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The North Remembers

Chapter 43: Leavetakings

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(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

A hesitant knocking woke Sansa from her sleep the next morning. With a groan for the pounding in her head, she rolled over, wishing she were merely dead. The moment consciousness flooded her brain, the ache from the Theon-shaped hole in her chest returned. 

"Who is it?" she called blearily from beneath her pillow. 

"It's me," Arya's voice said. 

Instantly, Sansa was fully awake, reaching for her robe and slithering out from beneath the furs of her bed. Arya hardly ever sought her out. Sansa opened the door, her surprise continuing at seeing Arya looking so hesitant. 

"Well, come in," Sansa said. 

Arya did, but the moment the door was closed, she turned to her sister. "Bran and the other lords were deciding who was going south and who was staying here. But when Mother said I'd be staying here with her, Bran said I should talk to you." Arya paused, uncertainty on her face. "Over whether I'd be in Winterfell with Mother or off to war with you and Jon."

"Is there something you want–?" But before Sansa could finish the question, Arya was shaking her head. 

"He just– Bran meant something by it. I can tell when he knows something."

"And you hate not knowing." Sansa went to her bed, patting the furs next to her. Hesitantly, Arya sat. Sansa tucked an errant strand of hair back behind Arya's ear, enjoying the fact that her baby sister still let her. "I'm going to have to discuss something unpleasant with you. From how nervous you look, I believe you already suspect."

Arya swallowed. She said nothing, her eyes mistrusting. 

"I need you to understand that we will not force you," Sansa whispered. "That is not what I am asking. But have you considered–"

"Marriage?" Arya guessed. 

Sansa nodded. 

Her younger sister was instantly forlorn. "I just want to fight ."

Sansa smiled. "That's never stopped any man from being married. Well, unless you want to be a Kingsguard. I'm afraid I will have to draw a line."

Arya's head whipped up to stare at her sister so fast that Sansa feared it would fall off. 

Sansa could see as a million questions ran through Arya's eyes and could only smile and try to head them off. "The first thing Bran and I spoke of was how you would continue your training. The second was a suitable prospect for you."

No emotion was discernible from Arya's face. "Go on."

Sansa ran her hand through Arya's hair again. "Gendry."

Arya blinked. She leaned away from her sister's touch. " Gendry? "

Sansa nodded. 

Arya frowned. "Is this a joke? It's not a very funny one."

"I…" The words died on Sansa's lips, so completely surprised by Arya's reaction. "No, it's not a joke, Arya. Do you dislike him? I can tell Bran, we'll think of something–"

Arya held up a hand, closing her eyes for patience behind her splayed fingers. "It's not a joke." She looked through them up at Sansa. "Why is it not a joke?"

"...because we like Gendry?" Sansa started hesitantly. "Do you like Gendry?"

"Yes," Arya said quickly. "But he's an idiot. Why are you marrying me to an idiot?"

"We're not marrying you yet," Sansa had to clarify. "Arya, I have a plan . A plan that will only work with your help and if you agree to it."

Some tension relaxed from Arya's frame. "What is it?"

Sansa took a breath. This was the part she suspected Arya would like least. "There is no Baratheon lord at present. But, as king, Jon can legitimize Gendry and name him his vassal."

"Oh." Arya deflated a bit. "And I'd be his lady."

"Well," Sansa started. "We've a war on. It wouldn't exactly be sitting around in a castle."

"Maybe not now," Arya replied. "But I would be someday. What'd be your plan for us now?"

"Get betrothed and travel with us down south. You break off from the army with Gendry and a thousand soldiers and journey through the Stormlands getting the Baratheon lords to swear to follow him and lend support."

Arya made a gagging sound. " You'd be good at that, Sansa. Not me."

A laugh burst from Sansa. "Actually, I was terrible."

A glimmer lit Arya's eye at being trusted with another of her sister's secrets. "It doesn't seem fair, though. That you'd just give Gendry a thousand men, all because he's a king's bastard."

"Arya…" A smile grew on Sansa's face as she realized her sister's mistake. "We wouldn't be giving Gendry anything but a proper name, a betrothal, and his betrothed as a traveling companion. We'd be giving a thousand men… to you ."

A swell of pride rolled through Arya as the weight of the words settled on her. She practically glowed with excitement. "I'd be in command?" Sansa nodded at her. "They'd follow me? Do whatever I say?"

"Yes," Sansa laughed. "But you'd better not be flippant with them or you'll soon find yourself losing command."

"I won't," Arya said fervently. "Trust me, Sansa – I won't. I can do this."

Sansa ran a hand through Arya's hair again, realizing that her baby sister would soon no longer be that – she would be a commander of a small army. "But do you want to?"

