine. The top fitting was a a large direwolf howling at the moon in the forest on one side, with the Stark sigil on the other. The bottom depicted a wolf's head on both sides, with northern patterns. The guard wasn't nearly as wide across as a traditional cross-guard, and was simple and plain in appearance excepting for an adaption of the Stark's sigil. She recognized the style as something similar to what she had see Osha sketch. The wolves head was bracketed by a single running wolf on each side. The hilt too was short, made for a woman's hand, and like the scabbard it was ironwood wrapped in dark leather for a firm grip. The pommel was elegant, depicting a heart-tree with the Stark's words written in high Valyrian above.

Arya swallowed thickly around the lump in her throat, gray eyes stormy and bright with emotions as without even drawing the blade she could see how much care and thought had gone into the creation of it. She flickered her eyes upwards to see Gendry, Mikken and her Father watching her, encouragement and anticipation in their eyes. Gendry the most of all three, which let her know who had likely forged the various components, if not the blade itself.

Taking a breath, the she-wolf finally pulled her new sword from its scabbard. Like her brother's, it sang as it came free, hers sounding cleaner and more crisp, like the smell of morning frost. The blade was the color of clouds heavy with snow, and held the tell-tale shimmer of Valyrian Steel, with brighter swirls of icy blue flowing along the length of the blade, like water frozen in time. It wasn't as wide or thick as the traditional Westeros sword, nor narrow like a thin blades of a Braavosi water dancer. From tip to pommel the sword must have been a good ten inches shorter than Robb's, and likely only half the weight.

It was a knight's sword fit for someone her size. Whoever was behind the concept of this blade clearly had drawn inspiration from the description of Dark Sister – the famous longsword that once belonged to Queen Visenya Targaryen, the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

It was beautiful.

Growing up, Arya always knew she'd never get to wield the Valyrian Steel blade of their House. The greatsword had been nearly as long as she was tall. So this, to have and to hold a Valyrian sword - for it to be hers - and to know it was made at the sacrifice of her father's Ice...!

Had the blade she had just been gifted been one of simple castle forged steel, Arya might have declared its name 'Husband' in jest.

But this was too great of a gift to even consider such a jape.

“Starfang.”

She whispered the name, softly as if spoken any louder might shatter the blade in her hands, or worse, cause her father to take it back. With care and respect she slid Starfang back into its scabbard, holding it with a gentle reverence that matched the way her brother held his own new sword.

Before them, their father nodded solemnly before he finally cracked a smile.

“Winters Bane and Star-Fang. Fitting names for swords of House Stark.”

As quickly as the whole affair had began, it was over. A hand on her elbow from her father directed her to return to the high table. The look her mother gave her father as he sat back down told Arya that her mother was less then pleased with the new sword Arya held in slightly trembling hands.

Back on the floor of the Great Hall, Robb remained standing, the King of the North exchanging his steel sword for his new one on his hip. Once secured he held his hands up to call for silence. And silence he was given.

“Gendry Waters, Ramsay Snow, and Larence Snow, come forth.”

The three bastards came forth. Gendry uncomfortable, Ramsay prideful and Larence uncertain as to why the three of them were being called upon by the King.

“Before Aegon the Conqueror arrived on our shores, before the Andals sailed across the narrow sea, before the Wall was built, when our ancestors the First Men ruled these lands - blood was blood. A brother was a brother. Kin was kin.”

High and lowborn alike began to murmur quietly, and Robb allowed it for a time. Arya very quickly caught on to what her brother was doing and why. Three bastard sons of noblemen were about to be legitimized, which meant all three of them were free to join in what basically would amount to a pointless pissing contest for her hand in marriage, which would never have a winner.

“I, Robb Stark, First of my name, King of the North, descendant of the First-Men, hereby legitimize Gendry Waters as Gendry Baratheon, son of the late King Robert Baratheon. I legitimize Ramsay Snow, as Ramsay Bolton, son of Lord Roose Bolton. And I legitimize Larence Snow as Larence Hornwood, son of Lord Halys Hornwood.”

Arya smoothed her face into something placid in order to avoid sneering at the victorious look in Ramsay's eyes. The Bastard-of-Bolton would always be a bastard, no matter what her brother said.

“My honorable lords and ladies, let us recognize and welcome, Gendry Baratheon, Ramsay Bolton and Larence Hornwood.”

The great hall erupted into thunderous applause. Arya joined in, for Gendry's sake alone. She was happy for him, but also pitied him. For being legitimized brought new headaches and hardships for the blacksmith.

- - -

Dany 2:

Daenerys had just returned two nights past from Evenfall Hall. Her meeting with Lord Selwyn Tarth had gone well. Lord Tarth bent knee after a week of long discussion, which he had informed her only afterwards was more for the purpose of getting to know her before declaring for her. He knew of her deeds, of the rumors and tales and legends that surrounded her name. Ships of all sorts passed his island home, full of captains and sailors speaking of her war against slavery and the way the people loved her.

The Mother of Dragons was known to him, but Daenerys Targaryen was not. Edric Storm was now the ward of Lord Tarth. It kept Edric near enough to Storm's End to keep the storm-lords passive, and freed up her Hand. Tyrion, she knew, was very pleased to no longer be responsible for the Usurper's bastard. And it isolated Edric on a island, where he'd have plenty of space and distractions compared to Dragonstone, and he was still without quick and easy escape.

Not that Edric had shown any signs of consolidating power and resources to escape and lead an uprising in the Stormlands against her. In fact the Baratheon bastard was rather content so long as she kept him informed of the health and well-being of the people of the Stormlands, something she easily agreed to do given his interests were clearly rooted in genuine care for the small-folk.

Unfortunately she had been held up in council and court since her return, catching up on the developments and troubles that had arisen in her absence. She started on her way to her chambers for a hot bath, a good meal and much deserved sleep.

“Your Grace, a moment.” The urge to scream was hard to resist, but the Queen was all to aware of the many eyes and ears that were around, even here near her own rooms, where only her most trusted guards and advisers were allowed. Dany took care to keep the serene expression on her face.

“Lord Tyrion?” She inquired as she stopped, and waited for him to catch up to her, knowing that his short legs made it difficult for him to get around sometimes.

“You are... surprisingly quick... Your Grace.” Tyrion gasped for breath, though Dany knew he was acting more winded then he actually was, as he appeared perfectly composed, and lacked the flushed, ruddy appearance of exertion.

“I desire nothing more than a hot bath and the embrace of my bed, my Lord. I assume given your haste, that this is important?” She didn't fully keep the irritation out of her voice, if only because she spoke true, and it may further quicken the small man in telling her whatever it is he needed to.

As well, she was still annoyed at him for not telling her of his forced marriage to Sansa Stark - even though she had gotten the full story out of him the same day she had learned of it - she had been disappointed to find he knew nothing of where the eldest Stark girl could be. He did at least provide some interesting ideas on who might be behind her disappearance. The same people behind his nephew's assassination, he suspected.

Once she was sure he had caught his breath, Dany began walking again, having little desire to discuss anything out in the middle of a hall. She was kind enough to keep her steps slow and short for the benefit of her Lord Hand.

“Three things. A letter has arrived from the Vale, bearing the seal of House Arryn.”

A letter from the Lord of the Vale. Curious. “I thought House Arryn were allies to your family?”

“Officially yes. But they stayed out of the War of Five Kings, committing no forces or any aid to any one side. In fact, since the death of Jon Arryn, the Vale has been remarkably quiet. To have them reach out to you is... well, it could be a very good thing.”

Sighing, she held her hand out for the sealed letter, which Tyrion handed over. Breaking the wax seal she unrolled it and began to read, her steps slowing further until she stopped all together.

' To Her Grace, Daenerys Targaryen Stormborn, First of her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Princess of Dragonstone, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Meereen, and Conqueror of Slaver's Bay.

Your reputation proceeds you. Even here in the Vale we have long heard of the Silver Queen. It has been over two decades since a Targaryen last set foot upon Westeros.

I write in hopes that word of your wisdom and benevolence has not been an exaggeration. Westeros has suffered enough under selfish and mad rulers.

The Lords of the Vale wish to treat. Rather you come to us, or us to you, is at your discretion.

In hope.

Robert Arryn

Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East.'

Strange, Dany thought, all she had heard of the son of the late Jon Arryn stated that he was a sickly and weak lad, prone to fits and shakes. This letter, however, was clearly written by a someone of sound mind, with a steady and sure hand. The words flowed, and the script practice and smooth. More importantly, the signature of Lord Arryn was clearly done in by a different hand, more of a child's scribble then a Lord's mark.

Wordlessly she passed the letter back to Tyrion and gave him a few minutes to read it. The news, if true, was good. To get Lord Arryn and the Vale to bend knee would give her control over a great deal of Westeros' western coast. It also gave her a better launching point for her future efforts in the north. More ports to bring in trade from Essos. And defensible strongholds from which to bring her campaign for the Riverlands from. The Vale was also mid-way along The King's Road, if she recalled her mental map correctly, and she could have her forces choke point the Crossroads, thereby creating a check point in the center of the Seven Kingdoms, supported by her forces in the Vale.

Beside her, Tyrion gave a thoughtful sound as he read and reread the letter.

“Lord Hand?” she questioned, curious as to the thoughts that she could see bouncing around in that brillant mind of his.

“This is not Lady Arryn's hand writing. There were rumors that she was murdered shortly after her marriage to Petyr Baelish. Though I'm afraid I havent been able to confirm them since we've landed in Westeros.”

Daenerys waited, knowing Tyrion had more to say, and was simply gathering his thoughts before hand. “Nor is this the hand writing of Little Finger. I would know his script even if I had my eyes plucked from my head. And the wording, while politic enough, doesn't leave me feeling in need of a scorching bath either....”

Tyrion had mentioned the cunning and dangerous Baelish to her before, more then once in fact. Born of a lesser house, former Master-of-Coin, owner of many establishments both within and without King's Landing, including a number of brothels. Obsessed with Catelyn Stark, formerly Tully. Sleazy; her Lord Hand had called him, Sleazy, but cunning, clever and dangerous.

So the comment about the bath made the Queen smile, but only just a little.

“Should I consider the letter serious, or not Tyrion?” She finally asked when the silence grew too long, a pounding behind her eyes let her know a migraine was swiftly on its way, and she really just wanted this day to end.

“Hm?” The half-man looked up, clearly he had been deep in thought until she had spoken.

“I would consider it so your Grace. While I'm not familiar with Young Lord Arryn's signature, the seal is correct. I would guess the letter itself was written by a Maester, at Young Arryn's bidding.”

He looked thoughtful again,
“I can not say anything on the matter of treating with the Vale, for all we know, the young Lord simply wishes to see your dragons. We might not get their allegiance out of it, but we likely wont gain a enemy either.”

- - -

After a hot bath, in steaming scented waters, after she had pulled on a pale blue silk night shift, and pulled back the fine cotton sheets and thick wool blankets and heavy furs to crawl into her to big bed, she thought over the other news Tyrion had brought to her.

Word had come from Essos, in the free-city of Pentos, of a silver haired dragon with purple eyes at the head of the most famous Golden Company. A group of sell swords founded by the Blackfyre Bittersteel after the end of the first Blackfyre Rebellion. Why her Lord Hand didnt share this with her first she didnt know, for it was more concerning then any of the news he brought to her attention this evening.

There was no confirmation on the identity of this suppose dragon prince. Though speculation names him Aegon VI Targaryen, son of her late brother. If true, and the rumor presence of Illyrio Mopatis, a former bravos turn Magister, and at one time, guardian to her and her late brother Viserys before her marriage to Drogo, gave more weight to the speculation then she cared for.

This was worrying. Should the boy turned out to be in truth, her nephew, he may have a better claim to the Iron Throne the she herself. And his blood ties to Dorne through his mother Ella would guarantee their allegiance to him and not her, despite the existence of the secret pact made between Oberyn Martell and Ser Willem Darry, a pact now void with Viserys death true, but promises for aid were not so easily revoked when they were on paper.

And she did have eldest son of Prince Doran Martell, Quentyn Martell, on her small council. The position of adviser had originally be ceremonial at best, the burns he had gained when he foolishly tried taming her dragons had been severe, though thankfully he had been quick on his feet, and that combined with the fact Rhaegal had attacked him from behind spared his life.

As it was, he was getting better at using his left hand, his right having been too severely burned to save the arm below his bicep, and had to be amputated. Much of the right side of his torso and back had been flashed burned, more from the heat then the flames themselves, and he'll have those scars for the rest of his life.

That said, he had proven a cautious, but keen man, with a mind for numbers, and sums, and, according to him, keeping a army and Castle well stocked for winter, was not so different then the worse summers of Dorne, Just the opposite elements at play. So his ceremonial position had become a actual position, that of an adviser and acting Master-of-Coin.

She had, with time earned the shy young man's loyalty, and that of his companions. And thankfully, he had seemed to let go of the notion of marriage to her. Still a position on her small council, and his loyalty did not guarantee that Doren would bend knee to her, should the fair haired leader of the Golden Company turn out to be Aegon VI in fact.

Dany groaned, and gracelessly flopped over onto her left side, heavy eyes looking towards the large windows that faced out towards the Narrow Sea, knowing that on the other side was Pentos and this suppose Dragon Prince.

'Dragon Prince maybe. But I am the Mother of Dragons. He could be the son of a prince, but I am the daughter of a king. Mayhaps a Mad-King, but a King still.' She thought, perhaps unkindly, a dark frown pulling on her lips. 'I am Queen by right of conquest, I earned my crown through fire and blood, sweat, and tears. Through death and guile. What is a Prince to a Queen?'

What indeed. She had never heard of this Dragon Prince. And she would bet given the history of the Golden Company that they are his only because of his blood if he is who he says he is. If he comes to Westeros, she would see the truth of his claims, and still she will smack this suppose nephew of her's down.

Once; she had entertained the thought that had Aegon lived she would have married him, for he would be only a little older then herself. Now though she would kill him if necessary to protect what was hers.

She would not tie herself to another man for the sake of duty again. Nor step aside because of some Westerosi idea of tradition of secession.

Sighing Dany closed her eyes, and reached a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose, brows furrowed in thought and pain from the ache behind her eyes. Rolling onto her back once more, Dany let her hand drop to her stomach, and stared up at the thick, wood beams -dark with age- of the ceiling. The Targaryen Queen decided that she would kill Tyrion for bring her such heavy news before she retired for the evening. Not literally, she did actually like the half man, but the thought of strangling him was a pleasant distraction from her headache at the moment.

By comparison the last bit of news Tyrion had had for her was trivial, though it was useful to know given the letter from Lord Arryn. Word from King's Landing had reached Dragonstone by merchant ship, which given the circumstances, was how much of the news from outside of the Stormlands reached their ears.

It would seem that Lord Petyr Baelish, the Seven Kingdom's former Master-of-Coin and Robert Arryn's new step-father, had been arrested and stands trial for the assassination of the late King Joffery.

“Littlefinger's part in Joffery's assassination would also explain how Sansa vanished. I think he is nearly obsessed with her as he is her lady-mother. I highly doubt he worked alone though. The thought is a frightful thing. The question is why get rid of Littlefinger now? He's resourceful, well connected. I doubt he's truly outlived his usefulness.... so why would whoever helped him kill Joffery risk their own heads rolling when there are simpler ways to do someone in?”

The imp had left shortly after speaking those words, bidding her good night and leaving her to her thoughts.

Plans within plans within plans. Dany sometimes worried that despite all the dangers and betrayals -she has only known two- she had faced to get here, her experiences has left her ill-prepared for the Game of Thrones in Westeros.

Restless, Dany rolled back over to her left side. Reaching out she pulled one of the many pillows on her bed to her chest, wrapping her arms around it and curling up. Closing her eyes, she hoped for sleep to claim her quickly. For the day was long, and full of headaches.

She would need to start gathering allies in earnest it would seem. And those she couldn't win with diplomacy she would force to bend knee with force. In that regard she would call a small-council meeting on the marrow to discuss their options. Including the letter from the Vale. Tryion was correct, she had little to loose by treating with the young Lord Arryn, and much to gain if she could bring them to her side.

- - -

Arya 3:

She spent every day since she received Star-Fang practicing with the blade. She would rise before dawn, and dress warmly before heading down to the training yard to run through drills, learning the weight, balance and reach, as well as the limits as what it could or could not cut. Afterwards, Arya would stop by the kitchen, where the cooks ushered her into a chair and allowed her to break her fast while she and the kitchen staff shared the latest news and rumors.

With a full belly and a limbered body, when the rest of Winterfell was having their morning meal, she would be in the godswood, quietly meditating, or taking a whetstone or cleaning cloth or both to her sword as she had seen her father do with Ice countless times throughout her life.

On days when the weather was fair for winter, she would strap on her armor, and ride with the guards and soldiers on patrols, or go hunting. For the latter she would often have to give a number of her suitors the slip, as they scared the game away, and were simply annoying, with Gendry being the exception. The Bull-headed smith, for all his large size was able to move quietly enough that they could actually catch whatever game they were hunting.

On days when the weather wasn't fair, Arya did what she could to avoid the young noblemen and ser knights that had been invited to stay at Winterfell in an attempt to win her hand. She was quick to discover the best ways to drive them off.

Being found caring for her niece and nephew sent two fleeing, the sight of her with children enough to make them break out into a cold sweat. Dressing as a 'man' as she usually did, made them uncomfortable, clearly not sure how to deal with a woman who didn't act like a southern lady.

Spending time in the company of either of her brothers or father kept a vast majority of them away for a few hours. Rickon was the easiest to sneak away to spend time with. Her younger brother and her could sit in the same room, each lost in their own books or studies, in silence with their direwolves for hours at a time. Nymeria and the other direwolves also kept a few of the suitors away, growling and snapping at the young noblemen. She wondered if they could smell their lust - it wasn't something she wanted to find out.

Within the first week, Arya had soundly trounced half of the hopefully delusional. By the end of the third she had found the few she could stand. Ethan Forrester, Gendry – it went without saying-, Grunt and Wrex Slate, -twin brothers who were equal is in size and strength to any of the men of House Umber – and Little-Jon Umber, one of her brother's trusted. There was also Theon, who had made several passes at her in the week or so following the feast. She had laughed in his face and then threatened to cut off his prick should he make another attempt.

Of those she could stand, Grunt and Wrex were as loud and as boisterous as any northman. But the twins were at Winterfell because of duty, not because either of them wished to actually be wedded. Little-Jon had come to see her as a little sister. Gendry was her best friend, and any thought of that possibility had long faded. Ethan was much like Rickon, studious but with a love for music. Arya had seen how his eyes lingered on the other suitors, the way most of them eyed her. Had even called him on it. She supposed, if given the choice, she could wed him. His himself was no stranger to strong willed women, and beyond a shared duty they could potentially keep separate lives and lovers.

If, that is, it comes down it it. If she has no choice but to go through with this foolish attempt by her parents and Robb to make her a proper lady.

It wouldn't..

By week four her lady-mother had attempted to limit the time she spent with Gendry. “You must give the other young lords a chance. And I think Gendry frightens some of them.” Her mother had told her. It was a good thing to know. Gendry was apparently the spitting image of his father, the way she herself was the ghost of Aunt Lyanna. Arya supposed that the shared looks with their dead relatives made people either nervous or jealous.

The only bright side was that her mother also forced Robb to keep Theon away from her.

By week five, half the running had more or less bowed out, though some who had given up hope still lingered. Those were mostly sons who were there for more reasons than a potential match to the second daughter of House Stark. Grunt and Wrex remained, though it was clear to her parents now that the twins weren't there for Arya.

The weeks crept by and one after another her suitors went home. Some she had outright ignored, more than half she had trounced in mock combat or some archery contest. Seven found her too intimidating, four too 'man-like'. Two had confessed to her late one night that they had found companionship in each other - she was not insulted, and actually thought the pair made a cute couple and had said as much to them. The remaining suitors gave up the pretense of being at Winterfell for reasons other then discussing the Dragon Queen.

By week six only Gendry, Larence Hornwood, Ethan, and Ramsay were really truly still in it. At least from the point of view of everyone else. Her mother, she knew, was at her wit's end. As was the she-wolf, though for different reasons.

For a month and a half, Ramsay had stalked her. A few times he had caught her alone, those first two weeks he had gotten in close. The final straw was when he placed his hand on her waist making her recoil in disgust, a mistake as she found herself backed into a wall as he pressed in close. While the bastard's exact words were not important, he had implied that it was a shame that she wasn't a good lady, dressed in silks and skirts as his work would be so much easier.

She had pulled her knife and struck quicker than lightening, slashing across his face and cutting a long thin line from chin to ear on the left side. He had backed off then, and she had retreated, fleeing and making sure from then on to always have someone she trusted or at least Nymeria with her at all times.

As far as she knew, the Bastard's story behind his new scar was a training accident with some of his men in the wolfwoods. Her brother and parents didn't press for details. But her friends knew the truth, as did her good-sister Talisa, who had been furious and had uttered something about herbs and poisons in High Valyrian that Arya hasn't been able to completely translate in her head. Like her friends, her good-sister made sure Arya was never without company, the Volantene being unable to believe that Lady Stark would want her youngest daughter to marry one such as Ramsay.

Unable to get her alone, Ramsay had taken to acting like a true and proper gentlemen, paying her compliments and being courtly to her in front of everyone, more so her brother and parents. Arya was sure that if she had been the daughter Catelyn Stark had wanted, - had been like Sansa – she might have dismissed the bastard's previous attempts at assaulting her as a man besieged with desire for her. She would have found it flattering, and his courtly manners charming, for after all he was a comely young man.

Of course she wasn't Sansa, and she saw through the ruse of Ramsay Snow-Bolton. Then again, Arya recalled Sansa's treatment of their half brother Jon, and knew that legitimized or no, her older sister wouldn't have given Ramsay the time of day either. Of course, Arya doubted their Lady Mother would be pushing Sansa to wed any bastard, Ramsay or Gendry. No, a bastard wouldn't have done for the eldest Stark daughter. 
It mattered little she suppose, over the course of the the last nearly two moons, she and Ethan had gotten to know each other, and Ethan, gods bless him, shared her view on the matter of marriage. It had been something they had discussed privately, and in depth. Ethan was going to speak to his older brother and write to his mother about officially arranging the marriage between them, and she would accept his suit. Their betrothal would get both of their mothers of their respective backs, and put an end to this mummers show.

Rather or not they'd go through with the marriage was a worry for spring.  

While the serious suitors had attempted to woo her, and Ethan and her laid the ground work for their plan, her brother and parents were in long debates and late discussions with the other lords and ladies regarding one Daenerys Targaryen.

