Sansa's rarely ever been this angry in all her years of existence as she stares deep in the haughty eyes of Robett Glover, a lord pledged to her house and her family. And though she intends to keep the calm—be the silence in Jon's storm—her lip snarls in her stiff reminder, "I would remind you that House Glover is pledged to House Stark. Sworn to answer when called upon."
The man pauses from his turn away from them, Jon sending Sansa a sharp look—not that the girl cares to notice, as Robett approaches with what he intends to be threatening but she's experienced far worse. He growls in her face, "Yes, my family served House Stark for centuries. We wept when we heard of your father's death. When my brother was lord of this castle, he answered Robb's call and hailed him King in the North."
He steps closer, hissing then, "And where was King Robb when the Ironborn attacked this castle? When they threw my wife and children in prison and brutalized and killed our subjects? Taking up with a foreign whore. Getting himself and those who followed him killed." The man's eyes shift between Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, before barking back, "I served House Stark once, but House Stark is dead."
The man turns as Gabrielle's blood boils at the injustice before them, unable to hinder herself before she calls at the man, "Lord Glover." He turns as she moves forward, up the steps and close to the threshold of his home with the confidence of a ruler and the hiss of her lips, "You wish for your people to bow before a man whom you all fear, a man whose sadism drives him to flay subjects for small crimes. Ramsay Bolton will kill you, maybe not now, but he'll find his excuse once he hears you treated with Sansa Stark, his bride. And trust me, he will hear."
"Do not threaten me, Mock Queen," the man steps forward and into her face with a snarl. "You Southerners do not belong here, do not have any power over me. Leave, before I kill you where you stand."
Robett Glover turns back to his door and enters through, shutting it firmly behind him as Gabrielle growls low in her throat and Jon pulls her back down the stairs, not intending to lose her today. About them, the winds whip wildly and throw open their cloaks so no warmth can be had. Wrapping her arms about her waist to keep the cloak shut, Gabrielle storms away from the door and out to the land where animals are less pig-headed than men.
////////////////////////////////////////////
The group has come into a bit of a formation in their travels upon horse, led by Jon in all his solemn silence with Sansa behind him and Gabrielle beside her. Davos and Stannis follow behind those two, keeping their eyes sharp for dangers and avoiding conversation of the past at all cost. And that rather large roadblock of conversation between the two is tempting Gabrielle to go mad, with the nearly constant and gruff chatter of military strategy in her ear. But it's rather rude of her to ask them to stop for her alone, so she just clenches her jaw and tries to ignore them by asking Sansa about the best winter fabrics for keeping warm.
But now it's different—with Gabrielle somehow ending up beside Jon as Stannis and Davos ride forward and in-line with Sansa. Previously made by the king himself, the paths through the camp they now travel are wider than those of the road, with tents of many colors rising on either side of the road. Stannis looks at it with an air of familiarity, remarking bluntly, "I camped here on the way to Winterfell."
"And that's a good thing?" Sansa asks rather rudely, causing the man to send her a rather dark look in exchange for her sharp tongue.
Davos reminds her, "Stannis is the most experienced commander in Westeros."
"I chose this place for a reason. Those mountains are a natural fortification," Stannis points with reference to the places about the camp, and even those without such experience as war can see the logic in these choices. "There's a stream down there for the horses."
"We're not staying here long. Another storm could hit any day," Jon says from ahead of the three, remembering the rather bitter storm that raged for the days following the visit to Deepwood Motte.
Davos nods in agreement with this choice, "Aye, the snows defeated Stannis as much as the Boltons did."
The addressed man just nods blankly and silently at that, listening to Jon's imperative remark, "We have to march on Winterfell now while we still can."
Coming to a stop before the temporary stables, the group of five dismount and hand their reigns to some of the younger boys of their campaign, thanking them lightly if in due character. Off to the side, Gabrielle watches the direwolves pass into the trees on the break of the camp, likely on their daily hunt that keeps them preoccupied for a few hours at a time and keeps the fighting between them to a minimum.