Arya looked up at Sansa as if she were stupid. "I've never wanted anything more in my life."



Theon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, wishing he never had to wake up again. He didn't remember much of the previous night… just enough to wish he remembered nothing at all. 

Then consider yourself freed!

Theon groaned, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow. Hadn't he just been asking Podrick that Sansa do precisely that? Yet it hurt worse than any wound he'd taken. 

"Fuck," Theon muttered into the pillow. 

And now he had to go ask his men to follow him into battle, betraying their house, behind the banner of the girl he'd hurt as thoroughly as he knew how. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he added eloquently, shoving his head deeper into the pillow. 

A strong knock came at his door. 

Theon yelled a reply as to where the knocker could shove various parts of their body. 

There was scuffling outside his door and then a muttered, "Open it." 

And his door was swinging open. 

Theon tugged his furs higher. "Bloody hell–"

Jon stood in the doorway to Theon's room, the noonday sun bright behind him. 

"Morning," Jon replied too happily. His men outside the door closed it behind their king as he strode through to the hearth, pouring himself a mug from the cider he brought with him. He set the steaming pitcher on the small table and gestured Theon towards the other mug. 

Theon eyed him warily. "Don't you have somewhere better to be? Some highborn wench to wrap her legs around you?" 

Jon gave a noncommittal hum. "Plenty time for more of that on the road south. And it's past noon." He raised an eyebrow at Theon. "Are you going to join me?"

Theon tugged the furs on his bed higher, glaring at Jon suspiciously. "No. You're in too good of a mood."

Jon laughed. "It's not likely to stop anytime soon." He took another sip of his cider. "I assume Sansa spoke to you about journeying south with us?" Theon's lack of reply was all the answer he needed. "And I assume, as usual, she left out the military parts."

Theon sat up straighter. "Go on."

Jon gave a nod. "We're worried about dragons."

"No fucking shit," Theon replied. "One just torched Wintertown. I had to ride through it to get here – everyone did. It's a mess; whole thing's still smoldering, and–"

Jon held up a hand, looking pained. "We have archers trained and rolling scorpions embedded throughout the army. It's the best we can do till we get to a castle with proper defenses."

"Till you get to Moat Cailin," Theon replied. "Which Bran granted me, in case you've already forgotten."

"I haven't," Jon said. "But we're likely to get attacked by dragons there."

"You're baiting her to attack you with dragons there," Theon corrected. "In my castle. "

Jon smiled. "If we break it, I'll get you another. We'll do our best against her. It's after that I'm worried about."

"Go on," Theon prodded. 

Jon leaned forward, oddly intent. "The best weapon against a dragon is a scorpion, especially as her dragons aren't yet fully grown. But the best way to use a scorpion – the way Sansa knows can kill a dragon – is mounted on the deck of a ship." 

Theon's mind whirled with the possibilities. The rolling scorpion that infantry used had to lock down and become stationary to be effective. Just as a scorpion mounted on a castle was stationary. Sure, a stationary scorpion could shoot at a dragon – could even turn to do it – but the dragon was like to shoot back

When a scorpion was mounted on the deck of a ship – especially on the deck of a fleet of ships – not only could they fire in whatever direction they pleased, but they could flee in whatever direction they pleased, and if the dragon tried to torch the one who'd shot at them, there was nothing stopping a different ship in the fleet from taking even better aim. And then–

"Manderly's fleet is being blockaded by your father," Jon was continuing, "So I know it doesn't mean much until his ships are free. But I'd like to place you in command of my fleet." 

The words, meant to be an honor, were instead a bucket of ice water tossed over Theon's head to bring him back to the present. "You want me to fight your damn dragons for you. After all the shit I've already done for the Starks – literally waded through! – you want me and my few ships to–" 

"No," Jon cut in quickly. "No. We'll face her dragons on land at Moat Cailin. There isn't a snow's chance in Dorne she won't try us there. After that, we'll be overland until we reach King's Landing, which is where we'll need you more than ever."

Theon studied him. "What would you want me to do?"

"Stay with us on the march south," Jon replied. "Go west with Tyrion and when he takes Casterly Rock, you sail from there with Hornwood and your Greyjoy men south to the Arbor in the Reach."

Theon's distaste was instant. Damn Tyrells and their damn–

"Where you will take command of the Redwyne fleet," Jon concluded. 

Theon's breath caught. It was one of the biggest fleets in Westeros, certainly the richest, and–

"A dragon is going to be damn hard to shoot," Jon continued. "And I think without you in command, they'll miss every time. 

