Luwin and Myrcella hurried down the halls of Winterfell, trying to stay ahead of their assailants. Not far behind, soldiers bearing the sigil of the Kraken were in hot pursuit, rounding everyone into the courtyard. Making their way up to the rookery, Myrcella did not leave Luwin's side as she helped him up the stairs. When they finally arrived, she shut the door behind them as the old man barred the door with a wooden chair.
"Quickly, Princess," The Maester said, handing Myrcella a quill and a piece of paper. "Send a message to your brother. He must know of what's happened."
Which one? She thought, as Luwin began writing a message of his own before the realization had struck her. Joffrey was too cruel, and Tommen too young. Steffon was the only one who could help her. He always was for almost her entire life. Unrolling the parchment on a nearby table, Myrcella's hand shook as she frantically began writing.
Theon Greyjoy has betrayed Lord Stark. Send help to Winterfell.
She was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs and approaching the doorway. With no more time to waste, Myrcella handed the message to Luwin, as the old man quickly fixed hers and a message of his own to a pair of ravens before sending them flying out the window. The ravens could only travel from castle to castle, but she knew that eventually the messages would reach both Steffon and Robb Stark. Myrcella uttered a silent prayer to the Seven that they would be able to send troops, just as the Ironborn finally broke down the door.
"Come on, you cunts." One of them growled, grabbing Myrcella and roughly hoisting her onto his shoulder, while the other grabbed Luwin and forced him out of the room. She kicked and screamed, desperately hitting him in the back, but all she was hitting was the cold steel of his backplate. Eventually, Myrcella found herself in the main courtyard as grey storm clouds filled the skies. The soldier grunted, carelessly throwing her onto the muddy ground and sullying her dress. "Don't try anything stupid, girl." He warned. "The men haven't had a taste of women in days."
"Myrcella!" Came a cry from nearby. Looking over, she saw Rickon run to her side and help her to her feet. Not far behind him was Hodor and Osha, the Wildling Woman who had been in service to House Stark for the past few months. Bran was with them, cradled in Hodor's massive arms before he was placed down on a barrel. From within the keep, came Theon Greyjoy, wearing the trappings of an Iron Islander, complete with heavy armor and the symbol of the Kraken. She knew there was no way out now; with Rodrik Cassel away with the few men they could spare at Torrhen's Square, there was no hope of escaping.
"I've yielded Winterfell to Theon." Bran lamented, clearly disheartened by the events that had just transpired. Myrcella couldn't imagine what it was like to have to surrender your home to a man who you had trusted your whole life. Had he hated them the whole time? She wondered.
"Louder, so they can hear you." Theon demanded, giving Bran a slight slap across the head. "And say, 'Prince Theon'."
"I've yielded Winterfell to Prince Theon." Bran called out, loud enough for everyone to hear and at the brink of tears.
So, it's true. The Iron Islands really are rebelling. Mycella thought. That was the only explanation for Theon demanding he be called a prince. Unless he enjoyed being the one in power for a change. Myrcella suspected it was both.
Theon stepped forward, resting both of his hands on his sword belt. "You all know me." He said.
"Aye," One man growled, stepping forward from the crowd in defiance. "We know you for a steaming sack of shit." Myrcella would have recoiled at the curse, but fear and anger were at war within her. Both directed at Theon.
"Farlen, be quiet. Please." Bran begged, still carrying out his duties to serve his people. "Just do as he commands."
"Listen to your little Lord." Theon jeered, stepping forward. "He has more sense than you. All of you, my father has donned the ancient crown of Salt and Rock, declaring himself King of the Iron Islands. By right of conquest, he has now laid claim to. You are subjects of the Kingdom of the Islands and the North now."
"Bugger that." Farlen spat. "We know no leader but the Starks. If you think you can hold the North with your-" He was cut off when an Ironborn soldier clubbed him over the head with the hilt of his sword, causing Myrcella and several other girls to scream in horror.
He had lived among the Starks for years. She thought, stepping over to Bran's side and taking his hand. They treated him like he was one of their own. What could have possibly made him turn on them like that?! Had he felt no gratitude for them at all?!
"Greyjoy!" One Ironborn man shouted. He and another were dragging in a bound and bloodied Ser Rodrik Cassel. Obviously there had been a fight; Ser Rodrick was not the type of person to go down meekly.
"Ser Rodrik, it grieves me that we meet as enemies." Theon said, with no smug grin, or angered tone. There was almost an air of sincerity in Theon's comment.
