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.

I'm going by a mix of show cannon and book cannon (with some gems thrown in from the game). I used the show's Season 5 ages, plus 3. So Arya is 18.

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.

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:

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 from Jon 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 had died 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, trying to 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:

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. Tyrion had once stated that to win Stark support was to win not only the North, but would practically win her the Iron Throne. Not because the Starks were politically powerful, rich, or had a vast army - but because they were respected, admired, and trusted.

"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. The last news from the North indicates she lead the defense of Crofter's Village just north of Winterfell when it was besieged by bandits. 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 seven 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 of honor and valor. The idea was as ridiculous as it was appealing and she pushed it from her mind. The Starks were a concern for the Spring.

'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 house, and Daenerys' mind and eyes wandered to the outside world, watching as the snow fell lightly outside her window.

Sansa:

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:

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:

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 seven and ten now, and it was 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 by 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 seven 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 agains 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. "I already got Father to agree to it if you find it agreeable."

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.