Arya personally thought they should just send an envoy to meet with the Mother of Dragons. When she suggested it, it had of course been shot down. Robb had told her that what he decided was none of her concern - only it was. Because the north was her home, and it's people were her people. But it was Robb's way of once again reminding her of her role as a woman, and younger sister, baring her attempts to enter into the meetings, or even ease drop on them.  She wasn't even really a spare heir as far as the seat of Winterfell went.

'Am I just a burden then? To be pawned off for political gain?'

- - -

She had left her father's study late last night, nearly two months after the feast, her parents had summoned her to speak privately. It had not gone well.

“There are rumors going around Arya... that you....”

Her mother has attempted to begin tactfully, though to the point. She herself had heard the rumors of course. It placed her on the cock of every man that was not her brother that she had spent time with. Gendry in the smithy, tag-team with the twins. Ethan in the broken tower, Larence in the godswood.

Arya had attempted to deny the charges, and the insinuation that she was a whore.

But her mother didn't listen, she never did. And her poor father looked gravely uncomfortable with the whole subject.

“Ramsay Bolton is still willing to marry you, even if you are with another mans child.” Her mother had continued as if Arya had never spoken, ignoring the way her daughter's hackles rose. “We'll move any marriage up, to have you wedded and bedded before any child can quicken in your womb.” Her mother hadn't paced the room, through her body had held a tension that spoke of her desire to move. “Unless the father of any possible child steps forward this is the best solution to save face.”

She was almost ashamed at how quickly she lost control over the wolf-blood that ran in her veins But the direwolf that she was howled in anger within her breast, and so Arya howled at her mother.

“I am not marrying the Bastard-of-Bolton!”  She had stormed out of her father's study. A slew of curses in common, high Valyrian and the old tongue spilling from her mouth as she tore down the halls.

Her father had be remarkably silent during the whole exchange, and neither he nor her mother had sought her out afterwards. But her friends had. Gendry, Dacey and Osha had barged into her room without warning. Evidently, Ethan had seen her storming through the halls from her father's study and had fetched her closest companions.

Arya growled as she paced in front of the hearth in her room, Nymeria tense and still at the foot of her bed as her mistress prowled back and forth. She cursed and mumbled in every language she knew, common tongue simply not being able to convey just how livid she was. But under that she was mostly hurt. She understood, she did - the rules and expectations of her station. But understanding did not make those things just or right.

If she stayed in Winterfell her mother would marry her off to Ramsay, having swallowed his lies. She'd be sent to Dreadfort, less a wife, and more a slave and personal whore. Worse, beyond attempting sexual assault, he had whispered the most depraved things to her when others couldn't hear.

“As soon as we are married, I'm going to make you a nice fur cloak...using your direwolf.” He had said. “Its clear you love your wolves. Perhaps when we are at Deadfort I'll find some hounds to fuck you like the she-bitch you are.” He had taunted. “Or maybe a few of my more loyal men can help me remind you of a woman's place - it's on her back with her thighs spread, by the way.”

She shook the memory of the Bastard's monstrous words from her mind, feeling sickened to even be in the same country as him, let alone the same keep. I can't stay here. The thought circled over and over in her head.

Arya hadn't been pacing for long when suddenly the door to her chambers slammed open. Spinning she drew Star-Fang from her hip, poised to attack the intruders, only standing down once she saw the furious and worried faces of her friends standing in the doorway.

“Whats the plan Pup?” Dacey ask as she entered. The Mormont woman was the eldest of the group, and formally a member of Robb's personal guard. She had been asked by Lord Stark to leave the front lines and come to Winterfell to tutor Arya on how to be both a lady and a warrior. The heir to Bear Island had jaw length black hair with small braids throughout. She had a northern complexion, and almond shaped dark eyes. She was also tall, a head taller then even Gendry, and lanky. A handsome woman, comfortable in either armor or a dress.

Arya motioned the three in, and shut the door. Quickly, quietly, she told them everything. It was Dacey that pulled her into a strong embrace, hugging her tight with one arm as her free hand pulled Star-Fang from her white knuckled grasp and set it on the bed.

“I need to leave Winterfell; leave the North.” Calmer now, with her most trusted there with her, her words were firm and sure. Three heads nodding back as the she-wolf pulled back from Dacey's embrace to address them all. “I will not ask any of you to come with.”

“As if I'm letting you out of my sight, Pup.” This came from Dacey, a grin on her lips.

“You'd get into far to much trouble without me Arya”. Gendry said, arms folded across his broad chest.

“Besides, you're mother is already on me about marriage. I am not sticking around for that.”

They all laughed. Lady Catelyn Stark was a force to be feared.

“No free-folk has been south of the neck in a thousand years. I would like to see just how weak the kneelers are.” Osha joined in.

Arya studied their faces, and found only affection, determination and loyalty shining back at her.

“Then here's the plan...”

- - -

What would her family -pack- do, when they found out? Arya wondered if this was how her Aunt had felt, the night Rhaegar Targaryen's Kingsguard spirited her away. Not for the first time, Arya questioned whether Lyanna Stark was kidnapped, or had left of her own free will to escape a unwanted betrothal, and the suffocating expectations of their gender.

This she-wolf, however, was going to make her escape in broad daylight instead of under the dark of night as her late Aunt had. Arya had spent half the night at the foot of the heart-tree, praying to the old-gods and honing Star-Fang.

Arya recalled her father once telling her that anything done before a heart-tree is sacred. It was why marriages were preformed before the tree, why oaths were sworn before it. It was why when her father had to pass judgment on a criminal, he would sharpen his blade at its base. As she had run the whetstone along the length of her sword, she had uttered prayers. For Osha and Gendry and Dacey. For her family, for Sansa, and Bran, for her people. She asked for guidance, and hoped that the gods heard her.

Just before dawn she returned to her room. Her bags were packed, Osha had came and gotten them before she had gone to the godswood. She pulled on extra layers of leather and wool before she put on her armor with diligent care. Made of reinforced black and brown leather, and trimmed with fur, it was armor of the north, custom made and fitted for her. It bore no markings of her house, but then in the North, all knew who she was, so it had been unneeded. A part of her regretted that now.

She braided her hair and strapped on her swords, both Star-Fang and Needle. Daggers and knives were open and hidden on her person. Her bow and a quiver full of arrows she slung over her shoulders. She added smaller items to the kits and pouches on her belt, and hidden pockets in her armor and on her person. Then she put on her gloves and heavy cloak. Before leaving her room she took one last, long look around.

Tugging her hood up over her head, she closed the door behind her. Nymeria came with, never leaving her mistress' side, which forced the few servants in the halls to press close to the wall to avoid the pair of she-wolves.

No one stopped or questioned Arya, as it was common for her to go out on rides or hunting at this hour. The sky was beginning to lighten, the first traces of dawn. The gods had seen fit to grant clear skies, though to the far North Arya could see clouds that promised snow gathering. Fresh snow fall would cover their tracks well.

That they were about to escape from Winterfell through the front gates amused the northern woman. By the time anyone realized that she hadn't just gone out hunting, she'd be long gone.

As Arya and Nymeria approached the stables where her trusted friends stood waiting with the horses, Arya found herself slowing. A group had assembled, Winterfell guards and Northern Soldiers, all armored and clearly prepared for a long ride. She recognized each face, knew each of their names. She was startled to realize that of every man, and a few rare women gathered - she had fought beside all of them.

At her approach the soldiers bowed their heads. It was Gendry that spoke up, having turned from where he was speaking to Larence Hornwood, the other newly legitimized bastard.

“They wish to pledge themselves to you, whatever your cause is Arya. These people, your people will not let you pass that gate with only three to your party.”

“Aye, we won't. It'd be unseemly milady, for you to ride without a strong pack.” Argon was a older man of common birth, a knight in deed though not name. She had fought many battles with him at her side. Behind him, the other gathered men nodded. “We'll ride south, by the gods, we'll ride with you to Doom and back.” Ser Cullen spoke up next, a dirty-blonde haired man near of age to Dacey.

Beside her, Nymeria huffed her approval of these people's loyalty, and Arya felt a wave of emotion well-up inside of her. “My King-brother will be angry. My Lady-mother and Lord-father equally so. You all risk much by doing this; you may even be seen as a traitor to the north, or a deserter. I can not, will not ask this of any of you.” She felt the need to warn them, to try to persuade them against this course of action they had chosen.

“Lady Sansa is still in the South. The fucking Lions ain't been brought ta justice, and who wants ta stay cooped up in the North when I 'ear Dragons have return to Westeros. You ain't have ta ask Stark, we aren't giving you a choice.” The low born accent came from a heavy set man a hands width taller then her who's red beard was only thing bigger then the heavy axe he had strapped to his back.

“Thank you,” she whispered, making sure to meet the eyes of the thirty odd who had gathered at or near the stables. She lept up into the saddle of her mare, a beautiful beast standing at seventeen hands. Rhalla was a mix of a Northern Shire and the Dornish Quarter Horse. Black from ear-tip to tail, with eyes like a winter's clear sky. Rhalla had been a gift for her fourteenth name-day, powerful and fast and as dear to Arya as Nymeria.

Around her, thirty six riders saddled, her three trusted counted among them. Drawing herself up straight in the saddle, she used her toe to nudge Rhalla at a walk to the gate.

“Open the Gate! The Lady-Wolf and her party is going out!” The calls were passed back and fourth between the guards on the walls. The size of her party was a bit unusual, but again, no one questioned it. Arya had gone out with twenty-odd before. And when she road to the defense of Crofter's Village, her party had numbered nearly sixty.

Dacey and Gendry rode at her sides, Osha with Argon, Larence and Ser Cullen behind them. Nymeria kept pace just a few steps ahead and on her right. The group was tense until the last mounted man passed through the gates. The party of thirty-seven kept their horses at a fast walk until they finally passed through Winter Town and a little beyond.

Feeling eyes on her back, she looked up at the walls of her home, and saw Talisa there, bundled against the morning chill, little Aemon sleeping in her arms, with little Joanna tiredly rubbing her eyes at her side. Rickon too was there, Stark-grim for all his Tully looks. Ethan stood just behind him. The youngest son of House Forrester a true ally and even friend though they had not truly known each other long.

'May we meet again' her good-sister mouthed, and Arya knew then that the healer knew. She knew and instead of ratting them out, she had come to see her off, had made sure her younger brother and her new friend came as well. Her chest felt hot and tight.

It was only when they had made it through and out of Winter Town did Arya draw up on her reigns and look back towards Winterfell. At ten and seven she had never left the North. Every mountain and hill, every rock and tree, creek and glen she knew. But what laid south of the neck was a mystery. And she wasn't sure if or when she would ever see her home again.

And so she drank in the sight of it. To carry in her heart the memory of home, knowing it could be a long time before she saw its walls or towers again. Her mother would cry and rage and cry some more. Her father would be torn, weathering the grief of her mother, and wrestling his own mixed emotions. Robb would be angry, angry at her, angry at his wife and Rickon, for not telling him. Angry at Gendry, Dacey and Osha, and all those who followed.

But she was wolf-blooded and wolf-hearted. She was never going to be a lady like her mother or sister. And for all the acceptance of the small folk, the noble houses would never accept that she would not settle into the role of her sex.

Gray eyes fell from the walls of Winterfell to the people who followed her. Standing up in her stir-ups, hand on the pommel of Star-Fang she addressed them with a field commander's voice.

“We leave the North against common sense, against orders and in defiance of expectations and rules. We go south to find my sister! We go south to bring lions to justice! And we go south to meet this dragon queen!” Spears and swords and armored fists banged against shields and breasts. “We go without support of our King - there will be no supply lines, no reinforcements. We will be cold, we will be hungry, and we will endure. I did not ask you to follow me, but instead you have chosen to. For that I am humbled, and swear I will honor that commitment and loyalty.” Here northmen cheered. Even her trusted got into the howling approval of the soldiers.

Arya raised her hand, and quiet fell once up upon the hard-faced northerners.

“Knowing these things. Knowing that we may be seen as deserters and traitors, as craven and cowards, knowing that we might just all die.. I will not blame a single man or woman if they wish to return to the warm halls of Winterfell.”

There was silence to her words, not a single person made a move to turn their mount around. No one rode off, yet no one spoke. Nodding to the silence. Arya's eyes swept the thirty-six that followed.

“Will you follow me?”

“AYE!”

“Will you fight beside me?”

“AYE!”

“Then let us ride!"

Arya sat back in her saddle, and urged Rhalla into a full gallop, the ebony mare exploding forward, while Nymeria launched off, keeping pace with horse and woman. Behind her, her trusted, and her people followed, their training and discipline quickly falling them into formation as Winterfell vanished behind them.

- - -

(Arya's Clothes at the Feast: http://imgur.com/syiPanX)

Chapter Text

Now with more Sansa!

Unbeta'd Revised: May 2017

Frosted Faith
Black Ice 

- - - 

Sansa 2:

The Gates of the Moon and its keep wasn't as grand nor as comfortable as the Eyrie, but somehow she found herself more Stark, more at home in its stone halls. The House of Arryn, its Lord and vassals, and herself had moved to the keep a month ago.

Lord Nestor Royce had been given Lordship over the Gates after her Aunt's death, Petyr granting the title and keep in an effort to buy Royce loyalty. Robin however had over ruled his step-father in this. The Gates belonged to House Arryn, the Houses ancestral seat.

In a stroke of political brilliance that no one had expected from the then younger and more sickly Robin, the young Lord of the Vale had offered Lord Nestor lands further into the Vale of Arryn, between Heart's Home and Ironoaks, stating that his loyalty should be met with a keep of his own designs. But in the interm, until the new keep of House Royce could be built, Nestor and his family were more then welcome to continue to live and govern in the Gates of the Moon.

It has cemented Nestor's loyalty to Robin, and not Baelish. And it was one of the reason Sansa had decided to quietly, carefully begin molding Robin into Robert.

The move had been difficult on Robin, and he hadn't had the easiest time adjusting to the change, so used to the halls of his childhood home. However despite this he had gone without complaint, and any grievances he had he kept to himself. The Vale's young lord had pleaded a physical weariness from the journey and had all but shut himself in his chambers leaving Sansa to hold council with the other nobles, imbuing her with the authority to make decisions of government and judgment, much to the chagrin of the lords and ladies of his vassal houses.

She knew the views of many of the lords, the most vocal being lord Lynderly. Each viewed her as a simple-minded woman, inexperienced in the ways of war and the games nobles played. Each seeming to forget that she had survived King's Landing, Joffery's abuse, and Cersei's attentions. A lone wolf in the lion's den.

'I am but a young girl,' She would tell them as she sat in Robin's place during council meetings. 'Inexperience in these things.' She'd reinforce their ideas. Even Lord Royce bought her act. To speak true, she knew little of war tactics. But of running a household, supply and demand, the Game of Thrones, and how to use the wails of a woman - she knew plenty.

She brought in some of the women from the nearby brothels 'The soldiers of the vale have needs' she demurred with a virginal flush to her cheeks. 'With so many women here at the Gate, we would not wish for them to think to slack those desires on my honorable lords' daughters.' She knew from servants and the whores themselves that many a lord also visited the beds of these women and even a few men, that was what she had bargained for.

'Men, noble or common, are easily sidetracked by a pair of tits with a pretty enough face.'

It was a sour thought. But surrounded by the chattering of noble wives and daughters and hand-maidens, Sansa kept her thoughts from showing on her face. She smiled serenely over her tea, fluttering her lashes, giving bashful ducks of her head. She gossiped and blushed, and sang pretty little songs for the others. She remained mindful of lady Waynwood's searching looks, though she never met them with anything other than a warm smile and an offer of more of the tea they all sipped upon from dainty little cups.

Daenerys Targaryen had replied; she had read the letter herself. The Dragon Queen agreed to treat, and now it was just a matter of working out the details. Sansa didnt allow herself to be put at ease by how diplomatic the Targaryen when was being, agreeing to travel to the Vale at the convenience of Lord Arryn, perhaps she had heard of Robin's sickly youth, it would not surprise the Stark woman. Or meet in a more nutral location. Either way, the date, and location had yet to be set. Just as well, they needed the time to settle into what would be their home for the winter.

Sansa didn't know who on Robin's council had a loose tounge, but the potential visit of the Dragon Queen was on everyone's lips. The waggling of tongues was especially prevalent amongst the ladies.

“She has dragons, she does. My cousin was a squire at Storm's End, said he saw them with his own eyes.”
“I hear she has that classic Targaryen beauty. Fair of skin with that light hair.”

“I bet she's as mad as the Mad King, even if she is as beautiful as the rumors say.”

“I hope Lord Arryn doesn't plan to kneel. Things are just starting to settle down after the War.”

“Gods be good Aemma, would you rather the Lannisters remain on the throne?”
“Lady Lysa did believe that they were responsible for our late Lord Arryn's death.”

“That's just a dirty rumor.”
“Don't tell me you still think it was Daenerys Targaryen's hand that poisoned the cup of Jon Arryn and The Mad-Boy-King Lannister, Aemma”

“King Joffery Baratheon! You are so uncivilized. And yes I do. I also don't believe a word of what they say about our late King!”

Sansa lowered her cup slowly, eyeing Aemma Melcolm carefully. “Joffery,” The Stark began with a coolness that froze the whole room, every eye turning to where she was sitting next to the hearth. “Was every dark and twisted thing the rumors say and more. He was every night-terror you have ever had of what sort of man you would be wed to.” With every word she spoke, Sansa could see the daughter of House Melcolm sink into herself, her homely face falling.

“You have never met Joffery. And for that you should thank the Seven, Aemma. At least it can be said that King Aerys Targaryen II began his reign with peace and prosperity for the whole of Westeros. Joffery Lannister began his in blood and madness. The massacre of King's Landing, the War of Five Kings. Had he lived, he would have been far worse then The Scab King ever was.”

Where once the room had been warm and bright, it was now cold, its occupants frozen and uncomfortable even with all of their furs, thick woolen dresses and the hearth that burned bright and hot. In the time that Sansa had been in the Vale, she had never spoken of her time in King's Landing with such frank disregard of decorum.

“Whatever you wish to believe makes little difference in truth, Aemma, nor change the fact that he is dead.”

By the end, the daughter of Lord Melcolm was in tears, openly sobbing as she threw down her embroidery and fled from the room. Tully blue eyes watched her go with indifference before dismissing the girl from her mind all together. Either Sansa had gained the support of House Melcolm of Old Anchor, or she had lost it. Still, the small part of her that was still the girl she had been in Winterfell hoped that maybe her words and experiences would serve as a wake up call for Aemma. After all she wasn't a bad lass of five and ten, just blind.

'As blind as I had been. Once.'

Across the room from her, lady Anya of Waynwood looked at her with something close to begrudging respect.

Slowly, noise came back to the room, and the cold receded and was replaced by warmth once more. From her place on the settee by the window, Alys Templeton poured more tea for herself and Thea Egen. “Tell me Lady Stark,” Alys began politely, cautiously. “Do you know why Lord Arryn invited the last Targaryen to treat?”

A few years older then Sansa, Alys' experience with the game was limited to the scope of the Vale. And perhaps, Sansa thought, the daughter of Ser Vardis now realized that she was speaking to a member of one of the great houses of Westeros, and one who had survived in snake pit that was the capital.

A snort from Anya, the Iron Lady of Ironoaks had heads turning. Sansa inclined her head slightly, to give the head of House Waynwood the floor.

“The better question is: why did Lady Stark invited her to do so”

Sansa gave no reaction to the accusation, simply leaning forward in her seat to pour her tea as she answered, without making it clear just whose question she was humoring. “If she is all that she claims to be, all that it is said she is to be, then she would be the strong leader that the Seven Kingdoms lacks. The Vale could gain much by siding with her early if the benefits outweigh angering the Lannisters.”

She leaned back, long fingers holding her cup of tea with a delicate grip by handle and saucer.

“And if she has dragons, I would rather have her here on our terms, then here on her own with dragons and her army of former slaves and horsemen. Or would you rather the Gates of the Moon be the Gates of Ashes?” Sansa took a small sip of her tea, enjoying the way it scalded her throat before its warmth blossomed in her chest and belly.

Again, that look of grudging respect was directed at her. Lady Waynwood didn't have to know that Sansa had a plan if Daenerys Targaryen proved to be an enemy instead of a ally.

'Raised in Essos, across the Narrow Sea, always on the run. I doubt she knows even the most basic of Westerosi courtesies. We will not be breaking guest-right if she is given no bread and salt before we kill her, if needs be.'

The conversation turned away from talks of lost princesses and Mad Kings to the hopes and dreams of spring.

'Daenerys plays the Game of Thrones, She will either win, or she will die.'

- - -

Jon 1:

He had been killed -murdered- by his brothers. Melisandre had warned him. The terrible beauty had found him, cold in death, body frozen to the earth by a pool of his own blood. The -his- body had been placed on a pyre. Burning the dead to prevent them from returning as others, as white-walkers, was a grim task the Night's Watch didn't even question anymore.

But he hadn't burned. Instead he rose, his wounds sealed shut by the flames, clothes and hair burned to ash. He had stepped from the flames, naked but for Longclaw in his hand, and alive. Brothers and betrayers alike had backed away from the risen form of the Lord Commander. Jon had heard nothing but shouts of terror, brothers and wildlings alike mad with fear thinking he was a White Walker.

Only he wasn't. He was fire, and blood, and he had stalked over to Alliser Thorne who had already named himself the new Lord Commander. Without thought he had severed his traitorous head from his shoulders, flesh burning and sizzling like meat in a hot iron pan. Longclaw glowed, burning yet not, heated to a blood red from the fires of Jon's pyre.

Around them, brothers and free-folk fell to their knees until only two were left standing - Melisandre and Maester Aemon.

It had been the blind Maester that swept to his side as quickly as his feeble body could carry him. It had been Aemon that pulled his own black cloak from his thin shoulders and draped it around Jon. It had been the old man who gently pulled the hot sword from his hand, never noticing the smoldering heat of the blade as he plunged it into a snow bank, cooling it with a hiss of steam.

By the time anyone had thought to move, Aemon had already spirited him away.

Melisandre called him Azor Ahai, and pleaded with him to finish becoming the Prince that was Promised by plunging his sword into the breast of the woman he loved and was loved by in return. And when he refused, she had bared her own breast to him in offering.

He had sent her away. He was not her fabled savior, and he could no more kill Ygritte then he could kill any of his brothers or sisters back in Winterfell.

Jon had been, and was still glad that he had asked his wildling lover to go with Sam and Gilly and the babe. He wouldn't have wanted his best friend nor Ygritte to have been there for his murder, and to see him rise from the dead as he had.

