Elaine

Fingers grazed the verdant leaves of the rose bushes that enveloped most of the manse. Crimson, gold, pale white, pink, she liked to think that the yellows had always been her favorite. Most favored the red, but she was reminded of blood and of Lannisters, both things that she could have done without. If only her grandmother didn't seem to have control of her a hundreds of miles away in Dorne, but alas, even there the reach of the matron could prick her finger and bring her round to the blood she loathed so much. Five good years she had spent in Dorne, away from those who scorned her, turned their backs on her after the incident. And she had all their names in a little book to repay the favor as her younger sister took her spot.

Elaine Tyrell, the forgotten daughter, the spoiled one. Why she had been summoned back to Westeros was beyond her, but she knew that things were not boding well. Every man left and right were calling themselves kings and Margaery's first husband was among one of those killed. She knew that their grandmother would have other plans, another place to move their swords, and now she was going to deploy Elaine and make use of her odd set of talents not typically acquired by noble ladies.

Highgarden spanned in front of her, the place of her childhood, warm and supposedly lovely. It also had been lovely enough to make her life a nightmare, ostracizing her when she could have used support. Her own father had been unable to look at her, ashamed that he had allowed this to happen and now that Elaine would serve little purpose. The Tyrells would not stoop to marry one of their children to anyone but of high caliber and if one could not be married…

Oh, how I missed this place, she thought tartly as she brought herself to finally enter the courtyard, eyes sliding among the green knights of the South. Many of them had recently seen battle at the Battle of the Black Water, but aside from that, they had seen little else other than tourneys. Seeing how her sister and younger brother would not be there, she braced herself for her meeting with her grandmother.

Someone was already waiting to whisk her away, dressed in the pale blue of House Tyrell and giving her a bit of a pompous look at her attire, which consisted of the gold of Dorne and was equipped with trousers beneath the slitted skirt. Horse handed away, Elaine glanced up at the castle in its glory and hunched her shoulders as she followed the stewart into the halls of her childhood and back toward the gardens where her grandmother, Olenna, would be waiting for her.

Grandmother Olenna was certainly a sight to behold, having not changed much over the years. She gave Elaine a petulant look, eyes glancing over the attire. "In your Dornish whore attire I see," she greeted kindly, not bothering to rise to embrace her eldest granddaughter.

The remark stung, but Elaine sucked on her teeth and then managed a smile at her. What had she been expecting? A royal welcome, a hug and a kiss? No, Olenna cared little for pleasantries, especially among her own family. "Lovely to see you again, grandmother," she replied evenly, pecking the Queen of Thorns on her cheek and taking the seat across from her as the woman glared at the stewart and dismissed him with a swing of her hand, as if she were trying to swat a fly away.

"You've even gotten a bit tan from the sun, certainly not the skintone of a lady at court," Olenna grumbled, picking up her glass of wine. "Pour some for yourself if you'd like it. Arbor gold."

Elaine helped herself and crossed one leg, wineglass poised in her hand as she gazed intently at her grandmother. "So," she began carefully. "What do I owe this wonderful summoning?"

"Well seeing that things have become unstable in Dorne due to Oberyn's death, I thought it would be best to retract you here," Olenna told her primly.

"And place me where? Certainly not King's Landing, you've already got Margaery and Loras there wooing the court. Why would you need me? I'm not exactly southorn court material, or have you forgotten about the incompetence of our knights?" Elaine reminded her, taking a deep gulp of the expensive wine. "No, you need the skills I've acquired in Dorne or else you would have just left me there."

"You know, I always thought you were the most like me," Olenna told her, shifting the subject slightly.

"Ouch, that's the worst insult you've given me yet," Elaine gasped in mock disbelief.

"Such a shame that it all had to end because one knight thought he could get away with taking your maidenhood. You certainly would have made a force in court," Olenna continued, the reminder of her past like a thorn in her side.

"I didn't come here to listen to you talk about how great I could have been had I not been raped," Elaine told her grandmother in a crisp, bitter tone. "Where am I going and what for?"

"Stannis Baratheon. Your idiot of a brother, Loras, was so infatuated with the man that my stupid son gave him all of our swords. No one loves Stannis, but he is truly the one our swords should have belonged to. And you know how I am, I never like to put all my eggs in one basket and using you…"

Most people thought Elaine was dead, she might as well have been due to being a soiled lady. The Tyrells never spoke of her and thus she faded out of existence, an invisible pawn to be moved when the time was right. "Oh, so you're not putting all your faith in the Lannisters? It's a shame you don't rule the house grandmother, or you could have used your swords to win the Black Water for Stannis rather than stabbing him in the back. Now, why would you think he'd forget such a thing and happily accept my arrival with the promise of swords that were just up the asses of his men?"