"Two thousand wildlings. Two hundred Hornwoods, 143 Mazins—" Davos says from nearby, drawing Gabrielle into the conversation as she walks towards them.
Sansa adds, "62 Mormonts."
"It's not what we'd hoped for. But we still have a chance if we're careful and smart," Davos sighs lowly but with hope before noticing a fight between a wildling and a Hornwood nearby, "For fuck's sake."
Davos and Stannis take their charge as they move towards the fray as it worsens, the other three watching them go, and Gabrielle specifically looking after the very stiff Stannis Baratheon as she remarks thoughtlessly, "I can't decide if that man thoroughly hates me or has come to respect me."
"I couldn't tell you either," Jon responds before leading the other two towards their tents that lay near the edge of the forest, boots pressing lightly into the dusted snow as faces turn in their direction to stare and shiver.
Sansa breaks their silence as she asks, "So Davos's your most trusted advisor now? Because he secured sixty-two men from a ten year old?"
"He's a man of great wisdom and experience when it comes to war," Gabrielle reminds Sansa, forgiving the girl in the rather temperamental time of this moon-cycle with Gabrielle's stockpile of willow bark now gone and the horseback riding not helping.
"Ser Davos is the reason I'm standing here talking to you, and he served Stannis for years," Jon reminds her of the debts he owes the man—the man who's taken their charge fully and for reasons they cannot quite understand.
"Stannis who lost the Blackwater, who murdered his own brother, who wouldn't have a head if Gabrielle weren't there?" Sansa questions sharply, and even though the words are rude Gabrielle cannot deny the truth of Stannis's follies many times over. So as Sansa stops in their walk, Gabrielle halters at her side, watching after Jon as he keeps walking and then turns with a frustrated expression. Sansa presses him again, "It's not enough. We need more men."
"There's no time," Jon emphasizes for her.
"If we went down to Castle Cerwyn, I know that Lord—"
But Jon steps closer and Sansa stumbles over her breath at the anger in his eye as he orders their move, "We fight with the army we have."
His eyes cast behind Sansa's hair to gaze upon the sight in front of the fire, where two men are wrestling on the ground with Davos standing over them and Stannis shouting at them in his commanding tone. Huffing, Jon brushes past Sansa and charges their way, leaving Gabrielle and the Stark woman looking after him with looks of confliction and anger, respectively.
"We don't have the time, but we also don't have the men. Winter is approaching quickly and I fear we may be taken with the storm if we wait any longer," Gabrielle's voice sounds in Sansa's ear with exhaustion sewn into her tone and eyes that reflect Sansa's own hopelessness. But then, they flicker and lead Sansa's to the sight of ravens nearby, swallowing thick with worry before turning back to the Stark, "You know what must be done. Just don't tell Jon."
Gabrielle walks away, and leaves Sansa with the task and guilt that they both must carry from this day onward.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Podrick shuffles into the rowboat beneath the depths of Riverrun, the light of a torch and moon their only leading glow as Brienne leans down to steady the boat for Pod and prevent a capsize. Her eyes capture Brynden's in the daze of the fight above them, begging with him one last time, "Your family is in the North. Come with us. Don't die for pride when you can fight for your blood."
"You'll serve Sansa far better than I ever could," the Blackfish just smiles as shouts are heard in the nearby hallways and approaching quick, pushing Brynden to unsheathe his sword and direct Brienne onward, "Go on, now. I haven't had a proper sword fight in years. I expect I'll make a damn fool of myself."
The man rushes up the stairs before Brienne can blink, and she lets the adrenaline take over as she steps into the rowboat and Podrick paddles away, only looking back once they're safe from chasers to see Jamie on the wall behind them, waving at her with what may be a final goodbye. She returns it before moving onward with the current.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Tyrion knows that something more than just the assault on the city is wrong when he feels the top of the pyramid shake under the impact of a massive weight, the Masters' weapons certainly incapable of reaching that distant of a height. And that feeling, as he stands by an equally confused Ned Stark, is reassured with the footsteps from above them and down the pyramid's side. The Stark unsheathes his sword and steps slightly in front of Tyrion as the Unsullied rush the door with spears prepared to attack. Their breaths hitch as one of the soldiers presses open the door to the balcony before looking about, and then, all at once, he drops to his knee as Daenerys Targaryen storms into the room and the dragon screeches in its flight away from the city.