"And it grieves me to see that you have less honour than a back-alley whore." Ser Rodrik shot back. "This is your home you attacked! Your people you've betrayed!"
"They were never my people!" Theon countered. "And I was never one of them."
"Lord Robb thought of you as a brother." Rodrik snarled.
"If he had any balls, he would've declared himself King in the North." Theon replied. "Instead, he's off fighting for the son of the man who killed my brothers. My brothers died fighting both the Baratheons, and the Starks. Men like you."
Rodrik grunted. "Aye… no thanks in small part to your father, who started it all! Lord Stark raised you among his own sons!"
"Among them, but not as one of them! I was his hostage, taken from my home, my family!"
"And what would Lord Stark say if he were alive to see this?!" Myrcella piped up. Theon, turned to her with a glare, before storming forward and greeting her with a swift backhand across the face that knocked her into the mud once again. This time she tasted something metallic. She brought a hand to her lip, and it came back bloody
"No! Don't hurt her!" Bran shouted, jumping off the barrel and feeling his legs buckle from under his weight. Before he could hit the ground, he was by Hodor, who helped him regain his balance as Osha helped Myrcella to her feet.
"Careful now, girl." Osha whispered. "There are far worse things than a slap to the face."
"Are you so much of a coward as to beat a defenceless girl?!" Rodrik fumed.
"You've served this house faithfully, old man." Theon said, now fixing his attention on the old soldier as he turned and approached him. "But keep talking and-" Theon was cut off by Rodrik spitting blood on his face, before the Ironborn soldiers wrestled him to the ground. "Take him to the cells and lock him up!" Theon ordered, wiping away Rodrik's blood.
"You cannot let that stand my Prince. He must pay." One of the Ironborn said. He was older than most of the other Iron Islanders, as evidenced by the wrinkles on his gaunt face, coupled with several facial scars from years of battle.
"And he will, Dagmer." Theon replied, "I'll have him locked up until he rots."
The Iron Islander known as Dagmer frowned and shook his head. "That's not good enough. As long as he's alive, the others will never respect you." Dagmer brought his mouth close to Theon's ear and whispered, "He has to pay the iron price."
Theon was silent, quietly contemplating Dagmer's advice. Meanwhile, Rodrik continued to fume with anger, as if he aimed to break free from the two men restraining him and strangle Theon to death. Hodor sat Bran back down on the barrel as Myrcella hurried to his side and the two embraced. Once they separated, Bran held Myrcella's hand tightly as the two watched Theon reach his decision. "Ser Rodrik of House Cassel, I sentence you to death!"
"No!" Bran cried. "You promised not to hurt anyone! You said no harm would come to them if I yielded!"
Maester Luwin stepped forward, placing himself between Theon and Ser Rodrik. "He is worth more to you alive than dead, Theon. I urge you to not make a hasty decision." Luwin advised, only for Theon to forcefully grab him by his cloak and pull him towards him, holding the Maester a few inches short of his face.
"You'll address me as Prince Theon, or you'll be next, old man." He scowled, throwing Luwin back. With that, the Ironborn pulled Rodrik to his feet, and marched him over to the cutting block, throwing him down on his knees in front of it. The rest of the townsfolk cried out in protest, some even running forward in a desperate attempt to save Ser Rodrik's life, only to be forced back by the Ironborn. Dagmer drew his sword, ready to execute Rodrik before the latter glared straight at Theon.
"He who passes the sentence should swing the sword, coward!" He spat in bloody defiance.
"No, no, Theon! Stop! Please! Ser Rodrik!" Bran begged as tears began to roll down his cheeks.
Ser Rodrik regarded the Little Lord with a calm gaze. "Hush now, child." He reassured. "Soon, I will be with your father."
Myrcella, who had also began to cry, tightened her hold on Bran's hand as the light rainfall turned into heavy pouring. Theon, now soaked to the bone, drew his sword in a wide arc, causing one of his men to quickly duck out of the way. With wild eyes and heavy breathing, Theon placed his sword at the base of Rodrik Cassel's neck. "Any last words, old man?" He asked.
Rodrik turned his head to give Theon one last glower and muttered, "May the Gods help you, Theon Greyjoy. Now you are truly lost." Having said his final piece, Ser Rodrik Cassel rested his head on the cutting block, waiting for it all to end.
By now, the entire courtyard was in hysterics. Numerous onlookers cried out in protest. Some of the men urged their children to look away, while others shielded their wives from the scene before them. Rickon sobbed into Osha's chest as the former wildling held him close. Myrcella continued to cling onto Bran's jerkin. "Theon, please don't!" She pleaded.