Maester Aemon had been kind, explaining to him in those first confusing days why the fire had revived him, healed him, and why his still glowing, hot sword hadn't burned the old Maester's hand.

'The blood of the Dragon runs through the both of us Jon. Though where yours comes from I do not know.”

He had wanted to deny it. He was Ned Stark's Bastard. He was a wolf as much as he was a Snow. Not a Dragon. Lord Stark had said so himself.

'You may not have my name Jon, but you have my blood.'

But it was hard to deny the violet eyes that stared back at him in the mirror where steel had once been.

The last news the Wall had had from the South had been that Daenerys Targaryen had arrived with dragons and an army in Westeros - but that had been when the sun still rose at the Wall. In the year since he had risen from the flames, the days had grown shorter, until only night remained.

When news of Melisandre's actions reached them, that she had burned Stannis' daughter Shireen at the stake as a sacrifice to her Lord of Light, along with others, Jon had paraded her in front of the whole of Castle Black. “My brothers believe me a traitor, the free-folk fear the 'walkers' more then they hate the crows. And you keep stirring the pot. No more, Red Woman.” He had taken her head for the crimes of black and blood magics. Not even the faithful of the Red God had protested the charges, for Shireen Baratheon had been a sweet lass, despite (or because of) her disfigurement.

The Long Night, he knew, would soon fall on all of Westeros. And they didn't have nearly enough manpower. Even with his brothers-in-black finally brought to heel, even with the free-folk standing shoulder to shoulder with crows, they wouldn't be able to hold the Wall.

They were running out of dragonglass. Pitch and tar had was nearly gone. Their food stores were low. The loan from the Iron Bank sat useless in their coffers as they couldn't go any place to trade.

The Lord Commander ran his fingers through his black hair. It was slow in growing, reminding him of Rob's hair the day King Robert had visited Winterfell. Gods, they had been young then. Had it really been a half a decade since he had last laid eyes on Winterfell?

And it had been three since he had sent Sam and Ygritte south. Sam should have earned his Maester chain, and hopefully along with it the knowledge of how to defeat the White Walkers. They needed that information; they also needed more supplies, more dragonglass, and more people. We need every able body capable of holding a sword or shooting a bow. Men and women.

They needed to recruit. But rapists, murderers, thieves and desperate bastards all trying to escape the noose or headman's block would be all they would get if they went about it the same way as they had done before. And he could not spare the men or the ravens to send to the far flung corners of the world.

“The Long Night is here Jon, you need to go south. Seek my grand niece, we need fire as much as we need more men. And nothing burns hotter then dragon's flame.”

Aemon had urged Jon to do what he was thinking. To go south and appeal to the Lords of Westeros for aid. He would bring proof with him. Proof that the legends of the North were not fables, but fact. He would leave Edd Tollett in charge, with Maester Aemon and Tormund as support.

He'd go to Winterfell; his father and half-brother would listen to him. And he could get answers, the truth of his birth from Ned Stark. They could order the other houses of the North to send men.

Jon would then ride south, stopping at White Harbor, Moat Cailin, Greywater Watch, The Twins. He'd ride to the Cross-Roads, then take the High Road to appeal to Robin Arryn, before taking River Road to Riverrun, then on to Casterly Rock and Lannisport. He'd take the Ocean Road to Highgarden, then Rosewood to Oldtown where he could catch a ship on to Sunspear.

Jon traced the route he would take on a map with his finger. From Sunspear to Storm's End and the island of Tarth. Then north, he could stop at Dragonstone and meet with this Targaryen great niece of Maester Aemon, before sailing to King's Landing.

He couldn't remember the younger prince-turned-King very well from that royal visit near a decade ago, but he hoped that he would at least be willing to listen. Jon didn't really expect more than for the capital to turn out their dungeons for the Night's Watch, even with a threat greater than the whole Seven Kingdoms knocking on their doors.

He would then lead his new recruits straight up the King's Road to Castle Black, or take a ship to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The Journey would take two months, maybe three, assuming he met with no delays. But his luck was never that good. Jon didnt like the idea of leaving the Wall for that long, not so soon after being betrayed, - after being murdered – his mind whispered. But it couldnt be helped.

The Lords and Ladies of Westeros may believe themselves able to turn down a simple brother of the Night's Watch, but he was the Lord Commander, and would not be refused. He would have people to guard the wall. Men and women, volunteers or conscripts.

The Long Night is upon us. And we must stand together!

- - -

Samwell 1:

Three years, long years, of study and late nights. Three years spent with the specter of cold, burning eyes, hungry eyes of ice scorching him from the shadows of memory. In time he hadn't minded; he had grown used to the ghost of the Others riding him, urging him onward.

The vows of a Maester were not so different from that of a Crow. His duty was clear - it was in service to the realm and the Night's Watch both that he rode to Dragonstone now, urging his horse forward despite the falling sun and the muttered curses of Ygritte who rode at his side.

He had stopped at Horn Hill, his former home, to check on Gilly and the once babe of Mance Rayder. Aemon Flowers they had decreed him three years prior, maintaining the story that Mance's son was in fact Sam's bastard, and would thus be raised at Horn Hill.

It had been to Samwell's surprise that in addition to little Aemon, nearly four now, Gilly had another child on her hip when she came to greet Sam in his mother's sunroom. Another son, this one Sam's real natural born - Jon Flowers.

The existence of his son had nearly brought the newly minted Maester to his knees. And it had nearly broken him to leave both young boys and their mother behind once more. But he knew he could do more for them by keeping to his vows - or rather, what was left of them.

Technically I only broke the vow about not siring children, and only to the Watch. Would that I could break more by marring Gilly, but that might be too much for even my poor mother to take, to say nothing of my Father! Sam thought as he and Ygritte tore down Rose-Road towards King's Landing, and then through Kingswood to Storm's End where they would catch a boat to Dragonstone. It would have been faster to simply catch a ship in Oldtown, or King's Landing, however, King's Landing belonged to the Lannisters and Oldtown, like the rest of the Reach, was loyal to the Tyrells. Storm's End however belonged to Daenerys Targaryen, and thus, unlike the 'Landing or Oldtown, would have ships sailing to Dragonstone.

Taking a ship from Storm's End also meant that he wouldn't risk running into his Father. Randyll Tarly was Master of Laws, and thus had a seat on the Small Council. His duties kept him away from Horn Hill, leaving Gilly and their sons alone to live in peace. At least for now, until the Others come from the North.

Sam was glad that Ygritte had insisted she join him. Her place, she had decreed, was with her people, and at Jon's side - not trapped in some kneeler stronghold. Sam hadn't put up much protest, even though he had known Gilly took great comfort in the fire-haired freewoman's company. Three years locked behind the walls of the Citadel hadn't improved his martial skills, and his tracking and hunting abilities were still as lame as they had been when he first had arrived at the Wall.

Truth was, he would likely starve without her. He wasn't ashamed to admit it. Sam knew his strengths, and those that most men processed were not his. It may not be my hand the swings the sword that will slay the Others, but it will be my mind that arms the hands that will, that must defeat the White-Walkers.

Under his clothes of black, his Maesters' chain weighed heavy around his neck with links of black iron, bronze, copper, pale steel, and silver along with tin, pewter, lead, and brass. Basic links that most if not all true Maesters had.

Filler links, easily earned if one has a noble's education before arriving at the Citadel, and doubly so if one is well-read besides.

The link Sam was most proud of was that of Valyrian Steel. Very few Maesters bothered with it; the study of magic and the occult being looked down upon. More the fools of them, then. With the Long Night at our door, dragons returned, and the dead rising, they bury their heads in the sand. It was the link he had devoted the majority of his time to earning. It was the reason why it took him three years, and the reason he had shed what must have been a hundred pounds from missed meals, countless stairs and the heavy books and scrolls he had carried upon and down them.

If I ever see another flight of stairs again, it shall be too soon. Bring me the elevator at Castle Black and the midnight watch before!

The rush of southern winter air in his face and the thunderous pound of horse hooves beneath him made Samwell all the more thankful that he hadn't told anyone about his vigil.

Three glass candles he had been given that night in a vault, to be his only source of light. In truth, he was meant to spend the night in darkness, the vigil a way to show even that even with all the knowledge gained, there were still some things that are impossible or unknown.

But Sam had gotten not one, but all three to light. And the things he saw in the hall beneath the bright and strange light of the glass candles... under his thick cloak he shuddered at the memory. He had doused the candles, snuffing them out before the end of his vigil, lest the others found out. The fact that the glass candle in Marwyn's study had been burning when Sam arrived on the Isle of Ravens was something most Archmaesters would have dismissed, but Sam wasn't so sure. And Marywn the Mage hadn't been either.

'Speak to no one about Daenerys or her dragons,' he had warned Sam before he had left to seek out Daenerys when she had still been across the Narrow Sea. Sam wondered if he had ever made it, and if he would see the Archmaester with her at Dragonstone.

He knew they should be sailing or riding straight for the Wall, but he could not without the Mother of Dragons. Everything he had learned, everything he now knew, said they would need her Dragons, for what were dragons but living fire? And that was to say nothing of Sam's other theories.

If she is all that was said, then she might be Westeros', nay the world's only hope to stop the Long Night. Of all the Kings and Queens, Lords and Ladies, Daenerys Targaryen could just be the only one that would listen. She had to listen, and to help.

Five more days at this speed, with good weather to reach Storm's End. Then a day or so by ship to Dragonstone with good winds. Gods old and new, let it be.

- - -

Sansa 3:

They had been at the Gates of the Moon for over a month when a raven had arrived. It seemed that Petyr had been arrested for high treason and regicide.

'A shame' Sansa thought that evening, seated by the fire in a high back plush chain. She was dressed for bed; fire red hair in a loose braid and dressed in a dark blue silk slip that came to her mid thigh and a match robe that stopped three full inches shy of her knee had she been standing, she absently tilted and twisted the dagger she kept on her person at all times now as she thought on Petyr.

'I would have liked to see his face in his final moments' The flickering light from the fire reflected beautifully in the telltale ripples in blade of the dagger, her fingers light on the dragonbone hilt. 'As I plunged the very dagger intended to be my brother's end into his cold heart.'

She had taken the dagger from Petyr some years ago. After she had seen him with that first night in the Fingers so long ago, and knew it for what it was. The blade that the catspaw had used in an attempt to murder Bran, she knew then that she would find a way to end Littlefinger with this very dagger.

It had taken time and patience, but eventually Petyr had grown comfortable, confidant with his place in the Vale, and thus complacent.

Alayne Stone had learned how to disappear, to blend into the background and the shadows and go unseen and unheard. And a night of feasting and wine that may have been laced with a little milk of the poppy ensured that acting Lord of the Vale slept deep and soundly as Alayne slipped soundlessly into his chambers through the servant passage, taking the dagger from where it had been kept in the Mockingbird's bedside table before slipping out again.

The Dagger was an ugly thing. Not the curved blade itself, no, even Sansa could see that the blade was a work of art. It was the handle that was hideous. Blacken dragon bone craved to rise and fall in a poor imitation of scales. And gold binding the the handle on either side, from the blade, to the pommel where it came to a long dull point. The large inset blood red rubies at the top of the handle only added overly ornate, and gaudy handle.

Sansa did not know for sure that it had been Petyr that had ordered the assassination attempt of Bran. In truth she doubted it. Only a fool armed a common footpad with their own blade. And Petyr had proven time and time again he was far more cunning and sublte then that.

The glint of fire light off the blade reminded her of the glint of another type of light off another valyrian steel blade. Joffery's sword, cruelly named Widow's Wail, a wedding gift from Tywin Lannister to his grandson.

Where Lord Tywin had gotten the valyrian steel she didn't know, House Lannister's own valyrian sword had been lost decades before she knew. But she could recall Tyrion's sly question to his twisted bastard nephew.

“Perhaps a knife, sire. To match your sword. A dagger of the same fine Valyrian Steel... with a dragonbone hilt, say?”

Clumsy and fool were words that fit Joffery, though she could not think of his motivation to send a catspaw to murder Bran. But then, Sansa mused, Joffery had hardly needed motivation beyond simple cruelty. Perhaps one day she would ask her unwanted, and equally unwilling husband, perhaps that day would be soon. As Sansa had heard he served as Hand to the Targaryen Queen.

And perhaps she would see if there was a smith in the Vale who could fashion a new hilt for it. Smooth out the dragonbone and get rid of the gilt and glamour of rubies and gold.

Sansa sheathed the dagger and returned it to the small table beside her, exchanging it for another report and the mug of still warm tea she had been drinking before she had allowed herself to be distracted by thoughts of the news out of King's Landing.

The reports were from her own humble network of spies and informants. Servants, stable boys, cooks, seamstresses, whores and and wenches, bastards, handmaidens. Small folk mostly, young and old alike. It did not spread much beyond the Vale, but it was growing, and she had eyes and ears in every house there within.

She did not call them her birds, she was not interested in sweet songs, she was interested in truth, and and secrets kept hidden by those who would move against her. And Cersei and Petyr both have spoiled the idea of birds and songs for her.

No, if any asked how she got this or that information she would speak plainly and state she had eyes and ears where and when needed, not use a colorful but thin vale to dress up the facts. For now, none asked, for none knew.

Well, almost none. The gentle carass of strong fingers as they slipped under the collar of her loosely tied robe and along her shoulders and neck had Sansa smiling down at the report in her hand. She didnt look up, instead giving a pleased hum and allowing her shoulders to relax under the pressure of kneading fingers and teasing expoloritory touch of warm hands on her naked skin. The red-haired woman finished reading the report.
The report confirmed what others had reported. Her dear cousin had taken to heart her advice and just this evening, no less then three of her people had seen a young woman either enter the young Lord's personal chambers and leave hours later looking deliciously rumpled. The rest of the report was details as to who the young woman was. Base born daughter of a younger son to a minor house of the Riverlands.

Robert needed an heir, of his blood, even base-born. He had no desire for marriage, but she had hoped she had convinced him that such union was not necessary for him to have an heir. This young woman was the first he had laid with. Her people will keep an eye on the young woman to see if she quickened with child. Even still, she would hopefully be the first of many young women her cousin takes to bed. With luck he would have an heir within the year, and Sansa hoped the sex would be enough to breath some vitality and life back into Robert and rouse him from his self imposed isolation.

Tossing the report into the fire, where it caught and burned quickly, Sansa reached for the hands on her shoulders, tugging on them until their owner rounded her chair to stand before her, leaving the Stark woman looking up at the smiling dark blue eyes under a crop of short wind blown ebony hair, that belonged to Mya Stone just before the strapping woman stooped down to capture her lips in a warm kiss.

Chapter Text

A/N: A short chapter, my most humble apologize for taking so long. 

This chapter is unbeta'd I'm afraid, so any and all mistakes are mine.

Also, Chapters 1-3 have been revised, with new content. So I suggest you go back and reread them. And let me know what you think. Combine theres something like an additional 3000 words.

Frosted Faith
On Winter Winds

 - - -

Eddard 1:

The Lord of Winterfell was no fool. He had known that attempting to force Arya to marry would only end poorly. It was Catelyn that had originally put forth both Gendry and Ramsay for possibilities. Oh, he understood why, the politics of it. There was much going on in the shadows of the north that their children didnt know. And Cat only sought to head it off by an arrange marriage. And Gendry, well the lad was Arya's best friend, and her mother only wanted to give her an agreeable alternative.

Eddard however couldnt help but feel insulted on Arya's behalf when his southern lady had came to him about the arrangements she had made. She would have never suggested marriage to bastards for Sansa after all, or any of their other children for that matter. And he knew that Arya resented even the shadow of comparison to his late sister Lyanna.

So he had convinced his wife to invite all the available young noblemen to Winterfell in hopes that Arya would choose one she could at least stand. If only until Spring for appearance sake. But most had come for the talks with Robb and him about Daenerys Targaryen. And those who had come in hopes to bind themselves to House Stark through marriage with the younger daughter... Well, his wolf pup was quick to drive them off.

Eddard had thought perhaps his wolf pup would choose the young Forrester boy, Ethan he believe would have been an acceptable match. Fourth born of six children of a minor northern house. House Forrester were staunchly loyal to House Stark and the north. Respected the old ways, the old gods too. And the lad and Arya had gotten along well.

When Cat had come to him about the rumors about their daughter he didn't believe it. But she wouldn't listen to him. And he couldn't betray Arya by telling her mother why there was no truth to those rumors. He could only tell her that words were wind; and not that he knew those words to be false as Arya's eyes turned to the kitchen maids instead of the stable boys. He hadn't believed for a minuet that Arya was sleeping around with the various young men that had come to Winterfell, or that she may be with child because of such.

Just like he hadn't believed the Bastard-of-Bolton's explanation for his new facial scar. All the Bolton men-at-arms were right handed, Ramsay's new scar was on the left side of his face. It was too thin to be done by a sword, and the angle wrong as well.

Now if the mark had be done by a smaller fighter... say a young woman, one that was left handed with a boot knife? That would explain much. It would also explain how and why Arya's friends, along with Talisa, Ethan and even Rickon had closed ranks around her afterwards, a action that would have normally frustrated his daughter.

His youngest daughter was not one to fear, but the Bolton Bastard at least made her nervous enough for her to accept the protection of those closest to her. It pained him to think she hadn't come to him for such.

Add to that the way Robb had also been dismissing Arya, failing to hear the younger Stark. It made his head ache and his heart heavy.

The day he and Catelyn had called Arya to his office he had known it would go the way it did. Perhaps he had hoped that Cat would actually listen to their daughter for once. Hear her. But it was not to be. And when Arya stormed out, Eddard knew then.

So the message in his hand from Howland Reed that arrived by raven just today came to no surprise.

“ Eddard,

The strangest thing was witnessed in the neck this day. A pack of wolves, numbering more then thirty entered The Neck. Lead by a she-wolf of all things.

I gave them shelter and a place by my hearth for the night. The pack plans to leave before dawn, heading south.

I shall wish them good hunting, better hunting then the time I too went south with a young direwolf.

Howland.”

It had been nearly two week since Arya and her... wolf pack left Winterfell at dawn. They had made good time to reach the neck so quickly. No doubt they feared pursuit until they were beyond the Neck, beyond his and Robb's reach.

'No, she is not like Lyanna at all. My sister would have never been so bold' he thought to himself, as he slipped the message into his belt pouch to show his son and wife later. And it was the truth, Lyanna would have never been so bold. For all his father had remarked of the wolf-blood in Lyanna's veins, she had been more a lady then Arya. A lady of the north to be true, but a lady still.

His wolf-pup was her own woman. He admitted that to himself years ago. When after he had healed from his wounds, he had found that it had been Arya that acted as the Stark in the north. With him bed ridden and ill, Bran first in a coma, then depressed due to being crippled, and Robb having ridden to war, and Catelyn so focused on him and Bran, it had been Arya who rose to the challenge.

And she had done a fine job, despite the initial resistance he knew she had faced in doing so. And she had continued to rise to the occasion. Over and over again, Arya; as she had pointed out when she faced Robb in the training hard, would have been the ideal son, But she was a woman, and...

'Gods guide her, protect her. ' He sent a prayer to the old gods. 'Keep the wind to her back, and strength in her sword arm.'

'Ride swiftly Arya, and happy hunting'

He would go to the God Woods after supper, and pray before the heart-tree. For now he needed to find his wife and son and inform them both that Arya had gone south. To find Sansa, to slay Lions and no doubt to meet this Mother of Dragons for herself.

- - -

Arya 4:

They had just settled camp for the night, bellys full of fresh meat, and hot mead, and with first watch set, they lingered around the camp fires. It had taken them a week and some of hard ridding to make it this far, Gendry had spotted the Twins in the distance, the silhouette of the two towers had been far off and hazy to the eye through the twilight fog when they had first stopped to make camp.

Arya leaned back against Nymeria, Lady pressed against her right side as she sat on the ground, legs stretched out before her as she stared into the flames of the fire before her. Her friends shared her fire, speaking quietly among themselves as the other men and women who had followed traded stories and laughter at other fires near by.

They were officially no longer in the North. Arya had never been further than Flint's Finger, which was half way between Moat Cailin and Greywater Watch, and to the west, on the edge of Blazewater Bay. And that had only been once, years ago, when it was still Summer.

Absently, she ran her fingers through Lady's fur, Sansa's wolf had found them on their second night. The smaller she-wolf must have escaped and followed their scent trail. Or... perhaps she was let out. Arya wouldn't put it pass her good-sister to send them extra help like that. And Lady had spent her days by side of either Lady Stark or Talisa and her children.

After Sansa's kidnapping, Lady had taken to following both her mother, and her good-sister and the then baby Joanna. Arya thought it might have had something to do with both of them being ladies, unlike herself. Now however, Lady rarely left her side, unless she was with one of her trusted.

Arya hoped that Lady might help them track down Sansa. Unconventional. But Sansa was just as much Stark as she was, for all her lady sister's Tully looks. Perhaps she had the same sort of deep connection to her direwolf that Arya shared with Nymeria. If she did, Arya thought they could use it.

But first they needed allies against the Lannisters. Her and her band of thrity-six would not be enough if Wolves and Lions cross paths as they move further south... Not if, -when-, when they cross paths with the Lions. Because they would. Arya hated the idea, she had no quarrel with the Lannister soldiers, they were just men, small-folk who had no choice but to fight in the name of their liege lord. But she would not rest until her sister was found, until the Lannisters payed the debt of blood owed.

When Wolves and Lions met, there will be an accounting of this Arya was sure. And she would win.

However, victory could not be achieved without allies. Her Uncle was in the hands of the Frays, his capture happened before Robb's return to the north. Greed, plus Lord Frays perversions made it easy for the Lannisters to buy his loyalty.
The fingers Arya didn't have petting Lady instead traced the path of the King's Road in the dirt from memory.
Brynden Tully though... The last news the North had of her Great Uncle the Blackfish was that he held Riverun, the castle under siege. But if she recalled correctly, the siege was a token one at best now with winter well and truly in Westeros. Barely enough to keep Riverrun's defenders from being able to escape. Less then a thousand men to be sure, no more then a few hundred at best. Feeding men in a war torn country in winter would be difficult and expensive after all, even for the deep pockets of the Lannisters.

Far too many for her and her band to take on... but... She recalled over hearing her father and brother talk about the siege at Raventree. House Bracken had bent knee, and had been ordered by their new Lannister masters to lay siege to House Blackwood. Not a hardship for House Bracken, the rivalry between the two houses goes back thousands of years. This would hardly be the first time they warred against each other.
The important thing is that because both houses were of the First Men, dating back to the Age of Heroes, and knew of Winter; Lord Jonos Bracken choose to pull his men back. Not all of course. But more then half perhaps.

