Epilogue

(Author's Note: My thanks to alternatehistory's Rinasoir for co-writing the Epilogue.)

Mathis

Wine, boasting tales, saucy maids, gallant toasts, more wine, and excellent cheer inundated the Queen's Ballroom. The happy mood poured like the freely flowing Arbor Golds and Sweet Reach Reds out of Maegor's Holdfast to fill the entire Red Keep; spilling out of it into the very streets of King's Landing. Lords and knights and merchants and craftsmen and smallfolks celebrated for Westeros had a king. A sole king. A king acclaimed by all whom mattered in the realm; Lord Mathis Rowan being far from the least of them.

The Lord of Goldengrove, from his seat of honor between the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and his soon to be goodson – and perhaps a little in his cups, proudly remembered the fine service he had provided the realm. Immediately upon poor Ser Loras' valiant defeat by House Stark's noble beast, Stannis Baratheon had acted with kingly confidence and ordered the Lord Steffon to dock at Southwark, so that he might greet his Reach subjects and proclaim his royal authority over them. Mathis had instantly taken up the duty of introducing his Grace to the great lords and knights so that they too might bend the knee. And it had been Mathis' quiet suggestion that had guided King Stannis to courteously invite them to a feast; this feast!

Mathis happily downed another long draft of an excellent red vintage, the warmth of it tingling out to the ends of his fingers and toes. The only slight remorse he felt was for Lord Renly and his ill-fated lover, poor Ser Loras; more than merely a much cherished boon companion after all, as he had on occasion wondered, if only to himself. The most affable of lords had lost his kingly wager and the realm with it, by a peach stone, a wolf, and a nose. The Seven almost displaying a mummer's sense of humor in how they choose to reaffirm the right of the elder born over the younger.

Mathis tried to soberly ponder what would happen when Mace arrived in a few days. How would his old friend handle the crippling of yet another son? What wise but sarcastic advice would the Queen of Thorns offer her 'dolt' of a son? How would poor, sweet Margaery cope with the salacious talk that would inevitably arise about her husband and her brother? Would Garlan and Paxter be allowed to sit on the Small Council? And once Loras healed, would Mace allow him out of Highgarden? To visit Storm's End? Would Lord Renly want anything to do with the Knight of Flowers, his beauty lost? "So much misfortune for such noble sers and fine ladies," he quietly tutted to himself.

Still, Renly Baratheon remained the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, and, for the non, heir to the Iron Throne. Oh what a clever ruse to make her Grace appear pregnant. The king did need to get on that with royal vigor, and soon; it would not do if a counter-court were to develop at Storm's End. Mathis would not put it past the amiable Renly to turn bitter that his less agreeable brother had won the throne, though he shouldn't. There were worse outcomes for the leader of a lost rebellion; like losing one's head, as had happened – at first – to wily Lord Eddard. Mathis doubted the Old Gods would look as kindly on Renly; holy forces were a foot. 'Foolish to stand in their way,' he thought.

And how noble of the king, and who ever claimed Stannis Baratheon was anything but honorable, to openly profess his intention before all to keep his pledged word. In defeat, the Reach, like Renly, had not done poorly. At the cost of a few men at arms, the station and honor of Mathis own house had risen inestimably; and not just by the foisting off his unmaidenly daughter Tioni on a stalwart Lannister of the highest blood. Had he not knelt to the king first? Had he not been the trusted lynchpin in the Reach's camp between the hard core Renly loyalists and the wiser Stannis accommodators? Had he not proposed this marvelous feast?

"Surely a seat on the Small Council shall one day be mine," he whispered into his raised silver and amethyst goblet. Westeros future looked bright. And House Rowan's future shone even brighter still. His only worries were if Mace reacted poorly to Stannis' cleverly engineered solution to the brothers' misunderstanding. Or, if any lord or knight, still too foolishly enamored with Lord Renly that they could not see the good sense in front of their face, might try to make Mathis pay in blood for his key role in reuniting House Baratheon. Well let them try, his sword arm was strong and his mind keen. He hadn't felt so young in years.

These musings, as well as other more salacious ones, were interrupted by another one of the new-fangled songs the king's court seemed so besotted with. They had seldom been disturbed by his Lannister table-mates; a noble, but sullen lot before Stannis triumph. From all around the Queen's Ballroom, drunk Northmen suddenly began pounding on the tables and caterwauling away with the evening's frog appearing bard.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah

Ahhhhhhhhhhh, ah

We come from the land of the ice and snow.

From the midnight cold where the hot springs flow."

Court would be a very different place under King Stannis, Mathis decided. Not least of the changes would be the royal choice of entertainment if this Symon "Silver tongue" was any indication of his Grace's new patronage of music. At the high table, Stannis' face might be near as tight and puckered as ever it was when he acted as Robert's Master of Ships, but the man simply couldn't stop his hand from tapping in time to the beat of the song. Extraordinary!

"On we sweep with thrashing blade, our only goal will be the western dead."

So far, Mathis hadn't recognized a single of the songs. Most were faster paced than the norm, while shorter in length, with frequent gaps between verses where the harp, lyre, mandolin, or drum play seemed to add unspoken words and moods to the story. Odd, but fascinating. Yet these frequently haunting melodies were proving amazingly popular with the Crownlanders, Northmen, and Riverlanders.

"On we sweep with thrashing blade, our only goal will be the western dead."

But not popular with everyone, he duly noted. Neither youth sitting on either side of him appeared terribly enamored with this war ditty. Why should they. The Old Lion had lost, hadn't he, and reduced the status of his entire house. To Mathis way of thinking, being forced to listen to a song glorifying one's own defeat was not the worst punishment. Lucky for Lord Lancel and Ser Tyrek that King Stannis had let the cubs of the next generation live; unlike their Uncle Tywin, who hadn't left a single Reyne or Tarbeck alive to ever hear "The Rains of Castamere."

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all you ruined,

For peace and trust can win the day despite of all your treason."

And lucky for the Lord of Goldengrove too. He now had a captive groom of the finest breed for that slut of a daughter of his. 'Yes, peace and trust can win the day,' he agreed amicably. Mathis tipped back the red, letting it slid down smooth and warm into his belly until the cup emptied. Defeat had never tasted so grand. 'Pity poor Loras had to lose half his face for it.'

"Oooooooh, oh

Oooooooh, oh"

Lady Dacey stood up, along with many other Northern lordlings, to add her howls to the song's banshee cries. Lancel sitting below her towering height actively frowned at his betrothed's action, but said nothing. 'Better get used to that, lad,' Mathis thought with sweet condescension.

"Oooooooh, oh

Oooooooh, oh"

Arya

Garth sat between Arya and Father. And Arya sat between Garth and Lady Oakheart, Garth's grandmother. Her almost betrothed had been a bit stiff and dull at first, sitting quiet and proper at the start of the feast. The young pair by unspoken agreement let his grandmother and Father carry the conversation over both their heads while they mostly nibbled at what passed by them on the table: honeyed nuts, little stuffed pasties, skewers of meat drizzled in hot sauces or peppered with savory herbs.

Listening with one ear, she discovered he had acted as Lady Oakheart's page in the rebels', former rebels', army. It sounded to Arya as if the lady had kept him as busy as any scullery maid; though undoubtedly cleaner and better fed. She approved of hard work; Flea Bottom and Yoren had reinforced the childhood lessons of Winterfell, not that she wanted to go back to either stitching or scavenging for food. Though if offered the choice, she would take scavenging over pointless needle work any day; and Needle work over all!

The "boy", as Arya kept thinking of him even though he was twelve name days to her ten, started to relax when stupid Symon began singing. That he seemed to like father's secretly written songs oddly pleased Arya. Soon enough they were talking excitedly of swords and sparring. He had never gone against anyone with water dancer skills, and was eager to try her Needle work in the morning.

That he thought nothing of a girl wielding a blade spoke well of House Oakheart. Arya supposed having his grandmother lead their banners to war might have something to do with that. The only question left to answer was whether she should go easy on him. With Olyvar that had never been a question; of course he was a man with battle experience, not a boy, like Garth. If Hot Pie and Lommy had taught her anything, it was that while boys' might speak tough, many were fragile. She wondered which type Father was sticking her with.

From what she could tell, Arya hoped the "boy" took after his grandmother. Lady Arwyn was a wee thing, but appeared strong as silk and steel. A bit like her mother, a lady whom even the stupidest knight or pig headed lordling found they simply must obey. The soon to be betrothed girl leaned over to peer affectionately down the table to where the pregnant woman sat, belly just big enough now to start showing through whatever dress she wore.

Arya hoped for a baby sister; though knew most everyone else was hoping for another boy. If it was a girl, maybe Sansa wouldn't have to marry a Frey after all. Much as she loved Roslin, the suitors now left from her goodsister's old house were a wretched lot. None could match Olyvar, even if nose-less Walder could fight. And much as Sansa … annoyed her, if even half of Roslin's stories were true, she would never wish Walder on anyone except dead Queen Cersei. Maybe Perwyn and dull Jonelle would have a decent son to …

"So what would you think of that, Garth?" Lady Arwyn asked.

