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

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

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

Frosted Faith

Blood of my Blood

Samwell 2:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that he could blame her too much. She had only seen or heard of poor examples of southern royalty and nobility, where previously her examples had been a honorable bastard of the north, and... Sam. But He never a typical noble anyways.

"Beyond the wall? You're a wildling woman then. What are you doing so far south, and with a Maester and man of the Watch?" Tyrion Lannister had perked up the moment they had entered of course. The slightly pudgy stoat man in black with a newly forge chain around his neck was not so interesting to him as the woman dressed in rugged fur, leather and hide from head to toe.

"Free-woman. Wildling is what you kneelers call us who live north of the Wall. And I'm with the smart crow cause Jon Snow asked." Was her rebuttal.

The name of the Eddard Stark's bastard had both Hand and Queen perking up.

"But why? The Night's Watch has been fighting you-"

"Enough Lord Tyrion." The Queen cut off the dwarf with a simple command. The little Hand fell silent, only looking at the Queen with a curious look on his face, with the Queen returned with a simple arched brow before purple eyes turned to regard the Crow and the Wildling once more.

"My apologize. I'm afraid I know nothing of the ways, of the Free-Folk. If your people do not kneel to a leader not of your choosing. I will not press the matter further. I am well accustomed to the fact that respect is earned, not freely given." Samwell decided that this Queen was very smooth, he could practically feel the aggressive tension in Ygritte bleeding from the woman's shoulders beside him.

"What brings a newly chained Maester of the Night's Watch to Dragonstone Maester...?"

"Oh! Uh.. Sam, Samwell Tarly your grace." Sam sturttered out, dipping into another quick bow, nervous suddenly once more at being the focus of the intense scrutiny of the Mother of Dragons, and her half-man Hand-of-the-Queen once more. The shifting weight of the greatsword strapped to his back however help put steel in his spine, and when he straighten once more he was able to meet the Queen's eyes.

"Jon; Lord Commander Jon Snow, that is, sent me south to earn my chain. In part because Castle Black's current Maester is very old. But mostly so I could scour the Citadels library for answers."

Sam took a deep breath, before he launched into further explanation with no further prompting then the slightest tilt of the Queen's silver maned head.

"The Wall wasn't built to keep out the Free-Folk. It was never built to keep them out. Their ancestors simply had the ill fortune to be on that side when it was built. It was built to hold back something much much worse then them. The Others your grace. Wrights, the Undead, whatever you wish to call them. Whatever history has called them. The Wall was built to keep them out. But the Wall has been undermanned and under supplied for a generation or more. And now the White Walkers have risen again.

Lord Commander Snow sent me south to see if there was something in the Citadels library that would tell us how to stop them, defeat the White Walkers, stop the Long Nig-"

"Ridiculous. They are a myth, one used to make children behave. - 'The Others eat bad little boys'. My mother told me that one often enough as a young boy."

"Perhaps. But I have been to the Wall Ser Barristan, and I have met Jon Snow and found the lad to be the level headed sort and not taken to flights of fancy. As for White Walkers being myths, or long dead. Well, we all thought dragons were extinct, and unless the world is all in the grips of a shared hallucination, we have three very much alive dragons on this ver-"

Samwell interjects, his voice firm, the phantom gaze of those cold burning blue eyes on him giving him the courage to speak up, cutting through the back and forth between the Hand and the Lord Commander.

"Three horn blast my Lord Commander, I can never forget the sound of those three horn calls, just before the wights descended upon our fortified encampment atop, the Fist of the First Men."

And he couldn't forget, wouldn't forget. More then once had he awoken in the night, drench in a cold sweat with the sound of that triple blast horn call echoing in his ears. Did the White Walkers bring the storm and the cold. Or did it bring them? He some times wondered.

He had not faced three years of ridicule from the Maesters of the Citadel, from his peers for being the only apprentice to be seeking a Valaryian steel link for his chain. He hadn't spent three years of feeling the chilling ghost of the gaze of the White Walkers upon his back to shrink now, to fail now, simply because yet another old man thought the threat beyond the Wall was a childrens bedtime story.

"There were two hundred sworn brothers of the Night's Watch at the Fist. -" Sam begun, "- Only sixty-one managed to cut their way free of the horde. Forty-four managed to survive the pursuing wrights." Sam's words had taken on a haunting quality, Barristan and Tyrion, both men who had seen battle and death recognized it for what it was. The voice of a man entrapped in a memory, his mind and soul returned to that place, that point in time as he relieved it all over again.

"I fell behind. I was fat and slow and I fell behind until I couldn't see the torches of the rear guard any more. Grenn stayed with me. And Small Paul, help support me as we tried to catch up. But one of the wights found us... Burning blue eyes in the cold, and the dark. Blue on blue, like layers of so much ice..."

He wasn't so fat now. Life as a apprentice Maester had a way of melting the fat from your bones. Hard labor with meals of thin, tasteless gruel and stale bread had seen to that. He was stoat, still pudgy and big of bone but there was muscle there, but not fat. Had he had to go through it again now, Sam wondered if he would have been able to keep up with the rest of the survivors, instead of falling behind.

"It killed Paul, and turn towards Grenn I had a small dagger tucked into my belt. I had found it at the Fist, a small cache of daggers and arrow heads made of dragonglass, wrapped in a old Night's Watch cloak. I pulled it from my belt. And I ran for the first time towards danger, and not away. And when I drove it into its back, it screeched, as its body turned to ice and shattered.."

Beside him, Ygritte laid a calming hand on his shoulder. She could feel the faint tremors that shook the heavy set young man. The Free-folk had a name for this, the White Madness as they called it, was a sickness of the heart and mind and spirit that tended to inflict those who had looked into the eyes of the Others. It could break the spirit of even the strongest warrior, turn him craven, if it didn't break his mind first.