Its not ideal, they'd still be greatly out numbered. But the forces of House Bracken would be cold, southerns were not built for winter. And hungry no doubt, even with the backing of the crown. And having been at it for months or longer now, she doubt they had the discipline or good morale at this point in time. Plus one northerner was worth ten southern fighters. And she had thirty-six notherners who were more then good.

She'd have to fight dirty to even the playing field. But she'd bring House Bracken to heel, and break the siege. Hopefully House Blackwood would come to her side. The blood ties between House Stark and House Blackwood were four generations old, five, if one counted her own generation, Her Father's Father's Grandmother was a Blackwood, but hopefully that would be enough.

If it worked, she'd get a few hundred men. Not a lot, but more then she had now.

There was always the option of going to her cousin, but the Lords of the the Vale had managed to keep out of the war, and not even her brother could get the Bannermen of the Vale to his side. She doubted that she with her small numbers, and being a woman would do any better. No, she needed to prove herself on the field of battle to these southern lords first, before she could expect them to bend to her will and fight for her.

“-- Wont pursue us now. To far south.”

“What'd ya think the Pup's plan is? March right ta the Red Keep and demand the Lannister whore's head?”

She recognized the voice of Grimhil. The low born man with the beard more red then his wine flushed cheeks and bigger then his belly. Good man, more solid and stoat and loyal then you'd think. And not half as drunk as you'd suspect. He also taught her half the curses she knew.

She brought her focus outwards, noticing that Grimhil, Sir Cullen, Argon and Larence had gathered around her fire. They, along with Gendry and Dacey and Osha were clearly in the middle of a quiet discussion of what their next step would be now that they had made it south of the neck.

“Nobels and Men, you all just stand around talking instead of doing” Came a new voice from the edge of the fire light.

A woman about the same height as her lady Mother stepped into the loose half circle that had formed around Arya's fire.

Elanor, one of the few women that had joined her on this mission. Elanor was northern pale, squared jawed and hooked nosed; with long light straw colored hair she kept tightly braided and warm brown eyes. Common-born, a farmers daughter, and a single mother; she learned to hunt to put food on the table, and to fight to defend home, family and field from bandits and wildlings. Arya would give her right hand to have a hundred more fighters even half as capable as Elanor.

“Raventree.” Arya began, cutting through the chatter as she stood, grabbing the map out of her pack and walking over to join them closer to the fire.

The eight around the fire fell silent, all eyes turning to her. Arya fought down her nerves at being the center of attention, once again feeling the weight of the choice she had made, and the lives of these people on her shoulders.

She wouldn't falter, their self appointed tasks was far to important. So instead she met their eyes before she knelt on the ground, unfolding the map that was tacked to oil leather to protect it from the wet and damp.

“Raventree has been under siege for near a year by House Bracken. But the last report the north got said Lord Jonos had cut his numbers by at least half. It wont be easy, we'll have to play dirty, but we can break the siege and hopefully bring both House Braken and Blackwood to our cause.” She explained.

The She-wolf pointed out Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge, the seats of both houses on the map, and then race the road up to their current location.

“We'll continue south to the Cross roads, through the country side, we'll keep the Vale to our left, and the kings road to our right. I dont want the Frays reporting to their Lannister masters about wolves in the Riverlands. Not yet at least” Arya gave a wolfish grin, a look returned by those around her.

“We should be able to gather intelligence, rumor, gossip, news, at the Inn there, and at Darry if we are careful. Since it is likely Lannisters that hold the castle now.” She paused, making sure that the others were following along. She ignored how the rest of the camp had fallen silent, listening in.

“Elanor, Argon”, she addressed, looking at each in turn. “You will be our eyes and ears at Darry. We need to know what the current state of the Riverlands are. And I want to know who hold's Darry, and what their numbers and strength and mood is.”

The pair nodded, they knew why the she-wolf would pick them for this mission. They were both common-born, could pass as refugees, something that would be so common in the Riverlands that the soldiers should pay them no mind.

“With respect Lady-Wolf, what does this have to do with finding your lady sister and plans to meet this Mother of Dragons?”

Sir Cullen spoke up. He wasn't prone to doing so usually, would never so do with her brother. But Arya liked to hear from those who fought at her side. He wasn't much older then Robb either, eight and twenty to Robb's three and twenty.

“Thrity-seven of us against thousands of Lannisters and Frays, and Tyrells. Thirty-seven Northerners against thousand of trained, more experienced southerns who are better supplied, better equipped and can call reinforcements.” She stated the numbers grimly, plainly. Giving those who followed her no doubt about their current odds.

“Each of you is worth at least ten good southern fighters, this I know. But wherever Sansa is, we must assume there will be a army between her and us. And we don't have the numbers to face that army.”

Arya continued as she climbed to her feet, pitching her voice to address the whole camp now.
“And would any Queen meet with our band as it is? Sure, I'm the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell, sister to the King of the North. But would you take me seriously with only thirty-six men and women at my back?”

The petite woman, in her furs and leathers and wools shook her head, loose brown hair swaying gently with the motion. Around the camp, steel-gray eyes could see others shaking their heads as well, murmuring their agreement.

“Our lack of numbers give us the element of surprise right now. No one is expecting a bunch of wolves at their door. They think we're all in the north!” That got a few chuckles and jeering comments at the Lannisters' expense. “We need less supplies, we can move quicker. Strike in ways they can't. We are fresh on the field, and all the better for it!”

“Hell ya.” “Lets get them lions”

Arya allowed the comments to go for a minute longer, allowed her men and women to express themselves before she held up a hand, and they fell silent once more.

“However, once they know wolves have return to the south, we will lose that advantage. And Thirty-seven can not face thousands. We need an army. And to get that army we need allies. Those who could be our allies are already battle weary, and I won't pretend otherwise. The fact that I am a woman will most definitely make them more unwilling to join me then they were my untested brother.”

“Fuckin' southerns don't know how to handle a northern woman anyways” This was growled by Grimhil, gaining a few snickers and a amused smile from Arya. “You wouldn't know how to handle any woman Girm, so I wouldn't be talking if I was you.” She snarked back, slapping the man on the back to the grawffing laughter of the other fighters.

“So to the Cross Roads and Darry for gather news, And then onto Raventree to break to siege.. And then what my Lady?” Again Sir Cullen spoke up, drawing her attention back to the sole knight of their merry little band.

“Then we double time to Riverrun, and break the siege there before news of wolves in the Riverlands can reach Frays or Lannisters. We need to return control of the Riverlands back to House Tully, show these riverlords that the lions can still be beaten.” She spoke with conviction and then sighed softly, running her left hand through her hair. “While I doubt all the houses in the Riverlands will rally, we should still end up with enough men to accomplish our mission here in the south.”

For a long minuet the camp was silent, each person thinking over Arya's plan. Finally it was Dacey that broke the silence from where she stood across the fire, arms folded across her chest as she nodded.

“Its a solid outline Pup, we won't be have a solid plan or battle strategy until we know more. In truth, what you have is more then what your brother had when we were at the same point on our march south. “

Dacey's statement seemed to bleed the tension out of the camp. And the rest of northerners returned to their fires, and finally crawled into their tents or returned to their watches. At Arya's camp though, she and the other eight gathered there knelt back down around the map. For the next few hours, they would take turns pointing out potential locations for ambushes, discussing hit and run tactics, musing on which houses would likely raise their banners in Arya's name.

As Arya looked around the fire, she was startled to realize that this was her council. Three Commoners, two bastards, a knight, a noble woman and a wildling.

'And I wouldn't trade them for even one dragon.'


- - -

Margeray 2:

'The Winds of Winter have arrived in King's Landing' Thought Margeray as she sat beside the Iorn Throne. Through the high windows, both those of clear or stained glass the Tyrell queen could see the flurry of snow fall that had started this morning. Snow had been creeping ever southward for years now.

Reports spoke of snow up to sixteen feet deep in the far North, up towards Winterfell. Though as little as only six feet in the Neck. She could not even begin to imagine such depths here in the South, but imagine them she must for the Riverlands reported upwards to two feet in some locations.

And now at last the snows has reached the capital. To be sure, they had had flurries before, but the snow always melted within a few hours if it touched the ground at all. But she could see it gathering on the window ledges, coating the city in a blanket of cold and white. The Maesters in the Citideal all agree that this Winter will be long and cold. And they should all brace for snow fall that resumed in feet and not inches.

Margeray shivered, and turned her gaze back to the assembled court. Tommen had taken to holding court more often, to hear the worries of the people. He did so because the High Sparrow suggested it, a statement she was not alone in resenting as both she and Lord Tywin had been urging him to do so since her third husband had ascended to the throne.

Speaking of the Hand of the King, she glanced passed Tommen to his right, where Tywin sat. Now and then he would speak a suggestion, and bit of advice to his grandson depending on the plight of the small folk or noble that had come before the throne. But more often then not these days, the head of House Lannister was silent outside of the small-council chambers.

She could tell it pained him to remain sitting upright for longer periods these days. He tired more easily, his once strong frame having thinned, weakened, his cheeks more hollow, pallor pale and sickly and heavy brow slick with a cold sweat. The imp had done a number of his father when he shot the proud lord on the privy. The gods would have been kinder to have let him die, and even she knew it gulled him to have been brought so low by his half-man son.

Her grandmother had admitted to admiration of Tywin's strength and conviction and will, though in the next breath she also insulted him in not so many words.

Standing on the floor beside the dais, pass Tywin stood the High Sparrow, silent, humbly dressed in the tattered thin gray robes he wore, His face was passive and kindly, as he listened to the plights of those who had come to the King. He never offered advice unless asked. And Tommen did ask, far too often in her opinion.

She bit her tongue until she tasted blood. The Queen hated him, and thought he had too much influence over the King. In this Cersei, Tywin, and her were united, though their reasons were both the same and not. And unlike the Queen Mother, Margeray knew to hold her tongue, and stay her hand.

She is beauty, she is grace, 'I'd love to punch him in the face' She thought with disdain, and tore her vibrant blue eyes away from the white haired man.

Speaking of her dear Good-Mother, the arrest of Petyr Baelish had roused her from her self imposed isolation. The former queen; who stood in the shadows near the other ladies of the court, looked good, the sunken ghoulish look had faded, and she was no longer as thin as a wraith from her time as a guest of the Faith Militant and High Sparrow. The blonde hair, which had been shorn had grown back some. The boyishly short locks did not distract from Cersei's beauty, the Queen noted, but never had the Lannister woman look more like her twin and sons then now

The gleam of madness in her eyes however was most concerning, and it, in combination with the new hair style churned Margaery's stomach with how much the blonde woman looked like Joffery. She would have to be more careful around the other woman, now more then ever. The Tyrell Queen knew that Cersei must be plotting something with her trail fast approaching.

With the return of Cersei to the public eye, the whispers of the lack of heir began anew. She had laid with Tommen that first night, and loudly so. It had quieted the whispers some. Tommen was a skilled and enthusiastic lover. She had taught him how to pleasure her, an act he enjoyed greatly. And she gave her sweet husband pleasure in return. But no child had quicken in her womb yet. Though not for a lack of trying.

When Tommen had proven that he would be a good and just King, without the madness and curelity of Joffery, she had stopped taking her herbs and drinking moon tea. And yet she remained childless. And the court whispered she must be barren. For the fault always lay with the woman in these cases. Privately, the Queen suspected that Tommen's inbred heritage might have left him unable to sire children. And it was the seed, not the field that was the problem.

She could no tell rather she was sadden or grateful for remaining childless.

It appeared that court was drawing to an end. Thank the Seven for small miracles.

Margaery watched in silence the King stood from the Iron Throne, stepping to the edge of the dais, the assembled court, which has been preparing to break falling silent. From the way Twyin's thin lips twisted and the High Sparrow's eyes gleamed, she knew whatever her sweet husband was about to announce was not good.

“Petyr Baelish was recently arrested for the assassination of my older brother, the late King Joffery Baratheon, an act of high treason. Because of the nature of his crimes, I do not feel as if I can fairly judge Lord Baelish in accordance to the laws of the land.” Tommen began. His voice, a warm tenor now that he was a man grown at eight and ten carried well to the back of the throne room.

Another time, and Margaery might have been proud to see her younger husband stand so tall and proud and confident before the court, instead of shying away from the attention the way he used to, and lacking the cruel arrogance of Joffery, with his shrill cracking high voice the mad-boy-king had.

To her right she could see Lord Commander Jamie straighten, left hand twitching for a moment before his thumb hooked into his sword belt in a attempt to appear casual.

“I have prayed to the Seven for guidance and decided the best course of action. From this day hence, and by royal degree, trail by combat is outlawed in Westeros. And those who stand trail will be tried by the faith, by seven septons as it was in the early days.”

The court broke up in a clamor of soft voices, a whispered roar as those gathered turned to their neighbor beside them in confusion. Above in the galley, the Queen could see how Cersei's face paled, her plans to have the Mountain as her champion in her up coming trail dashed by her own son.

“Petyr Baelish, and my own mother, the former Queen Cersei Baratheon will stand trail on the first day of the Festival of the Father.”

Pronouncement made, Tommen turned and offered his Queen his hand, which Margaery took without conscious thought, allowing herself to be lead down the steps of the dais and out of the throne room as the court erupted with noise.

Chapter Text

Happy belated birthday to cmiller. Who was also kind enough to beta this chapter for me.

I'm using Roman Imperial Legion military units for Dany's Army. Which is why she uses the term cohorts. Imperial Rome, A Legion was made up of 9-10 cohorts, consisting of six centuries, at 80 men per century. So 1 Cohort = 480 men.
Why? Because the Unsullied make me think of a cross between the Roman Imperial Legion and Spartans. xD

- - - -

Frosted Faith
The Edge of Night

 - - - -

Robb 2:

“You knew?!” The young King-of-the-North all but howled, a heavy fist smashing down on the old iron wood table at which he, his wife and his parents sat. The words were directed at his wife Talisa, who sat near, but not next to him, one chair over. It would normally chafed him to see his wife take such a distance, but in that moment he wanted nothing more then to strike her across the face for her part in his younger sister's stupidity.

An hour before, after the evening meal, his father had called them all into this lesser used room that adjoined his father's study. The room was modest in size and appearance, a long table of thick ironwood planks, with eight low back, unpadded plain but sturdy wood chairs. There was a worn thick rug on the stone floor, a singular window and a small hearth. Candles burned in their wall sources, and in holders on the table. In the ages before Targaryen rule, this room had been something of the small council room for the Stark King. In the past, his father had used it for intimate meetings with the northern lords.

The richest aspect of this room were the tapestries that hung on the walls, showing the history of House Stark from its founder Bran the Builder, to the Torrhen, the King-Who-Knelt. Others showed tales and myths of the North. Images of Direwolves, and battles against Giants. The battle against the White-Walkers and the Long Night, things from the stories Old Nan told all of the Stark children from when they were in the cradle, onto the day she passed from this life.

Ironic that it was this room that his father called them all to, to tell them of the letter from Lord Reed, that told tale of Arya's foolish actions. Treason. His mind whispered. Betrayal from his own sister. And the lot who followed her deserters.

Robb exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing a callous hand roughly over the red beard that he had allowed to grow thick over his chin and cheeks to ward off the bite of winter winds. He turned his eyes from those tapestries that told the history of their great house, to look at the others in the room.

His father was grim face as always. The shadows beneath the heavy set of Ned's brow darker, and the lines of his face deeper. Robb did not need to guess to know that it was his display of temper, and perhaps concern for Talisa that had his father half risen out of his seat at the head of the ancient table of Winter Kings, knuckles fisted white tight around the head of the cane he now used.

The calming breath that Robb drew in, and then pushed out had his father slowly lowing himself back into his seat. One, that in the back of his mind, the young King noted he himself should by right be seated in. And for a moment, he felt a flash of resentment towards his father.

His lady-mother looked distraught from where she sat on his father's left. Her southern features twisted in a mix of worry and disapproval. At him or Arya he didn't know. Both most like he was sure. Tully blue eyes, which he had inherited flickered between him and his father, her husband, with thin lips thinned further in a half grimace that pulled at the lines of her face.

Robb ideally wondered when his parents began to look so old. There was salt in his father's thick beard now. His chin more white then dark brown, along with his upper lip, with a healthy dash throughout the rest. The deep creases of time at the corners of his eyes had grown longer, deeper, the ones on his forehead and corners of his stern mouth more prominent. His hair too, longer now, and half pulled back in the same manner the Lord of Winterfell had always worn it, was liberally streaked with gray, as if a painter had come by with his brush and painted it in in broad strokes in the night when Robb hadn't been looking.

And his lady-mother; her red hair showed signs of white, a shining streak of moon light there in the front, sweeping back through her, -in his memories, fiery mane of - long hair where it was pulled back in both a elegant and simple style. Ever a southern lady, even after over two decades in the north. Like his father, the lines on her face had deepen, etching themselves further into her noble face, her skin seem thin, wane in the smokey orange light of candles and hearth fire.

Talisa sat to his left, a empty chair between them. His previous display of temper had not made her flinch back further, but he could see the way her dark eyes glinted dangerously in the fire light that she had poison laced words on the tip of her sharp tongue. If the gods were kind, she would wait until they retired to their chambers before she spoke them. For now, she held herself away, distant and stiff in her fine furs and thick wools. Like his mother, her long silky black hair was done simply, though there was a elegance to the plain braids that twisted her hair to join to the back, leaving the rest of her thick hair to cascade down her fur covered shoulders and back.

“You wouldn't hear her your Grace.”

Ethan. He had forgotten about the lad. In truth he didn't even understand why his wife had brought the Forrester boy to this meeting when Rickon wasn't allowed to attend. His words were calmly spoken, though perhaps only heard because of the tense silence that had fallen on the room after his own outburst.

“Speak up lad.” The encouragement came from his father, causing Robb to scowl, the equally encouraging nod from Talisa towards the boy had him slumping in his seat, arms folded across his chest like a crankours child as Ethan squared his shoulders and pushed from the wall where he had placed himself unobtrusively.

“You wouldn't hear her, Arya I mean. But you hear the words of nobles well enough. So hear me your grace.” Ethan began, eyes the color of pine sparking like a summer brush fire as he approached. The boy looked like his father, and was as tall as his eldest brother Rodrick, but with wolf-hour black hair, and clean shaven but for the dusting of dark stubble on his chin and upper lip. He also had a build of an archer, more like Theon, then a broad shoulder swordsman like his elder brothers or late father.
And although at eight and ten the lad didn't yet have the same air of strength about him that his late father Gregor had had, there was a deadly edge of anger there that reminded Robb of Asher, though it was tempard.

“You and the Lady Stark were so quick to accuse Arya of whoredom and marry her off for political means that you never stopped to hear her. At every turn you dismissed her, undermined her, belittled her. You made matches for her that I can't imagine you would have for Lady Sansa, or your brothers. Or your own children when they are old enough. Perhaps if you had listened, perhaps if you had paid Arya mind instead of dismissing her, you would have noticed that she had been under protective detail from the very monster whom you sought to tie her to. All to prevent frankly, an inevitable war. Because selling, yes, selling, like you would a slave, for that what Arya would have been, her off to the Bastard-of-Bolton would have only given them what they wanted. A pawn, a hostage, and when they had manage to slaughter you all, a claim to Winterfell.”

Ethan's mouth twisted humorlessly. “You would have known all this if you had listened. The She-wolf -; ” The dark hair lad's use of the title was purposeful, made in understanding how it made the King and his lady-mother cringe, though it was said with the same respect as Ethan might have used Eddard's own title. “and I spent many a late nights together, not in the broken tower as rumors state, but in the library. While she has no interest in running a house hold like a proper noble woman. She has a great understanding on how to govern, and because of that, she does understand what the southerners call the 'Game of Thrones'. Far better then you I think, your Grace.”

The young man heaved a heavy sigh, and ran both hands through his hair, further messing up the already tousled looking raven black strands. “Lady Talisa and I, along with Rickon all saw her leave. And kept our silence to protect her. Not just from Ramsay Snow, but from the foolish ignorance of yourself, your grace.”

Robb watched as Ethan dropped to the chair he had been standing beside, all the fight and fire seeming to leave him all at once. In the silence that followed, it was Talisa that spoke up next.

“He tried to rape her. That's how the bastard got that scar on his face. He hunted her through the halls of her own home, all the while acting like a gentleman around you and your parents until he cornered her and tried forcing himself on her. You've been so caught up with your meetings about the Targaryen woman that you weren't there when she came stumbling into our room, shaking like a leaf and white as the snows outside Robb.” Her words were softly spoken.

Robb could feel the blood drain from his face as his wife's words sunk in. Next to him, his father cursed, vigorously slapping a open palm against the surface of the table. Robb could barely make out the words his father muttered over the rush of white noise in his head. Something about knowing it, and gutting the bastard. His mother had also gone pasty white, long fingered hands raised to cover her mouth and muffled the half swallowed sob caught in her throat.

When the blood came back to his face, it was with the hot flush of anger, his fingers curling around the arms of his chair in a white-knuckled grip in order to keep himself seated, instead of launching himself out of his chair and race to the stables as he wanted to.

Most of the nobles, including Ramsay Snow-Bolton had already departed. Ramsay hadn't stuck around very long after Arya left. Three.. four days perhaps. There had been so many departings that Robb had a hard time keeping them all straight in his head.

“And the rumors...?” This came from Catelyn, his mother still pale, but now stiff as a the ironwood planks that made up the table before them, with the same emotional depth of warmth of Winterfells cold stone walls.

“Ramsay I suspect. They worked far to much in his favor for their origins not to have been the bastard and his men. Of course there's no proof of this... but...” Talisa replied, the dark haired woman knew all too well the power of a few well timed and worded rumors, such tactics were common back in her homeland.

“Ned... if she is only just pass Graywater Watch...surely...”

Robb watched his father shake his head slowly. “No Cat, it's too late to send a raven to summon her back. She's also not traveling with a traditional war-band. There is no Raven-Keeper. And with the upheaval in the Riverlands, we have no way of knowing where the safest place to send a message would be.”

“Then we'll send someone after her! Tell her to come home!”

“By the time even the swiftest band of riders catch up to her she would be well south. We'd only endanger her further if we have riders searching the Riverlands for her. Shes chosen her course, and we can only hope that with time her path will bring her home.”

“And what course of action is that?”

The back and forth made Robb feel a bit light headed. Rarely had he ever seen his parents disagree about something. They had always presented a united front. And never had he actually seen them argue. There was a desperation to his mother's words, and a simple, if weary prideful acceptance in his father's.