"So … so long as my lord father agrees, it would be an honor to squire for him," the boy, young man?, replied dutifully, clearly a bit uncertain..

'What?' Syrio would have slapped her with his wooden sword for not seeing.

"Won't it be grand to have Garth so close, Arya?" Father prodded her with a knowing look over Garth's head.

"Yes, ever so much," she promptly answered, smiling widely despite not having a clue.

"Don't let his missing foot worry you, Garth. My gooddaughter's brother will be back riding soon enough. He has the makings of a great knight. And Lord Medger has promised to make him his master-at-arms. You will learn much in the North, I promise," Father vowed.

'Perwyn! He'll be squiring at Cerwyn Castle, less than a day's ride.' "And ever so close to Winterfell," she interjected, enthusiastically grabbing the "boy's" arm.

He mustered a hesitant, shy smile for her.

Tada! Tada! TADA! Trumpets blew, ending all conversation.

"The King! The KING! THE KING!" the room roared.

Arya's eyes flew to the high stable where Robb and Roslin sat at the places of honor with Grey Wind, who appeared more jaunty than worse for wear with a half ear, gnawing happily away at their feet on a large cow bone. The not so dour king was standing, a half smile on his normally puckered up face. He raised his hands, gaining a modicum of quiet. "Valor, no matter where it is found, deserves reward," he proclaimed. "And valor performed in service of the throne, deserves the greatest of rewards. Lord Robb, your wolf," the royal command spoke unequivocally.

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOO! Howls roiled through the Queen's Ballroom.

She watched her brother's lips move, but could hear no sound of it over the raucous wolf calls. Nevertheless, she read what they said. "Grey Wolf, come." The direwolf rose somewhat stiffly, his ear not his only wound taken this day. "Heel." Back on his haunches, his head still rose significantly above the height of the high table.

Devan stepped out of the shadows carrying a sword which the king picked up. The blade came gently down on Grey Wind's front right shoulder. "In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave."

Arya's skin broke out in goose bumps at what she was witnessing.

The sword moved from the right to the left front shoulder. "In the name of the Father I charge you to be just."

Back over to the right. "In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent."

And lastly back to the left again. "In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women. Arise, Ser Greywind of House Direstark, and serve the realm with honor," the king whom Father had put upon the Iron Throne declared.

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOO!

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOO!

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOO!

The howls of joy at the king's favor echoed off the walls.

Grey Wind tilted his head back and drowned them all out. AAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

"Aaoooooo! The song! Aaoooooo! The song!"

Arya found herself chanting along for the song too. "Aooooo! The song!" Her face a merry grin. "Come on, Garth; yell it!" she encouraged the "boy". "Aooooo! The song!"

He looked at his grandmother who nodded firmly with the slightest of smiles at him.

"Aoooooo! The song!" her almost betrothed yelled fervently, exultant to scream with boyish gusto alongside Arya.

The king stood again and raised his hands. The shouts died down, if only just barely. "Singer. I and my banners would hear Ser Greywind's song," he commanded.

The toad bowed low, revealing the bald spot on top which he desperately tried to comb over. "My pleasure, your Grace."

A lively introduction of chords and beating of drums announced the ode to House Stark's sigil.

"I saw a direwolf with a Red Cloak torso in his maw

Walking through the streets of Flea Bottom in the rain.

He was looking for a shop called Halfpenny Eats.

Gonna get a big dish of lion brown stew"

"Aaoooooo!

Grey Wind of Winterfell!

Aaoooooo! Aaoooooo!

Grey Wind of Winterfell!

Aaoooooo!"

"If you hear him howling around your holdfast door

Better not let him in.

Big bad Kingslayer got decapitated late last night

Grey Wind of Winterfell again."

"Aaoooooo!

Grey Wind of Winterfell!

Aaoooooo! Aaoooooo!

Grey Wind of Winterfell!

Aaoooooo!"

"He's the hairy-back Stark who killed'em by the Fork.

Lately he's been overheard by the Rush

Better stay away from him

He'll tear your throat out, ser

I'd hate to meet his master."

"Aaoooooo!

Grey Wind of Winterfell!

Aaoooooo! Aaoooooo!

Grey Wind of Winterfell!

Aaoooooo!"

"Well I saw Robb Stark walking with the King

Leading the direwolf of Winterfell

Well I saw Robb Stark walking with the King

Leading the direwolf of Winterfell

I saw a direwolf lapping lion's blood at midnight.

And his fur was perfect."

"Aaoooooo! Grey Wind of Winterfell!

Draw blood

Aaoooooo! Grey Wind of Winterfell!"

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Arya stood, cupping both hands to the side of her mouth, unleashing the wolf within. Approvingly, she watched Garth hop up to join her. He had a nice smile before it was hidden behind his hands.

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The delirious celebration began to taper off and her fellow Northmen started sitting back down; usually not until after taking another large drink from overflowing mugs, sometimes one in each hand. She spied her father, who had not risen with his banners, smiling broadly. His green-grey eyes spoke the hidden truth that Syrio had told her to find. There was joy there, but also that look she had come to recognize: a certain self-assured, secret amusement at ... well, that she wasn't sure at what … not exactly.

They had twinkled similarly back at the Maidenvault, as the pair of them had waited for Mother and Sansa to finish dressing for tonight's feast. Arya had asked him what was to become of Lord Renly's Rainbow Guard and when he got to the last name of the seven, Brienne of Tarth, there it flashed. "I was thinking of inviting her to Winterfell. She's no Water Dancer, but she is a great warrior. Perhaps you could learn a thing or two from her, Arya. What do you think?"

The idea of women warriors pleased her. And everything about returning to Winterfell vastly pleased her. She missed Bran and Rickon, of course. And she missed all the friends she had left behind. She missed Farlen the kennelmaster training the dogs and Mikken hammering at his warm forge. She missed sneaking food out of the kitchen underneath the nose of Gage and playing with his daughter, Turnip. She missed old Nan's tales and tall Hodor walking about always saying "Hodor. Hodor. Hodor."

She missed Jon Snow terribly. Arya understood that trouble was brewing beyond the Wall. Uncle Benjen was still missing and her brother was out on a Great Ranging searching for him. She had also overheard that Father intended to visit the Wall. She hoped to go too, hidden if she had to, so that she might see Jon again.

And she missed Nymeria, a true warrior, most of all. Father had promised that all the banners would hunt for signs of her when they came to the Trident. Though, when he spoke of it, his eyes never quite twinkled with any hint of the Old Gods. She didn't care. Well, not much. Grey Wind, Arya just knew, would be a great help in finding his litter mate. And when they did, she prayed Nymeria would forgive her. Her wolf's name was now the only one she whispered to herself in the silence of long, dark nights.

"What are you humming?" Garth asked.

"Hhhhmm?" she asked back, the "boy" startling her out of her reveries.

"You're singing something. Another of these Northerner songs? Sing it for me. Please?" he begged.

Arya blushed and smiled at the same time. She frequently found herself humming it at the oddest times. She gathered her courage, trusting he would not mock her for it:

"Staring at the blank scroll before you
Open up the dirty shutter
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
Feel the snow on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Today is where your book begins"

Roose

The seating in the Queen's Ballroom was not the normal high table to the south, western table for the Westerlands, eastern table for the Vale, and northern table for the North. No, that would not do after today's victory. The Realm was one again, thanks to Blessed Ned, so there was to be no division by kingdoms in the large room this night. In the over packed, chaotic, loud chamber Ambrose sat beside Bracken, Royce together with Hightower, Brax by Redfort, Peasebody alongside Karstark, Glover near Lydden, and Celtigar next to Estermont.

"Hey lady-you got the love I need
Maybe more than enough.
Oh Sweetling sweetling sweetling... walk a while with me
Ohhhh, You've got so much, so much, so much ... "

Perhaps not in all instances, the Lord of the Dreadfort noted. Edmure Tully drank deeply with his goodfather to be, Lord Gawen Westerling, and two of his newly released cronies, the equally vacuous Ronald Vance and Lymond Goodbrook; ransoms nevertheless still honorably promised their Reach captors despite the just concluded civil war. Lord Jason Mallister shared berths at a table with his young, but promising son, Patrek. Quiet Lord Karyl Vance interestingly dined with Ser Robar Royce, whom he had yielded his sword to, and Robar's father, the impressive Lord Yohn. Most at the feast were content, and those few who were not hid it acceptably well when Roose's discerning gaze passed over them.

"Many have I loved - Many times been bitten
Many times I've gazed along the open road."

Only Dorne remained absent. But not for long, he suspected. The King's indisputable triumph over his brother, as well as the three cranial gifts already delivered to Sunspear, would undoubtedly bring an official emissary from House Martell soon enough. None of Prince Doran's children were married as far as he had heard. What snares would be laid to entrap at least one of them, he wondered. Or was the memory of Elia still too bitter for them to fall into Blessed Ned's bed of alliances?