"The Lannisters still have great power and we'd be fools not to join them. However, my sources say that Stannis is going to ride north and if he were to acquire what remains of their forces, aside from those owned by the Boltons…"

"I still don't get it. The north is fractured, especially since the Red Wedding killed the Stark King. Not to mention that it's certainly unkind of you to send me north after I've been toasting my tits in Dorne. I suppose you're just hoping that I freeze to death."

"The northerners are a loyal group and they haven't forgotten how the Boltons or the Freys sold out their king. If Stannis can unite them and rebuild his army-"

"It will still not be larger than ours. If you're planning on marrying Margaery to Joffrey, what promise are you going to make Stannis? That we'll have Loras put a knife in his throat and become a Kingslayer like Jaime Lannister? No, father wouldn't like that and Loras doesn't have the balls."

"I have other methods of obtaining a king that is more subdued and easier to control," Olenna told her curtly. "And the Lannisters are not worth trusting. We'll need another route out and that'll be easier made if we already have our hands in Stannis's honey pot. We give him you as a ward and make a promise that we will repay him for the battle he lost."

"And what if his Red Woman decides they should just burn me? Or Stannis decides my head should come off for the treason of my family?"

"He'd be a fool to. Even the promise of an alliance with the strongest house in the south will keep your head on your shoulders. He needs our swords and you're the key to securing them."

"What of my fate if you decide Stannis is not the route?"

"You're a clever woman and I doubt you spent all your time in Dorne drinking away your sorrows," Olenna nodded toward the sword at her waist. "Earn Stannis's trust and promise him whatever you want. If he can secure the North, we'll consider arranging our swords in his favor, but not before."

This is a damned suicide mission. "Great," Elaine grumbled. "I assume everything has already been arranged to bring me north to him before he departs?"

"To leave at sunset."

"Wonderful," Elaine hissed glancing out into the gardens. "Pack me enough whore dresses to see me through the cold, I hope…"

"Only the best for my granddaughter."

Hm, yes, only the best for Margaery and the short end of the stick for me. Thanks Grandma.

Stannis

The ships had been prepared for the sailing to East Watch by the sea, it was only by Melisandre's suggestion that he remained at Dragonstone any longer. At first, she would only give him cryptic reasons as to why they waited, but he couldn't wait much forever, as the Night's Watch needed his assistance against the wildlings and she had also edged him in that direction. After being hopelessly dashed and defeated at King's Landing, he had to lick his wounds and find new subjects that would fight for him. The North, while partially controlled by the Boltons, a lot of traitors and mutineers that he did not want in his kingdom, the rest were loyal as dogs. He knew who to entreat, but had to get there first.

A rap echoed in his chamber as he stood, ready to ride north. He glanced over to see Ser Davos entering the room, giving him a respectful bow before announcing, "A Tyrell ship has landed here."

The words made Stannis blink apprehensively and head for the balcony, Melisandre whisking toward him in a crimson billow as she espied the ship beside him. They had been part of the reason of his defeat alongside of the return of the Lannisters. He had entreated them before and they had just laughed at him, thought he wasn't suited to be king. Last he'd heard, the one who married his late brother, Renly, was to be marrying Joffrey. Why would they send someone?

"Why?" Stannis grit through his teeth, wondering what sort of gift they were going to give him to make a fool of him yet another time.

"Your grace, they bring you one of their daughters as a ward," Melisandre told him smoothly, just at his arm as she gazed down the crags.

"That doesn't change the fact that they are responsible for our ruin at King's Landing," Stannis replied bitterly.

"No, not taking me is why the battle fell through," she reminded him darkly, turning her eyes to glare back at Davos. "The Tyrell will be useful, especially after uniting the North. It means they are offering their support once you've restored the Starks."

"You do not think it is a trick or a ploy?" Stannis asked her.

"No, why would they send you one of their true borne children, elsewise? This is good news, your grace, it means you have more support in the south than originally believed," Melisandre insisted.

Stannis turned back around and gazed intently at Davos. "See that the Tyrell is brought to me first. I want to hear it from her mouth," he told his hand before turning his attention back to the waves that were crashing against the rocky shoals.

Minutes passed before the door creaked open again and Ser Davos cleared his throat to indicate their return. When Stannis turned around, a young woman stood in the pale Tyrell blue, a cloak of molted periwinkle blue and seafoam green fluttering around her shoulders like wings of a butterfly. Her soft, loose curls were pinned back in a low bun, though several lockes had flown away from the strong winds outside. She looked rather like her sister Margaery aside from the few years seniority she possessed.

"Your grace," she gave a low bow, waiting only for his permission to rise, and as she bowed, he noticed the glint of a pommel beneath the folds of her attire.