"I'll do anything!" Bran begged. "No! Please, stop it!"
Theon ignored everyone's cries, gripping his sword with both hands before raising it over his head. He swung downward with all his strength, only for his blade to slice through a small portion of Rodrik's neck, sending out a spurt of blood from both the old man's mouth and the gaping wound on his neck. Myrcella, along with several other women present, screamed in horror as Theon angrily wrestled his sword from Rodrik's neck and swung a total of three times before finally snapping the old master-of-arms head off with one final kick. Bran, Rickon and Myrcella wailed in horror as Rodrik's head rolled across the ground. Bran averted his gaze, holding Myrcella tightly as he continued to sob. Myrcella returned the embrace, but was unable to look away. Her eyes red with tears, Myrcella turned her gaze to Theon, panting heavily as he observed the terrible deed. Myrcella was never considered a violent person by anyone. She had always avoided conflict, or at least tried to, but, for the first time in her life, all she wanted was to put a dagger in Theon's throat.
You'll pay for this, Theon. She thought to herself.
I hope you suffer forever.
Arya made her way through the camp, with Needle affixed at her waist. She was trying to find Steffon; who had likely wandered off somewhere. He had seem more troubled as of late, more beaten down, as if the war was already taking a toll on him
"Ah, lady Arya." Penrose bowed his head in respect. "Our king is currently in his war tent, plotting the next course of action against Renly. There's also been a messenger sent from King's Landing. He's currently awaiting audience with our king." After a moment of silence, Penrose spoke up again. "Lady Arya… I understand that you were present during the battle of the Kingswood."
Oh, gods… this again. Arya thought. "Yes, I was there. What of it?"
"Apologies, Lady Arya. But the battlefield is no place for a lady, much less our future Queen. Too many men have already voiced their own fears of losing our King in the upcoming battles."
"Oh? Well perhaps she is the reason our king is still alive right now." Another voice called from short distance. Everyone turned to see Edric approach the group with a dark-haired girl close behind him. He placed himself between Arya as he addressed the Castellan of Storm's End. "During the battle of King's Wood, Brienne of Tarth made an attempt on our King's life. Had Arya not joined the fight, Steffon would be dead. I say that more than earns her a place on the field."
"Be that as it may, I fear our Queen is unprepared for fighting in the front lines."
"Then why, my good man, do you suppose I am here?" Syrio demanded, approaching the scene, seeming almost offended by Penrose's comment. "I have had the honor of training our queen in the art of water dancing at the behest of your king." He continued, standing tall and proud with his arms folded across his chest.
"I mean no offence ser. I am merely . . ." He trailed off when he saw the look on Syrio's face. "Please excuse me." He said before walking off sheepishly.
"Thank you, Syrio." Arya said, addressing her instructor.
"There is nothing to be thankful for." He replied. "It should not have been necessary."
"Regardless, thank you." She repeated. The Braavosi warrior nodded, giving Arya a flamboyant bow before returning to his tent with a characteristic stride in his step. "You're back as well, I see." She said, turning to Edric, noticing the girl standing beside him. She was a tall, beautiful girl, with who seemed a year or two older than Sansa.
"I am. The raid was successful, and we even have a hostage." He grinned, gesturing to the girl behind him. "May I introduce Lady Mira Forrester, one of Margaery Tyrell's handmaidens." Arya was familiar with the Forresters, thanks to their cultivation of Ironwood, but never had the pleasure of meeting any of them. Mira curtseyed like a proper lady.
"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Stark." She said.
"The same to you." Arya replied, extending her hand. Mira was surprised, unaccustomed to such a casual gesture from another lady, but tentatively returned the handshake. "I was just trying to find Steffon. He said he was out inspecting the camp, but that was a while ago."
"That's Steffon for you." Edric chuckled. "Once he sets his mind on something, he'll work himself to sleep. In any case, Lady Forrester will need a place to stay. Not in the stockades. It just wouldn't be right for a girl like her." He finished, sending another blush to Mira's cheeks as he turned to Alyn. "Have the men set up another tent for Lady Forrester. And maybe have a few men stand guard."
"Right away." Alyn said, before addressing Mira. "This way, milady."
Mira nodded, picking up the hem of her skirt as she followed Alyn through the camp, but not before looking back at Edric with a smile, a gesture that he was happy to return. Arya watched Mira leave, glancing between her and Edric before asking. "Are you always like that with girls?"