"Many times I've lied - Many times I've listened
Many times I've wondered how much there is to know. "

The Lord of the Dreadfort sat beside his betrothed. Who in turn sat next to her "uncle," the Stark favored Perwyn; given the spot at the very end of the table to make it easier for the one and a half legged man to rise up or down, as needs be. Nearest on Roose's other side was the far too handsome and charming Ser Addam Marbrand; and just beyond Lord Monford Velaryon, who mistakenly believed himself to be Marbrand's equal in those areas. Transitory talents that had none the less gained them the privilege of attending the king's parley with Lord Renly.

"Many dreams come true and some have silver linings
I live for my dream and a pocketful of gold. "

Walda Frey shrieked gleefully at the song and leaned in close to Roose, purposefully brushing her substantial teats against his arm. "Grandfather paid my dowry in silver, my sweet lord. Does that make me your dream?"

He peered down at her; plump lips glistening with wine and fleshy breasts showing an arousing shade of rose pushed enticingly high above the low cut black bodice. His previous wives had simply lain unmoving, duty bound, nothing more, to receive him in bed. From the few quick glimpses Walda Frey had shown him on the sly of her character, she seemed to promise something far earthier, lustier, than either barren Zara or dead Bethany. "I am a lord. I take what I desire. I seldom have cause to dream. "

She licked her lips, as if testing the taste of his words. "I've a pocket for you," she whispered up at him huskily, her pale blue eyes staring meaningfully into his moon white ones . Beneath the table, Roose felt her hand move languidly across his leg and begin caressing his crotch. "Is this the gold to fill my pocket."

He breathed deep to concede the sudden presence of the humors coming upon him. Her touch was not hesitant, suggesting she had done the like of this before. But neither was it a whore's deft skill. No, not like Shae's; though he found it both appealing and promising. His cock began to stand.

Walda giggled mischievously. "My, what a lot of gold, my lord," she practically purred.

He would not allow his humors to rule him. The short, strong fingers of his right hand stabbed her hidden wrist, pressing cruelly. She gasped in pain, instantly releasing him; which only served to harden him further. "I am a lord. I take what I desire. And I will take you."

"You desire me then, my lord?" she asked both warily and hopefully.

The Freys were a deceitful, lecherous, bullying lot; how could they not be considering their lord. Roose could well imagine the games of dominance played out amongst the sprawling clan of them confined together for years at a time in the Twins. He enjoyed amusements too, so he permitted himself a small, encouraging smile. "Often," he answered softly.

"I will work ever so hard to please you, my sweet lord," she beamed up at him, nothing demure about her proposition. Boldly, her hand started to slowly creep again until he gave her a single cold shake of the head. Finally, she leaned away from him and reached for her goblet again. Only partially deterred by his dominance, her smile was now more saucy than diffident.

Promising indeed. Shae would be lucky later to escape the night with only a horse cropping across her almost boyish arse and a cunt full of Roose's seed.

"Mellow is the man who knows what he's been missing
Many many men can't see the open road. "

"Many is a word that only leaves you guessing
Guessing 'bout a thing you really ought to know, ooh!
You really ought to know..."

As the song ended and his blood slowly returned to its normal, placid pathways, Roose realized the true question of import was how fertile Walda's cunt and womb would prove to be. That too seemed promising, he decided. But would that result in a satisfying dream or a stark nightmare?

"Winter is coming. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. You are part of my pack now Roslin. House Stark will look after you and your kin. You have my word on that."

Walda.

Blessed Ned had been speaking to neither his gooddaughter nor 'fair' Walda. Those words had been for the Lord of the Dreadfort and the Lord of the Dreadfort alone. No matter how fertile she did prove, even squeezing out sons the way she squeezed capons in her greedy mouth, Ramsay would kill them.

"And who will be leading your bannermen to Winterfell?"

Walda. Ramsay.

Ramsay, so full of bad blood, who desperately needed the succor of regular leechings to remove the poisonous anger boiling within him. Ramsay lead the Dreadfort's contingent against the Ironborn to Winterfell, as Blessed Ned must have known all along would happen.

"Good. Very good. I hope he shows well, so I might reward him … personally … with lands. On the Stony Shore perhaps?"

Walda. Ramsay. The Dreadfort. Idiosyncrasy

Land to bury him under? Blessed Ned must know of Domeric. Must know of Reek. Must know of Ramsay's peculiarity with dogs and the women. He sighed softly. There would be no peaceful land, no quiet people, for Roose when he returned to the Dreadfort. Would Ramsay's death be such a horrible blow?

He was near fifty, though he looked younger. 'I will not live to see any new sons to manhood.' "The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. You are part of my pack. House Stark will look after you and your kin." 'Boy lords are the bane of any house,' he countered that promise with hard fact.

Walda. Ramsay. The Dreadfort. Blessed Ned.

Blessed Ned did not like him. Despised him. Knew of his almost treason. Yet tolerated his continued living, if barely. The Lord of Winterfell knew of Shae. Knew of Bronn. Knew of Qyburn. But did not recognize them with his own eyes. What to trust, he could not calculate, only guess. Roose despised guessing.

Ramsay. The Dreadfort. Blessed Ned.

Lords and underlings were predictable pieces to be manipulated for his amusement. Even the fickle and impulsive were constant to their own impetuous needs. Roose had proven able to manipulate Blessed Ned, if only a little, and then mostly just through the irksome nature his very presence invoked in the Old Gods' miracle. And for all that, the issue of the Ironborn visions had been the sole example to strike solidly. He lacked sufficient understanding to control what drew his curiosity, like a moth to the flame.

The Dreadfort. Blessed Ned.

Perhaps he should simply leave well enough alone. Walda would breed or she would not. Ramsay would live or Ramsay would die. House Bolton would survive or end, lone wolf or pack. Blessed Ned would continue to envision or be blind to events. The stones of the Dreadfort would remain or fall into ruin. And Roose would watch and accept whatever would now be wrought in the North.

Blessed Ned.

'No. I … cannot,' he admitted to himself. He could not give up control. He. Could. Not. He would not be beaten at The Game.

The braying roused him from the unusual depths he had silently sunk to within himself.

"A peach, Lord Monford?"

"Peaches bruise, Ser Addam."

"And spoil quickly as well, my lord."

The pair shared another raucous laugh, enthusiastically thumping the table with arm sword strength. Roose's goblet tipped over from the shaking and rocking, spilling hippocras which drained off the table between him and Ser Adamm.

"My pardon, Lord Roose," the handsome, sociable Westerlander quickly declared.

He smiled faintly to indicate it was of no matter to him.

"I wish Lord Renly had accepted his Grace's offer of twenty lords for the parley, instead of twice the Holy Seven, for you are high in his esteem," the knight proclaimed with an appearance of actual sincerity.

Being excluded had hardly bothered Roose, he knew how high he stood. The distribution of lords and knights attending by kingdom had had an inarguable logic to it. The direwolf's inclusion in their number had only confirmed his suspicion of Blessed Ned's plan, as well as his opponent's utter mastery of The Game board. "Lord Stark made a fool out of Lord Renly," he ventured with conciliatory companionability.

"Moon Boy couldn't have played the part better if Lord Eddard was whispering the lines to him," Lord Monford agreed, thrusting himself into the conversation.

"Renly was a mummer's puppet in Lord Stark's hands," Addam Marbrand cheerily concurred, bobbing his hands as if the humiliated lord dangled from them.

"How he knew Lord Renly would pull that peach?" the Velaryon hooted rhetorically. Then both men pretended to dig into their clothing and bring forth fruit of their own out to bite down on, before gleefully throwing the imaginary cores or pits to the floor.

"T'was as if Lord Stark wrote the play and we were all mummers reading his script," Ser Addam proclaimed through more laughter.

The blood and humors in Roose Bolton's pale, hairless body instantly turned to ice.

Catelyn

In less than a week she would reach five months. Those first few nights beside the Ruby Ford, making feverish love inside the tent as the Red Messenger blazed across the dark sky; that was when her child was conceived. That was when hope had returned to her, blinding her more fiercely than the comet ever could.

She looked over at the wise, handsome, strong face; remembering the girlish infatuation with which she'd swooned over it on the banks of the Trident. That week before Robb arrived at Darry had been a dream. She was seventeen again and giddy at marrying Brandon; not the quiet younger brother she had only met the once.

Ned Stark had been a stranger when he took her maidenhead and left a babe to grow in her belly. And then he had gone, only to return a long year later with a bastard in tow. Living alone, except for Robb, at Winterfell had been hard, so very hard, at first. Love had come, but it had come slowly. By Sansa's birth it had begun to temper into something stronger than steel, but by then she was no longer a doe eyed lass; she was Catelyn Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.

His gaze grabbed her and he grinned, just for her; an act that shot unbridled joy into her soul in a way that Ned never had. The hair was now mostly Stark grey and white, but his grey eyes, sprinkled with green – the only not Ned feature about him, twinkled with life again. The crow's feet and worry lines were already receding. He had won. The family had won. The North and all of Westeros had won.

Catelyn Stark reached over for his stump and placed it on her belly. His grin grew even wider at the movement beneath. "He kicked!" the man whose bed she shared exclaimed happily.