Ethan once again spoke up, cutting through the argument by speaking softly, forcing those in the room to fall silent in order to hear what he had to say.

“Arya rides south not just to escape a unwanted marriage. She rides south to find Lady Sansa. And more then that, she rides south to do the very thing that she has been trying to suggest to you. She is going to meet Daenerys Targaryen to get her measure, and to separate truth from rumor before you decide to go and make a enemy out of a woman who supposedly has dragons, not to mention a massive army of former slave, wild horsemen, sellswords and who knows what else.”

“And you know this how?” Robb question the young man, eyeing him carefully. He himself had ridden south before, to get justice for his father, and rescue Sansa. But that had been with a well supplied army at his back, and before Winter, when the Riverlands and Westerlands still held a bounty of game to hunt and forging to be done to sustain men on a march.

By his count Arya had less then forty, all on horse back, no supply train, no supply line, and neither reinforcements nor allies.

“Because she told me.”

Robb had to pause at that, wondering suddenly just how close his sister was to the younger Forrester lad. He push those thoughts from his mind. He needed to learn from this marriage mess. And it was better to start changing the way he thought now, before his sister returned home.... if.... no when. When she returned home. Because Arya would, she was too damn stubborn not to.

“Then perhaps we can send a proper force to her?” His mother's words held a note of hope. If they couldn't drag Arya back, then they should at least give her a proper army. Robb was already running through a mental list of commanders he could place in charge, to lead the force south to meet up with Arya and take command when his father spoke up.

“No. Winter is here, we'd have no way to supply a force that size. Add to that, it would take months to call the banners, more so since all the northern lords just returned home. And such a sizable force, weighed down with a supply train would be slow, far to slow to hope to catch up with Arya and her smaller mounted band. To say nothing of the political ramification. And with the Boltons stirring up trouble we need our forces here if we want our girls to have a home to return to.”

His father's face had taken on that weary but proud half smile again, the slight curl of his lips evident even under the thick graying beard. The way he said 'our girls' made it clear to Robb that his father had every faith that Arya would succeed where he failed. He didn't know how to feel about that. On one hand, he would be over joyed to have Sansa home at long last. To see the woman she no doubt was now. On the other hand, for his little sister to do what he himself could not... it gnawed at his pride.

“And no doubt the southern lords have no idea yet that wolves have return south. I'd like to keep it that way, and calling the banners would be noticed. Even with Winter here, the Iron Throne still have rats here in the North. Let them believe that Arya has ridden out to patrol the North. It would account for her absence and the number of men she took.”

The King-of-the-North noticed that his father's tone said that his word was final, and would broke no argument from anyone gathered. The decision was made, though he could tell his mother was no more happy with it then he himself.

The conversation turned instead to how best to cover up Arya's absence, her self appointed mission, and her actual location. The discussion only broke when one of the household servants entered carrying a platter of tankards, pitchers and meat pastries followed by Rickon who quickly joined in on the discussion, needed no explanation once the servant had departed.

It made him wonder just how much his sister had managed to keep secret from both their parents and him. Did she have more secrets that he did not know? Ones that could effect House Stark and their rule in the north?

By the seven Robb hoped that Arya did return home, so that he might strangle her himself.

- - - -

Sansa 4:

Sansa woke with a sharp gasp, left hand reaching to clench at her rapidly beating heart as she gulped for air. Slowly her heart rate and breathing calmed, she then reached for the glass of water on her bedside table. Taking a deep pull from the glass, she attempted to wash the phantom taste of blood and raw meat from her mouth.

'A dream, the third this week. Each different and the same.' She though, remembering the terrifying thrill of running through forests on four feet, chasing an elk, the snap-crunch of bone and the hot froth of fresh blood that had been tonights dream. She has had dreamt of being a wolf before. In King's Landing, wishing for the strength even her gentle direwolf Lady possessed, to fight, to bite and snarl. To rip and tear and rent the flesh of her enemies asunder with fang and claw.
But they had faded in the shadows of the vipers nest that was the capital, as each day became a fight for survival in the lion's den. More then the hunt and the freedom offered in the dreams, what broke her heart, sending it into a rapid tattoo, aching in her chest, was the glimpse she got of a woman armored in leathers and fur and chain, armed with swords and bows.

Arya, her mind cried out,

Arya, Arya, Arya.

Six, nearing seven years since she had last seen her sister's face. She was not surprise that in her dreams, her mind conjured her sister to looked like their father. Arya had always favored Eddard Stark. And though it had been years since she last dreamt the bitter sweet dreams of home and family and pack, perhaps it was the season, combined with how much the Gates of the Moon reminded her of Winterfell that made her heartsick with longing for it all.

The steadying touch of a hand on her right hand, where it clenched the bed sheets made Sansa jump, eyes turning to look down at her bed-mate, startled out of her thoughts and still caught in the half haze between sleep and waking. It took her a second to recognize the concern gaze of her lover of many months Mya beside her.

The older woman of six and twenty laid to her right, half laying on her side from the way she was turned to face Sansa. Her dark blue eyes were half closed, lids heavy with sleep still, and her jet black hair was tossed from sleep and sex both. Her chest was bare, dark cool sheets pooled low on her hips, the dim pale moon light from the windows casting deep shadows across the sun kissed skin of her tone arms and pale flesh of her abs. Sansa knew what the blankets hid from view, was intimately familiar with naked the peaks and valleys and the hidden spots that made Mya giggle, that made her squirm, and arch and made her sigh or moan.

“Third one this week.” Came mumbled words, the edges graveled and rough with sleep. The worry was plain to hear, and it warmed Sansa to do so. The hand on hers shifted, sliding up her arm until it reached her shoulders and with coxing presses and tugs, encouraged the red haired woman to lay her head on the other woman's chest.

A strong arm curled around her shoulders, fingers carding through her hair, nails scratching lightly against her scalp and the back of her neck had Sansa giving in and relaxing into the older woman's hold. Mya wasn't the lofty held ideal of a suitable lover of her youth. She was a woman for one, a bastard for two. She worked with mules and horses, climbed mountains, she wasn't a knight or prince, though she was the base-born daughter of the late King Robert, perhaps his eldest child even.

But Sansa reflected as she turned her face, nose brushing along the column of Mya's neck, breathing in the scents of stone, hay, wood smoke and a trace of sweat from a days work. - Mya was strong, kind, and not given to pretense or mummery. She was a simple kind of honorable, and as honest as the work she did, even when Sansa herself couldn't be. And she never asked for more then what Sansa could give, though sometimes the Stark woman could read the want in her eyes, the same that lingered in her heart.

Not perfect at all, but even still, she thinks she might love her, might be in love with her, all the same. But that too is a secret that Sansa should kept close to her heart, unspoken as of yet. If she spoke of it ever. For the Seven saw it as a sin, and she knew there would be those who would use her relationship with Mya against her.

Pressing a soft apologetic kiss to Mya's neck for waking her. Sansa spoke softly, in a whisper, mindful of both the hour and the closeness of her lips to Mya's ear.

“I dreamt I was a wolf, and I saw a woman, a young woman, my sister I think, for she looked so much like our father that it made me wish to weep.”

Sansa confessed quietly, though not timidly as she spoke in a low voice of running through the snow on four feet and feasting on raw venison by a open fire surrounded by unfamiliar warriors of the north, the armored woman who looked like her father at the center of it all. The sounds of voices and hearty northern war shanties rising into the night with the smoke to join the light flurry of snow.

Mya said nothing, letting Sansa speak instead, eyes closed as she listened to the yearning in the redhead beauty's voice.

Home and family were not things the bastard knew much of. The Gates of the Moon was as much as a home as she had ever had in truth. And she carried memories of a large strong man, with warm blue eyes the same shade as hers, and a tightly trimmed thick black beard and neat cut hair as black as ebony. If she thought hard enough she could recall the sensation of flying, being lifted in those same strong arms and tossed in the air. And she could recall the kindness of Lord Arryn, with his long smoke-white beard and hair, and gentle-stern eyes.

But House Royce, and Lord Nestor, and his wife and children were in truth the only thing close to family she knew after the early passing of her mother from a summer fever some years after her sire had taken the Iron Throne.

So the heartsickness Sansa felt wasn't something that she herself could relate to. Perhaps the closest she could get was the yearning she felt for open skies and mountain air and the freedom it offered. Regardless it did not stop the woman from tilting her chin down to press a kiss to northern woman's fiery crown. Thankful that the younger woman felt comfortable enough to share such things with her, after years of the years they both had to pretend that Sansa was nothing more then Little Finger's bastard daughter.

Oh yes, Mya had known the truth from the first moment that she had laid eyes on the sullen silent girl with muddy brown hair and down cast river blue eyes. Years of making the trek back and forth between the Eyrie and the Gates meant she had often had seen or met with Lady Lysa, often at the side of Lord Nestor. Which meant that Mya had been able to look beyond the drab clothes and the muddy dye job, and see the Tully features that both Lady Lysa and her sister Catelyn had been known for.

Plus, Mya mused, for all Lord Baelish liked to think he was so clever, he failed to account for the fact every noble bastard of the Vale either knew each other, or of each other. Within and without the Vale. And none had heard of Alayne Stone, the base-born daughter of Petyr Baelish of the Fingers had come from no where. Even if she had been born to one of Baelish's whores in King's Landing, the bastards of the Vale would have known of her.

It was much the same way with Mya and all of her father's bastards. She had kept an ear to the ground for news and rumors of her other base-born half siblings. Between her and Edric, they had known of sixty-three others. The vast majority had been contained to King's Landing however, many still attached to their mothers' apron strings and had died in the Massacre. And though she knew them not, she morn the loss of the kin she never knew.

And wasn't that peculiar, and perhaps that too was something of how Sansa felt when she thought of her true-born siblings.

“Perhaps the gods thought to give you a taste of home, to help warm you during the winter.” Mya finally spoke, her voice still rough and quiet rumble in her chest beneath Sansa's ear, like distant summer thunder.

On top of her, Sansa gave a soft huff, though Mya could feel the curve of her smile against her neck.

“Perhaps the gods are telling me my stubborn little sister has come south to find me.” Sansa teased back. “For that would be just as likely”

“Shall I prepare a bed in the barn or perhaps the kennel for your wild sister then?” Mya teased back, for Sansa had told her of her wild and free hearted sister, though it was with fondness that Sansa had spoken, where once she might have held not but scorn for the younger Stark girl.

Slapping Mya lightly on the shoulder she wasn't rested on, Sansa laughed. “I said my sister was always wild, not that she was feral.”

Sansa pushed her self up, pushing her hair which had come loose from their previous amorous activities over her right shoulder as she leaned over the older woman below her. Mya for her part allowed her hand to fall from where it had been tangled in Sansa's red mane, her scared and calloused hand coming to rest on the bare waist of the northern noblewoman.

The smile, small as it had been, seem to melt off Sansa's face as her face grew serious. Mya's brows furrowed inwards. The silence seemed to stretch for an eternity, as the dark haired woman watched the thoughts flicker behind Sansa's blue eyes.

'I love this woman' Sansa thought, reaching up to brush the locks of ebony from where they constantly fell in front of Mya's eyes. The thought should have frighten her, for love had turned to nothing but ashes in her hands every time she thought she held it.

But this woman, who's dark eyes held sparked with warmth and mirth. Whose rough hands could hold her so gently. Who made her laugh, and smile and treated her as neither high or low, but equal.

This woman.

Gods been good, and gods be damned.

Sansa ducked down and brushed her lips against Mya's, flicking her tongue out to trace along the other woman's bottom lip teasingly before drawing back, laughing softly when Mya leaned up to chase her fleeting kiss.

'Mya'

'I love you' She thought, as she was dragged down and her lips reclaimed and she thought no more.

- - - -

Jon 2:

It took nearly three moons to get everything ready for his trip. Edd had tried to protest his position as acting Lord Commander. But Jon had threaten to leave the Night's Watch all together, stating clearly that his watch had ended with his death, he was no longer bound by oath to stay at the wall. However those gathered in that room knew the truth, that Jon could no more abandon his post as Lord Commander then any other brother crow. It wasn't the oath that kept him in black, but the threat beyond the wall.

It was Davos, once Stannis's right hand man that came to his aid then, stating that he'd stay behind with Edd, help man the wall and lead the men. Not that the former hand of a king knew much about war tactics and leading men into battle on land. But he had once been a captain of his own smuggling ship, and knew of leading men. And was a daft hand at a bit of cloak and dagger when needs be.

Tormund however refused to let Jon leave, not alone, more importantly, not with out him. The bushy bearded wildling man wanted to go south, see the kneelers, judge their strength for himself. And no one knew more about the White Walkers, and no one remembered more about the Long Night, then the free folk. For they still told the stories, and sung the songs. And have been fighting the blue eyed devils longer then the Crows knew them to be awake.

So three full moons it took. To arrange the supplies and the horses. To get things settled. Many of the free folk that Jon had let beyond the wall had settled in the Gift. And those willing to fight, men and women both help man the wall.

As his giant red-haired friend pointed out, no one fights harder then a man or woman with their family to protect behind them. It was a decision that Jon hoped he didn't come to regret in the future.

Before they had ridden out seven moon rises before, Aemon had come to see him in private, and pressed something wrapped tightly in soft leather into his hands. The bundle was small, but long, like a sword. Though there was something else within the bundle.

“Give it to my Grand Niece. It belongs to her by right. I've been keeping it safe all these years. Its about time a Targaryen Queen holds it once more.”

Was his plea. And Jon, thou rattled with curiosity, did not question the old Maester, only promising he would do so, and he and Tormund rode out of Castle Black, making with haste down the King's Road to Winterfell. Jon knew that they should stop at Last Hearth, if only for a day or two of rest some place warm. But the Night's Watch had long since exhausted both House Umber, of Last Hearth, and House Karstark of Karhold of men and hospitality over the last few years. Draining their dungeons dry for new recruits and in the case of Karhold, using them as something of a trading port as it was the closest hold accessible by water for the Night's Watch

Tormund was a find companion for the road. The big man was content to remain silent for most of the journey. Never complaining about the hard pace Jon set, or the cold, or the snow. Jon suspected it was out of respect for his impending reunion with his family, and hopefully answers to the questions burning within him since his... resurrection.

The silence however couldn't last, didn't last in fact, they had crossed over the Last River an hour before making camp, taking shelter under the ancient trees of the Wolfswood for a few hours rest. This stretch of the journey Jon knew they'd have to take easy. They had pushed the horses hard, and though they were of the rare sturdy northern breed from beyond the wall, - a hard pace through thick snow drifts and bitter cold would have killed a lesser southern breed- they needed rest.

The King's Road through the Wolfswood wasn't as snow covered. And surprisingly showed signs of recent traffic. In Jon's mind however he could see this road as it had been in the summer of his boy hood. On his way to the Wall to take the Black with his Uncle. And before that, when he roamed all through these woods with Robb and Theon, venturing further and further as they grew older.

“You're thinking about it to hard Jon.”

Tormund's rumbling voice startled the young man out of his thoughts, the way his shoulders jumped under that black cloak bringing a smile to the large man's face beneath his thick red beard.

“Blood is blood is blood. So you got them pretty eyes now. You southerners put so much weight in your names.”

“You don't understand. I've wanted nothing more then to be a Stark my whole life. I wanted nothing more then to know the truth of my mother. And this...” Jon waved to his face, where those queer violet-gray eyes stood out against the backdrop of the winter's night. “And this makes me question everything.”

From his seat a few feet away by the fire, the other man spat a rabbit leg bone into the flames, where it sizzled for a moment before snapping and cracking open with a hiss-pop as the marrow inside cooked away.

“Bah! Kin is kin. If a man raises you, hes your father. If a boy will fight by your side, hes your brother. If a girl will stand at your back, shes your sister.” Taking a swig from his wine skin before he tossed it at Jon who daftly caught it and took a hearty pull himself, Tormund waited until he saw resurrected former Crow swallow before he continued.

“Maybe this Lord didn't sire you from his loins. Maybe it was a brother, or a sister that did. Doesn't matter. He said you are of his blood. He claimed you, he raised you. Hes your father. Wolf, Dragon, Crow.”

Tormund tossed a hunk of rabbit at Ghost, who lifted his great white head to snatch the small morsel from the air with a snap of his jaws from where he laid at Jon's other side.

“Beasts on colored cloth. Meaningless. Whatever answers lay south wont change who you are boy. What change what you've done, what you must do. So stop fretting like a southern woman.”

Jon took another pull from the wine skin before capping it and tossing it back to the wildling man. As he ate his own small rabbit, he thought over Tormund's words. It couldn't really be that simple could it? Once, he knew, once the people beyond the Wall and ancestors of the North had been one people. The First Men. He knew Lord Stark held to the old gods, the same as the man beside him, did he see it the same way as Tormund? That blood was blood, kin was kin.

He didn't know. He didn't know what he'd do with whatever answers waited for him at Winterfell. Personal crises aside, he did know they needed people for the wall. Ages ten to sixty. Men and women. Anyone who could hold a weapon. And they needed dragon glass. Though they still didn't know where they'd get more of that. He hoped perhaps the Maester at Winterfell would know.

Jon also knew it would be nice to see Robb again, and Rickon, and Arya. He knew that Sansa had been taken by the late King Joffery, the Mad-Boy-King, they called him. And Bran had vanished into the night along with Meera and Jojen Reed. The thought of his missing siblings made his chest ache. It would even be nice to see Lady Stark again, though he doubt she'd feel the same.

And then there was what waited even further south. In Dragon Stone. Daenerys Targaryen. Aemon had told him to go to her. And he would, if only to keep his promise to the frail old Maester and deliver the mysterious package.

But the young Targaryen Queen was from Essos for all she had been born upon Dragon Stone at the end of Robert's Rebellion. She'd know nothing of the history and tales of Westeros, of the Long Night or the danger that was coming. And was likely not to believe, let alone help. Not with her goal of claiming the Iron Throne.

“If you're done eating, stop thinking and sleep. I'll take first watch.” The wildling man huffed, as Jon found a thick bundle of wool and fur blankets dropped in his lap. Tossing the bones of his dinner into the fire, Jon quickly scrubbed his grease covered hands with snow before following Tormund's advice and bedding down, laying the thick fur on the ground beneath him and wrapping the second one, along with the wool one around him before he rested his head down on the log he had been seated on.

Ghost, faithful, loyal Ghost, curled him next to him, ears perked, and eyes alert, scanning the darkness around them. Jon, comforted by the crackling of the fire before him, Ghost beside him and the low, rumbling hum from the man let himself relax.

“Hey Tormund?” Jon spoke, eyes closed, already beginning to drift off.

What he got in reply was a grunt. Which came as no surprise. The older man wasn't usually so talkative, unless he was telling Jon how stupid he was being.

“For what its worth. I'd call you a brother any day.”

It was a mumble, Jon wouldn't remember saying it, and as he fell into a light slumber, he most definitely wouldn't remember if Tormund ever replied.

- - - -

Dany 3:

A fortnight later saw Dany secluded in her office going over paperwork. She had dismissed Maester Gordon shortly after lunch, forgoing afternoon lessons to see to the concerns of the small amount of the realm she controlled, as well as the reports from Essos.

Conquest of the region had been difficult. Once she had defeated the Masters at the Battle of Slaver's Bay, she had gone on to crush those who had sought to bring her low. She had reconquered Astapor and Yunkai. And then moved on to lay claim to the rest of the Gulf of Grief, Tolos and New Ghis were brought to heel. Elyria and Mantarys, the small Isles of Cedars, all where quick to bend knee there after.

Then eastwards, back to Qarth, the last of the Masters' cities. She left the small Sothoryos isles to the south of the Gulf alone, she had no quarrel with them. And they had none with her. By the end of it she had control from the Dothraki Sea to the Jade Sea.

The Bay of Dragons, as Slaver's Bay had become known as over the years after crushing defeat of the Masters and their fleets, had turned into a place of prosperous trade and commerce. Her control over the region meant she was free to plunder old Valyria, the seat of power of her long dead ancestors before the Doom.

And she had trade with the lands east of the Bone Mountains. By way of the Sand, Steel and Stone Roads, she had trade with those cities that sat around the Great Sand Sea. By way of the Jade Sea, Her ships sailed to the lands of Yi Ti, and Asshai of the Shadow Lands. Trading with the islands and isles of the Jade Sea and Sothorys as well.

She had left Daario and Jorah in charge of the area. Jorah served as the provisional Lord Protector of the area, while Darrio managed the military and peace keeping power as the provisional Lord Commander.

Neither men were happy with the appointment, each bundle of reports often including letters pleading for her to allow each man to return to her side. At the beginning she had replied to their request. Denying both men each time. Though she had pardon Jorah for the crimes for which he had been exiled from Westeros, his more personal betrayal of her still stung, and though he had earned back some esteem when he and Daario had joined forces in a misguided attempt to save her when she was taken flight on Drogon, and later taken captive by a Khalasar, and brought to Vaes Dothrak to take her place with the other widows in Dosh Khaleen, she did not trust him any more then she did Daario.

There was also the matter of his condition. She had forbidden the exile Mormont from returning until he found a cure for his Grayscale. She couldn't risk the illness spreading among her army, or her house, and worse to herself. Nor was she willing to risk it spreading to the small folk. Tyrion had mention that Stannis, the former lord of DragonStone had had a daughter who had contracted the illness as a babe, and that the illness, while it left her permanently scared and disfigured, had been cured.

So she did have people looking for any note or clue as to how Stannis managed to gain such a cure, and if it can be recreated. Dany was as of yet unsure rather she was hoping they'd be successful or not.

Darrio was another matter all together. The roguish sellsword captain was handsome and dashing if one looked pass the ridiculous blue hair and beard dyed in Tyroshi fashion. And Dany had felt genuine affection for the man. However time and time again she had seen the lust and greed in his blue eyes and did not doubt for a minute that whatever his affections for her he would betray her for the right price.

For now his loyalty was hers, bought by her beauty, her cunt, and the wealth and power she had to offer him. How long that would last she could not say, but she knew he'd be the first provisional position she'd seek to permanently fill.

Looking down at the report from the Iron Bank she sighed. It was a good thing her provinces in Essos had become rich with trade and commerce. At her request, the Iron Bank had sent her a copy of debts incurred by the Iron Throne since the fall of her family. It made no difference to the Iron Bank who sat on the Throne, they expected the debts to be paid.

Daenerys was hoping to work out a deal with them. Not for leniency, The Iron Bank had an iron will and would not bend after so many years of being shafted by the crown of Westeros. She however refused to begin paying the debts of the crown only to have the Usurpers incur more debt in the mean time. So a deal would have to be struck. But in order to do so, she would have to show good faith to the Bank and present them with a hefty payment towards those debts once they sent a representative.