The new Maester, for all his flaws was strong, in uncommon ways. And was the first that the wildling woman knew of to actually kill one of the undead that had haunted the forests beyond the Wall.

The touch seem to help bring Sam out of his memories, his eyes refocusing on the here and now.

"We made it to Craster's Keep, a wildling with whom the Watch has a strain relationship with, and one that is despised by the rest of the Free-Folk. Craster was not a good man. He hurled abuse and slander at the Watch, and tired, cold, starving and grieving, the strain was too much. There was a mutiny. Craster was slain, and when the Lord Commander tried stopping it, he too was slain, stabbed in the back by Rast.

The Loyal brothers were out numbered, they fled, I ended up remaining out of shock of everything. While the traitors raped Craster's daughter-wives, and helped themselves to his food, paying me no mind. I tried to ease the Lord Commander's suffering, his last orders for me were to return to the wall and tell him about what I had found out, about fire, about dragonglass and the wildlings and the others..."

Sam trailed off, once more caught in the past. The silence reigned for several minutes, no one in the room, not even Daenerys dared to speak, all equally spell bound by the tale. Eventually, Sam managed to shake himself out of the memory, of the mutiny, the death, Gilly and the babe, the long walk back to Castle Black.

"They rise again you know. The dead. I saw that too on my way back to Castle Black. I, and one of Craster's wives, Gilly, and her newborn son. We were attacked by wights. Only these ones wore faces of men I had known in life. Chett, Lark, and even Paul among others, in their cloaks of black, stiff with frozen blood. Faces pale in death, and eyes of burning ice..." Sam had to grit his teeth to push the memory, not down or away, but back. let the deaths of his sworn-brothers put steel in his spine he thought. Let the memories of what he had seen strengthen his will, give him courage to see the White Walkers defeated. Their deaths will not be in vain he promised himself.

"Three hundred sworn-brothers of the Night's Watch went beyond the Wall for that Great Ranging. Twenty of us crows made it back. Twenty out of three hundred." Hard eyes met those of Ser Selmy as he delivered his next words.

"Ridiculous bed time stories do not kill over two hundred Night's Watchmen Ser. And for the record. The White Walkers won't just stop at bad little boys. They will not stop until all life, all light and warmth and all that is good in this world had been wiped out. And the only things that can hurt them, that can kill them are fire, valaryan steel and dragon glass."

Those same eyes turned back to the Queen now. "Thats why I am here your grace. Dragon glass. There is a mountain of it underneath our feet right now."

Arya 5:

One thousand two hundred forty eight people, two direwolves, and three dozen of Nymeria and Lady's smaller, southern cousins now rode, marched, or trotted behind and along side her now on route to Riverrun. The sack of Castle Darry had yield no new warriors to her cause of course. But it had freed the Crossroads from Lannister control for the time being, giving Arya and her wolf pack freer movement in the Riverlands.

Darry hadn't been a glorious battle. It hadn't been a battle at all. When she and her thirty-six, and two direwolves had arrived at the Crossroads it had been after weeks of hard riding, to make camp far enough away from the small hamlets of Darry and the Crossroads Inn to go unseen, but close enough to gather intelligence as they had plan.

What they found had not painted a pretty picture. The situation in the south was far grimmer then the north knew. The inhabitants of the Crossroad had a haunted look to them, slumped and shrunken inwards, staring into mugs of watered down ale, or the flickering flames of the Inn's hearth fire unseeing.

Tongues were loosen when Arya brought out her own personal wine skin, filled with rich northern ale. The sort that warmed you. Villager and Traveler gathered closer to the hearth when she had had Gendry put a pot of strong northern spice cider on to heat, to warm weary souls as they told their tales.

Rapes and pillages were as common as trees. Bandits roamed the countryside freely, taking what little that the loyalist forces had not. It left the small folk with empty larders, empty bellies and empty pockets. The force that held Castle Darry in the name of the crown was just as bad it seems, as the bandits themselves.

One man had a sister who worked there, who was heavy with child. All the pretty young women from the local area were with child, the bastards of unknown fathers, for how were they to know when the Lannister forces up at Darry passed them around like wine skins.

Another, a traveler from King's Landing spoke of the bread riots, the burnt out parts of the city and the curfew. He and his wife, and two young children felt it was better to be cold in the North then live in squaller in the city until they starved or froze to death.

A old woman, a widow of near twenty years from a small village on the south east side of God's Eye, had lost three sons in the fighting, and three grandchildren to Carrion Fever. A disease that often cropped up around battlefields when bodies were left to rot where they fell.

Three nights and two days Arya and a few others would rotate in and out of the Inn's dinning hall, hearing the tales of those who lived near by, or were passing through to some place they hoped was better. Arya hunted for fresh meat and forage for winter roots in the fields and wild areas near by for the Inn's cooking pots, filling empty bellies with hot food and warm ale.

It wasn't much in the long term, these people would be cold and hungry again soon enough. But winter was a time to come together, even for a short while.

In the mean time, she had sent Elanor and Argon to Castle Darry. She hadn't wanted Elanor to go once she had heard of just what the Loyalist forces there had been doing to the local women, and even some girls to young to have yet flowered. But the common-born woman had insisted, clearly gearing up to argue her case when the young she-wolf simply nodded, accepting Elanors insistence with no further protest. After all; how could she expect the southern bannermen and lords to trust and respect her, if she herself did not trust and respect the women in her own fighting force.

The pair returned mid morning the second full day at the Crossroads. They had confirmed the tales Arya had heard. And had done more besides. They had befriended the staff, gotten a count of the force that held the keep. And more besides.