She smiled back at him, enjoying his touch; even in the loud, crowded hall. 'Oh, Mother, let my child be a boy,' she prayed. He had promised to find Arya. He had promised to save Sansa. He had promised to keep Robb save. He had promised to make Stannis king and save Westeros. The price had been high; twice she had almost lost him. Tonight he would keep his last promise.

"Are you ready?" he whispered into her ear.

"Yes."

"Where's Davos?"

They both looked about the Queen's Ballroom for the simple, trustworthy knight.

"Over in the corner," Catelyn said, spying the Master of Whisperers. The low born lord was staying out of the way of his "betters," lest it reflect poorly on his master. He held King Stanns' utmost trust, but at best he would only ever be tolerated by the Southron Lords for whom blood meant more than duty or honor.

It took several minutes until he noticed them and tilted his head in understanding. Catelyn nodded back and turned towards her other seatmate. "Lord Titus, I fear you must forgive me."

"What? Lady Catelyn, leaving so soon?" the Reach lord protested good naturedly.

She blatantly placed a hand over her belly. "I fear I must, my lord."

"Well, if you … Nooooo. Lord Eddard, as well?" the Lord of Starpike complained.

"My lord husband is dutifully attentive to my needs," she answered, before leaning forward to more conspiratorially whisper, "and I fear he is not in the strongest of health himself." A little honey of intimacy to appease the rebel lord for coming to heel.

"Strong enough for Lord Renly today and healthier than Ser Loras," Titus Peake snorted with grim amusement. "To your child," he toasted, lofting his cup. "Beautiful as the Maiden and courageous as the Warrior, my lady."

She stood. "I will settle for healthy, Lord Titus." 'And true born.'

"Motheeerrrr," Arya complained under her breath.

Ned would not have let her get away with that behavior. "Behave yourself or you won't be allowed to use Needle for a week," she scolded under her breath, taking her daughter be the elbow.

"Erp!"

Lords and knights made way for the Lord and Lady of Winterfell; and in doing so, also drew unwanted attention to them, for each wished to salute them and more importantly be seen gaining their attention. The music died out as appreciative, fawning shouts of "Winterfell," "Lord Stark," "Wolf," and "Winter is Coming" filled the ballroom.

Catelyn noted the king's heavy brow furrowing unhappily up at the high table. She paused passing between tables and decided to take the Crowned Stag by the antlers. She stepped through the narrow gap and out into the central square filled by Symon Silvertongue, his band, Moon Boy, and other jugglers, mummers, and fools. Again she deliberately held her belly with exaggerated care and curtseyed. "By your leave?"

The tight face loosened. "Lady Catelyn," he acknowledged, then began talking with Robb.

She pivoted faintly and curtseyed once more. "Your Grace."

Queen Selyse smiled enigmatically and nodded slightly. Behind her grace's chair, Sansa smiled broadly at her.

Not Ned, Arya, Lord Davos, and his son Devan waited for her in the corridor, servants hustling back and forth with empty and full plates, flagons, and goblets. A quartet of Winterfell guardsmen met them at one of the alcoves by Maegor's gate. She and her family put on their long Winterfell cloaks to ward against the chill and the night's darkness.

As they passed on to the drawbridge over the iron spiked moat, the Master of Whisperers opened his mouth. "If my lord had a moment, a message came for him to the Rookery. I might retrieve it for you."

"Oh, aye, very well, Lord Davos," the Old Gods' chosen one answered off-handedly.

Arya sighed as a tired misbehaving child would.

Lord Davos' abode in the Red Keep was not far away. A pair of guards stood outside the front door. And inside revealed another pair.

"Arya, your cloak. Pass it to Devan," the father of her daughter's heart commanded, as he pulled his own grey one off. Catelyn emulated him, her heart starting to quicken its beat.

"My cloak?"

"We are not returning to the Maidenvault. Not directly, that is," Catelyn enlightened briefly, handing her cloak over to the shorter of the two men awaiting them. He in turn exchanged one back.

"We're not?" Arya echoed in confusion.

"No," not Ned answered, passing over his cloak. "Remember to keep your left hand hidden," he cautioned.

"Here," Devan prompted.

"Is all in readiness?" she asked, trying to keep her nervousness showing,

"Septon Dickon shall be there," Davos Seaworth confirmed calmly.

"How will we know him?" she asked.

"He always said the Smith spoke best to him, though he never officially swore to him. I would look for the Septon near his altar. Look for a hammer on his sash and a streak of red on each sleeve. Ah, almost forgot, you will need this too," their conspirator said, holding up yet one more indistinct colored cloak.

"We are going for the tunnels, Arya," not Ned added, taking it from Davos and tucking it in the crook of an elbow.

"OH!" her daughter exclaimed, understanding at last the reason for the subterfuge. She hurried to swap her cloak over to young Devan. Catelyn hoped he would not be disciplined for abrogating any duties as the king's page for the rest of the night. "Won't they know it's not us?" she asked.

"Osric's helped me slip out of the Maidenvault and the Red Keep unseen before. They've been told something is a foot, but they know to keep their mouths shut," the Lord of Winterfell explained.

Down into the cellars of the Rookery they descended, then along winding dank tunnels made of damp stone and beaten earth far beneath the Red Keep. The Onion Knight, torch in hand, led them unerringly. They came at last to a door and stopped. "The Royal Library is beyond there." The Royal Sept lay next to it. A small smile split Davos' sturdy, plain, sea stained face. "Joy be with you."

He pressed on something Catelyn could not see and the door soundlessly opened. Somewhere ahead a torch or candle threw dim light. She stepped through first, eager to be on with it. Her betrothed and Arya followed. The door closed behind them, revealing only a book case full of scrolls and other bins of parchment scraps in the gloom.

It took a few minutes for the three of them, but they found their way outside. The Middle Bailey was full of drunken revelers dancing about bonfires, celebrating the civil war's end and their escape from it with their lives and bodies intact.

A steady stream of worshippers flowed in and out of the Royal Sept. Staying tight together they passed within. The light from the bonfires and the Red Comet cast interesting hues and shadows through the stained glass windows of the seven sided building. Several quiet services were under way, but luckily none before the Smith.

Catelyn spied a kneeling man in the traditional brown. She placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Holy Septon, forgive me. Lord Davos sent us to you," she said quietly.

"A sinner, but a good man," a deep, melodious voice answered. The Septon rose slowly and carefully, hinting greatly at an advanced age. He shuffled about. His eyes were whiter than his hair and beard, blind; very old indeed.

"By your speech, you are high born and not young, my daughter. Have you both been married before?"

"Yes," Catelyn whispered. 'Forgive me, Ned.'

"Yes," her love replied softly. His confirmation of it pained her even if it did not surprise her. She remembered the names whispered from dreams in the deep of the night: Debra, Molly, Melanie, Lorna, Abigail, Evie, and Georgina. They could not all be the secret names of unspeakable Old Gods. It did not matter.

"Then I think we shall ask for the blessings of the Mother instead of the Maiden," the Septon stated kindly.

"I am already pregnant," she admitted ashamedly.

While the eyes were cold and blind, the warmth of the answering smile more than made up for it. "All the more reason to wed before her then. If you would help guide me, I shall help guide you, my children."

The ceremony passed as in a dream. The Sept was loud. There was no singing. There were no grand knights in shiny armor or beautiful ladies dressed in satin and silk, only a teary eyed Arya and simple prayers spoken by a blind man.

At the Septon's gesture, she slipped off her own plain beige cloak and not Ned struggled with his one hand to place the dull green sailor's one Lord Davos had given him about her shoulders. Catelyn helped him clasp it with a simple bronze lock.

With the slight click, the Septon said, "Pledge your oath before the Mother, my children."

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband," she said hoarsely, heart pounding with joy.

He smiled back at her, eyes revealing everything beautiful in his soul. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife." He leaned in, arm wrapping around her back. Their lips touched and melted together. After an eternity they slipped apart.

"Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim you to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

The ceremony was perfection. And when they returned to Winterfell, when they returned to Bran and Rickon, their baby would be true born. She loved her new husband with all her heart. And in wonder she knew she still loved, and would always love, her Ned with all her heart too. She discovered the surprising duality of her emotions a wonder. Sniffling back tears of joy, Catelyn Stark pressed her lips hard against the Lord of Winterfell's again and again and again.

Sansa

The evening dragged on and on, lords and knights making of themselves greater fools than Moon Boy or Patchface as they demonstrated their enthusiasm for the king and queen. They were not deceived. She knew them both well enough to glimpse beneath the various masks they presented to others, and, regrettably, to each other.

Sansa hoped as she went about her lady-in-waiting duties at the high table that she did not reveal her contempt either through the armor of her courtesy. She found the impolite stares of the rebels disconcerting. The loyal banners over the last months had become accustomed to the face Joffrey had gifted her with. And she in turn had grown more accustomed than she realized to unconsciously walking about the Red Keep without scarf or shawl to hide behind.