Theon couldn't help but agree. It wouldn't be like traditional naval warfare; not at all. Ships were much slower than dragons and with the beasts' ability to change direction on a whim, taking down a dragon would be much closer to felling a bird with an arrow. 

Theon grinned; it was something with which he was well-familiar. "You need an archer who can sail."

Jon nodded. "I only know of one."



"Arya!" Sansa hissed at her, halfway through her pacing the length of the solar, yet again. "Sit still, for goodness sake!" 

Arya glared at Sansa but took a seat. Her knee jittered uncontrollably. 

Jon sighed. He looked through forms from his seat behind Bran's desk while they waited. Catelyn stood behind him, worry etched across her face. 

"He's a decent man?" Catelyn asked, though which of them she asked no one knew. 

"Yes," Sansa replied, knowing the Gendry of her last life had received Arya's full approval. "It's the best match we can hope for, in position and character." 

Catelyn swallowed. "Still. A bastard boy, no matter his inheritance…"

Jon's quill scratched loudly across the page. 

Catelyn broke off, looking ashamed. 

The door opened. A Stark soldier stepped through. "Gendry Waters, as summoned, Your Grace, my ladies." 

Jon set down his paper and gave a nod to the man. Arya's bouncing knee kicked into a gallop. 

Gendry stepped into the solar. His frame was thicker with muscle than Sansa had realized, grime from the forge covering his tunic and breeches. Gendry took one look at all the Starks staring back at him – and all color left his face. 

"Whatever they're saying, I didn't do it, I swear," Gendry said in a rush. "Ask Arya, she'll tell you. Some at the forge don't like that I'm from the South and don't like that my steel is better than theirs when they've been working it longer than I've been alive." 

Catelyn pursed her lips, displeased that they were considering betrothing Arya to a common blacksmith. 

Jon held up a hand. "Peace, Gendry. You've done nothing wrong." 

"That we yet know of," Catelyn couldn't keep from adding. 

Gendry cast a wary glance her way. He then looked at Sansa, who was unreadable, at their king, who was as stern as ever, then turned to Arya, looking for support in that quarter. But Arya had gone still. She stared fixedly at the wall, unable to meet his gaze. 

"Are you aware that you are Robert Baratheon's natural born son?" Jon asked. 

Gendry blinked, then frowned. "I am aware." 

"Are you aware that with the deaths of Stannis and Shireen Baratheon, that House's line has ended?" Jon continued. 

A stoicism stole across Gendry. "Yes." 

"And are you aware that a king's edict can raise a natural born son to his father's name?" Jon held up the sheet of parchment he'd been inscribing. "An edict like this one." 

Gendry's breath caught. "What do you want of me?" 

"I would like to name you Lord Baratheon, to start," Jon replied. "If you'd swear to me to be my vassal." 

"Yes." Gendry looked overwhelmed at just the first part of their bargain. "Yes, I'll do that. Your Grace." 

Jon smiled and Sansa was struck with the sudden memory that last time, the boys had been friends. She hoped they could be that again. 

"It means you'll need to go to the Stormlands and rally men to fight for us in your name," Jon continued. "We'll give you the support of one thousand men to keep you safe so near the Dragon Queen, but if you can get any of the Baratheon vassals to swear to you, you'll raise more than that in a day. Do you think you can do that?" 

"I…" Gendry's overwhelmed look had only grown. "I can try. I've never done anything like that before." 

"I know," Jon replied. "It's why we won't be sending you alone." And he gestured to Arya. 

Immediately, Gendry relaxed. "Yes, we can do that. But…" He looked suddenly hesitant. "People sometimes don't believe she's Arya Stark when she's in breeches with a sword and covered in mud."

Arya finally looked up at him with a glare. "They will when I have a thousand Stark soldiers at my command." 

Gendry looked properly impressed. He gave Arya an encouraging smile but she immediately looked away, back at the wall. A small frown creased his brow at her lack of enthusiasm. 

"The final part of the arrangement…" Jon paused. "Is that you agree to a betrothal." 

Gendry swallowed. "With who?" 

"With me, you big dummy," Arya said. 

Gendry spun to her. "Yes." He turned back to Jon with a feverish enthusiasm. "Yes, I'll do that. We get married now? Or down South? Or–" 

Jon was grinning, even as Arya buried her face in her hands. "We betroth you before the gods before we leave. You wouldn't be expected to marry until after we take King's Landing."

"Or later than that, if you prefer," Catelyn added. "She's still a girl." 

"Am not, " Arya replied. "It'll be me and my army keeping Gendry safe until he can raise his own." 

Gendry was grinning ear to ear, perfectly satisfied with the entire proposition. 