"Hm? What?" Edric responded, sounding as if he had been indulging in fantasy.
Arya frowned. "Do you always have to be such a shameless flirt?"
"Only with the pretty ones." He quipped, causing Arya to roll her eyes and scoff before storming away. "Wait! Wait." Edric called out, catching up to her. "I can guess this is about that time I was so forward during our first meeting. Looking back, I realize it was unbecoming of me. Forgive me."
"Unbecoming?" Arya asked incredulously. "Steffon saw the whole thing!"
"I know, and I'm apologizing for it." Said Edric, earnestly. "Had I known you were Steffon's betrothed, I'd have kept my mouth shut. I'd never betray Steffon's trust. Not even for the Iron Throne."
Arya was taken aback by the young bastard's statement. One minute he acted as free-spirited as a bird out of its cage. But now, he seemed sincere and humbled. "What is it that made you so loyal to Steffon?" She asked.
Edric sighed. "When we were boys, we used to butt-heads and never gave one another much thought." Edric looked away, with a light blush creeping onto his cheeks. "When I was thirteen, I was… caught with some merchant's daughter. He would've taken my head had Steffon not intervened. He bribed him to forget the whole thing, and from then on I became his friend. There's not a lot of people who would stick their neck out for a bastard. Especially the rich, noble kind."
"Except for Steffon." Arya said, smiling fondly, something Edric was quick to notice.
"You really love him, don't you?" He smirked, as Arya's face turned a light shade of red. Edric chuckled. "I can't say I blame you. He's a good friend with an even better heart. I wish you two all the happiness in the world."
Arya smiled at the young bastard's comment. "Thank you, Edric." She said.
As Arya and Edric approached the war tent, they soon found several guards standing by, keeping a watchful eye on a well-dressed man and his two servants. The man had sharp features, with a small pointed beard on his chin, and moustache on his upper lip. His dark hair was cut short and slicked to the side, with strands of grey running through it. His green eyes were scowling, clearly unhappy with having to sit outside in the cold night air. However, the biggest clue as to who the man was, was the small crest fastened to his black velvet doublet, depicting a flying mockingbird.
"Ah, if it isn't Littlefinger." Edric quipped, placing both of his hands on his belt.
Baelish scowled, rising from his seat. "I prefer to be referred to as Lord Baelish. Please see to it you remember that, boy." He warned.
Edric shrugged his shoulders. "Littlefinger, Baelish… what's the difference? Both names leave a sour taste in my mouth."
"Why did you come here?" Arya demanded.
Before he could answer, Jon poked his head out from within the tent. "Edric. Arya. Come on. We've been expecting you." He then turned to address Baelish. "You may enter as well, Lord Baelish. Steffon will see you now."
As they entered the tent, they found Steffon standing over the war table with Stannis by his side, keeping a watchful eye on the war map, and Catelyn was seated in a chair nearby. Upon seeing Arya, Steffon smiled and left his post to greet her with a light kiss. Baelish smiled at the sight of Catelyn and stepped forward to greet her. "Lady Stark, It seems fate has-" He stopped dead in his tracks as Lady Catelyn rose to her feet and pulled a knight from the war table.
"How dare you!?" She demanded, holding out the blade with the full intent on stabbing him.
"You may have heard false reports-"
"You betrayed my husband!"
"Betrayed? I tried to save him." Bealish insisted. "I wanted him to protect the realm. When he sought to challenge our king, I begged him to reconsider. The fool should've known better than to march on King's Landing-"
"That's enough." Steffon said, raising his voice in order to silence both parties. "Lady Stark, I ask you to put away the knife before someone is hurt." Catelyn relented, surrendering the dagger to Stannis with a heavy sigh. Breathing a sigh of relief, Steffon turned to address their visitor. "Lord Baelish, as the Master of Coin for my brother's council, I have every right to be suspicious of you. I suggest you explain why you're here, before I let the Starks do what they want to you."
Baelish nodded, glancing around the room as everyone present glared daggers at him. Arya especially, keeping a sharp eye on him, being mindful of even the slightest movement he made and keeping a firm grip on Needle's handle. Baelish cleared his throat and said. "My reasoning is simple; I have come to bargain."
"What could you possibly offer us?" Edric asked. "Joffrey's head on a platter? If so, we'll take it." He was stopped by Jon elbowing him in the ribs.
"Alas, that is something even I am incapable of bringing you. However, I believe the Starks will have some interest in what I am offering." He said, turning to face Arya. "Do you want to see your sister safe, Lady Arya?"