"Rise," Stannis told her gruffly, narrowing his eyes at her as he gave her a once over again. This was not Margaery or Loras, this was a face unfamiliar to him. "What news does House Tyrell have for me?"

Rising stiffly, her eyes slid between those in the room. "House Tyrell offers me, their first borne daughter, Elaine Tyrell, as a ward as a sign of good faith."

Vaguely, in the back of his memories, he seemed to recall her name, but it had been some time since he had heard about the young lady. "A sign of good faith? Where was that good faith when I needed it in King's Landing?"

His words were harsh, like nails on a chalkboard as he leered at her, but the Tyrell did not balk or flinch. "Our numbers were just a fragment of what the Lannisters possessed. The bulk of our army did not march on King's Landing and our numbers remain reserved by Highgarden until they are truly needed. I would not have been sent before you if my family did not believe you as the true king. Our position in King's Landing is to benefit you when you win the North. Joffrey and his siblings are abominations that have no claim to the throne and the Tyrells see that, but until you have united the North under your banner, I act as a ward to sustain the promise that our 100,000 swords will rally to you when the time is right."

Stannis brooded silently at her words. Truly, the crimson cloaks were the ones that had swept upon them like a tide of blood, and the Tyrells had just been a small fragment of that. With the high positions they now held in court, right beside the bastard Lannisters, they could turn on a whim and overthrow the illegitimate heirs. The promise of all of the Tyrell army was more than he could have ever hoped for and it would be enough to combat the Lannisters. Once he had the North, he could free the Riverlands and then collapse on the capitol with the help of the Tyrells.

His eyes sought Melisandre to gauge the truth of the words that came from the girl's mouth. "See, my lord? The Lord of Light is truly looking out for you, you are the true king," she muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

Swallowing the lump that had been in his throat, he turned his attention back the Elaine and then to Davos. "See that Lady Elaine's things are brought over to the lead ship and that she is made comfortable. I intend to sail this evening for the North."

"Of course, your grace," Ser Davos bid before turning to show the Tyrell back out.

A woman with a sword, he hadn't thought the Tyrells were the type to arm their daughters with anything more than their wit, but then again, Stannis had all but forgotten this one existed. Once the door clicked shut, his thought consumed him again, he barely noticed that he was being steered toward one of the fire with Melisandre, who was gazing deep within the tantalizing flames.

"The girl is pinnacle to your success, do you see it? Do you see it in the fire?" Melisandre urged him to gaze into the flickering lights. Within the waves, he could see the faceless form of the Tyrell, spinning, and as her skirts moved, a leg stepping out and a sword brandished in hand. The sword locked with that of a lion and as the Tyrell balked at the strength, a wolf leapt past her and began savaging the lion. Thorns extended from her arms and the wolf possessed an prickly set of armor wrought in vines. "The rose and the wolf, the girl is the key to the North," Melisandre whispered seductively in his ear.

There were few wolves left, only two is Stannis recalled correctly, and one was a bastard. Why he had listened to Davos in the first place was beyond him. It was so clear in the flames that the little rose would help unite him wolf at the Wall, someone he had been intending on seeking on his voyage to help the Night's Watch against their impending battle with the wildlings.

Jon

Snow nipped at his nose and his waist felt alarmingly light without Longclaw on him. A stark landscape climbed in front of him, speckled with the tents of the wildling army that wanted to cross the threshold. He knew why and he didn't blame them, but to allow the Freefolk across meant that the North would be tossed into turmoil. They would not bend their knees to any king, not even Mance. Speaking of which, he knew what he had to do. The wildlings and any form of attack they had would crumble if Mance were gone.

Eyes watched him carefully, leering at the Crow that had killed one of his own to become one of them, but he'd never truly lost his black feathers. Many of his own brothers viewed him as a traitor as did the wildlings now. The only solace he had was that he knew he was doing the right thing, even if few others believed it. There would be no walking out of this, no one would let him go after he killed the King Beyond the Wall.

Steeling himself, he found Mance's tent, fingers curling tightly into fists, the wildlings did nothing to stop him. He was unarmed and there to entreat their king. Mance was waiting by the small hearth that turned the tent into a little hotbox, staving away the cold and snow that raged just outside the leather flap.

He was there to 'parley' with Mance, though his intentions were much darker than that.

"I must say Snow, I'm glad we could come to an understanding. They are people too, you know," Mance said, barely casting his eyes back to see who was behind him, somehow knowing it was Jon.

The battle was hopeless, they didn't have enough men on the Watch and Mance knew it. On top of that, Jon was exhausted by everything that had just happened, in spite of his years, he felt old. This was a means to an end, no one would sing of what he had done, but those who knew would remember him. Part of him wished he had never left Winterfell he had been beside Robb, to advise him to never cross the Freys or have Ghost defending his half-brother as well. On top of that, the battle at Castle Black had been one that wore him for the worse.