She held her first true war council their encampment's fire that day. The next they had enlisted the help of the locals, who got word to family and friends within Darry. And for the next three nights she asked Nymeria and Lady to do as wolves do. - Howl. Long and loud, songs of the hunt, of pack and den rang. Mournful songs, joyful songs. And they were joined by their smaller cousins in the countryside around the Trident.

Arya kept watch as the night fires got larger, and more torches moved along the walls of Darry, the watch more then doubled as the Lannister soldiers looked out into the dark winter night with fear in their hearts, and the howl of wolves echoing in the valley around them.

The men of Darry were sleep deprived after three days. Guards swayed, heads bowed as they struggled to keep their eyes open at their posts throughout the day. Reactions were slowed, men sluggish to respond with action or words.

At her word, during the evening meal that fourth night, the servants poured stronger wine, stronger ale, and food was lightly seasoned with dream-weed. Unlike milk of the poppy, dream-weed was a northern herb, with a mild flavor most often brewed in tea to help promote sleep when one struggles to find it. For the men on watch, servants brought hot spice cider and hot mulled wine, also laced with dream-weed. Maesters in the north strongly advised against mixing the two, though such a mixture worked near as quick as milk of the poppy when it came to knocking a person out, as it tended to leave one very groggy and a bit hungover the next day.

Not that Arya intended for any of them to awaken again.

The combination of three nights of no sleep, full bellies of dream-weed laced food, and strong alcohol, in addition to not a single wolf howl that night had the forces of Darry quickly slipping into a dreamless deep slumber.

The servants and staff all retired to their rooms, locking doors behind them, willing to help free themselves from their abusers, but unwilling to trust these northmen and women.

Arya had chosen the Wolf Hour to act. She and her thirty-six slipped through the front gates, left open by inattentive guards, who now slumbered away at their posts. In silence they had moved through the keep, room by room, grimly slitting the throats of the Lannister soldiers. Nymeria and Lady aided the hunt, their keen senses finding passed out soldiers wherever they might have ended up sleeping.

It was a thankless task, a deed without honor. But thirty-seven can not take a keep held by a force more then three times their number, not in a fair fight. The she-wolf nearly felt guilty as she worked. Knowing that these men had mothers, and fathers, brothers and sisters the same as she and her pack did. They might be husbands and fathers themselves. But they were also pillagers and rapist and thieves, as bad as the bandits of the country side, worse perhaps, for often men who did heinous acts in war, claimed to be only following orders, whereas bandits gave no such excuses. The facts were a cold comfort to the northerners, as they moved from room to room.

When it was all said and done, Arya had every banner or flag baring the Lannister Lion or the Lion-Stag combo of King Robert and his false children torn down and piled in the middle of the courtyard where she personally doused the mass of red and gold fabric in oil and tossed a burning torch onto it. The flames caught quickly even in the winter chill.

Then just as silently as they entered, they left. Dacey even insuring the gate to the castle was closed behind them before she scaled down the outer walls herself.

What they had done at Darry, the way they had done it, was not something she was proud of. None of them were, she could see it on the hard set faces and clench jaws of her people. And it may haunt her for the rest of her days. It didn't feel like justice, or even vengeance. It felt like hot blood on her hands, and the taste of iron in the air. The only battle that occurred at Darry was one of the conscious.

But it had been the best course of action, no civilians died, none of her people were felled. The Castle did not burn. If not for the blood spilt and the bodies left where they had laid, one might have thought the Loyalist had simply had gotten up one day and walked out of the gates.

The people of the Crossroads, and the smallfolk within and without Darry would never speak the truth of that night. The tale they would tell would speak nothing of Arya and her wolfpack, or the involvement of the small folk. Only that the servants woke, and the Lannister forces were dead, throats slit, and their banners burned.

Arya had been relieved when the people of the Crossroad hadn't tried to thank them for their bloody work. It had taken her hours to stop shaking afterwards, to quell the rolling in her stomach and after one rush trip to the bushes on their way back to camp, rinse the taste of bail from her mouth.

Raventree Hall was their next destination, to break the siege there. A short day and a half ride at a easy pace. Though they crested the small hill over looking the seat of House Blackwood late that night. It was a small siege encampment. Even in the dead of night Arya could tell she had been right. It was barely a token effort. Winter warfare tactics said to put two or more men per tent, it was a matter of warmth, of survival to share your tent with a few of your brothers in arms. And there was not as many tents as there would have been had House Bracken been actively seeking to take the castle.

From above, Arya counted fires, and counted tents the best she could in the pale line of a half moon. If she were to hazard a guess, there was less then two hundred fighting men down there. Cold, hungry, tired men who likely just wanted this siege to end one way or another.

She had turned her horse, and ridden back to her own force. They'd make camp here, out of view of the encampment below. They lit no fires, eating a cold supper of jerked meat, hard-tack and dry cheese washed down with sips of water by moon light. And before the camp bedded down, wrapped in thick cloaks and heads pillowed against their saddle bags, she and her inner circle went over the plan.

The next morning they rode into the the camp of House Bracken with the thunder of hooves and the rising sun at their backs. The still half asleep Bracken soldiers, still in their winter sleepwear and many as of yet to have even take their morning piss were slow to react. The Northerner forces had stormed to quickly, and the direction they had come from had not had sentries posted to warn of such an approach. Bracken men dove out of the way of the northern forces, their morning grogginess and uncertainty as to the idenity of this group of riders making them hesitate to reach for arms and armor.

Their hesitation had been something Arya had counted on, their sudden appearance and the speed of the arrival combind with the fact she had ordered no one to draw their weapons had given the encampment pause and allowed her and her riders to reach and encircle the commander's tent, so marked by both its side, and the banners baring the red stallion of House Bracken.