"All your tormentors are dead and the she-wolf remains. Pray to R'hllor, child. His light will guide your path," Queen Selyse's words came unbidden to her again, echoing hollow. Sansa had truly thought she'd become the she-wolf. However the Queen's encouragement, the Queen's kindness, had not accounted for Olyvar. The Red God never revealing the danger of that street, of the ultimate sacrifice her brave knight would make. 'Oh, Olyvar,' she moaned painfully deep within the silence of her soul.

What was a she-wolf without her mate? Nothing but a lone, maimed wolf; without a pack. The queen tried to comfort her. Encourage her. Her family too; even Arya becoming less the beast of late. Still, all Sansa had to hold tight to were her songs and the needs of duty that see her through another day and another and another and another.

"Lady Baela," Selyse Baratheon called sternly. The boldest and most brazen of the queen's four ladies-in-waiting slipped away from the back wall where the quartet waited along with their personally assigned Queen's Men.

"Take my cup to my lord uncle Alester," she commanded.

"Oh this'll be good," Ser Narbert murmured humorously.

It was well known that King Stannis had been purposefully shunning his royal wife's family; extending not even a soupcon of favor to the Florents while all the while the rest of the Houses of the Reach were showered with offers of marriage, titles, and gold.

His Grace turned to look at her Grace. Behind them, Sansa braced for the exchange of biting comments through the veneer they had so long ago mistakenly painted over their marriage. He only nodded and returned to speaking with Robb.

"What you know," Justin Massey mocked with evident amusement, his face split open with a smile as usual. Before the knight had replaced Ser Richard Horpe, thanks to the disgrace of his beating by the weaponless Hound, as her regular escort in the Red Keep, she had typically found his smiles warm and charming. He had even been pleasant to stupid Lollys. Now they were almost always dark, if not quite malicious. She shivered. Without looking, Sansa knew his eyes were upon her.

"You all right … my lady?" Ser Justin asked.

"Merely a chill, Ser."

"Winter is coming," he jested bitterly.

"And I shall soon return to Winterfell," she replied firmly to show she cared not what he said.

"Soon enough, I suppose, that is if fat Mace doesn't bu… lets his pup become Stannis' Hand."

"Lord Tyrell will see the wisdom of allowing Ser Garlan to become his Grace's Hand," she automatically corrected Ser Justin. The only one he showed true chivalrous respect for was the Queen; acting as docile as a lapdog to her.

Justin Massey shrugged as if it was no care of his. "Wasn't my son who got his face half chewed off," he snickered.

Mention of poor Ser Loras saddened Sansa. A lifetime of pain and shame ago, she once fancied she loved the beautiful, gallant Knight of Flowers. Many a night locked in her bedroom, delirious from the day's beating by Ser Boros or Ser Mandon or Ser Meryn, but never the Hound – no never him, she dreamed he was her Florian sneaking into the Red Keep to rescue his imprisoned Jonquil.

Dreams were for children. Dreams were for … Olyvar.

"The Queen! Good Queen Selyse!" a voice cried loudly, just breaking over the din of the ballroom.

A ragged shout of "The Queen" followed. Instantly the ladies-in-waiting and Queen's Men stepped forward. "The Queen! The Queen! The Queen!"

His Grace stood, prompting all in the hall to stand as well. "The Queen!" he bellowed.

"THE QUEEEENNNNNN!" The rafters shook with the roar.

Sansa smiled, a truthful smile, a smile of delight. The Queen deserved to be recognized. That the king rose for his bride tugged at her heart. Then he surprised her further.

"Ask of me, my queen, and I shall grant it," he nobly proclaimed for all ears to hear.

"A song, your Grace. Only a song."

Sansa's pulse fluttered. 'How utterly romantic,' she thought.

"Name it."

"My Fire in the Light."

A background of muttering reared around the ballroom. Everyone knew what god Selyse Baratheon worshipped. They prepared for the worst. Sansa simply blushed, remembering that night when she sang the song for the king and queen.

"Singer!" Stannis Baratheon commanded.

"As her Grace desires, your Grace," Symon replied and immediately began plucking the strings of his lyre. Soon the rat-a-tat-tat of the drum joined in as well.

"Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light
To chase a feather in the wind
Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight
There moves a thread that has no end."

"For many hours and days that pass ever soon
the tides have caused the flame to dim
At last the arm is straight, the hand to the loom
Is this to end or just begin?"

As the chorus started, Sansa watched the tension seep out of the room as the followers of the Seven realized it was just another one of these new 'Northern songs'. If Father had still been in the room, he would have been laughing under his breath at the lot of them. Sansa began quietly singing the next stanza along with Symon. When the lyrics got to 'Arianne', she used a different name.

"The cup is raised, the toast is made yet again
One voice is clear above the din
Proud Selyse one word, my will to sustain
For me, the cloth once more to spin"

"All of my love, all of my love,
All of my love to you.
All of my love, all of my love,
All of my love to you."

"Are you still a love struck, foolish girl?" Ser Justin asked as the strings provided the long bridge between the sweet story.

She blushed again, armor unprepared for the unexpected thrust of rudeness. "Her Grace deserves … " Well that she could not say, her cheeks now positively blazed. "I am pleased for her Grace's sake. Her joy … moves me. That is all, Ser."

"Ha," he barked.

When Symon's voice resumed, Sansa chose not to sing with him. The song ended and a rowdy cheer of approval at the love song went around the ballroom.

Now Queen Selyse stood and extended her hand towards King Stannis. "I fear I lied," she announced.

The noise in the chamber lowered dramatically.

"There is another gift I desire, your Grace."

Stannis Baratheon stood up and peered down at the queen, a suspicious, uncomfortable looking upon his strong face. "What would that be?" he asked with a hint of frost.

"My husband."

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Grey Wind howled.

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO! AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO! AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO! The North joined in.

The hands of all the rest started to thump and pummel the tables in time to a chant. "STANNIS!" "STANNIS!" "STANNIS!"

The king's tight, hollow cheeks above his close cropped beard burned crimson. He bowed and took her hand. Pages ran up and pulled back their chairs.

"STANNIS!" "STANNIS!" "STANNIS!"

Ladies-in-waiting, pages, squires, King's Men, and Queen's Men quickly formed up to lead and follow the royal procession out. The Queen stopped beside Sansa. "I shall not need you tonight, my she-wolf. Stay a while with your brother and goodsister. Old Estermont will be leaving soon, then you may sit beside sweet Roslin."

She curtseyed. "Yes, your Grace."

The Queen smiled kindly at her.

'May your prayers be answered tonight, your Grace,' she begged of whatever gods might be listening and actually cared.

"Ser Justin, remain here with Lady Sansa. That is until your duties tonight call."

"Yes, your Grace," he answered promptly.

And as Selyse Baratheon predicted, the aged Lord Gunther Estermont soon departed, but Sansa had little interest in joining her family. Instead, she stayed back by the edge of the ballroom, silently watching the lords and knights buzz about like happy bees; as if all the death and suffering of the last nine months had never happened or was just some distant memory.

Ser Justin at least said nothing, only occasionally handing her a new goblet to replace the previous one. Nine months was a long time, enough to have a babe. Despite her black mood, she hoped nine months would give the queen a new child. In nine months she herself might be married, but not to Olyvar; just some nameless Frey. And then she too might find herself pregnant. It was her duty.

She drank again. Duty. Duty was all that was left to her now. A life of duty. Daughter. Wife. Mother. Lady. Grandmother. Dust. Or a moldy, cobweb strewn statue deep in the crypts beneath Winterfell. What did it matter. The red tasted very sour on her pallet. She didn't care. She had always desired marriage and children. Not now. Did she care about anything?

Symon finished the last notes of one of father's songs with a flourish. The crowd gave him plaudits, pelting his frog belly with silver. Joffrey had ordered things thrown at her. She found herself moving. Her shadow following.

"Lady Sansa, did you come to sing with me?" Symon asked with a jolly cockiness.

"She came to sing by herself," came the sharp reply from Ser Justin, her shadow knowing what she wanted. What she needed.

The bard looked confused. "I am his grace's chosen …"

Ser Justin stepped in close, grabbing hold of Symon's strumming hand. The knight snarled something in the singer's ear.

Symon blanched. Ser Justin released his hold. The lyre was rapidly proffered to Sansa. "You've a lovely voice, my lady," he warbled shakily.

She accepted the instrument.

"I shall return when you grow weary." And Symon Silvertongue bowed and walked off backward, still bent over, keeping a wary watch on Ser Justin.

"Sing," the knight commanded, as if she owed him a song.

Sansa didn't know what to sing. She looked up at Ser Justin and saw a bleakness in his eyes reflected back at her that matched her own. Despair enveloped her soul. Maybe the Great Other was cold and death and …

"Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again.

Because a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping.

And the vision that was planted in my brain, still remains.

Within the sound of silence."