There was also the matter of her conquest of the seven kingdoms and feeding the people and a army both during a lean, and likely long winter if she did not wish to be ruling over a kingdom of bones come spring.

A knock at the door, insistent but faint for the doors of Dragon Stone were thick and heavy, even for the most humble of rooms brought her out of her thoughts of Essos.

“Enter”

A young man, early twenties, previously tan skin returning to its natural pale, with short sandy brown hair, and close trimmed beard entered. He wore the modified Unsullied uniform, sleeveless armor of thick leather the color of ebony. Under was the two part gray wool gambeson, long sleeved and short at the waist with the second part being a pair of trousers that were neatly tucked into his knee high boots. He wore no gloves, for they were tucked into the front of his belt, opposite of the sword at his waist.

Unlike a true Unsullie, he wore no helm. And his armor had been further modified with a coat short sleeved, and thigh length chainmail between the gambeson and armor. And the armor itself was edged in fur at the neck and arms to help keep the winter chill out.

Asher Forrester was roughly her age of four and twenty, perhaps a few months younger or older, she could not say. Second born son of a minor northern house, like Jorah he had been living in Essos as an exile, though circumstances were different. Where Jorah had fled to escape justice for his attempt at selling a young Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon into slavery for poaching. Asher had been sent into exile because he fell in love with the wrong woman.

The noble-born man turn sellsword had come into her service years ago, before the Siege of Meereen and the Battle of Slaver's Bay. He, along with his companion Beskha had earned the loyalty of a group of former pit fighters who had taken to calling themselves the Blades. Asher himself had taken command after the group's previous leader Amarya perished during the retaking of Yunkai.

Asher, and his Blades were now one of her most loyal company within her military. And Asher himself one of her most trusted military leaders. Not that she would say as much to his face, he already had a bit of an inflated ego.

In many ways, the north-man reminded the Queen of Daario. Hot tempered, impulsive. But passionate and charming. And roguishly handsome, with his sandy brown hair, strong jaw line and eyes the color of woods in spring. He flirted with her, some times more often then he should and at ill-advised times. But it was as harmless as Tyrion's own flirting, and usually in good nature. At one time she might have even been tempted to take him into her bed, but the flame of that desire faded quickly, as she knew his heart belonged to another.

Unlike Daario though, she knew she could trust Asher, for all his flirting and rebellious nature, he was in his way a good and honorable man.

“Asher” Dany greeted from behind her desk as the young man bowed. Perhaps not as low as he should, but his demeanor spoke of great hurry, practically shaking with excitement.

“Your Grace, I bring news” He greeted, only approaching the desk after shutting the door once she had bid him to do so.

“And what news brings you to me in such rush as to barely observe basic courtesies?” The Queen's words were reproachful, but her tone spoke of good humor, which soften the blow. Asher's reaction to the light scolding was to give her a impish and charming grin before bowing his head slightly to her in unapologetic apology.

“I've been sending scouts into the Riverlands along the King's Road intermittently as you well know. Most of the news is the same.” Dany nodded, she knew this, Asher being a native to Westeros meant he was better able to equip and train his people to act as scouts, blending in with the locals. Their work had proven invaluable in her taking the Stormland's.

“The Blades I sent northwards sent back word. Castle Darry, which stands just south of the Cross Roads has fallen.”

Darry, was near the Ruby Ford, so named for the rubies that had adorned her late brother, Rhaegar's breastplate during the battle of the Trident. The rumors state that during the battle, a crushing blow from the Usurper Robert Baratheon is said to had knocked the rubies from Rhaegar's armor and into the water. None had been recovered it is said. But still the rumors, and the name persisted.

The castle itself she knew had been held by a small outfit of Lannister soldiers and loyalist along with the expected locally sourced staff of small folk. All under the command of some son of a minor lesser lord or hedge knight of no consequence.

The Loyalist had barricaded themselves within the castle when she had turned Harrenhal into slag. Had she taken it then, it would have been a trivial matter for her forces. But they had retreated instead of attacking, so she had been content to let them, and the other settlements, hold-fasts, and keeps around God's Eye be as her point had been made with Harrenhal.

Her plan had been to drive out the Usurper's forces and bring the Riverlands to heel after the Vale had bent knee, or she brokered a no hostilities accord with them. But it seemed someone had beaten her to Darry, and had done her work for her.

“Do we have any idea who?” She asked, her full attention now on Asher, waiting to hear the details.

“No Your Grace, The small folk who staffed the castle stated they went to bed one night, and the next morning every solider was dead, and the banners of House Lannister laid in a smoldering pile in the courtyard. The castle was not sacked, none of the woman raped. No man who did not wear Lannister colors was put to sword.”

How did any one sneak into a defended keep, even one with a small force as Darry, and manage to kill all of the soldiers within without any witnesses she wondered. She was pleased however to hear that none of the civilians within the castle had been harmed.

Far to often she heard tales of the black deeds of soldiers at war. She herself had issued a strict royal degree against such behavior within her own military. An edict that did not please the Dothraki, who had always pillaged and raped their way across the grass sea. But such acts were not something Daenerys would stand for.

“There was one oddity of note. Some of the small folk report hearing the howling of wolves for three nights before the attack. It apparently kept the keep up late each night.”

Wolves? In the Riverlands? Logic did say that the winter would drive such beasts further south in search of food and shelter. But she failed to see how howling wolves would be something noteworthy.

“Odd, but not surprising. No doubt a small pack happened to pass by on their way further south.”

She dismissed the notion from her mind, though she could see from the look on Asher's face that he was not quite so willing to outright push such things to the wayside.

“Tell Grayworm to send a small cohort to capture Darry before the Lannister forces can think to send reinforcements. The castle will make a excellent staging ground and strategic fort for our military campaign in the Riverlands, and will make for a good meeting location for any treating with the lords of the Riverlands and the Vale.”

It would also serve as a point of outreach to the small folk within those lands. The Lords and Ladies of Westeros may take some convincing to bend knee. But that would matter little if she could get the small folk, whom were the families of the soldiers that made up the armies of those noble houses, on her side.
Less work for her army then too. She wouldn't have to go town to town, village to village, to make the people of Westeros bend knee by force, spilling blood and reigniting the flame of hate for her family before she even made it to the Iron Throne if she held a place within the lands she sought to conquer from which her forces could then reach out with an open hand instead of a closed fist.

When he made no move to leave, Dany stopped her reach for her quill; She had assumed that while the young man didn't agree with her about the wolves, his report was concluded. But perhaps not... Surely the fall of castle Darry was the only thing of note from his scouts.

“Was there something else Asher?” The Queen asked, both silver brows raised in askance as she regarded the dashing northerner sellsword come commander.

“Aye Your Grace. Another Blade scout report. From west of Harrenhal... It seems the siege at Raventree Hall was also broken. Timing places it a few days after Darry fell.”

Castle Darry falling to a unknown force she could understand. But breaking a siege, even one as small as the one at Raventree Hall takes a army. Asher's Blades would have reported if there was such a force moving through the Riverlands.

Instead they hadn't, either because they some how missed them, or...

Or what? An force the size to break a siege would have left traces behind. Trash, tracks, gossip at the very least. Blood and death at the worse. For armies on the march were prone to acquiring food and other assets through force from those whose lands they passed through. The Lannisters certainly hadn't been shy about taking what they needed or wanted from the small folk. Food, drink, cattle... women.

If this was the same force that had taken Darry, the lack of chaos in their wake made sense. This mysterious force hadn't raped or pillaged the people of Darry and the near by Cross Roads either. It made sense they wouldn't do so on the road. But still a force of that significant size would leave some trace to be tracked by scouts.

“We are assuming that this is the same force that took Darry?” Dany asked just to clarify.

“Yes Your Grace.” Asher nodded, watching as the thoughts flickered behind violet eyes.

“How did we not know there was a sizable force other then the Lannisters and their loyalist and the distasteful 'Brothers without Banners', one large enough to break sieges at that, within the Riverlands?”

The northerner cringed, hearing the barely contained blistering heat behind the Queens question.

“This force is actively stay off the main roads, and actively avoiding settlements, instead crossing through open countryside. Its no surprise we've missed them, more so with the snow fall covering their tracks.”

Daenerys took a calm breath, inhale, and then exhale slowly, before shooting Asher an apologetic look for her temper. She was not angry at him, or even his men and women. She was angry at herself. She hadn't been this blind since Meereen and the Sons of the Harpy. She hadn't liked the feeling of blind helplessness then, and she likes it even less now.

In the past, she might have ordered a large force to scour the Riverlands for this mysterious force that was felling castles and breaking sieges until it was found, and its leader brought before her to kneel. But she had to acknowledge that things in Westeros worked differently. And this force may not be her friend,but this far, it was not her enemy either. At least at this time the deeds of this force was a boon rather then a hindrance to her own ambitions and plans.

“Tell me what you know Asher.”

“Its not a whole lot Your Grace. Three days after the fall of Castle Darry, the siege of Raventree Hill was broken. My scouts report that the banner of House Blackwood still flies over the castle, and the people seem in good spirits. My scouts went to Stone Hedge next, to figure out what happened. House Bracken still controls the keep, but they fly the banner of House Tully once more.”

Asher's report was delivered in a simple no nonsense manner, continuing in much the same vain. But it was clear that as his report continued he was growing more and more excited. About what Dany could only guess. The Blade's scouts had apparently caught the tracks of this mysterious force, five hundred to one thousand men, was the estimate. At least seventy-five percent which was mounted and unburden by a wagon train. Which would explain the speed at which the force was traveling across the snow covered terrain.

This small army, a cohort and a half, two at best in size really, most mounted on horse back, the rest on foot. And according to Asher's scouts, headed towards Riverrun, where he hoped his scouts would catch up in time to get an identity for this force.

'Like the Dothraki, but a much smaller force then the great horde or even Drogo's Khalasar.'

Dany was impressed despite herself. Such a force defied Westerosie military convention. Whoever was leading this cohort was not the typical brigand or bandit that had cropped up during the War of Kings out of either greed or desperation. This was someone who was educated. And given that they seemed to be intent on fighting the Lannister forces, while leaving the small folk alone, saids they had a goal in mind.

'Perhaps a younger son of some river lord? Come of age and intent on spilling Lannister blood in the name of vengeance or justice?'

“The small-folk are whispering Your Grace, from Darry to Riverrun, all the scouts I have tracking down this cohort report the same thing.” Asher's continued report snapped her back out of her thoughts, the young man practically giddy at this point, teeth flashing in the half light of afternoon, as if he could taste the blood of the Lannisters in the air.

“And what do they whisper Asher?”

Asher's grin turned practically wolfish, lips pulled back to bare his teeth.

“They whisper that wolves have return to the south. And Winter comes for House Lannister.”

- - - -

Chapter Text

AN: To date, this is the longest chapter in Frosted Faith – beating out Chapter 2 by something like a thousand words. And the longest chapter I have ever written.

I'll be on a short break for the month of August as its a very busy month for me this year.. Do not expect chapter 7 until sometime mid to late September

Thanks to Cmiller for being willing to beta this monster thing.

- - - -

Frosted Faith
Blood of my Blood

- - - -

Samwell 2:

The journey took longer then expected, winter storms around Ship Breaker Bay had shut down ports in the area for days on end. As freezing rain lashed and coated the city in ice, freezing ships to the moorings. Even after the storms had stopped it had taken days to chip away at the ice, and break through that which choked the bay.

That had been after days that they had spent in a eerily silent Kingswood. The few refugees they did pass on the road were silent, grunt, pale. All were all heading away from the capital. Some fleeing to the Stormlands, where they heard the Dragon Queen now rules, seeking food, warmth and shelter under a new queen. Others heading further south, to the warm sands of Dorne, or the most southern parts of the Reach to escape the winter.

Watching the island of Dragon Stone grow larger on the horizon in the faint gray light of dawn, Sam shivered under his cloak as he recalled the hollowed eyed faces of the refugees, their thin bodies under threadbare clothing and the dull stares of children too hungry to cry for their bellies were empty.

It had been like seeing the Others again, they were the Others. Slow, skeletal husks that moved without thinking, seeing, feeling, intent on whatever goal they had. It was just the still beating hearts in their chests that separated them from the blue eyed demons north of the Wall.

That realization had made Sam sick. Ygritte had also noticed the similarities and had commented on it. Her voice was low and husky, northern accent still thick even after years so far south.

“We looked the same once. I remember being those children. To hungry to cry, drifting place to place in search for food. Then came the pox, for no one had the strength left prevent such a thing. And when the pox ended, and the dead were buried. The cold came, and the dead rose to walk again.”

Things must have gotten worse while he was in the citadel his mother had said nothing of complaint. But then the Reach was the bread basket of Westeros, and his lady mother would see to it that the people of Horn Hill wouldn't go hungry or be cold.

King's Landing would have been packed with refugees from the Riverlands that had fled the fighting during the War of the Five Kings, and had ended up stuck in the capital when their meager purses had run dry. He had heard of the bread riots, the first having been the biggest, and having occurred before the battle of Blackwater Bay.

Whole blocks and sections of the city had burned, some repeatedly, and remain nothing more then burned out squealer for the most impoverished. With hundreds of people having died or been injured in the recurring riots that had pleged King Joffery's short reign.

It is evident that King Tommen and his Tyrell Queen haven't made much headway in aiding the small folk. Which was surprising given that it's said that Tommen is a pious, tenderhearted young man. Sam would have expected the King's new High Septon, who is said to have been a giving man whom had once been found serving soup and bread to the poor before he had risen to the station he now holds. 

Although perhaps he shouldn't be surprised for the man known as the High Sparrow was also leader of the renewed Faith Militant. And men, when armed with both zelos faith and sword tend to be the most cruel for they believe they alone had the authority to enact the will of the gods, while blind to when their actions go against the teachings of those very gods to which they pray so fervently to.

Sam feared for the people of King's Landing, especially with Ygritte's words bouncing in his head. But he had the wisdom to know there was nothing that he himself could do for them beyond his duty as a Maester and a Brother of the Watch.

It took hours for the ship to reach port and dock at Dragonstone, doing so by mid morning. The ancestral seat of the Targaryen's was a foreboding place, dark stone towers and walls jutted high out of the rocky island. Home to Westeros' sole active volcano, the rocky island was less then ideal for farming or livestock, and boasted few villages, which where small fishing communities.

The largest of which, a humble sized town, was built half into the cliff face, and half on a small rise above one of the largest beaches was where they made port. It was evident even as the ship pulled in that the return of a Targaryen to Dragonstone had revitalized the island, bringing it to life in a way that it hadn't been perhaps since the early years of Targaryen's occupation of it.

Sam knew from his studies that there was a smaller, private pier in a cove on the island, meant for the ruling Lord or Lady of Dragonstone to come and go as they pleased.. But the wooden piers here were meant to be used by visitors, merchants, and nobles. Even small folk, for the Dragon Queen apparently had a number of smaller ships acting as a ferry between the island and the mainland, as well as Dragonstone and the other, smaller islands which as Lady of Dragonstone she was now liege lord of.

The docks were bustling with the Queen's foreign soldiers, sailors from Westeros, Essos, and places he didn't even know. The air smelled of sea air, and old fish left too long, and food being cooked in large pots that sat simmering over a half dozen large fires. Dock workers, and merchants from every corner of the known world, dressed in an array of fashions, some more fit for the cold then others. And a dozen languages were being spoken.

It was a bit over whelming for Sam, after the quiet of the road and the hush near silence of the Citideal. The noise was cut off by a loud screeching roar. Around the beach, everyone fell silent, heads tilted upwards towards the sky just as a great shadow passed over head.

“By the gods....” The words were a whispered exhale from his right, Sam never took his eyes of the great black shadow as it gave a slow wide turn over head followed by two smaller dragons as they meandered towards the castle. His eyes followed the dragons' flight path, trying to calculate how fast they were going and how big they were even as his brain stuttered, and his knees quaked at the sight of the great beasts.

The largest wasn't as big as Balerion, the Black Dread that Aegon the Conqueror rode in his conquest of Westeros was said to be. Perhaps not even half the size. For Balerion was said to have a wingspan so vast that he would engulf whole towns within their shadow.

Even still, the largest of Daenerys dragons was the biggest living thing Samwell had ever laid his eyes on, and big enough by his guess to be able to pluck a Giant from the ground. He did wonder about the size variation between the three winged beasts.

While the rest of the people on the beach and within the small town quickly got back to work, it wasn't until the three dragons had vanished beyond the keep of DragonStone that Sam managed to shake himself from his stunned stillness and close his slack jaw.

“Never thought I'd see something bigger then a Giant or Mammoth. That alone is worth coming south for.” Ygritte spoke, half to herself, her sharp eyes narrowed in the direction the dragons had gone.

Squaring his shoulders Sam reached down and lightly grabbed the wildling woman by the arm, prompting her to start following him up the the slope. As they pushed passed the crowd at the first heavy gates, Sam reach up to adjust the strap across his chest that held Heartsbane on his back.

- - - -

Dragonstone Castle was all dark stone and thick tapestries on the wall. There were murals depicting dragons and the history of Old Valaria and House Targaryen carved deep into the stone walls, and at the larger doors were dragon statues guarding either side of the doors. The new Targaryen Queen had done her best to brighten up the halls. Torches and braziers, candles and burning hearths lined the halls and antechamber to the throne room where he and Ygritte stood waiting under the watchful eyes of the Queens foreign soldiers

Stannis Baratheon must have hated this place; Sam thought, cold, dark, isolated, barren, and surrounded by reminders of the last Targaryen dynasty. Sam could imagine the serious, sour man he met at the Wall would have hated everything this place represented. Adding further to his resentment that his younger brother Renly had been given StormsEnd which should have been his by right, the fact that traditionally, Dragonstone was the seat of the heir apparent to the Iron Throne would have met very little to the hard man.

People came in and out of the throne room, small folk, minor nobles, merchants. Petitioners seeking judgment, council, and other patron-ship from the Queen. Because he was a Maester, and a brother of the Night's Watch however, they had to wait until after the Daenerys was finish holding court, the Queen apparently thought it was of greater importance that she heard as many partitioners as possible before meeting with a black-cloak.

For his part, as he nervously paced the room, Sam tried to remember the last time he had heard of Robert Baratheon sitting to hear the concerns and plights of the common man. Let alone his supposed sons, or his half-mad widow. When King Robert had been alive, it had been his Hand-of-the-King, the late Jon Arryn that had conducted court for the small folk and merchants and other petitioners that came before the Iron Throne.

Robert must have at some point. Maybe early in his reign, when Sam had been barely old enough to toddle after his parents, but then he would have been to young to remember, and even then his interests laid in books, rather then the Game of Thrones and the ambitions of man or the way of the sword.

Ideally, Sam watched as Ygritte attempted to flirt with a tan skin man dressed in leather, with massive arms and a braid of thick black hair that fell to his mid back with little bells in it. - Dothraki- Sam's mind supplied, trying not to laugh as the fire-haired free folk woman realized that her flirtations would go no where with the language barrier.

Watching her walk away muttering curses in the ancient tongue of the first man was amusing. The woman was bored, and missed Jon, and had been angry when he had originally told her that they weren't going straight to Castle Black. That had simmered down to simple annoyance at having to put up with him during the journey thankfully.

Behind him, the massive iron oak doors swung open. Another petitioner left, this one followed by a helmetless Unsullied guard, he was young faced and clean shaven, and dark hair that was was kept sort with the blade of a sharp dagger. The Unsullied turned to him and nodded. 

“Queen will see you now.” He hadn't heard much of the Westerosie common tongue among the soldiers and servants that served Queen Daenerys, so it was a surprise to hear the heavily accented and some what broken Common from the dark skin young man.

“Uh, yes, thank you.” Sam nervously stuttered out, hurring to scoop his bag of belongings, awkwardly shouldering one and hugging the more precious of the two bags he carried, for it contained the books he had 'barrowed' from the Citadel. “Uhh....Ygritte?” The new Maester glanced at his companion who huffed and followed behind him.

The throne room of Dragonstone was just as foreboding as the rest of the keep. Though here too the Queen had clearly attempted to bring light and warmth to the dark and cold keep. And there, upon the two-step raised dias seated on the throne of her ancesters, who flew here on the backs of dragons before the Doom sat the silver haired Queen herself.

Sam was struck but how small the Targaryen Queen was. Physically at least she was short, and slender, with narrow shoulders and a swan neck, and modest in the hips and boosum.. The Queen was dwarfed by the massive stone throne on which she sat, made smaller stil by the height of the chambers celing and the towering window behind her. The winter sun didn't do much to light the room, but the large braziors that sat on either side of the foot of the dias cast the young woman in a brillant glow. Turning silver hair golden, and giving her fair skin a sun kiss look.

Flanking her at both equal and lower points on the dias were members of her inner circle. Samwell recognize Ser Barristan Selmy, former Lord Commander of King Robert's Kings-Guard standing right of the Queen. To her left, Sam was surprise to see Tyrion Lannister, the man had seated himself on one of the steps, perhaps his short legs unable to take standing for the long periods that holding a partioners court require.

Opposite of him was a young woman, dark of hair and skin, tall, slender. - Beautiful by all accounts, though not by traditional Westrosie standards. He was unsure what her function within the Targaryen court was. There was also a bald, portly stout man, older, well dressed in fine, but at a glance humble robes standing off to the left, back, nearly hidden from view by the massive stone structure of the throne itself.

Despite her small physical stature, the Mother of Dragons seemed larger then life, her presence filling the room. If someone told him right now that she could breath fire herself and shoot lighting from her finger tips, Sam might just believe.

Their guard moved to take his place once more to the left of the Queen as well, standing equal to Ser Barristan, letting the Crow know that the Unsullie was at least equal in the Targaryen council as the former Kingsguard, and Sam forced himself, and Ygritte both to come to a stop a few feet from the first step of the dias.

Silence reigned for a half a minute when the Queen arched a single silver eyebrow in his direction and Sam remembered his courtises and bowed low at the waist. Beside him, Ygritte just raised her own eyebrows back, shifting her weight until she stood with her arms folded across her chest, and her right hip cocked outwards, staring down the Targaryen woman.

“It is expected that you bow before a Queen my lady.” Daenerys said in a conversational tone even as she motioned with a smooth wave of her hand for Sam himself to straighten.

“I'm no kneeler. Free folk have no King or Queen other then one of our choosing beyond the Wall.”

Came the wildlings woman cool reply. Sam winced, to him it was an old line, and three years in the south hadn't changed Ygritte's view on 'kneelers' as the Free-Folk beyond the Wall called those who lived to the south of the same.