Catelyn cleared her throat. "Now then. You'll need a sworn sword, Arya. Brienne has agreed to go with you and continue your training, so–" 

"I thought Sandor was my sworn sword?" Arya replied. "What's wrong with him?" 

Catelyn hesitated. 

"Nothing," Sansa cut in. "He'll continue in his role, of course. But as Brienne is from the Stormlands, and her father is one of the vassals Gendry will need to claim, she'll be an invaluable ally." 

Jon passed a book across the desk. Gendry took it curiously. 

"This contains a record of all the Baratheon vassals and their holdings," Jon said. "It was compiled shortly after Robert's Rebellion, so it'll be a good place to start." 

Gendry held the book by the spine as if it might bite him. Fear was back on his face. "Thank you. I will, uh, use this." 

With a roll of her eyes, Arya snatched the book from him. "Names aren't so much harder than big words. You just sound them out." 

Catelyn bit back a full gasp. "He can't read?" 

"He can read," Arya replied for him, flipping through the book. "He's just not used it much. There." She held the book out to him at an open page. "Your own family tree. You don't want some puffed up bannerman to make you look a fool by knowing more about your own family than you do." 

Gendry took the book at the opened page and scowled down at it. 

Behind his desk, Jon stood. "We leave for the South three days hence. I'll announce you to the assembled lords tomorrow, after which you and Arya will perform the betrothal ceremony in the sept. Be ready to ride when we leave." Jon offered his hand to Gendry. 

Without hesitation, Gendry took it. Over their clasped hands, he couldn't help but smile. 

"King Robert always wanted to unite his blood with Father's," Sansa said with a small smile of her own. "I'm glad we'll see his dream come true."

But the words brought a blush to Arya's face stronger than any Sansa had seen. She grabbed Gendry's other hand, tugging him from the room before anything else could be said about the two of them. "Come on," Arya said. "We can't have you appearing before the lords wearing half the grease of the forge."

Sansa followed them through the door. "Yes, I'll have the tailors see to preparing a proper trunk for him to wear on the journey south. Gendry, they'll have to take your measurements."

"Ugh," Arya replied from ahead of Sansa in the hallway. "Sansa will have you draped in so much embroidery you can't breathe. You'll look ridiculous. Better to stick with good, useful fabrics where you can still–"

Her words cut off and Sansa's gaze flicked to them. Gendry had tugged Arya up to himself, his lips crushed against hers. Slowly, Arya relaxed in his arms, her own winding around his head as she returned the kiss. 

Sansa decided the tailors could wait. She turned on her heel, striding off a different direction entirely from the couple to give them their privacy. 

She made her way to the great hall, figuring she might as well eat. The moment she stepped through the doors, her eyes fell upon Theon, staring back at her. Immediately, Sansa veered to the side, searching for any other familiar face with whom to sit. 

Oberyn raised a mug to her and Sansa quickly slid onto the bench at his side. 

"Congratulations," she said to him with a smile, eager to make up for lost time with her friend. "I hear Ellaria is expecting." 

Oberyn's grin was broad as he took a swig. "She was glad to see the back of me. These months are the hardest, where her own body feels like it's fighting against her. I despise doing nothing and I cannot fight her war for her." A wistful note had lit his eyes but Oberyn soon hid it behind another gulp from his mug. "A pity I won't be able to join your war, either. I hear you've already had your share of excitement."

Sansa sighed. "Wintertown will rebuild. It will take time, but–"

"I meant you ." Oberyn leaned closer. "You stood face to face with a living, breathing dragon – and you still live. A feat few alive can boast."

Sansa snorted. She picked up a plate for herself, dishing it high to buy herself time to think. "It was little of my own doing. She would gladly have roasted me simply to reduce the Stark population."

"Still," Oberyn replied. "A creature from legend faced off against you." With a grin, he leaned back to take her measure. "Some might even say you won."

A laugh burst from her. Oberyn's grin widened. "And I'll certainly encourage them to say so," Sansa replied. "So long as they won't expect me to put actions to their words and repeat the maneuver." 

Every pleasant word from her mouth was torture; she wanted so badly to beg him to stay, to ask after his family's allegiances, to… do any number of things that were inappropriate when she hadn't spoken to him at length since he'd arrived. 

His friendship was worth more than gold to her – in whatever form it took. There was no need to press him for anything. Not when the Martells had already so freely given in the battle for Casterly Rock. 

Not that they hadn't been compensated for it with their share of the Rock's vaults. 

But Oberyn tilted his head towards the other end of the room and the table where Theon sat. "Yesterday, it appeared as if the two of you…?"