"In restless dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobblestone

Neath the halo of the red comet, I turned my collar to the cold and damp

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a crimson light, split the night

And touched the sound of silence"

"And in the naked light I saw, ten thousand smallfolks, maybe more

Lordlings talking without speaking, knights hearing without listening

Septons writing hymns that voices never shared, and no one dared

To stir the sound of silence"

"Fool, said I, you do not know, silence, like a weirwood, grows

Hear my words and I might teach you, take my arms then I might reach you

But my words, like silent raindrops fell, and echoed in the wells of silence"

"And the smallfolk bowed and prayed to the foreign god they'd made

And the fire flashed its warning in the flame that it was forming

And the sign said the words of the prophets are written on the temple walls

And tenement halls, and whispered in the sounds of silence."

Sansa found a hush had filled the ballroom, so quiet her ears picked up the scuff of a page's slippered feet moving across the rushes of the flagstone floor. She spun about. Through hazy, teary eyes, she spied that even the most foolish of lords and knight was silent, mouths gaped wide in wonder at her. Only Ser Justin refused to look at her.

At the high table, Robb began to rise; face full of compassion and love. The chamber reared and Sansa stumbled. And then it was Joffrey hatefully glaring down at her. "Strike her again!" The ballroom suddenly loud, unbearably so. 'Stupid chit.' 'Silly, useless girl.' 'Liar.' 'Worthless cunt. 'Traitor.' They roared. She spun again, watching all their ugly noble mouths and disgusting knightly tongues; now no longer wagging. It didn't matter. The ballroom tipped and tilted. Sansa felt herself falling. They were the same, all these lords and knights, Joffrey's, King Stannis', all the same.

Horror coursed through her blood. She wasn't free. She was still trapped, the gilding on the cage only prettier. "Sing little bird." Sandor had seen it. Only Sandor, hard, brutal Sandor ever shown her the truth. Duty wasn't succor, only a cell of her own making. Marriage, children, a mummer's trick to disguise the shackles of unhappiness.

And Sandor was dead, despite her efforts. Who could show her the truth now? Sansa dropped the lyre and began a lurching, staggering run before the world could shift again.

Robb

"Hellsfires," Robb snapped angrily, watching Sansa flee. One second she stuns the ballroom, skewering hardened hearts with such beauty; the next she's … she's … well he couldn't guess. But by the look on her face his sister was petrified, like a man in his first shield wall. He did know he couldn't chase after her on crutches.

As the ballroom woke up from the spell her voice had placed them under, an uneven chant of "Sansa!" "Sansa!" "Sansa!" broke out among the remaining Northmen and Riverlanders; clueless that anything untoward had just happened.

He looked down into keen yellow eyes. He knew who could chase after her. Grey Wind's good ear perked up. Then Roslin grasped his hand. "Let Sansa go. It's been a long day, Robb. For those of us who weren't at the parley too."

His sweetling talked good sense. He had seen Sansa downing more than one cup of wine passed to her by that insufferable Ser Justin. He looked back up and caught no sight of the cocky Queen's Man. "She can't get far. What can happen now?" he supposed.

"And she'll feel better in the morning, no doubt," Roslin soothed.

"Except for the headache," he japed. His wife smiled at him, revealing the adorable little gap between her two front teeth. Happiness surged through him. He and Grey Wolf had triumphed. The North had won and Father proven right yet again. And King Stannis respected him at last; the King in the North now in the past.

A month to sort out Mace Tyrell and make sure the peace between the King and the Reach held steady; then back to Winterfell for the birth of his first child. At that moment Robb's broken leg chose to throb, setting him to wobble until he hastily fell back into his chair. The wound reminded him of Ironborn, Wildlings, Others, dragons, and Theon. The future still held challenges.

"My lord husband, I fear I and the babe grow tired," Roslin apologized delicately.

He grinned at his clever wife, recognizing who truly needed rest. Clever and beautiful. When the time came, many years away, she would be a great Lady of Winterfell, just like mother. "How thoughtless of me, my lady. Of course, let us depart this wondrous feast."

To howls and cries of "The Young Wolf!" as well as "Ser Greywind!" the trio made a slow exit from the ballroom as Symon Silvertongue retook the center square to sing.

"Leaves are falling all around
It's time I was on my way.
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged you're such a gracious host.
But now it's time for me to go.
The autumn moon lights my way.
For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way.
Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I've got one thing I got to do..."

A litter awaited Robb the other side of the holdfast's moat. Strong as his arms were from a life time of sword and shield work, the distance up and down the serpentine steps was long; as well as treacherous at night. The Lord of Wintertown helped his lady inside and clambered awkwardly after her thanks to the crutches he toted up with him. Grey Wind refused to join them, preferring to limp lightly along with the eight brawny guardsman toting their own awkward burden.

As they descended from the very tip of Aegon's hill, the whole of the Red Keep below them appeared a panoply of flames and shadows. Every outdoor path and building exterior seemed festooned with lanterns and torches. Open spaces and some not so open crackled merrily with bonfires around which happy drunken men-at-arms sang and cavorted; casting warped, elongated images of themselves out on to the world.

As the litter swayed and jiggled, Robb snuggled in tight with his bride. Lost in aimless thought, he felt well pleased to wrap an arm about her and the babe.

"Do you think the king and queen are …?" Roslin whispered in his ear.

'Ugh,' the unexpected image jerked him awake. "I … yeAye!" he squealed.

His wife laughed huskily, finding the grabbing of his cock more amusing than he did.

"Stop that," he gurgled softly, struggling to snatch her wrist.

"I thought my champion deserved his queen of love and beauty's favor."

"Not here," Robb hissed. Desperate as he wanted to check whether any of the porters had overheard or spied anything, he was too embarrassed to do so.

She laughed again, this time louder. "Of course not, my lord. Think of it as an invitation to a … a very special joust."

"Not a melee?"

"No, a joust," she repeated. In the flickering light he could see a devilishly saucy grin across her face.

This time he did not resist as she began to surreptitiously stroke him again. Since his return from the God's Eye river she had comforted him in any number of delightful manners, but they had not … "Are you sure?"

"I know how to mount a stallion … if he behaves."

"Ooooh," he moaned softly as Roslin started to lick and nibble on his ear.

"Is everything all right, milord?" a polite voice intruded rudely.

"Y-yes," he stuttered, suddenly remembering when Lord Vayon had unexpectedly come upon him on the Bell Tower's stair with a hand under Vanissa's skirt. "I … I was thinking perhaps that Grey Wind might wish to spend the night in the Godswood."

"Very good, milord," the response came back agreeably, despite the extra work it meant for the men carrying the litter.

"Now you behave, or this wolf will act badly, very badly indeed," he hushed into his sweetling's ear.

Robb sighed in exquisite memory, eyelids drooping. He had in fact been bad, very, very bad. And it had felt marvelous. At the peak of their canter, he had unseated his rider; her sweet, sweet torture of him sooooo … he shivered reliving it.

Roslin had gasped and then moaned in delight as he clambered aboard her saddle, cast be damned, to take her for a full, bouncing, rollicking gallop. The last furlong, though brief, had satiated them both; his bride shuddering right alongside him.

She had drifted off to sleep first, content to nestle lovingly on him. Truth be told, glorious as the jaunt had been, the joust had left his leg in pain. Well it had been worth it, even if sleep was slow in …

He sniffed at the air. An odd, unnatural odor was passing through it on an unfelt breeze; gathering, concentrating somewhere.

Squirrel!

He lay down in a bower he'd previously clawed out beneath a hedge and automatically licked his muzzle more out of habit than to remove any blood; the scrap of fur and bone had been only the smallest morsel, something to whet his appetite rather than appease it.

Next he scrunched around to lick the scratch on his side, and then the one on his leg. Satisfied he lay his head down and flared his nostrils. The weird disturbance had ceased passing. He extended his sense, 'listening' to the grass and trees and flowers. The world turning grey and shadowy.

His lip curled, revealing a sharp incisor. There. The distasteful eldritch figure as always so close to his two legged brother. Powerful feeling swept into him. For a moment he merged; colors returned. His brother was mating. Foolish. His brother's mate already carried a litter. He returned to the swirling, misty grey to continue his roaming.

At the top of the hill, inside the largest of the stone caves, he 'tasted' that new scent again. Stronger, more concentrated than before; though it hid its presence between the warm fire and the burning torch. He 'sniffed' at it in the mist. Unworldly too, he decided; but different somehow than that other eerie figure.

It posed no threat to him. He grew tired. He withdrew. All the two legs still made noise, howling joyously about their own fires. He smelled the scents of sea and shit that covered everything in this forest of stone caves. He felt the solid earth beneath him. He remembered the taste of bone and flesh. Far above him through the leaves of the hedge a red light streaked across the dark night.

Closing his yellow eyes, Greyfur began to dream of ice and fire.

…

He whimpered as other eldritch, hazy figures battled; causing his hackles to raise even as he slept.

…

Something touched him, awakening him.

He was alone. The contact had seemed almost familiar.

Without thought he sought out his brother.

A warm voice called out to him, he greeted it as he had many times before.

The call asked that he move; and where he move.

No. This he did not like.

The warm voice insisted. Showing … movement.