Ygritte had died in his arms. They could have never been together, not unless Jon had been willing to forsake everything he stood for. Between her and the loss of most of his family, Jon didn't know where he had left to turn. Ending Mance could be his final act before he joined his family on the other side.

Mance was pouring a goblet of wine, offering one to Jon. "A toast before we discuss the arrangements," the ex-Ranger offered, his eyes sliding to the table where Jon's lie.

Jon tried to avert his gaze before Mance noticed that he was looking at the cheese knife, but it was too late.

"Really boy?" Mance cocked an eyebrow at him, withdrawing the cup he had offered. "Your last act of heroism? Kill the King Beyond the Wall and then have his wildlings take you after? I took you for brighter than that... but I suppose you really are Eddard Stark's son. You're certainly just as eager to lose your head."

Mance was now in between the path to the knife and Jon's plan to assassinate him was foiled. Now he was at the mercy of Mance and if he tried to wrestle him for the knife, the others would hear and enter the tent. How long could Jon hold him off? Especially now that Mance knew Jon's intention?

But it didn't come to that.

Wahooooooo. Wahooo. Wahoooooooo.

A horn blasted in the distance, but it did not belong to the Night's Watch or the wildling horde. Both Mance and Jon looked at each other in disbelief before heading for the tent flap to see hell had been unleashed upon them. Wildlings were trying to reach for their weapons, but there was little hope as mounted calvary tore through their leather and furs. Castle forged steel was more than a match for the poor weapons they boasted and most of their efforts were dashed. The army of wildlings crumpled and striding through the wreckage was a man in a pronged helm, a flaming stag upon his breast, approaching the tent where Jon and Mance stood in awe and shock.

Mance, knowing his defeat, did not even bother to reach for his weapons. Jon just ogled at the crimson woman that rode on a mare beside the dark warrior, quickly followed up by a sky blue ride who was wiping blood off on their dark green trousers. From the style of their helm, Jon thought it was the Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell, by the sigil emblazoned on their horse's tact, but it didn't make any sense to him. His mind reeled and he realized that the plea for help to the Kings of Westeros had been answered by none other than Stannis Baratheon.

A wildling was dragged forward, bleeding profusely from their head and dropped in front of Stannis's horse.

"Is that him?" his captor asked gruffly, one of the Baratheon's knights.

"Y-yes, that's Mance, the King Beyond the Wall," they stammered and with a small nod from their king, the knight ran the wildling through and dumped them unceremoniously onto the ground.

"Your grace, all these bodies will need to be burned," the crimson woman beside Stannis muttered quietly.

Stannis gave a stout nod and removed his helm, revealing a grave looking man as he leered down at them. His eyes focused on Jon. "Black. You're from the Night's Watch?" he inquired.

Finding his voice finally, Jon stepped forward. "I am Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark. I came here to parley with Mance shortly before your arrival," he explained, glancing between him and the blue rider.

Stannis's dark eyes flickered at this. "Yes... you've got his look," the man muttered before turning his attention back to Mance. "I have come here to assist the Night's Watch and take care of this man who claims to be the King Beyond the Wall. He shall be executed for his false claims and war against Westeros."

Even though Jon had just been contemplating how he would kill Mance, he paused at what Stannis said. "No," he said quietly, drawing the brows of Stannis who was astounded by what he said. "Your grace, may I suggest that you arrest him instead? Mance Rayder has had plenty of time and opportunity to kill me, but chose not to. His people are afraid and just wanted safe passage, in spite of their ill manner of trying to obtain such."

The woman in red shifted on her horse and leaned in to whisper something in the king's ear. Stannis's nostrils flared and then he began nodding slowly. "Very well, out of respect for your father, we shall take him prisoner to Castle Black. Ser Davos, see to it that the dead are piled up and burned. Lady Elaine you are welcome to assist in coordinating the men in Mance Rayder's escort."

"Very well, your grace," the blue knight bowed her head and Jon blinked apprehensively, taken aback that the voice was clearly feminine. Turning her pale mare she gave out an order and a few soldiers came to her call, dismounting with them, the periwinkle cloak billowed around her, framed by pale mink fur on the collar.

Flanked by the soldiers, they bound Mance's hands with rope and had him waiting while the bulk of the military moved forward, wildlings scattered into the forest like mice before cats. The bodies were collected and piled up, thrown like ragdolls, less than worthy of a proper burial. However, a fire was ignited and through the flickering flames, a black smog and the sickly smell of roasting flesh rose into the air. The Tyrell had removed her helm respectfully, one of the few to watch as the wildlings were given their burial, flanked by Mance who appeared just as grim.

Across the fire, Jon noticed that the woman all in red was watching him.