The men of the encampment, more awake still stood uncertain. Now that the northerners had come to a halt, they had noticed the pair of direwolves that flanked either side of the lead rider. Only one House in all of Westeros had been known to have such beasts as pets. House Stark, they whispered. Which meant the small rider had to be a Stark. But which one. Too short to be Robb, and all knew Bran was cripple. Had the youngest Stark son turned out to be half imp?

Arya found the whispers amusing as she dismounted and turn to stand before the entrance of the commander's tent, waiting.

She didn't have to wait long, before a man of middling height, and large frame stepped out from the canvas structure. Half armored in chain and gambeson, and long sword drawn in waiting stood Ser Kurleket, knight and man-at-arms to House Bracken. He had curly brown locks a shade lighter then her own, that fell loose to his shoulders, and kept a clean shaven face but for the thick goatee that framed his pouty mouth. He was not a unattractive man, indeed he was comly by northern standards, though perhaps plain by southern.

"Ser Kurleket." Arya greeted as she reached up and removed the closed face helm she had put on before dawn, tucking it neatly under her arm, leaving the arming cap on. The Southern men that had gathered around the circle of northern riders shifted, murmuring, suddenly uncomfortable to realize that the lead rider was not a small man, but a slender woman.

Kurleket however non-paused by Arya's gender, a mark in his favor in Arya's mind, though he seem to have to take a minute place her name and House.

"Lady Stark." The man-at-arms greeted, sheathing his blade before giving a small respectful bow of his head. "What brings you to my encampment?"

Arya gave a wolfish grin,"Lady Stark is my mother. Arya is just fine." She demurred, before picking up on his question. "I have come to bid you to end the siege, and if you and Lord Jonos are admirable, help me in liberating the Riverlands from the yoke of House Lannister."

The southern Knight laughed, his soldiers joining in, those their gruffing laughter was weak and nervous as they eyed the thirty-odd hard face northerners That ended when Arya drew her sword in a flash, the edge of Starfang biting into the soft flesh of Kurleket's neck.

The dull honey colored eyes of the Knight met the cold steel gaze of the she-wolf, his laugh dying in his throat "Be still Ser, it is Valaryan steel I hold against the thin skin that protects your life blood." She warned in a low tone.

"Winter has come, and it has come for House Lannister. Should it come for House Bracken as well Ser?" She asked, in that same low dangerous tone.

"Lord Jonos bent the knee as you no doubt know. We do as we are bid." The Knight argued, tilting his chin up, trying to get away from the ever so gentle press of cold steel against his neck. "And if you think my Lord will bend knee to a wo-"

"I wont be asking him to-" Arya interjected, not letting him finished that sentence. She pitched her voice to be heard by the entire gathered encampment, still cool and calm, the Rivermen seem to lean in, to catch every word.

"- I'm asking the you and he and all those sworn to House Bracken to remember the injustice wroth by orders of golden haired boy-kings, to remember the events of and the lives lost at the Red Wedding and set aside your long standing feud with the Blackwoods.

Winter is here Ser Kurleket, now is when we should be uniting. And the Riverlands is far from united. Help me get justice for the Northmen and the Rivermen who died at the the Twins. Help me unite the Riverlands."

"Once we followed your brother, helped him war with the Lannisters in the name of your Father and your Sister. Why should we follow you? A untrie-"

"His Grace was untried, and younger then than the She-wolf is now. Arya has already a number of great victories under her name. Including soundly defeating Ironborn when they laid siege to Winterfell." Ser Cullen broke in, coming up to stand at his Lady's side, meeting the eyes of the other Knight. "Ask yourself this Kurleket, if this was Rickon Stark standing before you, a lad of ten and four and truly untried, would you be this resistant?

The question gave the southern knight pause, Arya could see that, and slowly she lowered her blade from his throat.

"No. I wouldn't. I would see a earnest lad with a sense of justice and strong, and the older and more experience people around him, and would not give more then a passing thought to his age or lack of experience." He admitted with a sigh, raising his fingers to his neck where Arya had held her sword. Thankfully there was no blood, not even a nick.

"My apologizes... She-wolf." He clearly stumbled over how to address the Stark woman, much to Arya's amusement. The curly haired knight then pitched his voice to address the camp.

"I for one am cold, and hungry. I want camp broken and packed and you lot ready to go by mid-day to return to Stone Hedge where Lord Jonos can decide further on this matter. I have to go surrender to Lord Blackwood" He groaned the last part, half to himself, half to the men under his command, which got a few chuckles.

"Give me a half a candle mark to make myself presentable and we shall ride to Raventree Hall. You... are correct, Winter is here, and the Riverlands needs to be united under its rightful Lord if we wish to see Spring."

"Thank you Ser Kurleket. I hadn't wanted this to come to blood shed if it needn't" Arya said, sheathing her blade and bowing to the knight in respect. It took a better man to admit he was wrong and apologize.

Less then a candle mark later found Arya and the knight, along with Ser Cullen, Gendry and Dacey riding into Raventree Hall. It would have taken more convincing, but the Blackwood defenders could see the Bracken soldiers breaking camp in the distance, and the direwolves at her side was all the proof of her identity they need.

Lord Tytos Blackwood met with them in his solar, after they had partaken in the bread, salt and half cup of mulled wine within the entrance of the keep proper. Tall and thin,with a head full of short black hair streaked through at the temples with white, Lord Tytos had a square face with narrow black eyes under thin eyebrows, and a hooked nose. His thin lips were partly obscured by the close-chopped salt and pepper beard and he had worn a magnificent cloak of raven feathers.

House Blackwood was one of the few houses in the south that had kept to the old gods after the Andal invasion brought the Faith of the Seven to Westeros. And thus was one of the few to also still keep a God's Wood south of the Neck.
The Blackwoods and the Starks shared a kinship, twice over. The first when Cregan Stark married Alysanne Blackwood during the reign of Aegon III, and again, generations after, when her Great Great Grandfather married Melantha Blackwood when Maekar I had been king.