He snarled, hurrying out of his bower he started to run. The metal bars would stop him so he ran for the hunch tree by the smooth cliff. Like a cat he leapt on to the trunk and over to the next trees thick branch. Up. He leapt.

The wounded leg almost betrayed him. Claws scrabbled hard against rock. He found purchase. The thing moved, he spied it now with his own eyes; moving past the fires in the beaten down meadow.

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO! He challenged and then jumped the long way down.

Two legs scattered as he dashed ahead.

Men with scents he knew. Men in shiny metal with sharp death sticks yanked the stone cave's door open for him. Up he charged.

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO! He warned.

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Robb's eyes opened.

THUD! The dull roar of a door slamming open.

Shouts. Puzzlement. Concern.

THUD! Another door.

Grey Wind was coming for … his eyes fluttered ever so briefly … no … not for him. What? Who?

"Father," he gasped, leaping out of bed. His leg almost crumpled beneath him. Fuck that! Naked except for the cast he searched about in the gloom for a weapon.

"Robb?" Roslin cried, frightened.

AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

His parent's apartment was just the other side of the common room from theirs.

Stumbling in the dark, he found Ice lying across a table.

"Robb Stark can only defeated if he fails to trust his direwolf."

'Not trust Grey Wind? Never.'

The Lord of Wintertown pulled the smokey Valyrian steel blade from its scabbard.

He heard the scrabble of claws on stone floor.

"Father, I'm coming!" he screamed, lurching for the door.

Melisandre

As she ended the chanting, weariness swooned over her; the spell was complete. Heart thumping hard against her chest from the exertion, she slipped off the prone form of the king with a moist sucking sound as his still partially erect member left her body. Lying down spread eagle to gather herself for the coming struggle, she whispered a prayer for success to R'hllor, 'his will be done.' Patiently Melisandre waited, perspiration starting to cool on her passion slickened skin

A red light flickered out from between her thighs amidst the darkness of the bedroom and the embers in the fireplace suddenly began to glow fiercely; her god's signal to his chosen priestess that the savior's seed had indeed found purchase within her. Thankful, Melisandre rose naked from beside the somnolent, temporarily drained form of Azor Ahai on the bed and crossed to the wood stack so that she might add fuel to the glimmering coals.

The tinder sparked and caught; flames arose, bathing her in their radiance. In the throbbing, beating life of the growing light there was nothing left of Selyse's aura about her. The already difficult spell, vastly complicated by her need to work in utter secrecy from the Great Other and even her own fellow priests, demanded all and more of Melisandre's power.

The creative energy released within her by the Warrior of Light, by Eldric Shadowchaser, by Yin Tar and Neferion, swelled, merged further with R'hllor's essence, took shape, and slowly matured. And as it did, by necessity, so too did her body. As the night lengthened and the sounds from the Queen's ballroom continued dimly in the background, Melisandre's belly began to extend and her breasts ripened all the while her eyes reflected the red white heat of the Heart of Fire's love.

The babe would be strong. What fire burned within her womb. The strength! The heat! She felt it. She knew it. How else could it be with such a father?

Seldom had she taken a man so unwittingly on his part as she just had with the King. Men deceived themselves about many things, small and large. In her first Red Temple, they had come and come, never any doubt as to the reason they visited her. Not that there were never lies associated with those deeds, but the heat of the lust at least had been pure.

Stannis Baratheon's fire burned different than any other man's. He was not perfect, no, not even her Azor Ahai; but he offered a purer flame. In his passion for duty and an hei , the chosen one had allowed her to seduce him with talk of special fertility charms and spells learned slowly and difficultly from wise, loyal, poor, dead Melisandre's Essosi scrolls.

So he had come to her hard as iron and she had taken what she needed from him, what he needed, what R'hllor needed. A normal woman might have felt some modicum of shame at the deception. Melisandre was too old and wise and used to be bothered by such. Too much lay at stake, the fate of the very world. She would not be driven from her path. Calmly she walked over to open the window to let the cool night air in.

It had been decades since she last birthed, the agony and the ecstasy of the experience were what she remembered most. Now her belly was near bursting and breasts hung heavy against her chest, areoli leaking colostrum. Sweat dappled her pale, tortured skin; long red hair stuck to damp brow. The moment was almost upon her. In the distance, Sansa's sweet voice had replaced the covetous toad's.

"Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again.

Because a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping."

'How appropriate. How ironic, my Nissa Nissa' Melisandre thought as she squatted and spread her legs. Panting, blood started to run down her legs.

"In restless dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobblestone

Neath the halo of the red comet, …"

She gasped as the crown of the child's head pushed its way past her pudendum.

"… stabbed by the flash of a crimson light, split the night"

Melisandre moaned while Sansa sang "and touched the sound of silence."

Two nearly insubstantial arms wriggled out to join they head, causing her to cry out for the sweet torment of it. They searched blindly seeking to grasp for the first onto the material construct of R'hllor's gift. Incredibly long fingers entwined around her straining thighs; clutching, pulling mightily to extract itself from the mortal shell birthing it. Melisandre cried out again at the pain wracking her womb as she struggled to keep all her spells in place.

"… and no one dared to stir the sound of silence."

At last the whole creature slid out of her magical warmth and into the cold, dark world where it rose to stand tall. Taller than the bent over, utterly spent Melisandre. Taller than the strongest knight. Tall as the ceiling, the newborn child of fire and light near filled the room.

"Hear my words and I might teach you, take my arms then I might reach you"

The assassin looked down at its fleshly mother. Fire flashed in Melisandre's agony shrouded eyes and the red gold choker flashed. The shadow nodded ever so slightly, the dark against the flickering flames of the hearth revealing the features of Azor Ahai reborn.

"And the fire flashed its warning in the flame that it was forming

And the sign said the words of the prophets are written on the temple walls"

Melisandre slowly raised a shaking hand to point the way. Instantly the servant of the light bent and folded upon itself to slip out under the gap beneath the bedroom door; gone to fulfill its destiny. With a groan, she pitched over, struggling to maintain control over some portion of her powers.

"…and whispered in the sounds of silence"

An unconscious, naked, blood stained form lay on the chamber's floor.

She knew not how long she lay on the cold stone, but it could not have been that great a time for the fire still burned amply in the hearth and the world's champion still slumbered deeply. The God of Flame and Shadow asked much of his servants, and while his rewards and splendour were great to the most dutiful, his challenges were not trivial things. The toll of the effort had caused her glamours to fade.

As the shadow child grew in her she had willingly cast aside the semblance of Azor Ahai's bride, Selyse. Without visibly looking, she knew she did not now either resemble the form that Melisandre had selected so many years ago in distant Asshai. Instead, R'hllor's light revealed her in her basest form, the remains of the slave girl who had willing chosen to serve the Heart of Fire so long ago: Melony. Her flesh drooped with the weight of age, her back stooped almost as much as a novice in prayer, and what little hair she still had was fragile and as white as a corpse.

As her wits returned, she became aware of a shadow slightly swaying in the bedroom. The Red Priestess was not alone.

"Well then, that is what you look like; an even uglier bitch." The voice that spoke was gruff. The surliness of it was not particularly directed at her, but at the world in general; and from her most servile servant, such an opinion was only to be expected.

Before answering her henchman, the Red Priestess had one last effort to make; whether it was too late or not, she would try. Out Melisandre cast her mind. The will was strong, fighting her. The red gold choker around her neck glowed.

"Fuck," the big man snarled. He too wore a ruby, and Melisandre would make it shimmer with heat to discipline him.

Melisandre took a long breath. "The night is dark and full of terror. We hide in the very lap of the Great Other's Emissary. The effort and complexity of the spells I wove in secrecy tonight taxed me beyond all endurance. My glamours have failed and so I must retreat to my original nature."

In response to her words, he grunted to show he did not care.

She looked up at her servant and managed to form a ghost of a smile at him.

Without thought, he scowled back.

"Indeed it is best that you managed to be out of sight when they failed 'Ser Justin,' lest your own secret would have been revealed as readily as my own."

The man who stood over her tentatively raised his free hand to his left cheek, and instead of the smooth handsome face he had come to know in her service, he felt the thick scars and twisted flesh he had worn since he was a boy. Sandor Clegane stood for a moment like that, before finally dropping his hand and allowing a hateful sneer to overtake his features.

The Hound partially turned his back on his mistress and placed the blanket draped bundle he carried over on shoulder on the floor beside her. He said nothing, but when Melisandre extended him a hand to help her up, he took it with a reluctance that was evident.

"The power of the Lord of Light is a great thing my servant, but even to his most devout it has limits. Now tell me, is all in readiness?"

Instead of answering, Clegane merely grunted and nudged back the edge of the roll with his booted foot. On top lay the simple garb of servants, in descript and plain, and Melisandre gladly took the ones belonging to a woman and began to clothe herself.

The Hound stood mutely by, watching. "Begin to put the clothes on, we will need them for where we are going," she commanded.

"What about the rest of your gift to Stannis?" Clegane asked sardonically, bending over to pick up the man's clothes. Their absence from the bundle revealed the headless corpse of a woman that had been carried in with the clothes.