////////////////////////////////////////////
Thoros of Myr watches the man drink from his waterskin, unreserved and very typical though he suspects much has changed in Sandor Clegane in the time apart. Voice heavier than the Hound wants to perceive, Thoros tells him, "Clegane, we're here for a reason. The Lord of Light is keeping Beric alive for a reason. He gave a failed, drunk priest the power to bring him back for a reason. We are part of something larger than ourselves."
"Lots of horrible shit in this world gets done for something larger than ourselves," Sandor grunts before tossing the waterskin back to Thoros and rising to relieve himself in the river.
"Cold winds are rising in the North," Beric calls after the man whose stubbornness has no equal.
The Hound laughs at their intent, "And you're going to go stop them?"
"We need good men to help us."
"Last time you saw me," Sandor turns his eyes to Beric Dondarrion, "you wanted to execute me."
"True enough," the man shrugs, "but the Lord of Light gave you the power to defeat me. Why?"
The Hound just laughs then at the man's presumption, turning from the river to step back into the camp and sit upon a log, "I beat you because I'm better than you, Beric. I was better than you before you started yammering on about the Lord and I'm better than you now."
"Aye, you're probably right. You're a fighter. You were born a fighter. You walked away from the fight. How did that go? Good and bad, young and old, the things we're fighting will destroy them all alike. You can still help a lot more than you've harmed Clegane, it's not too late for you," Beric reminds him of the things he should not know, capable of capturing the Hound's attention from stiff brown eyes, even before he adds the latter. "And I heard the Mock Queen's gone north to help the Starks—including Lady Sansa. Maybe if you come, we'll run across her little path."
////////////////////////////////////////////
"You don't have to be here," Jon reminds Sansa for close to the fifth time as they watch the Bolton coalition gallop towards them from the nearby hill and then closer. The brother and sister sit close at the front, followed after by Davos and the Stark bannermen, and then Tormund, Stannis, and Gabrielle, keeping the wolves away from sight but close enough to fight if need be.
"Yes, I do," Sansa's voice grates soullessly in response as Ramsay Bolton stops in front of the other side, his wide grin a tight contrast to the scowling of nearly everyone else on that field before them.
"My beloved wife. I've missed you terribly," the Bolton greets Sansa who reveals no emotion across her pretty face, even as his sadistic blue eyes bore into her own with utter revulsion surging through her. And then he turns to Jon, whose expression is nothing less than his fleeting namesake—stark—and smiles with gratefulness, "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton safely. Now, dismount and kneel before me, surrender your army and proclaim me the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. I will pardon these treasonous lords for betraying my house.
"Come, bastard," Ramsay goads, "you don't have the men, you don't have the horses, and you don't have Winterfell. Why lead those poor souls into slaughter? There's no need for a battle. Get off your hose and kneel. I'm a man of mercy."
"You're right," Jon's brown eyes kindle a deep hatred as his face reflects something closer to a smile at his shrug, "There's no need for a battle. Thousands of men don't need to die. Only one of us. Let's end this the old way. You against me."
Ramsay stares at the bastard before him before chuckling loudly for all the party to hear, hiding the anger as he always does and making him far more dangerous. "I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The way people in the North talk about you: you're the greatest swordsman who ever walked. Maybe you are that good. Maybe not. I don't know if I'd beat you. But I know that my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men. You have, what, half that? Not even?"
"Aye, you have the numbers," Jon admits the truth, a smart move on his part. "Will your men want to fight for you when they hear you wouldn't fight for them?"
Ramsay's face does not falter at that, pointing at the man leading the other side with a grin that could light the wicked's heart asunder. He praises Jon with the point of his finger, "He's good. Very good. Tell me, will you let your little brother die because you're too proud to surrender?"