Perhaps wisely, he chose not to put a word to it. Sansa grimaced, struggling with how in the world to describe any of it. She would rather not.

But before she could speak, Oberyn leaned closer. His breath ghosted across her cheek as he whispered, "Would you like me to make him jealous?"

A blush exploded in her cheeks against her will. A smirk pulled at Oberyn's lips. He traced a finger along the curve of her jaw, watching as her blush rose higher at his touch. "It is a genuine question." Oberyn's eyes were dark and warm. "You do not have to feel obligated to give one answer or the other."

Sansa caught his hand in her own. She considered the open-ended offer, trying to keep her eyes blank of all but her curious desire. "Will you have time for that before you leave?"

His smirk pulled into a full grin. "Once upon a time, you would not have asked after my plans so artfully." At Sansa's disbelieving outrage at being caught, he could only laugh. "For you, Red Wolf, I would have time for anything."

Slowly, his eyes never leaving her own, he raised their joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of hers. 

Sansa did not blush. She met his gaze evenly, stare for stare, enjoying the feel of his lips against her skin. 

There was something different about him. Perhaps it was the baby on the way, but there seemed to be less intensity behind his actions. He had only barely alluded to his proposal the once – and not with any renewals of the offer. Perhaps it was the fact that neither of their families had much to benefit from their alliance; not anymore. 

"Look at that," Oberyn said, lowering her hand. "Your Greyjoy must have finished his meal. Strange, how he ate so fast when he'd just barely sat down when you arrived."

Oberyn was right; while Sansa had been distracted, Theon had gone. She couldn't decide whether she wished he'd seen her with Oberyn – or not. 

"Not my Greyjoy," Sansa replied, trying to pretend the words didn't sear her soul. "Not anymore."

"Such a pity," Oberyn said without a drop of sincerity. When he cast a sly glance at Sansa, a smirk had stolen across his face. 

But with their hands out of sight beneath the table, Oberyn slowly withdrew his fingers from her own. 

Sansa was no fool. She rested her head on her hand, gazing up at him. "How much time do you have?"

Oberyn grimaced. "We leave for the boats tomorrow. I am sorry, Red Wolf. I would make it longer if I could. Journey to your Wall, see the frozen waters, the mountains – all the sights and wonders of your home."

"I understand," Sansa replied. "Ellaria calls."

Something flashed through his eyes; it looked almost like guilt.

"You could always come south with us , you know," Oberyn said. His eyes crinkled with the amusement of knowing she'd never take him up on it. 

"Ah, yes, trading one daughter for the other," Sansa replied easily with a smile of her own. "Certainly worth the long journey up the coast just to exchange Stark wards."

Disapproval cracked across Oberyn's face. "Surely you know better than to think I'd let you be my ward. Not with all the things I'd like to do to you."

Sansa's blush flared so fiercely that she could do nothing but hide her face behind a hand. 

Oberyn grinned with pleasure at his riotous success. Slowly, he stood. "Be well, Red Wolf. If the gods are good, it will not be long before we meet again."

He bent to take her hand, but Sansa clutched at his, unwilling to let go so easily. Emotion felt like it would soon drown her and she struggled to put voice to even a fraction of what she felt. "Friends are a rare enough thing in this world. If you ever need anything…"

With a small, sad smile, Oberyn bent down and pressed a kiss against her forehead. "I will not forget."

And then he was gone. 



Three days later, Sansa stood atop a hill, watching the banners and carts and troops of the new Stark army gather before her. Well, the Targaryen army, she supposed. But calling it that got a bit confusing and Jon, himself, seemed to forget that he wasn't a Stark most days. 

The ten thousand men of the North flew their wolf banners high, their own House banners intermixed between. The Blackfish's two thousand Tullys camped next to them, then Margaery's sixty Tyrells, and then the thirty Greyjoys that Theon had taken ashore with him. 

He had two ships that had sailed to White Harbor with him, two ships that would be sailing back to Casterly Rock without him and would begin preparations. 

Shouldn't he have gone with them? She knew Jon had wanted Theon with them overland, she knew she certainly had, but Theon should have been with his men and his fleet, should have been overseeing their training and outfitting. Shouldn't he? 

She tore her gaze from the Greyjoy soldiers before anyone could catch her staring. That was for the men to worry over; she wasn't about to waste her own time second-guessing them. 

Lady's nose nudged Sansa's hand and she smiled as she sunk her hand into her direwolf's fur. They'd have four wolves on the journey south: Jon's, Sansa's, Arya's… and Margaery's. The wolves, at least, were ecstatic to be on the road again. 