Arya felt that kinship when she met the eyes of Lord Tyros with her own and he gave her a thin lipped little smile that she often saw on her face of her own Father. Unfortunately marriage and blood ties did not make the negotiations of surrender any easier. It took hours to hammer the details out. But in the end, Ser Kurleket gave up the supplies of his army to the Blackwoods to bolster their meager stores which had ran dangerously low during the length siege.

It was agreed upon that Lord Blackwood and a small garrison of his men would join them for the ride to Stone Hedge, for further negotiations in the morning. He offered Arya and her riders his hospitality after the Bracken Knight had left to see to his men, an offer she gracefully accepted, having her people contribute to the cooking pots for dinner that night.

Later, much later when much of the keep had fallen asleep. Tyros had come to her in the God's Wood where she knelt at the base of the massive weirwood tree, sharping her sword, and whispering her prayers to the gods.

"It is good to that you keep to the Old Ways." He had said by way of greeting.

"The Old Ways are the ways of the North, and I am of the North."

He laughed then, freely so. And Arya decided she liked this southern Lord who was more of the North then her own brother was sometimes. "And so you are, and so am I. Come wolf-blood, let us sit and talk about why you have really come south. Perhaps the gods will lend their guidance to us tonight."

And talk they did, long into the night, getting each others measure, though perhaps he had gotten hers more then she his. It was another negotiation in a way. But they both spoke plain. And in the end, he had pledged his men to her cause, to her command for her goals were just and he could see the keen mind that lurked behind the steel-gray eyes of the young woman before him.

Before he left her at her chamber doors to rest for the remainder of the evening, Tytos had left her with these words "When you have her measure, and if you judge her fit, send the Dragon here and I will kneel." He walked away then, leaving Arya floored at the amount of trust and faith the Lord of Raventree Hall had in her.

The next morning, Bracken and Blackwood forces rode out behind Arya's own. A half days ride brought them to Stone Hedge. The seat of House Bracken had seen better days. The castle had been sacked, and the village at it feet and the surrounding fields pillaged and burned by the Mountain Gregor Clegane and his blood thirsty band of men.

But she could see signs of rebuilding, Fresh white wash on the walls of the village buildings, rows of root vegetables where once summer and autumn grains grew. A hope for one last harvest. Fresh timber and newly laid and mortared stones. Arya could not blame Lord Bracken for taken the knee if it meant he could feed the people of Stone Hedge during a long hard winter.

She could see villagers tending to the fields and gardens, and the sheep and goats and chickens had noticed their large group of riders now, and she nodded to Larence who raised her banner. It was a dual sided thing The ancient sigil of House Stark, a running gray direwolf on a ice-white field on one side, and on the other a rampant gray direwolf on a field of black, it was what she had taken as her personal sigil when she began leading men into battle. The modern sigil of her family, the gray direwolf head on a white field cut with green had been adopted after Aegon I's conquest belonged to her father, and her brother, and since neither of them had sanction her action, she would not be flying that banner.

The men of House Bracken under Ser Kurleket raised their own banners, as did those of House Blackwood. Another nod, this time to one of Ser Kurleket's men had him blowing into his war horn, to single to the defenders at Stone Hedge that they were friendlies.

She waited a beat for the answering call, and Ser Kurleket's nod that yes, that was the answering call for friendlies before she singled the small host to move into and through the village and onto the keep.

Jonos Bracken himself waited to greet them in the courtyard while the rest of the mix host made camp in the field between the village and the keep. Lord Bracken, Arya noted, was an man few years older then her own father. He was a heavy set man, and of middling height, a head or more shorter then Eddard Stark, with a heavily lined face and a thick gray-white beard. He had gone bald on top, but made no effort to hide it, having let his gray-white hair grow out in a shaggy cut that reached chin length. There was Targaryen blood in House Bracken, thin as it was, made evident in the pale violet-gray eyes that narrowed under bushy white brows towards the Lord of Raventree Hall and his men.

"Tytos." Lord Bracken greeted coolly once they had all dismounted, their horses being lead away by stable hands to.

"Jonos" Lord Blackwood replied equally cool

"My Lords, let us dispense with the pissing contest." Arya cut in before either lord could get further.

"Lord Jonos, Ser Kurleket has surrendered, and ended the siege of Raventree Hall. Lord Tytos is here to finalize the matter. Both of you are blood of the first men and know that Winter is a time for unity not petty grudges. So offer us bread and salt, the faster we make it through the necessary business at hand, the faster Lord Tytos can return home and be out of your hair."

The she-wolf cut straight through to the heart of the matter. For his part, the Lord of Stone Hedge eye-balled her for a moment before grudgingly, with some sense of reluctant respect for the simple way the young woman had got right to business

"Very well." He agreed, and gestured to the servants to bring forth the platters of bread and salt, and skins of wine. He looked at her again, closer this time before he seem to nod to himself. "You're the younger daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark correct?"

"Aye I am. Arya Stark my Lord Bracken."

"Why would Eddard, and your King brother send a woman to do a man's job?"

It was a dig at her sex. She was not surprised. House Bracken had converted to the Faith of the Seven like so many southern houses after the Andal invasion. And thus had a southerners view of the acceptable gender roles.

"They did not. I am here of my own volition. After all, it is always a woman that must clean up the mess of men." Was her own, equally cutting reply, as she took a modest hunk of bread, dipped it in salt and popped it into her mouth, washing it down with a swing of wine, hiding her wince at the tart dry flavor behind a careful mask of pleasantry.

Jonos' reaction was to glower, grunting. Once his guests had partaken in the platter, he turned, and lead the way inside the castle proper.