Not that he could blame her too much. She had only seen or heard of poor examples of southern royalty and nobility, where previously her examples had been a honorable bastard of the north, and... Sam. But He never a typical noble anyways.

“Beyond the wall? You're a wildling woman then. What are you doing so far south, and with a Maester and man of the Watch?” Tyrion Lannister had perked up the moment they had entered of course. The slightly pudgy stoat man in black with a newly forge chain around his neck was not so interesting to him as the woman dressed in rugged fur, leather and hide from head to toe.

“Free-woman. Wildling is what you kneelers call us who live north of the Wall. And I'm with the smart crow cause Jon Snow asked.” Was her rebuttal.

The name of the Eddard Stark's bastard had both Hand and Queen perking up. 

“But why? The Night's Watch has been fighting you--”

“Enough Lord Tyrion.” The Queen cut off the dwarf with a simple command. The little Hand fell silent, only looking at the Queen with a curious look on his face, with the Queen returned with a simple arched brow before purple eyes turned to regard the Crow and the Wildling once more.

“My apologize. I'm afraid I know nothing of the ways, of the Free-Folk. If your people do not kneel to a leader not of your choosing. I will not press the matter further. I am well accustomed to the fact that respect is earned, not freely given.” Samwell decided that this Queen was very smooth, he could practically feel the aggressive tension in Ygritte bleeding from the woman's shoulders beside him.

“What brings a newly chained Maester of the Night's Watch to Dragonstone Maester....?”

“Oh! Uh.. Sam, Samwell Tarly your grace.” Sam sturttered out, dipping into another quick bow, nervous suddenly once more at being the focus of the intense scrutiny of the Mother of Dragons, and her half-man Hand-of-the-Queen once more. The shifting weight of the greatsword strapped to his back however help put steel in his spine, and when he straighten once more he was able to meet the Queen's eyes.

“Jon; Lord Commander Jon Snow, that is, sent me south to earn my chain. In part because Castle Black's current Maester is very old. But mostly so I could scour the Citadels library for answers.”

Sam took a deep breath, before he launched into further explanation with no further prompting then the slightest tilt of the Queen's silver maned head.

“The Wall wasn't built to keep out the Free-Folk. It was never built to keep them out. Their ancestors simply had the ill fortune to be on that side when it was built. It was built to hold back something much much worse then them. The Others your grace. Wrights, the Undead, whatever you wish to call them. Whatever history has called them. The Wall was built to keep them out. But the Wall has been undermanned and under supplied for a generation or more. And now the White Walkers have risen again.

Lord Commander Snow sent me south to see if there was something in the Citadels library that would tell us how to stop them, defeat the White Walkers, stop the Long Nig--”

“Ridiculous. They are a myth, one used to make children behave. - 'The Others eat bad little boys'. My mother told me that one often enough as a young boy.”

“Perhaps. But I have been to the Wall Ser Barristan, and I have met Jon Snow and found the lad to be the level headed sort and not taken to flights of fancy. As for White Walkers being myths, or long dead. Well, we all thought dragons were extinct, and unless the world is all in the grips of a shared hallucination, we have three very much alive dragons on this ver--”

Samwell interjects, his voice firm, the phantom gaze of those cold burning blue eyes on him giving him the courage to speak up, cutting through the back and forth between the Hand and the Lord Commander.

“Three horn blast my Lord Commander, I can never forget the sound of those three horn calls, just before the wights descended upon our fortified encampment atop, the Fist of the First Men.”

And he couldn't forget, wouldn't forget. More then once had he awoken in the night, drench in a cold sweat with the sound of that triple blast horn call echoing in his ears. Did the White Walkers bring the storm and the cold. Or did it bring them? He some times wondered.

He had not faced three years of ridicule from the Maesters of the Citadel, from his peers for being the only apprentice to be seeking a Valaryian steel link for his chain. He hadn't spent three years of feeling the chilling ghost of the gaze of the White Walkers upon his back to shrink now, to fail now, simply because yet another old man thought the threat beyond the Wall was a childrens bedtime story.

“There were two hundred sworn brothers of the Night's Watch at the Fist. -” Sam begun, “- Only sixty-one managed to cut their way free of the horde. Forty-four managed to survive the pursuing wrights.” Sam's words had taken on a haunting quality, Barristan and Tyrion, both men who had seen battle and death recognized it for what it was. The voice of a man entrapped in a memory, his mind and soul returned to that place, that point in time as he relieved it all over again.

“I fell behind. I was fat and slow and I fell behind until I couldn't see the torches of the rear guard any more. Grenn stayed with me. And Small Paul, help support me as we tried to catch up. But one of the wights found us... Burning blue eyes in the cold, and the dark. Blue on blue, like layers of so much ice...”

He wasn't so fat now. Life as a apprentice Maester had a way of melting the fat from your bones. Hard labor with meals of thin, tasteless gruel and stale bread had seen to that. He was stoat, still pudgy and big of bone but there was muscle there, but not fat. Had he had to go through it again now, Sam wondered if he would have been able to keep up with the rest of the survivors, instead of falling behind.

“It killed Paul, and turn towards Grenn I had a small dagger tucked into my belt. I had found it at the Fist, a small cache of daggers and arrow heads made of dragonglass, wrapped in a old Night's Watch cloak. I pulled it from my belt. And I ran for the first time towards danger, and not away. And when I drove it into its back, it screeched, as its body turned to ice and shattered..”

Beside him, Ygritte laid a calming hand on his shoulder. She could feel the faint tremors that shook the heavy set young man. The Free-folk had a name for this, the White Madness as they called it, was a sickness of the heart and mind and spirit that tended to inflict those who had looked into the eyes of the Others. It could break the spirit of even the strongest warrior, turn him craven, if it didn't break his mind first.

The new Maester, for all his flaws was strong, in uncommon ways. And was the first that the wildling woman knew of to actually kill one of the undead that had haunted the forests beyond the Wall.

The touch seem to help bring Sam out of his memories, his eyes refocusing on the here and now.

“We made it to Craster's Keep, a wildling with whom the Watch has a strain relationship with, and one that is despised by the rest of the Free-Folk. Craster was not a good man. He hurled abuse and slander at the Watch, and tired, cold, starving and grieving, the strain was too much. There was a mutiny. Craster was slain, and when the Lord Commander tried stopping it, he too was slain, stabbed in the back by Rast.

The Loyal brothers were out numbered, they fled, I ended up remaining out of shock of everything. While the traitors raped Craster's daughter-wives, and helped themselves to his food, paying me no mind. I tried to ease the Lord Commander's suffering, his last orders for me were to return to the wall and tell him about what I had found out, about fire, about dragonglass and the wildlings and the others...”

Sam trailed off, once more caught in the past. The silence reigned for several minutes, no one in the room, not even Daenerys dared to speak, all equally spell bound by the tale. Eventually, Sam managed to shake himself out of the memory, of the mutiny, the death, Gilly and the babe, the long walk back to Castle Black.

“They rise again you know. The dead. I saw that too on my way back to Castle Black. I, and one of Craster's wives, Gilly, and her newborn son. We were attacked by wights. Only these ones wore faces of men I had known in life. Chett, Lark, and even Paul among others, in their cloaks of black, stiff with frozen blood. Faces pale in death, and eyes of burning ice....” Sam had to grit his teeth to push the memory, not down or away, but back. let the deaths of his sworn-brothers put steel in his spine he thought. Let the memories of what he had seen strengthen his will, give him courage to see the White Walkers defeated. Their deaths will not be in vain he promised himself.

“Three hundred sworn-brothers of the Night's Watch went beyond the Wall for that Great Ranging. Twenty of us crows made it back. Twenty out of three hundred.” Hard eyes met those of Ser Selmy as he delivered his next words. 

“Ridiculous bed time stories do not kill over two hundred Night's Watchmen Ser. And for the record. The White Walkers won't just stop at bad little boys. They will not stop until all life, all light and warmth and all that is good in this world had been wiped out. And the only things that can hurt them, that can kill them are fire, valaryan steel and dragon glass.”

Those same eyes turned back to the Queen now. “Thats why I am here your grace. Dragon glass. There is a mountain of it underneath our feet right now.”

- - - -

Arya 5:

One thousand two hundred forty eight people, two direwolves, and three dozen of Nymeria and Lady's smaller, southern cousins now rode, marched, or trotted behind and along side her now on route to Riverrun. The sack of Castle Darry had yield no new warriors to her cause of course. But it had freed the Crossroads from Lannister control for the time being, giving Arya and her wolf pack freer movement in the Riverlands.

Darry hadn't been a glorious battle. It hadn't been a battle at all. When she and her thirty-six, and two direwolves had arrived at the Crossroads it had been after weeks of hard riding, to make camp far enough away from the small hamlets of Darry and the Crossroads Inn to go unseen, but close enough to gather intelligence as they had plan.

What they found had not painted a pretty picture. The situation in the south was far grimmer then the north knew. The inhabitants of the Crossroad had a haunted look to them, slumped and shrunken inwards, staring into mugs of watered down ale, or the flickering flames of the Inn's hearth fire unseeing.

Tongues were loosen when Arya brought out her own personal wine skin, filled with rich northern ale. The sort that warmed you. Villager and Traveler gathered closer to the hearth when she had had Gendry put a pot of strong northern spice cider on to heat, to warm weary souls as they told their tales.

Rapes and pillages were as common as trees. Bandits roamed the countryside freely, taking what little that the loyalist forces had not. It left the small folk with empty larders, empty bellies and empty pockets. The force that held Castle Darry in the name of the crown was just as bad it seems, as the bandits themselves.

One man had a sister who worked there, who was heavy with child. All the pretty young women from the local area were with child, the bastards of unknown fathers, for how were they to know when the Lannister forces up at Darry passed them around like wine skins.

Another, a traveler from King's Landing spoke of the bread riots, the burnt out parts of the city and the curfew. He and his wife, and two young children felt it was better to be cold in the North then live in squaller in the city until they starved or froze to death.

An old woman, a widow of near twenty years from a small village on the south east side of God's Eye, had lost three sons in the fighting, and three grandchildren to Carrion Fever. A disease that often cropped up around battlefields when bodies were left to rot where they fell.

Three nights and two days Arya and a few others would rotate in and out of the Inn's dinning hall, hearing the tales of those who lived near by, or were passing through to some place they hoped was better. Arya hunted for fresh meat and forage for winter roots in the fields and wild areas near by for the Inn's cooking pots, filling empty bellies with hot food and warm ale.

It wasn't much in the long term, these people would be cold and hungry again soon enough. But winter was a time to come together, even for a short while.

In the mean time, she had sent Elanor and Argon to Castle Darry. She hadn't wanted Elanor to go once she had heard of just what the Loyalist forces there had been doing to the local women, and even some girls to young to have yet flowered. But the common-born woman had insisted, clearly gearing up to argue her case when the young she-wolf simply nodded, accepting Elanors insistence with no further protest. After all; how could she expect the southern bannermen and lords to trust and respect her, if she herself did not trust and respect the women in her own fighting force.

The pair returned mid morning the second full day at the Crossroads. They had confirmed the tales Arya had heard. And had done more besides. They had befriended the staff, gotten a count of the force that held the keep. And more besides.

She held her first true war council their encampment's fire that day. The next they had enlisted the help of the locals, who got word to family and friends within Darry. And for the next three nights she asked Nymeria and Lady to do as wolves do. - Howl. Long and loud, songs of the hunt, of pack and den rang. Mournful songs, joyful songs. And they were joined by their smaller cousins in the countryside around the Trident. 

Arya kept watch as the night fires got larger, and more torches moved along the walls of Darry, the watch more then doubled as the Lannister soldiers looked out into the dark winter night with fear in their hearts, and the howl of wolves echoing in the valley around them.

The men of Darry were sleep deprived after three days. Guards swayed, heads bowed as they struggled to keep their eyes open at their posts throughout the day. Reactions were slowed, men sluggish to respond with action or words.

At her word, during the evening meal that fourth night, the servants poured stronger wine, stronger ale, and food was lightly seasoned with dream-weed. Unlike milk of the poppy, dream-weed was a northern herb, with a mild flavor most often brewed in tea to help promote sleep when one struggles to find it. For the men on watch, servants brought hot spice cider and hot mulled wine, also laced with dream-weed. Maesters in the north strongly advised against mixing the two, though such a mixture worked near as quick as milk of the poppy when it came to knocking a person out, as it tended to leave one very groggy and a bit hungover the next day.

Not that Arya intended for any of them to awaken again.

The combination of three nights of no sleep, full bellies of dream-weed laced food, and strong alcohol, in addition to not a single wolf howl that night had the forces of Darry quickly slipping into a dreamless deep slumber.

The servants and staff all retired to their rooms, locking doors behind them, willing to help free themselves from their abusers, but unwilling to trust these northmen and women.

Arya had chosen the Wolf Hour to act. She and her thirty-six slipped through the front gates, left open by inattentive guards, who now slumbered away at their posts. In silence they had moved through the keep, room by room, grimly slitting the throats of the Lannister soldiers. Nymeria and Lady aided the hunt, their keen senses finding passed out soldiers wherever they might have ended up sleeping.

It was a thankless task, a deed without honor. But thirty-seven can not take a keep held by a force more then three times their number, not in a fair fight. The she-wolf nearly felt guilty as she worked. Knowing that these men had mothers, and fathers, brothers and sisters the same as she and her pack did. They might be husbands and fathers themselves. But they were also pillagers and rapist and thieves, as bad as the bandits of the country side, worse perhaps, for often men who did heinous acts in war, claimed to be only following orders, whereas bandits gave no such excuses. The facts were a cold comfort to the northerners, as they moved from room to room.

When it was all said and done, Arya had every banner or flag baring the Lannister Lion or the Lion-Stag combo of King Robert and his false children torn down and piled in the middle of the courtyard where she personally doused the mass of red and gold fabric in oil and tossed a burning torch onto it. The flames caught quickly even in the winter chill.

Then just as silently as they entered, they left. Dacey even insuring the gate to the castle was closed behind them before she scaled down the outer walls herself.

What they had done at Darry, the way they had done it, was not something she was proud of. None of them were, she could see it on the hard set faces and clench jaws of her people. And it may haunt her for the rest of her days. It didn't feel like justice, or even vengeance. It felt like hot blood on her hands, and the taste of iron in the air. The only battle that occurred at Darry was one of the conscious.

But it had been the best course of action, no civilians died, none of her people were felled. The Castle did not burn. If not for the blood spilt and the bodies left where they had laid, one might have thought the Loyalist had simply had gotten up one day and walked out of the gates.

The people of the Crossroads, and the smallfolk within and without Darry would never speak the truth of that night. The tale they would tell would speak nothing of Arya and her wolfpack, or the involvement of the small folk. Only that the servants woke, and the Lannister forces were dead, throats slit, and their banners burned.

- - - -

Arya had been relieved when the people of the Crossroad hadn't tried to thank them for their bloody work. It had taken her hours to stop shaking afterwards, to quell the rolling in her stomach and after one rush trip to the bushes on their way back to camp, rinse the taste of bail from her mouth.

Raventree Hall was their next destination, to break the siege there. A short day and a half ride at a easy pace. Though they crested the small hill over looking the seat of House Blackwood late that night. It was a small siege encampment. Even in the dead of night Arya could tell she had been right. It was barely a token effort. Winter warfare tactics said to put two or more men per tent, it was a matter of warmth, of survival to share your tent with a few of your brothers in arms. And there was not as many tents as there would have been had House Bracken been actively seeking to take the castle.

From above, Arya counted fires, and counted tents the best she could in the pale line of a half moon. If she were to hazard a guess, there was less then two hundred fighting men down there. Cold, hungry, tired men who likely just wanted this siege to end one way or another.

She had turned her horse, and ridden back to her own force. They'd make camp here, out of view of the encampment below. They lit no fires, eating a cold supper of jerked meat, hard-tack and dry cheese washed down with sips of water by moon light. And before the camp bedded down, wrapped in thick cloaks and heads pillowed against their saddle bags, she and her inner circle went over the plan.

The next morning they rode into the the camp of House Bracken with the thunder of hooves and the rising sun at their backs. The still half asleep Bracken soldiers, still in their winter sleepwear and many as of yet to have even take their morning piss were slow to react. The Northerner forces had stormed to quickly, and the direction they had come from had not had sentries posted to warn of such an approach. Bracken men dove out of the way of the northern forces, their morning grogginess and uncertainty as to the idenity of this group of riders making them hesitate to reach for arms and armor.

Their hesitation had been something Arya had counted on, their sudden appearance and the speed of the arrival combind with the fact she had ordered no one to draw their weapons had given the encampment pause and allowed her and her riders to reach and encircle the commander's tent, so marked by both its side, and the banners baring the red stallion of House Bracken.

The men of the encampment, more awake still stood uncertain. Now that the northerners had come to a halt, they had noticed the pair of direwolves that flanked either side of the lead rider. Only one House in all of Westeros had been known to have such beasts as pets. House Stark, they whispered. Which meant the small rider had to be a Stark. But which one. Too short to be Robb, and all knew Bran was cripple. Had the youngest Stark son turned out to be half imp?

Arya found the whispers amusing as she dismounted and turn to stand before the entrance of the commander's tent, waiting.

She didn't have to wait long, before a man of middling height, and large frame stepped out from the canvas structure. Half armored in chain and gambeson, and long sword drawn in waiting stood Ser Kurleket, knight and man-at-arms to House Bracken. He had curly brown locks a shade lighter then her own, that fell loose to his shoulders, and kept a clean shaven face but for the thick goatee that framed his pouty mouth. He was not a unattractive man, indeed he was comly by northern standards, though perhaps plain by southern.

“Ser Kurleket.” Arya greeted as she reached up and removed the closed face helm she had put on before dawn, tucking it neatly under her arm, leaving the arming cap on. The Southern men that had gathered around the circle of northern riders shifted, murmuring, suddenly uncomfortable to realize that the lead rider was not a small man, but a slender woman.

Kurleket however non-paused by Arya's gender, a mark in his favor in Arya's mind, though he seem to have to take a minute place her name and House.

“Lady Stark.” The man-at-arms greeted, sheathing his blade before giving a small respectful bow of his head. “What brings you to my encampment?”

Arya gave a wolfish grin,“Lady Stark is my mother. Arya is just fine.” She demurred, before picking up on his question. “I have come to bid you to end the siege, and if you and Lord Jonos are admirable, help me in liberating the Riverlands from the yoke of House Lannister.”

The southern Knight laughed, his soldiers joining in, those their gruffing laughter was weak and nervous as they eyed the thirty-odd hard face northerners That ended when Arya drew her sword in a flash, the edge of Starfang biting into the soft flesh of Kurleket's neck.

The dull honey colored eyes of the Knight met the cold steel gaze of the she-wolf, his laugh dying in his throat “Be still Ser, it is Valaryan steel I hold against the thin skin that protects your life blood.” She warned in a low tone.

“Winter has come, and it has come for House Lannister. Should it come for House Bracken as well Ser?” She asked, in that same low dangerous tone.

“Lord Jonos bent the knee as you no doubt know. We do as we are bid.” The Knight argued, tilting his chin up, trying to get away from the ever so gentle press of cold steel against his neck. “And if you think my Lord will bend knee to a wo--”

“I wont be asking him to-” Arya interjected, not letting him finished that sentence. She pitched her voice to be heard by the entire gathered encampment, still cool and calm, the Rivermen seem to lean in, to catch every word.

“- I'm asking the you and he and all those sworn to House Bracken to remember the injustice wroth by orders of golden haired boy-kings, to remember the events of and the lives lost at the Red Wedding and set aside your long standing feud with the Blackwoods.

Winter is here Ser Kurleket, now is when we should be uniting. And the Riverlands is far from united. Help me get justice for the Northmen and the Rivermen who died at the the Twins. Help me unite the Riverlands.”

“Once we followed your brother, helped him war with the Lannisters in the name of your Father and your Sister. Why should we follow you? A untrie--”

“His Grace was untried, and younger then than the She-wolf is now. Arya has already a number of great victories under her name. Including soundly defeating Ironborn when they laid siege to Winterfell.” Ser Cullen broke in, coming up to stand at his Lady's side, meeting the eyes of the other Knight. “Ask yourself this Kurleket, if this was Rickon Stark standing before you, a lad of ten and four and truly untried, would you be this resistant?

The question gave the southern knight pause, Arya could see that, and slowly she lowered her blade from his throat.

“No. I wouldn't. I would see a earnest lad with a sense of justice and strong, and the older and more experience people around him, and would not give more then a passing thought to his age or lack of experience.” He admitted with a sigh, raising his fingers to his neck where Arya had held her sword. Thankfully there was no blood, not even a nick.

“My apologizes.... She-wolf.” He clearly stumbled over how to address the Stark woman, much to Arya's amusement. The curly haired knight then pitched his voice to address the camp.

“I for one am cold, and hungry. I want camp broken and packed and you lot ready to go by mid-day to return to Stone Hedge where Lord Jonos can decide further on this matter. I have to go surrender to Lord Blackwood” He groaned the last part, half to himself, half to the men under his command, which got a few chuckles.

“Give me a half a candle mark to make myself presentable and we shall ride to Raventree Hall. You... are correct, Winter is here, and the Riverlands needs to be united under its rightful Lord if we wish to see Spring.”

“Thank you Ser Kurleket. I hadn't wanted this to come to blood shed if it needn't” Arya said, sheathing her blade and bowing to the knight in respect. It took a better man to admit he was wrong and apologize.

- - - -

Less then a candle mark later found Arya and the knight, along with Ser Cullen, Gendry and Dacey riding into Raventree Hall. It would have taken more convincing, but the Blackwood defenders could see the Bracken soldiers breaking camp in the distance, and the direwolves at her side was all the proof of her identity they need.

Lord Tytos Blackwood met with them in his solar, after they had partaken in the bread, salt and half cup of mulled wine within the entrance of the keep proper. Tall and thin,with a head full of short black hair streaked through at the temples with white, Lord Tytos had a square face with narrow black eyes under thin eyebrows, and a hooked nose. His thin lips were partly obscured by the close-chopped salt and pepper beard and he had worn a magnificent cloak of raven feathers.

House Blackwood was one of the few houses in the south that had kept to the old gods after the Andal invasion brought the Faith of the Seven to Westeros. And thus was one of the few to also still keep a God's Wood south of the Neck.
The Blackwoods and the Starks shared a kinship, twice over. The first when Cregan Stark married Alysanne Blackwood during the reign of Aegon III, and again, generations after, when her Great Great Grandfather married Melantha Blackwood when Maekar I had been king.