Then Lady raced off, bounding after Nymeria as they chased each other through the troops. Sansa had to bite back her smile as men scrambled to get out of the wolves' way. One fell into a hay cart. 

Arya followed in her wolf's wake up the hill a short distance away from Sansa, continuing a conversation with Gendry. "No, you don't bow to the Blackfish. Only to Jon."

He trotted after her, looking at home in Arya's choices of simple, unadorned fabrics underneath his brown furred cloak. His larger strides quickly caught him up to her among the trees. "But he's the commander of the forces. How am I supposed to greet him, if not–" 

"Nod," Arya replied. She stopped, spinning to face Gendry, her face gravely serious. "Never bow to anyone but Jon. Not ever again. Do you understand me?"

Gendry's brow furrowed. "What about King Bran? Aren't I supposed to–"

Arya grabbed his arms and gave him a little shake. " Never. Again. You are a lord now – of one of the great houses. Your lineage stretches back to the Storm Kings. No one but Jon is anything higher than your equal. Do you understand me?"

His frown deepened. "Arya, I'm just a bastard boy from Flea Bottom. I can't walk up to these lords and pretend I'm… one of them. I just…" Gendry trailed off with a sigh. 

"You better get used to doing exactly that," Arya insisted. "Once we reach the Stormlands, you'll have to walk up to those lords and tell them you're there to lead them ."

Gendry looked even less convinced. 

Sansa cleared her throat. Arya looked embarrassed at not spotting her sister among the trees; Gendry looked slightly afraid. "Who's been giving you trouble, Lord Baratheon?" Sansa asked. 

Her sister had been right on every count. Sansa was well-aware that, as far as lords and ladies went, she would likely be one of the more intimidatingly proper ones. As such, she would now make it a point to treat him as formally as she would another Lord Paramount. Hopefully, it would help him see himself as one of them. 

Gendry swallowed, but it was Arya who answered, "The Blackfish. He's heard stories of him."

"Anyone else?" Sansa asked. 

Arya huffed. "Margaery. Lady Olenna. Mother, obviously. Umber and Karstark, even though Karstark's barely older and Umber had meat dangling from his beard. If he's met others, I'm sure they have, too."

Gendry shot a glare down at her. 

Sansa pursed her lips. Umber and Karstark had been who she'd been going to recommend Gendry start with. She'd also thought of and dismissed Gideon Bolton; while she tried not to hold his last name against him, a friendship between the two commoner lords would do nothing but weaken both men's claims. "Have you met Lord Tyrion?" 

Gendry mutely shook his head. 

"I'll introduce you," Sansa offered, and walked off down the hill and amongst the troops. Arya and Gendry followed behind her and Sansa tried to ignore their whispered mutterings to each other. 

As they drew nearer to the wheelhouse flying the golden lion banner, the sounds of laughter grew louder. Sansa stood outside, about to announce her presence, when she heard a decidedly female giggle from inside. And then an additional giggle from a different female. 

"You're the loveliest girls in the North, did you know that?" Tyrion's voice drifted through the wood, sounding disgustingly breathy. 

Sansa turned on her heel, striding away from the wheelhouse. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to drown out the string of obscenities running through her mind. This was their Warden of the West. Jon, their family, the entire war effort – everyone was utterly doomed. 

Exactly two lords had sworn to follow their new King Jon: a bastard who could barely read and a drunken, debauched dwarf. Both men had sworn because of her plan – and her plan alone. A growing sense of panic rose in Sansa's throat, threatening to strangle her. Not even in her own time had she actually seen Gendry lead anything – let alone gather support from his father's bannermen. It was a monumental task and one that she and Jon – well-established figures in their own rights – had failed at almost utterly. 

The Tyrion she had known had been married to her. He'd been faithful and respectful. But what use did an unwed Tyrion have for anything but his worst vices? Worse still, if Tyrion failed to get himself betrothed to a Frey – intentionally or not – would the drunken, debauched creature put forth enough effort to their cause to be worth even the single axe he could wield, himself? 

Not to mention that neither man had even a single soldier to their name. Both would rely entirely on Stark support to hold their power. And that was also true of the second strongest Northern house – held together exclusively by Stark support. 

The Starks were stretched thin, and the war hadn't even begun. If Edmure Tully and Loras Tyrell didn't lend their aid…

Sansa's panic rose higher and she couldn't breathe. They'd all die. It'd be the end of their House – the end of Westeros. 

She forced herself to let out the breath she was holding. Sansa would have to make them swear to Jon, was all. There was no need to ponder any alternatives. 

"Wasn't that…" Gendry's hesitant voice called out from behind Sansa as he followed her in the opposite direction. "Lord Tyrion's wagon?"