Two days they had argued. Or rather Jonos and Tytos argued. Lord Bracken hadn't wanted her a part of these talks, but could not find fault in the logic that she was the one that was brokering talks as she was the one that actually broke the siege in the first place.

Finally, after two days, were Arya let both men had blustered and argued themselves horse before she took control of the talks, an agreement was made, under the condition that as Arya and her forces were the ones that broke the siege, she be the one that Jonos actively surrendered to.

It was petty and spiteful, and when Lord Bracken bent knee to lay his sword at her feet, a symbolic gesture of surrender in his great hall, he mumbled "Never thought I'd surrender to a woman." to low for most of those gather to hear, Arya just snorted, and accepted his surrender.

In the predawn light, the morning she would leave, Lord Jonos found her in the courtyard, with a bare hand pressed against the charred stump of what was once House Bracken's ancient weirwood tree, cut down when they had converted. Her eyes closed, and lips still, but he knew prayer when he saw it.

It was strange to see someone, even of the North still actively keeping to the Old Gods.

"What do you pray for Stark?"

"What does anyone pray for Lord Jonos? Guidance

The Lord grunted, arms folding across his chest. "Prayer is a useless thing" The man was clearly thinking of his wife, always locked away in devout prayer since The Mountain and came and burnt down their home. Even now as they rebuild, she did little else but pray. Arya had heard the talk among the servants, and she herself had seen little of Lady Bracken since she had been here, so she believed it.

"Prayer without action are cold comforts. Try giving her something to do. Set her to work fixing what was broken." She suggested kindly.

Arya didn't so much pray, as she spoke, sometimes she asked. But mostly she unburden herself of her doubts, and her troubles and her secrets, for the trees did not offer judgment in their silent gaze, or berate her with their still mouths. Faith did not keep hungry bellies full, or warm homes. It did not ward away bandits or shore up the walls of a keep. People and action did. Hunting and fording and cooking kept bellies full. Gathering and chopping wood kept a fire in a hearth to warm a home. Fighting pushed back the bandits, and hard labor patched walls.

If all Arya ever did was pray because of fear and helplessness, it would be all she ever did. And it would be all that Lady Bracken would do.

The she-wolf didn't know it then, but that was the moment she won over Jonos Bracken.

Lord Bracken had given her five hundred men, two hundred of which were infantry, Blackwood four hundred mounted and hundred archers. Neither Houses had much to spare in way of consumable supplies, but each man had what he could carry with him. A thousand additional men, including a number of Knights, Ser Kurleket among them. Lord Tytos had sent his third born son, Hoster with her. He was a young lad of five and ten, with short black hair with a terrible cowlick and a clean shaven baby face. Tall and like his father, he a near seven feet of gangly gawky walking disaster And yet his Lord father seemed to believe she could turn the bookish lad into something of a confident fighting man.

Or he hopes she will take him into her bed. Either way Lord Blackwood would stood to gain something. The schemes of nobility, more so those in the South never failed to give Arya a headache.

The additional men, two hundred of which were without mounts would slow them down. And it was a several days ride over rough countryside to Riverrun. A ride made more time consuming by the fresh snow fall the night before. But Arya had faith that they'd make it before word could reach the Frey forces that laid siege to the castle of House Bracken and Blackwood's new alligence, allowing them to catch them unaware as Arya and her riders had caught the Bracken force flatfooted at Raventree Hall.

That first night, after making camp, the old gods decided to give the she-wolf the aid she needed. At least that was the only explanation she had for it.

In pairs, and groups of threes and fours, southern wolves came out of the shadows that first night. The Bracken men had all reached for their weapons, preparing to leap to their feet when the first few packs slipped into the light cast by the many camp fires. Arya's raised hand halted them as well as her words or the grip of the Blackwood soldiers that Arya had forced them to intermingle with.

"No. Wait and be still." She ordered, steel-gray eyes seeking out and watching each wolf as it entered. Nymeria and Lady had come to her side, their gaze just as intent, watching their smaller southern cousins as they moved further into camp.

Each wolf that entered passed by her, brushing against first her leg then the sides of both direwolves who gave each a small greeting sniff, as if to memorize the scents of these new comers. The wolves weaved around the camp, stepping lightly over gear and legs, sniffing at people and tents.

Near by, horses tossed their head and stopped their hooves nervously, straining against their tethers to the point that Arya was worried they would either break free or injure themselves in their fear. Taking a breath she half closed her eyes and reached out, not with hands but with her mind. The mind of horses were not unfamiliar to her. She had bonded with her own mare in such a way over the years. But this was different. She was attempting to sooth the mind of hundreds of horses at once, placing her faith in herd mentality to make the work less stressful.

Minutes passed, but slowly so so slowly she soothed their fears, quieted their minds, planted the seed that these wolves were friends, a part of the herd, much like the direwolves at her side or their riders. It took another long minute to untangle her mind from the herd's. When she came back fully into herself, the last of the wolves had found places to settle.

Arya was amused to see that everyone of her original riders suddenly had a wolf companion. Thirty-six wolves for her thirty-six riders. The rest of the camp was stun silent, staring at her, at the wolves, at the horses, and at each other

"Old blood, older magic" One of the Blackwood men muttered, causing Osha to snort near by as she ran her fingers through the mane of the brown wolf that had chosen her.

"Well then... make sure to rest up everyone, we have a long march ahead of us yet." Arya attempted to push pass the sudden awkwardness, making to gather her tankard of spice cider and retire to her tent.

"Wot? Thats it? Three dozen wolves walk into the camp and you just gonna say good night?"

Of course it was a Bracken solider, some nameless knight with a lowborn accent. Arya turned to address the man who had spoken.

"Ah yes, the wolves..." She said as if such a thing needed to be addressed. "It should go without saying that I expect each and every one of you to view them the same way you would war hounds." Someone, Grimhil she suspected, but did not look to confirm sounded as if they had just got a mouth full of ale down the wrong pipe at her words.