Arya felt that kinship when she met the eyes of Lord Tyros with her own and he gave her a thin lipped little smile that she often saw on her face of her own Father. Unfortunately marriage and blood ties did not make the negotiations of surrender any easier. It took hours to hammer the details out. But in the end, Ser Kurleket gave up the supplies of his army to the Blackwoods to bolster their meager stores which had ran dangerously low during the length siege.

It was agreed upon that Lord Blackwood and a small garrison of his men would join them for the ride to Stone Hedge, for further negotiations in the morning. He offered Arya and her riders his hospitality after the Bracken Knight had left to see to his men, an offer she gracefully accepted, having her people contribute to the cooking pots for dinner that night.

Later, much later when much of the keep had fallen asleep. Tyros had come to her in the God's Wood where she knelt at the base of the massive weirwood tree, sharping her sword, and whispering her prayers to the gods.

“It is good to that you keep to the Old Ways.” He had said by way of greeting.

“The Old Ways are the ways of the North, and I am of the North.”

He laughed then, freely so. And Arya decided she liked this southern Lord who was more of the North then her own brother was sometimes. “And so you are, and so am I. Come wolf-blood, let us sit and talk about why you have really come south. Perhaps the gods will lend their guidance to us tonight.”

And talk they did, long into the night, getting each others measure, though perhaps he had gotten hers more then she his. It was another negotiation in a way. But they both spoke plain. And in the end, he had pledged his men to her cause, to her command for her goals were just and he could see the keen mind that lurked behind the steel-gray eyes of the young woman before him.

Before he left her at her chamber doors to rest for the remainder of the evening, Tytos had left her with these words “When you have her measure, and if you judge her fit, send the Dragon here and I will kneel.” He walked away then, leaving Arya floored at the amount of trust and faith the Lord of Raventree Hall had in her.

The next morning, Bracken and Blackwood forces rode out behind Arya's own. A half days ride brought them to Stone Hedge. The seat of House Bracken had seen better days. The castle had been sacked, and the village at it feet and the surrounding fields pillaged and burned by the Mountain Gregor Clegane and his blood thirsty band of men.

But she could see signs of rebuilding, Fresh white wash on the walls of the village buildings, rows of root vegetables where once summer and autumn grains grew. A hope for one last harvest. Fresh timber and newly laid and mortared stones. Arya could not blame Lord Bracken for taken the knee if it meant he could feed the people of Stone Hedge during a long hard winter.

She could see villagers tending to the fields and gardens, and the sheep and goats and chickens had noticed their large group of riders now, and she nodded to Larence who raised her banner. It was a dual sided thing The ancient sigil of House Stark, a running gray direwolf on a ice-white field on one side, and on the other a rampant gray direwolf on a field of black, it was what she had taken as her personal sigil when she began leading men into battle. The modern sigil of her family, the gray direwolf head on a white field cut with green had been adopted after Aegon I's conquest belonged to her father, and her brother, and since neither of them had sanction her action, she would not be flying that banner.

The men of House Bracken under Ser Kurleket raised their own banners, as did those of House Blackwood. Another nod, this time to one of Ser Kurleket's men had him blowing into his war horn, to single to the defenders at Stone Hedge that they were friendlies.

She waited a beat for the answering call, and Ser Kurleket's nod that yes, that was the answering call for friendlies before she singled the small host to move into and through the village and onto the keep.

Jonos Bracken himself waited to greet them in the courtyard while the rest of the mix host made camp in the field between the village and the keep. Lord Bracken, Arya noted, was an man few years older then her own father. He was a heavy set man, and of middling height, a head or more shorter then Eddard Stark, with a heavily lined face and a thick gray-white beard. He had gone bald on top, but made no effort to hide it, having let his gray-white hair grow out in a shaggy cut that reached chin length. There was Targaryen blood in House Bracken, thin as it was, made evident in the pale violet-gray eyes that narrowed under bushy white brows towards the Lord of Raventree Hall and his men.

“Tytos.” Lord Bracken greeted coolly once they had all dismounted, their horses being lead away by stable hands to.

“Jonos” Lord Blackwood replied equally cool

“My Lords, let us dispense with the pissing contest.” Arya cut in before either lord could get further.

“Lord Jonos, Ser Kurleket has surrendered, and ended the siege of Raventree Hall. Lord Tytos is here to finalize the matter. Both of you are blood of the first men and know that Winter is a time for unity not petty grudges. So offer us bread and salt, the faster we make it through the necessary business at hand, the faster Lord Tytos can return home and be out of your hair.”

The she-wolf cut straight through to the heart of the matter. For his part, the Lord of Stone Hedge eye-balled her for a moment before grudgingly, with some sense of reluctant respect for the simple way the young woman had got right to business

“Very well.” He agreed, and gestured to the servants to bring forth the platters of bread and salt, and skins of wine. He looked at her again, closer this time before he seem to nod to himself. “You're the younger daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark correct?”

“Aye I am. Arya Stark my Lord Bracken.”

“Why would Eddard, and your King brother send a woman to do a man's job?”

It was a dig at her sex. She was not surprised. House Bracken had converted to the Faith of the Seven like so many southern houses after the Andal invasion. And thus had a southerners view of the acceptable gender roles.

“They did not. I am here of my own volition. After all, it is always a woman that must clean up the mess of men.” Was her own, equally cutting reply, as she took a modest hunk of bread, dipped it in salt and popped it into her mouth, washing it down with a swing of wine, hiding her wince at the tart dry flavor behind a careful mask of pleasantry.

Jonos' reaction was to glower, grunting. Once his guests had partaken in the platter, he turned, and lead the way inside the castle proper.

Two days they had argued. Or rather Jonos and Tytos argued. Lord Bracken hadn't wanted her a part of these talks, but could not find fault in the logic that she was the one that was brokering talks as she was the one that actually broke the siege in the first place.

Finally, after two days, were Arya let both men had blustered and argued themselves horse before she took control of the talks, an agreement was made, under the condition that as Arya and her forces were the ones that broke the siege, she be the one that Jonos actively surrendered to.

It was petty and spiteful, and when Lord Bracken bent knee to lay his sword at her feet, a symbolic gesture of surrender in his great hall, he mumbled “Never thought I'd surrender to a woman.” to low for most of those gather to hear, Arya just snorted, and accepted his surrender.

In the predawn light, the morning she would leave, Lord Jonos found her in the courtyard, with a bare hand pressed against the charred stump of what was once House Bracken's ancient weirwood tree, cut down when they had converted. Her eyes closed, and lips still, but he knew prayer when he saw it.

It was strange to see someone, even of the North still actively keeping to the Old Gods.

“What do you pray for Stark?”

“What does anyone pray for Lord Jonos? Guidance."

The Lord grunted, arms folding across his chest. “Prayer is a useless thing” The man was clearly thinking of his wife, always locked away in devout prayer since The Mountain had came and burnt down their home. Even now as they rebuild, she did little else but pray. Arya had heard the talk among the servants, and she herself had seen little of Lady Bracken since she had been here, so she believed it.

“Prayer without action is a cold comfort. Try giving her something to do. Set her to work fixing what was broken.” She suggested kindly.

Arya didn't so much pray, as she spoke, sometimes she asked. But mostly she unburden herself of her doubts, and her troubles and her secrets, for the trees did not offer judgment in their silent gaze, or berate her with their still mouths. Faith did not keep hungry bellies full, or warm homes. It did not ward away bandits or shore up the walls of a keep. People and action did. Hunting and fording and cooking kept bellies full. Gathering and chopping wood kept a fire in a hearth to warm a home. Fighting pushed back the bandits, and hard labor patched walls.

If all Arya ever did was pray because of fear and helplessness, it would be all she ever did. And it would be all that Lady Bracken would do.

The she-wolf didn't know it then, but that was the moment she won over Jonos Bracken.

- - - -

Lord Bracken had given her five hundred men, two hundred of which were infantry, Blackwood four hundred mounted and hundred archers. Neither Houses had much to spare in way of consumable supplies, but each man had what he could carry with him. A thousand additional men, including a number of Knights, Ser Kurleket among them. Lord Tytos had sent his third born son, Hoster with her. He was a young lad of five and ten, with short black hair with a terrible cowlick and a clean shaven baby face. Tall and like his father, he a near seven feet of gangly gawky walking disaster And yet his Lord father seemed to believe she could turn the bookish lad into something of a confident fighting man.

Or he hopes she will take him into her bed. Either way Lord Blackwood would stood to gain something. The schemes of nobility, more so those in the South never failed to give Arya a headache.

The additional men, two hundred of which were without mounts would slow them down. And it was a several days ride over rough countryside to Riverrun. A ride made more time consuming by the fresh snow fall the night before. But Arya had faith that they'd make it before word could reach the Frey forces that laid siege to the castle of House Bracken and Blackwood's new alligence, allowing them to catch them unaware as Arya and her riders had caught the Bracken force flatfooted at Raventree Hall.

That first night, after making camp, the old gods decided to give the she-wolf the aid she needed. At least that was the only explanation she had for it.

In pairs, and groups of threes and fours, southern wolves came out of the shadows that first night. The Bracken men had all reached for their weapons, preparing to leap to their feet when the first few packs slipped into the light cast by the many camp fires. Arya's raised hand halted them as well as her words or the grip of the Blackwood soldiers that Arya had forced them to intermingle with.

“No. Wait and be still.” She ordered, steel-gray eyes seeking out and watching each wolf as it entered. Nymeria and Lady had come to her side, their gaze just as intent, watching their smaller southern cousins as they moved further into camp.

Each wolf that entered passed by her, brushing against first her leg then the sides of both direwolves who gave each a small greeting sniff, as if to memorize the scents of these new comers. The wolves weaved around the camp, stepping lightly over gear and legs, sniffing at people and tents.

Near by, horses tossed their head and stopped their hooves nervously, straining against their tethers to the point that Arya was worried they would either break free or injure themselves in their fear. Taking a breath she half closed her eyes and reached out, not with hands but with her mind. The mind of horses were not unfamiliar to her. She had bonded with her own mare in such a way over the years. But this was different. She was attempting to sooth the mind of hundreds of horses at once, placing her faith in herd mentality to make the work less stressful.

Minutes passed, but slowly so so slowly she soothed their fears, quieted their minds, planted the seed that these wolves were friends, a part of the herd, much like the direwolves at her side or their riders. It took another long minute to untangle her mind from the herd's. When she came back fully into herself, the last of the wolves had found places to settle.

Arya was amused to see that everyone of her original riders suddenly had a wolf companion. Thirty-six wolves for her thirty-six riders. The rest of the camp was stun silent, staring at her, at the wolves, at the horses, and at each other

“Old blood, older magic” One of the Blackwood men muttered, causing Osha to snort near by as she ran her fingers through the mane of the brown wolf that had chosen her.

“Well then... make sure to rest up everyone, we have a long march ahead of us yet.” Arya attempted to push pass the sudden awkwardness, making to gather her tankard of spice cider and retire to her tent.

“Wot? Thats it? Three dozen wolves walk into the camp and you just gonna say good night?”

Of course it was a Bracken solider, some nameless knight with a lowborn accent. Arya turned to address the man who had spoken.

“Ah yes, the wolves...” She said as if such a thing needed to be addressed. “It should go without saying that I expect each and every one of you to view them the same way you would war hounds.” Someone, Grimhil she suspected, but did not look to confirm sounded as if they had just got a mouth full of ale down the wrong pipe at her words.

“We ride at dawn.”

Dawn came and dawn went. And the wolves were not the only prequilar occurrence. Word must have gotten around the smaller villages because speratically over the next three days small folk, dressed for winter, and armed and armored in different degrees, some mounted, some on foot, slowly blended into her ranks. Most of whom were women, their arms and armor having belonged to a brother, a father, a son or husband. Others were boys, with little more then peach fuzz on their upper lip and a dusting of whiskers on their chin, who had lost fathers or older brothers to war, to illness or injury.

The men of House Bracken called her Lady Stark.
The men of House Blackwood called her Lady Arya.
The small folk, thin from a lack of food, but eyes harden from suffering that met her own called her Lady Wolf.

Thousands of miles south, in the middle of a countryside, leading a war-host, and she couldn't escape being called a Lady. Arya groaned, and behind her Gendry laughed.

Each time they stopped to make camp, Arya and Osha set to drilling the small folk, Gendry and Grimhil saw to their weapons and armor. Dacey and Ser Cullen worked on intergrating the Blackwoods and Brackens together with Arya's original forces.

It was a hodgepodge fighting force to be sure. But with time and luck it would be a well oiled fighting force. The first test would be a major one though. Breaking the siege at Riverrun would be no easy task.

But they'd get it done. She felt it in her soul, in her bones. In the sweet sting of winter's chill as it burned her lungs.

They'd get it done.

- - - -

Tywin 1:

Leaning carefully back against the pillows that propped him up as he went over the reports from across the realm, Tywin winced, the sharp pain he felt in his lower back and abdomen lingering ailments from a crossbow bolt to the bowels. Ones that had nearly crippled him, any further to the right and the bolt would have lodge into his spine, likely rendering him unable to walk had he lived.

As it was, he had been lucky, the gods must have taken pity on him, a chamber maid had found him shortly after Tyrion had done his deed and had summon both a guard and the only Maester in the Red Keep that could be roused from sleep, Qyburn. He didn't trust he former Maester turned Master of Whisperers. He knew the rumors that surrounded the old man, and had had gotten many missives from the Citadel urging him to send the so called 'Bloody Maester' away, or kill him for his unholy practices.

If living meant that he often had to work while reclined in bed as standing or sitting upright for longer periods pained him, then so be it. Physical discomfort was a small price to pay for a few more years to crush the enemies of House Lannister and better secure his family's legacy.

At two and seventy, Tywin was not a man to fear death, and in truth he did not expect to survive the winter. What was of concern however was his children, and their youngest son whom sat upon the Iron Throne.

The Lord of Casterly Rock, and Hand of the King was no fool, he had known of the sinful affair between his twin children long before Cersei herself confessed of it to him in a attempt to sway him from wedding her to Loras Tyrell. He had known of it before he had wedded her to Robert, before Jamie had been made a Kingsguard even.

Since the day Cersei had flowered and had her first moons-blood he had attempted to keep them separate, bringing Cersei with him to court while Jamie remained behind to further his training and studies to one day take his place as Lord of the Rock.

His efforts were for naught in the end. With three golden haired cubs as evidence, and dozens of Robert's dark haired bastards in the capital alone, it was clear to him that his children had managed to continue their sexual depravity.

His daughter was nearly as black a mark on their family name as her eldest son. More then that Tywin was afraid that he could see shades of his old friend Aerys when he looked at Cersei. Aerys had not always been the Mad-King. Fickle, vain, proud, a yes, a temper. But he hadn't been insane nor cruel. As a boy, and young man, the then prince Aerys had been charming, generous and handsome.

However, an unhappy marriage, the death of three infant sons, two still births, Queen Rhaella's multiple miscarriages and his time as a captive during the Defiance of Duskendale along with other unknown factors had cast his former friend into a bottomless pit of despair, rage, paranoia and cruelty.

Tywin could recognize the same behaviors within his own daughter. And it disturbed him greatly, the Seven Kingdoms could not suffer another insane ruler, former or otherwise, anywhere near the Iron Throne.

Perhaps it was time to send Cersei away, back to the Rock. She will kick up a fuss of course. But he had no problems with having her drugged and bound if he needed to. His eldest grandson had done enough harm to the realm as it was.

Joffery had been sick in the head, cruel yet craven. A foul screeching blight on the Lannister name. Tywin knew by which names both common and noble had called the eldest of his grandchildren. The Mad-Boy-King, The Illborn, Aerys the Third. It was fortunate, Tywin supposed, that in the records of history, the boy would be remembered as a Baratheon, and not a Lannister.

Tommen was his brother's opposite in nearly every way. The youngest of the three he had come into his own now that he no longer had to live in terror of his brother. Though it would be years yet before the tenderhearted young man developed a true King's strength of will to go with his compassion and sense of justice. And he still needed to learn more then the piecemeal and rudimentary skills he currently processed with a sword. Perhaps it would give him the strength he lacked.

The Boy King's greatest flaw was that he was pious, and easily manipulated. Tywin was wise enough to admit, at least to himself, that the latter was in part his fault. It was he who drummed into Tommen's head the importance of being a wise king, and wise kings listen to their advisers. The western man had not foreseen the rise of the High Sparrow, nor the man's influence over his grandson, or the rest of the court.

The blame for the Sparrows rise to power and influence he laid a at the feet of his fool daughter. She had always been short sighted with her schemes and maneuvers. And he himself had been bedridden, fighting infection and fever as he recovered from Tyrion's crossbow bolt, and had been in no condition to thwart the schemes of the Dowager Queen.

The Tyrell girl, who had managed to ensnare Tommen at the beginning of their marriage had lost a great deal of influence after her own time in the care of the Sparrow. She was slowly gaining it back of course. She was nothing if not charming and resourceful. A far better heir for the Queen of Roses then her fruit of a grandson Loras at the very least.

Margaery had chosen to send Mira Forrester, her lady-in-waiting back home to the north, escorted by Brienne of Tarth who had become something of a friend to his eldest son since she escorted him home years prior. Cersei wanted both the girl and the warrior killed, he would not allow it.

The Northern girl may be carrying intelligence to the north by the simple fact she had spent many years living at court, as the Queen's Lady-in-waiting. She likely was, all ladies-in-waiting over heard something sensitive at one time or another.

It made little difference. The Starks are in the North, and there they would remain until the Spring, when hopefully cooler heads will have prevailed and the North will be ready to bend the knee once more.

Of his only granddaughter he knew little. She had been in Dorne for many years now. A scheme of Tyrion's had betrothed her to the youngest Martell boy to secure the allegiance of Dorne during the War of Kings. That she remained was because Tywin himself actually agreed with the arrangement, though it was a double edge sword.

It kept Myrcella away from the capital, and away from the influence of her fool mother. But placed Tommen's heir in the hands of a House that held no love for the Lannisters. What mechanisms those whoresons planned he could only guessed.

But until the Tyrell girl gave his grandson a child of their own, his sister was heir, and with reports of Carrion Fever in the Riverlands and rumors of cases of the flux down in flea bottom, Tywin wanted her to remain as far from King's Landing as possible, in case the rumors of the pale mare ridding through the city were true, and it came to the Red Keep.

Of his own sons... son. Jamie was balanced on a knifes edge. He could see it in his eyes. Tywin knew that when he finally fell from it, it would be as a sword into the quench. What became of his son then only the Seven knew. Would he emerge, tempard, harder, sharper then before after being forged in the fires of war and adversity and loss. Or would he break, snap and shatter, to weak to adapt, to withstand.

Tywin did not know the answer. Jamie had returned from war a hand short and a quieter, more thoughtful man. The death of Joffery had not aided matters. Perhaps he would send him south, to Dorne. Myrcella had been without a Kingsguard for far to long, and Tywin could wait a while longer for Jamie to fulfill his word and renounce his vows. He was the girl's father after all, who better to protect her.

Or perhaps he'd send him to the Riverlands, with a modest host to end the siege of Riverrun. The Freys had mucked it up long enough.

As for the Imp... Had he been born healthy and strong, had he not taken Joanna from this world, from him, Tywin might have embraced him then. Tyrion was intelligent, shrewd, and cunning, to stubborn to die, for all Tywin had wished him dead over the years. He fought for what was his, to protect it, to claim it. However Tyrion was a imp, and had killed his mother coming into this world. And since that day he had continued to shame Tywin, with his drinking, his whoring, his very presence offended him.

More then that, the old lion suspected that the imp was in fact Aerys' bastard. He had no proof, and Joanna had never admitted to having either an affair, or being raped by the last Targaryen King. But he suspected. The only reason why he had not walked Tyrion into the sea and let the tide take him was because he was a Lannister, regardless of what he suspected, the damn imp was still a Lannister.

But; Tywin grimaced as he shifted. But, he could almost respect, almost admire the half-man. Time and again he had escaped death, slipped the sword aimed for his neck, the noose of House Lannisters enemies. He had turned the farce of a trail he had been put on onto its head, and then escaped the night before his trail by combat, but not before hammering a crossbow into Tywin's gut and killing that whore he had claimed to have loved.

And now he was Hand to the Targaryen Queen, Tywin's equal and opposite.

The silver haired whore, with her army of sellswords, horse men and eunuchs was proving to be a real problem, to say nothing of the three dragons she commanded. The girl had the supplies of a small empire to back her, and her warriors were veterans, already battle harden. She had claimed Dragonstone, and the coast of the Blackwater from Rooks Rest to the tip of Crackclaw Point. Along with Storms End and the vast majority of the Stormlands.

A fortnight ago, a report arrived, Castle Darry had fallen, and was now held by Targaryen forces who have wasted no time in claiming the Crossroads, and now from Saltpans to Dyre Den, lords and ladies were quick to bend the knee.

Two days later, another raven arrived, Stone Hedge and Raventree Hall flew Tully colors. Someone had broke the Bracken siege and gotten both houses to swear fealty.

And now today. Two ravens. One from the Master of Whispers.

“Fish swim the Trident once more, and a great wolf pack roams the south.”

And from Walder Frey.

“Some upstart flying Stark colors slaughtered my sons and men at Riverrun and freed Edmure, and liberated the Castle.

I thought those damn wolves all stayed in the North during Winter”

As unpleasant as Lord Walder was, his words were simply blunt enough. The siege of Riverrun had ended, though not to the crowns benefit. As Edmure Tully was now free to reclaim his place as Lord of both Riverrun and the Riverlands.

While true that the Freys still held his wife, Roslin Frey, and his new born daughter, Lysa, so named for her husband's late sister. Even that disgusting old man wouldn't dare harm either.

The idea that this upstart and his forces were Starks was ridiculous It would have taken a sizable host, at least equal to that that had been laying siege to Riverrun in order to smash the Frey's so completely as to be referred to as a slaughter. And a host of over a thousand men, and the required support would have been easily spotted coming from the North.

No, Tywin wasn't fool enough to think this was truly a Stark. A upstart yes. Perhaps a younger son of a Riverlord, discontent with Frey and Lannister rule, piggybacking on the reputation that Robb Stark, the so called King in the North had earned in battle when he himself had come south. Flying Stark banners, to inspire both loyalty and fear no doubt.

Clever, very clever. But Clever may win a battle, but it did not win wars.

Picking up his quill, he began to draft a letter to his forces in the West. The Lannister Army would track down and either put down this little band of rebels like dogs, or hound them long enough for the forces from the capital and the reach could muster and arrive.

The last thing they needed was for the War of Kings to respark because of some junior upstart.

- - - -