"He'd be a dreadful example of a lord," Sansa said tersely. 

Arya snorted. "Do you have a better one?"

And Sansa stopped. Of course she did. She had a very obviously better one – a better lord and a less intimidating one – even if he wasn't one she particularly wanted to talk to. 

Turning around, she put her hands on Arya's shoulders. "Introduce Gendry to Theon. Explain the situation but don't say a word about me."

Arya glared up at her sister with disapproval. It was obvious why Sansa didn't want her name mentioned and Arya thought she was being incredibly stupid. Sansa glared right back. Arya could take or leave Sansa's help – she had not been invited to pass judgment. 

"Fine," Arya said. She grabbed Gendry's hand, dragging him after her. "At least Theon won't introduce Gendry to whores."

The utter confidence with which Arya said the sentence slapped Sansa as sharply as if it had been a fish flung in her face. The Theon she had known from her last life had most certainly enjoyed those activities. If the Theon in this life were instead known so widely to abstain … then the difference would have to have been caused by–

Sansa turned on her heel again, walking away from her thoughts, as well as the Greyjoy troops. She didn't need them. Didn't need any part of them. 

"Princess!" a new voice called. 

Sansa waited as her guard, Mycah, trotted his horse over to her. He was leading hers by the reins. "Yes, Mycah?" she asked.

"King Jon has summoned you," he replied, dismounting to pass her the reins. "The army is ready to march." 

A wave of longing clamped her throat shut. Desperately, she flung a last look over her shoulder back at her home. At Winterfell, with her mother and Bran and Rickon and everyone else she wished so dearly to see again. To keep alive. 

A private grief overwhelmed her; she'd been gone from it for many years, many times. She didn't think she'd ever stop hating the separation. 

But its ancient stone turrets and towers stared back at her, as unwavering as they'd always been, and Sansa forced herself to rip her gaze away. Winterfell could wait. Jon could not. 

She gripped the pommel of the saddle, glad for her divided riding skirts, and pulled herself up. It would be a long ride, but she had vowed none of her men would see her riding in a wheelhouse, kept carefully separate from them. 

Sansa kicked her mare into a trot, enjoying the nods and cries of "Princess!" "Lady Sansa!" and "Red Wolf!" that followed in her wake. A smile stole across her face and she nudged her mare faster, the wind pulling her red hair wildly about her as she rode. 

She arrived at the front of the army breathless and exhilarated. Jon tossed a grin at her and resumed his discussion with Gideon Bolton among the rest of his gathered lords. Banners waved around all the forward party. The black Tully fish, the Tyrell rose, the Targaryen dragon… and the red wolf of Sansa's own personal sigil. Suddenly, she realized what had seemed odd about Mycah's armor – the Stark wolf stitched into the center of the leather chestpiece had been changed for a red one. 

Mycah grinned back at her stare. "Do you like it? I had the armories make them myself."

Every one of her guards gathered there bore the red wolf on their chest. Sansa couldn't help feeling overwhelmed at the sight. "I adore it," she said with awe. "Thank you."

Mycah beamed. Touching a knuckle to his forehead, he moved his horse near her guards Ollie and Derren, who were locked in a heated discussion. The red wolf gleamed from their chests, as well. 

Margaery moved her horse nearer Sansa's. "A clever man, that guard of yours," she said with a smile.

Sansa raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm sure he came up with the idea all on his own."

Margaery beamed. "But of course. I saw him admiring the sigil on one of my men and told him how interesting it was that you had personal arms, but that I'd only ever seen them on a banner."

Sansa fought her grin. "Need I ask if you had a hand in the banner?"

"No," Margaery quickly replied. "That was entirely your men." 

Sansa remembered it vividly; the red wolf flag flapping briskly over her tent the morning after she'd put Bolton to death by her own hand. It had been a boon, that flag, spinning what could have been a dreadful, vicious turn for her into a symbol of her triumph. 

"You do realize you're the Stark leading this army, yes?" Margaery said with a level stare.

Sansa blinked. "Jon's–"

"–A Targaryen," Margaery concluded. She continued her level stare at Sansa. "A Targaryen who has appointed a Tully, with whom he has no relation, to lead the king's army, which is comprised mostly of yours ."

"Bran's," Sansa corrected reflexively. 

Margaery rolled her eyes. "Yes, and like you, I'm utterly helpless to enter into an alliance on my brother's behalf and would never have dreamed of negotiating with the promise of Loras's support. We women are truly bereft in this world."

She said it with enough dryness to rival the desert in Dorne. 

Sansa gave her a level stare in reply. "I see marriage is suiting you."