"For that I will need you."

She spoke the same words she had said to him so many times, and instead of any sort of belligerent response he may have once had, he simply nodded and knelt next to the headless corpse.

Melisandre came over to kneel beside him. Off came Selyse's jewelry: rings and bracelets. These items she placed on the body's fingers and arms. Only the red gold choker with the ruby set inside did she retain.

With that done, the Red Priestess placed one hand above the corpse's heart and one on Clegane's face. As she did she began to chant to herself in a low voice, calling on the Lord of Light for his power, drawing from her own spirit as well as the vengeful fire burning in Clegane's own. She felt strength begin to course through her, and as Clegane let out a muffled sound of pain she began to sing the eldritch words faster. The corpse's appearance began to subtly alter: breasts slightly smaller and firmer, hips a tad wider, the sag of belly appropriate for a woman who birthed one child instead of six.

The Red Priestess also felt her own skin change, her hair change color and grow again. Changes and feelings that over the decades had become second nature to her, and as she finished she stood up and moved silently to where a polished piece of bronze served her as a mirror. Her face was of middling age now. Plain, forgetful, and perfectly suited to the next mission R'hllor ordained for her.

Clegane also came to his feet, legs trembling. He too stared into the mirror and released another grunt, for his face no longer revealed the Heart of Fire's love, but appeared plain like hers as well.

On the ground the corpse was beginning to twitch and stir, as the blood that had remained magically sealed in the body began to warm and unfreeze. Melisandre simply pointed to it and Clegane quickly picked up the corpse and placed it in the bed alongside Azor Ahai's still slumbering form.

They had timed it well, as the first of the blood was just starting to dribble out of the corpse's gaping neck as Melisandre crossed towards the still open secret passage that Clegane had used to reach her. She said nothing descending the tight, twisting stairs away from the bedroom. Behind her, she heard the doorway of the tunnel close as Clegane followed her. Despite his bulk, he soon caught up to her in the narrow confines.

They moved in silence for a while, guided by only the light of her ruby necklace, until finally Clegane spoke. "You still haven't told me where in the seven hells we are going."

She smiled at the question. Clegane was an obedient servant in his own way, but not exactly a well-mannered one.

"We are going to make a sword Sandor, we are going to make a sword."

Sean

Sean's face almost hurt from the smile that still plastered his face, the still warm and gorgeous body of his wife, now truly his wife lay beside him, and while it hadn't been his first honeymoon it had still been as pleasurable as he could have imagined. Of course Cat was only part of the reason he was smiling.

He had won.

He had fucking won.

He had taken on the clusterfuck of situations that George could think up and he had fucking won. Granted, the Ice Zombies were still coming, but he had time till then, time to plan and prepare and face them from a position of advantage. Until then, he had won and what had it cost him? Robb was going to be stuck with a limp for the rest of his life, a man more stubborn than a mule sat on the Iron Throne and if Loras lived he was going to be horribly maimed, but for the time being those were all cheap costs.

At the last thought he felt the smile on his face falter.

'Cheap costs? Christ above, is that the sort of man I am now? Hundreds dead, thousands maimed and injured, even though I prevented a worse bloodbath that is still a heavy price. Is that what I've become, a bloody piece in George's world?'

He didn't have an answer for his own thoughts, instead he found his mind turning inwards and meditative, eventually the words came to him, as they always did after a lifetime of acting, and with his wife softly asleep beside him and his own eyes closing, he spoke them aloud to reaffirm himself.

"What good is a man that gains the world yet loses his soul?"

He yawned as he tried to recall the exact verse from the Bible, and as darkness descended he half mumbled it.

"Matthew 16:26."

'In retrospect this was not a good idea.' Sean couldn't help but think that as Emilia Clark avoided another swipe of his sword. He had to be careful with his footing as he ducked back from the blade, wood and rope were littering the open deck of the HMS Winterfell as he sailed through the air in its deadly duel with Emilia's dragons. As he brought his sword around in a move to disarm her he realised it wasn't Ice, it was a different sword than what he had come to be used to yet it seemed much more familiar, as if he had used it so many times before. Emilia came back around with her own blade and Sean barely caught it on his. It was then the airship he was standing on lurched violently as one of Emilia's pet bloody dragons swiped at it. The creature was a huge black mass of scales and like its brothers it was tearing the crap out of Sean's airships, when the battle began he had nearly crapped himself when a ball of fire had engulfed the HMS Dorne.

"Now you see you rebellious bastard. The true power of the Targaryens!" Emilia screamed at him as she lunged towards him again. Sean managed to spin out of the way but her sword managed to slice a chunk off the green jacket he was wearing. He heard the cannons of the airship fire at the over grown flying lizard and grinned, it hadn't been easy teaching them how to make good Sheffield steel, nor had it been easy remembering enough from Sharpe to know how to make cannons, but they were certainly worth their weight in gold now as he heard the scream of pain and death that followed the volley from the ship.

Emilia dropped to her knees as she heard it. She cried out to the sky in pain as the last of her dragons died to a volley of fire from the Winterfell's main battery. Sean started to approach her and put the sword down, he raised both his hands in a calming expression as he approached her.

"It's okay love. Just put down your blade and no more harm will come. Those dragons were too powerful to be let live but there is no need for you to die." She looked up at him and he knew she was emotionally broken, Lord knew he knew what that looked like.

"I'll kill you." Was all the warning he got as she sprang towards him with her sword in hand. Instead of going for a thrust she tried to bring it down in a single swing to cut him open, he barely managed to catch the sword in his hands and even though it hurt like hell he held it there.

"For the love of God woman. Just give up, you would go through all this to conquer Westeros?"

She was still trying to cut open Sean and the blade continued to bite, he wasn't sure how long he could hold on for, but she opened her mouth to speak.

"For Westeros? Always." With that she pulled the blade back to deliver another swing at him. She never got the chance.

The sound of a cannon going off next to his head nearly caused his own ear drums to explode and Emilia was caught in a hail of bullets that sent her flying backwards. The bullets caught her and threw her over the edge of a railing on the airship, Sean dashed over but all he could see was a rapidly disappearing Emilia falling through the clouds to join her dragons.

"By God, Patrick and Ireland sir. I don't know what you said to that lady but she seemed terribly upset, like Isabella when I don't go to mass. But unless she herself can fly I imagine it is the last we'll being seeing of her." Sean turned towards the source of the voice and cannon noise and saw Daragh O'Malley looking like he had stepped straight off the set of Sharpe twenty years ago. Behind him he saw John Tams leaning against the doorframe, also in his Sharpe outfit.

Sean opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on when he started to hear music. It was "Over the Hills and Far Away" but the lyrics were all wrong.

"Here's forty dragons on the drum,
For those who volunteer to come,
To list and fight the foe what may,
Over the hills and far away.
Over the hills and over the main,
Through Essos, Bravos and Qarth,
Lord Sharpe commands and we obey,
Over the hills and far away"

Aaaoooooooooooooo!

Sean's eyes opened, a silent whisper telling him something was in the room with him and Cat. Thoughts of old friends and Sharpe fleeing his mind as he tried to focus on his surroundings.

Aaaoooooooooooooo!

A shadow suddenly loomed above him, holding out its right hand. As it did icy fear gripped Sean's heart. Death stared at him. He jerked away from it. A finger tip slashed just beneath his eyes, and he felt its cold hard touch, and then a blaze of pain. He tumbled out of the bed, legs entangled in the sheets.

The door to the room smashed open.

He screamed as an impossibly sharp blade made of shadow lanced through his shoulder just above his heart.

Cat shrieked as a large, snarling beast leapt over her, jaws wide, teeth gleaming in the torch light.

A creature of flesh and fire latched on to the creation of shadow and death.

The skewer erupted out of Sean's flesh in a fountain of blood as the two being's made from George's dark psyche tumbled to the floor in a vicious scrum.

Sean's feet scrambled upon the floor, trying to push and propel himself away from the churning mass of grey; but he had no strength. His head throbbed horribly, his mouth and eyes filling with blood.

A dark, smoky blade cut through the air. Without a sound the struggle abruptly ended.

A naked man knelt over him; carrying what looked like Ice. "Robb?" he croaked, almost choking on the blood that filled his mouth.

"Be still, father, you're hurt bad."

It sounded almost like Robb. Why was he here. What was happening?

"Oh Ned," cried Cat.

No, it couldn't be. He started to raise his good hand, his only hand, towards his face. Surely not even George could be that cruel. Could he?

Robb's non-sword hand grasped his groping one, stopping it from getting any closer; from checking for Tyrion's fate.

"Must … see," he gasped.

"No, father. Don't," Robb begged. "Your nose … is … lost."

Bitter anger and immeasurable resentment swelled up within him, smothering for a moment the symphony of pain dancing in his skull and burning his face. "Red Priests," he hissed. "Did this … to me."

"Father?"

"Ned?"

"Swear it … Old Gods," Sean choked as his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. 'Westeros. Fucking Westeros!' he thought as darkness swallowed him yet again.

BOOK 2: Sean Wins By a Nose - FINIS!