"We ride at dawn."

Dawn came and dawn went. And the wolves were not the only prequilar occurrence. Word must have gotten around the smaller villages because speratically over the next three days small folk, dressed for winter, and armed and armored in different degrees, some mounted, some on foot, slowly blended into her ranks. Most of whom were women, their arms and armor having belonged to a brother, a father, a son or husband. Others were boys, with little more then peach fuzz on their upper lip and a dusting of whiskers on their chin, who had lost fathers or older brothers to war, to illness or injury.

The men of House Bracken called her Lady Stark.
The men of House Blackwood called her Lady Arya.

The small folk, thin from a lack of food, but eyes harden from suffering that met her own called her Lady Wolf.

Thousands of miles south, in the middle of a countryside, leading a war-host, and she couldn't escape being called a Lady. Arya groaned, and behind her Gendry laughed.

Each time they stopped to make camp, Arya and Osha set to drilling the small folk, Gendry and Grimhil saw to their weapons and armor. Dacey and Ser Cullen worked on intergrating the Blackwoods and Brackens together with Arya's original forces.

It was a hodgepodge fighting force to be sure. But with time and luck it would be a well oiled fighting force. The first test would be a major one though. Breaking the siege at Riverrun would be no easy task.

But they'd get it done. She felt it in her soul, in her bones. In the sweet sting of winter's chill as it burned her lungs.

They'd get it done.

Tywin 1:

Leaning carefully back against the pillows that propped him up as he went over the reports from across the realm, Tywin winced, the sharp pain he felt in his lower back and abdomen lingering ailments from a crossbow bolt to the bowels. Ones that had nearly crippled him, any further to the right and the bolt would have lodge into his spine, likely rendering him unable to walk had he lived.

As it was, he had been lucky, the gods must have taken pity on him, a chamber maid had found him shortly after Tyrion had done his deed and had summon both a guard and the only Maester in the Red Keep that could be roused from sleep, Qyburn. He didn't trust he former Maester turned Master of Whisperers. He knew the rumors that surrounded the old man, and had had gotten many missives from the Citadel urging him to send the so called 'Bloody Maester' away, or kill him for his unholy practices.

If living meant that he often had to work while reclined in bed as standing or sitting upright for longer periods pained him, then so be it. Physical discomfort was a small price to pay for a few more years to crush the enemies of House Lannister and better secure his family's legacy.

At two and seventy, Tywin was not a man to fear death, and in truth he did not expect to survive the winter. What was of concern however was his children, and their youngest son whom sat upon the Iron Throne.

The Lord of Casterly Rock, and Hand of the King was no fool, he had known of the sinful affair between his twin children long before Cersei herself confessed of it to him in a attempt to sway him from wedding her to Loras Tyrell. He had known of it before he had wedded her to Robert, before Jamie had been made a Kingsguard even.

Since the day Cersei had flowered and had her first moons-blood he had attempted to keep them separate, bringing Cersei with him to court while Jamie remained behind to further his training and studies to one day take his place as Lord of the Rock.

His efforts were for naught in the end. With three golden haired cubs as evidence, and dozens of Robert's dark haired bastards in the capital alone, it was clear to him that his children had managed to continue their sexual depravity.

His daughter was nearly as black a mark on their family name as her eldest son. More then that Tywin was afraid that he could see shades of his old friend Aerys when he looked at Cersei. Aerys had not always been the Mad-King. Fickle, vain, proud, a yes, a temper. But he hadn't been insane nor cruel. As a boy, and young man, the then prince Aerys had been charming, generous and handsome.

However, an unhappy marriage, the death of three infant sons, two still births, Queen Rhaella's multiple miscarriages and his time as a captive during the Defiance of Duskendale along with other unknown factors had cast his former friend into a bottomless pit of despair, rage, paranoia and cruelty.

Tywin could recognize the same behaviors within his own daughter. And it disturbed him greatly, the Seven Kingdoms could not suffer another insane ruler, former or otherwise, anywhere near the Iron Throne.

Perhaps it was time to send Cersei away, back to the Rock. She will kick up a fuss of course. But he had no problems with having her drugged and bound if he needed to. His eldest grandson had done enough harm to the realm as it was.

Joffery had been sick in the head, cruel yet craven. A foul screeching blight on the Lannister name. Tywin knew by which names both common and noble had called the eldest of his grandchildren. The Mad-Boy-King, The Illborn, Aerys the Third. It was fortunate, Tywin supposed, that in the records of history, the boy would be remembered as a Baratheon, and not a Lannister.

Tommen was his brother's opposite in nearly every way. The youngest of the three he had come into his own now that he no longer had to live in terror of his brother. Though it would be years yet before the tenderhearted young man developed a true King's strength of will to go with his compassion and sense of justice. And he still needed to learn more then the piecemeal and rudimentary skills he currently processed with a sword. Perhaps it would give him the strength he lacked.

The Boy King's greatest flaw was that he was pious, and easily manipulated. Tywin was wise enough to admit, at least to himself, that the latter was in part his fault. It was he who drummed into Tommen's head the importance of being a wise king, and wise kings listen to their advisers. The western man had not foreseen the rise of the High Sparrow, nor the man's influence over his grandson, or the rest of the court.

The blame for the Sparrows rise to power and influence he laid a at the feet of his fool daughter. She had always been short sighted with her schemes and maneuvers. And he himself had been bedridden, fighting infection and fever as he recovered from Tyrion's crossbow bolt, and had been in no condition to thwart the schemes of the Dowager Queen.

The Tyrell girl, who had managed to ensnare Tommen at the beginning of their marriage had lost a great deal of influence after her own time in the care of the Sparrow. She was slowly gaining it back of course. She was nothing if not charming and resourceful. A far better heir for the Queen of Roses then her fruit of a grandson Loras at the very least.