A smirk instantly quirked the corner of Margaery's mouth. "You know, I think it is."

"Princess Sansa? If I might have a word?"

Sansa turned to the voice, surprised to see Jojen Reed in the forward party preparing to leave. "Jojen? I thought you were staying here with Bran?"

Margaery trotted her horse back to Jon's side as Jojen and his mount took her place. "I am," Jojen said. "But I wanted to speak with you before you left."

"Is everything alright?" Sansa was instantly worried. Jojen nudged his horse closer to hers. Realizing his intent, she said to her guards, "Leave us," and waited until they had moved a respectful distance away. 

"Bran isn't the only one who sees things," Jojen softly remarked once they had their privacy. 

"What did you see?" Sansa asked. 

"It splintered," Jojen replied. "Which is why Bran thought you might be able to help tell me what it means."

"Go on," Sansa whispered. 

Jojen pursed his lips. "You fell into a pit. It was dark, and when you finally found your way out and to the light, birds began to attack you, tearing at your flesh. The dream splintered, and insects were crawling on every inch of your skin. Writhing all over you, but not biting. Then, it splintered again, and you were out of the pit. Jon waited for you with a ring of ten swords around his throat, each blade pressed into his flesh and ready to slice deeper. It splintered again and the swords were at his head. Another splinter, and they were tearing into his stomach."

"By the gods," Sansa breathed. "I do this to all your dreams?"

Jojen grimaced. "No offense meant, princess, but I'll be glad when you're back south of the Neck. I miss being able to dream a single dream straight through to the end." He paused. "No idea what it might mean?"

"None," Sansa honestly replied. 

"Wait," Jojen squeezed his eyes shut. "That wasn't quite right. You fell… up and into the pit. Does that make more sense?"

A snort ripped from her before she could stop it. "No."

Jojen sighed. "That's what we expected. But it's the first dream either Bran or I have had about you directly. I wouldn't expect anything less than utter nonsense."

With that, he made his farewells and departed back to the castle. 

"MEN OF THE NORTH!" Jon's voice boomed out over the gathered soldiers. All fell silent as they heard his cry. "MEN OF THE RIVERLANDS, OF THE REACH, OF THE IRON ISLANDS! WE RIDE FOR KING'S LANDING!" 

A resounding cheer echoed from behind them, the noise of twelve thousand voices sending a rumble through Sansa's bones. She looked to Margaery, whose face held a mirror of Sansa's own awe. 

Jon kicked his mount forward and the forward lords followed closely at his heels. The rest of the army lumbered into motion behind them. 

Sansa felt as if she were taking her last clear breath before plunging herself into a frozen lake. 

The North was off to war. 

"Oh, minstrel!" Margaery's voice called gaily over the gathered troops. "Sing that song you've been working on." 

The minstrel cleared his throat. "Mad Queen, milady?" 

Margaery shot a sly look over to Sansa before schooling her face. "Yes, I believe that was what it was called. Play it for us, will you?"

"Of course, milady," he replied. 

"'Your Grace,'" Sansa corrected. 

A blush overtook the poor man's face. "Begging your pardon. At once, Your Grace." 

He produced his lute and began to strum. 

 

King's Landing knew peace,

And stood throughout war.

Till dragons reigned down,

And the stone was no more.

 

Queen of Ash, Queen of Flame,

In the ruins lies her name.

Cities burned, towers fell,

In dragon's shadow and fiery hells.

 

The Iron Throne shakes,

as the North rises high,

'Gainst the Mad Queen,

under darkening sky.

 

Queen of Ash, Queen of Flame,

In the ruins lies her name.

Cities burned, towers fell,

In dragon's shadow and fiery hells.

 

It continued on, with more lines praising the strength of each of their leaders, the Rose and the Red Wolf included. Sansa caught Margaery's eye, glaring at the overflowing prose. Margaery laughed and Sansa knew she would deny all involvement. But the final chorus changed, and it grabbed Sansa's attention yet again. 

 

Queen of Ash, Queen of Flame,

The wolf will see her dragons slain.

Our men, she burns, our hatred swells,

Till Mad Queen lies in fiery hells. 

 

As the minstrel repeated this chorus, the men joined in. The thousands of voices of the army of the North sang it again and again until it became a march of its own, growing louder with each repetition. 

 

TILL MAD QUEEN LIES IN FIERY HELLS!

Notes:

My apologies for the delay! Oberyn was shockingly difficult to write this time and everyone should blame him for the delay. ;)
There is one more chapter I'd like to post before I go on a longer hiatus, but I unfortunately have no ETA on that one. Please let me know what you think of this chapter!