"Sansa…?" She asked, not dropping her guard.
"What has he done to her?" Jon demanded, getting Baelish's attention from the other side of the tent.
"Nothing, yet, thankfully. However, with each report of ill news, the King has been covering Sansa into entertaining certain… volatile whimsies of him. I fear for her longevity should she stay at the Capital." Littlefinger explained, the hint of a smug smile crossing his face. Arya exchanged worried glances between her mother and Jon, before looking back at Baelish with a glare.
"And what is it you are offering?" Steffon asked.
Arya's jaw dropped as her mother's face went red. He's listening to him? She thought. She may not have had much in the way of proof, but there was a feeling in her gut telling her that Littlefinger had played some part in her father's capture. What in the Seven Hells is Steffon doing?!
"You are well-versed in military history, Your Grace." Littlefinger said. "You understand that King's Landing has never been taken by force, and will likely never be. When you march to the capital, you may find yourself faced with a protracted siege or open gates." He now broke into a full smirk as Steffon remained silent for the next few moments.
"Were I to agree to this, what guarantee would I have that you would then not decide that supporting my grandfather is more practical?" Steffon asked. Baelish opened his mouth to speak, but Steffon cut him off. "I grew up in King's Landing, and that means I have known you my entire life. What exactly have you done in the last to earn my trust?"
Littlefinger frowned. "I was your father's Master of Coin-"
"Yes, I do find it particularly interesting that much of the royal treasury went missing when you became comfortable in your position." He said, crossing his arms. "Allow me to be perfectly blunt, Lord Baelish. I don't like you." He gestured over at Stannis, who scowled at Baelish with silent fury. "My uncle Stannis likes you even less. And those two women behind you? Well, you know where they stand. Before I talk on this further, I want to know what you are offering in exchange for Sansa's safe return."
"The Queen's demands are simple." Baelish replied. "She asks that you return Ser Jaime Lannister from-"
"No." Steffon interrupted. While he knew it was petty, he couldn't help but feel a slight hint of satisfaction by the signs of annoyance on Littlefinger's face every time he was cut off. "My uncle, the Lord Commander of my brother's Kingsguard, a celebrated knight and the son of Lord Tywin Lannister, the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms?" He asked. "Oh yes, I am sure that would go over brilliantly with my bannermen."
"You Grace, if Sansa is in danger-" Catelyn interrupted before cutting herself off. She couldn't show weakness in front of Littlefinger. Not now.
"It's alright, Lady Stark. I understand your concern for Sansa." Steffon assured her. "However, I'm confident that my grandfather will keep Joffrey from harming Sansa in any significant manner. If he did, he'd be giving us every reason to do the same with Jaime."
He turned back to Littlefinger. "Make no mistake, Baelish. You are no honored guest in my camp. However, you may stay for one night. Any longer than that and you will be considered a fair target."
"You are most kind, Your Grace." Baelish said, with a slight bow of his head. "But, I have one last matter to attend to. It concerns your betrothed and her mother." With a gesture of his hand, his two servants entered the tent, carrying a golden-plated chest. Placing it in front of Catelyn, the two servants bowed before exiting the tent.
"What's this…?" She asked, staring at the chest with suspicion.
"A gift." Baelish replied. "For you and your daughter. Consider it a token of Tyrion Lannister's good faith."
"Good faith…?" Catelyn asked. Everyone shared the same look of contempt as they watched the Lady of Winterfell slowly open the chest. Once she saw what it contained, she felt her heart sink into the lowest pits of her stomach. Arya, who had let curiosity get the best of her, stole a peak from over her mother's shoulder, only to suddenly break into tears.
"Your father was an honorable man, Lady Arya." Littlefinger said. "He deserves to be with his family in Winterfell."
Steffon stepped forward, putting a comforting arm around his betrothed, letting her cry into his shoulder before meeting Littlefinger's gaze with a glare. "Get out."
"Your Grace, I-"
"I said, leave." He growled. Baelish could only honor Steffon's wish, as Jon grabbed him by the shoulder, forcibly removing him from the tent. "Does that man have no decency?" He muttered quietly.
"A question I often ask myself, Your Grace." Stannis replied. "He's not known to be an honest man."
"Yes, I am aware . . . Lady Stark, it shall be arranged for the . . . remains of Lord Stark . . . to be sent back to Winterfell. He belongs there, not here."
"Your Grace!" Penrose said, sticking his head in the tent. "I do beg your pardon, Your Grace, but . . . this is urgent. A message from Winterfell."