Margaery had chosen to send Mira Forrester, her lady-in-waiting back home to the north, escorted by Brienne of Tarth who had become something of a friend to his eldest son since she escorted him home years prior. Cersei wanted both the girl and the warrior killed, he would not allow it.

The Northern girl may be carrying intelligence to the north by the simple fact she had spent many years living at court, as the Queen's Lady-in-waiting. She likely was, all ladies-in-waiting over heard something sensitive at one time or another.

It made little difference. The Starks weretyr in the North, and there they would remain until the Spring, when hopefully cooler heads will have prevailed and the North will be ready to bend the knee once more.

Of his only granddaughter he knew little. She had been in Dorne for many years now. A scheme of Tyrion's had betrothed her to the youngest Martell boy to secure the allegiance of Dorne during the War of Kings. That she remained was because Tywin himself actually agreed with the arrangement, though it was a double edge sword.

It kept Myrcella away from the capital, and away from the influence of her fool mother. But placed Tommen's heir in the hands of a House that held no love for the Lannisters. What mechanisms those whoresons planned he could only guessed.

But until the Tyrell girl gave his grandson a child of their own, his sister was heir, and with reports of Carrion Fever in the Riverlands and rumors of cases of the flux down in flea bottom, Tywin wanted her to remain as far from King's Landing as possible, in case the rumors of the pale mare ridding through the city were true, and it came to the Red Keep.

Of his own sons... son. Jamie was balanced on a knifes edge. He could see it in his eyes. Tywin knew that when he finally fell from it, it would be as a sword into the quench. What became of his son then only the Seven knew. Would he emerge, tempard, harder, sharper then before after being forged in the fires of war and adversity and loss. Or would he break, snap and shatter, to weak to adapt, to withstand.

Tywin did not know the answer. Jamie had returned from war a hand short and a quieter, more thoughtful man. The death of Joffery had not aided matters. Perhaps he would send him south, to Dorne. Myrcella had been without a Kingsguard for far to long, and Tywin could wait a while longer for Jamie to fulfill his word and renounce his vows. He was the girl's father after all, who better to protect her.

Or perhaps he'd send him to the Riverlands, with a modest host to end the siege of Riverrun. The Freys had mucked it up long enough.

As for the Imp... Had he been born healthy and strong, had he not taken Joanna from this world, from him, Tywin might have embraced him then. Tyrion was intelligent, shrewd, and cunning, to stubborn to die, for all Tywin had wished him dead over the years. He fought for what was his, to protect it, to claim it. However Tyrion was a imp, and had killed his mother coming into this world. And since that day he had continued to shame Tywin, with his drinking, his whoring, his very presence offended him.

More then that, the old lion suspected that the imp was in fact Aerys' bastard. He had no proof, and Joanna had never admitted to having either an affair, or being raped by the last Targaryen King. But he suspected.

But; Tywin grimaced as he shifted. But, he could almost respect, almost admire the half-man. Time and again he had escaped death, slipped the sword aimed for his neck, the noose of House Lannisters enemies. He had turned the farce of a trail he had been put on onto its head, and then escaped the night before his trail by combat, but not before hammering a crossbow into Tywin's gut and killing that whore he had claimed to have loved.

And now he was Hand to the Targaryen Queen, Tywin's equal and opposite.

The silver haired whore, with her army of sellswords, horse men and eunuchs was proving to be a real problem, to say nothing of the three dragons she commanded. The girl had the supplies of a small empire to back her, and her warriors were veterans, already battle harden. She had claimed Dragonstone, and the coast of the Blackwater from Rooks Rest to the tip of Crackclaw Point. Along with Storms End and the vast majority of the Stormlands.

A fortnight ago, a report arrived, Castle Darry had fallen, and was now held by Targaryen forces who have wasted no time in claiming the Crossroads, and now from Saltpans to Dyre Den, lords and ladies were quick to bend the knee.

Two days later, another raven arrived, Stone Hedge and Raventree Hall flew Tully colors. Someone had broke the Bracken siege and gotten both houses to swear fealty.

And now today. Two ravens. One from the Master of Whispers.

"Fish swim the Trident once more, and a great wolf pack roams the south."

And from Walder Frey.

"Some upstart flying Stark colors slaughtered my sons and men at Riverrun and freed Edmure, and liberated the Castle.

I thought those damn wolves all stayed in the North during Winter"

As unpleasant as Lord Walder was, his words were simply blunt enough. The siege of Riverrun had ended, though not to the crowns benefit. As Edmure Tully was now free to reclaim his place as Lord of both Riverrun and the Riverlands.

While true that the Freys still held his wife, Roslin Frey, and his new born daughter, Lysa, so named for her husband's late sister. Even that disgusting old man wouldn't dare harm either.

The idea that this upstart and his forces were Starks was ridiculous It would have taken a sizable host, at least equal to that that had been laying siege to Riverrun in order to smash the Frey's so completely as to be referred to as a slaughter. And a host of over a thousand men, and the required support would have been easily spotted coming from the North.

No, Tywin wasn't fool enough to think this was truly a Stark. A upstart yes. Perhaps a younger son of a Riverlord, discontent with Frey and Lannister rule, piggybacking on the reputation that Robb Stark, the so called King in the North had earned in battle when he himself had come south. Flying Stark banners, to inspire both loyalty and fear no doubt.

Clever, very clever. But Clever may win a battle, but it did not win wars.

Picking up his quill, he began to draft a letter to his forces in the West. The Lannister Army would track down and either put down this little band of rebels like dogs, or hound them long enough for the forces from the capital and the reach could muster and arrive.

The last thing they needed was for the War of Kings to respark because of some junior upstart.