"How do we know you have him?" Sansa's voice finally returns for her husband, just as his eyes shift to hers with nothing less that bloodthirsty lust.
"You don't, but will you risk it?"
Sansa looks hard at the man before her—sharp in her looks and her expression—before she finally cuts, "You're going to die tomorrow, Lord Bolton. Sleep well."
The woman turns her horse away from Ramsay before she kicks it into a gallop and thunders away, leaving Gabrielle with remainder of their plan. Clicking her fingers together and sighing, the woman gestures for the wolves to sit back on their haunches as she maneuvers her horse forward, the sadist's words drifting through their lines as she moves.
"She's a fine woman, your sister. I look forward to having her back in my bed. And you're all fine-looking men," Ramsay praises them, his eyes finally coming to lock on the blonde trotting up to take Sansa's place, her eyes firm and strikingly blue with hair almost white that brushes her red cheeks as she comes to a stop before him. He grins, "...and a woman. You must be Gabrielle Baelish. I've heard many stories of your...plunders." The woman's cold expression does not change at his words, but he does notice a shift behind her as Stannis Baratheon moves in the back line of the Stark ranks. "Oh, and I was wondering where you ran off to! My dogs are desperate to meet you. I haven't fed them for seven days. They're ravenous. I wonder which parts they'll try first. Your eyes? Your balls? We'll find out soon enough."
At the urging of her foot, Gabrielle's horse steps forward a bit and closer to Ramsay as her eyes shift from something of cold strength to deep conviction. "Did you know...direwolves like to play with their meals?" the girl asks, looking down at her feet as Ramsay suddenly recognizes the five direwolves that have followed her forward, all reaching the belly of the horse in height and bearing their teeth. "Kind of like you. First, they bite their victims in the stomach—the most sensitive of our many 'pieces.' Each of their teeth are like small daggers, embedded with saliva that poisons our blood and pierces the nerves on either side of our chest. And then, as the prey stumbles, the wolves tire them out, taking pieces out of arms, legs, the head, the balls. And only then, once the prey stumbles to the ground, putrid with blood and splattered with drool, do they bite them in the neck and let the blood seep between their teeth as the life is sucked away from the man. They say the worst die slowest—like karma from the gods."
Ramsay Bolton looks with uncertainty upon this woman whose tongue could cause nightmares like the torture he imposes on others. The blue in her eyes gleam at him as she recognizes the slight victory from the uncalm of his facade, and he quickly shifts to look at Jon Snow who sits unmoved in his composure, "In the morning, then, bastard."
Turning their horses about, the takers of Winterfell gallop back towards the hearth as the Stark camp remains in silence until they've disappeared over the hill, minutes away. Only then does Jon take his eyes from the sight to look at Gabrielle with something akin to confusion. She shrugs, remarking, "We'll still have to fight, but maybe he won't get any sleep now that I've guaranteed his fate. Songbirds sing only the truth of the matter, after all."
Turning her horse, Gabrielle gallops away with the wolves in pursuit of Sansa, leaving the others quivering with feeling at the sight of power before their very eyes.
////////////////////////////////////////////
The watchers' eyes all grasp firmly to the map outlining Winterfell before them, acquired from a messenger of Varys hours ago and just in the nick of time. With the game pieces placed before them, their loss seems to be predictable with all those pieces in the hearth of Winterfell while few live outside the walls with the Stark family. Jon sighs, and despite the odds present, he voices, "If he was smart, he'd stay inside the walls of Winterfell and wait us out."
"That's not his way," Davos can already tell from the morning meeting. "He knows the North is watching."
Stannis nods in agreement, "If the other houses sense weakness on his part, they'll stop fearing him. He can't have that. Fear is his power."
"It's his weakness, too," Jon thinks aloud, "His men don't want to fight for him. They're forced to fight for him."
But Gabrielle shakes her head from her perch across the table, "I disagree. All those that fight for him hate the Starks, either for Robb's actions or a past conflict."
"But if they feel the tide turning—" Jon tries.
And yet he's interrupted by Tormund as the wildling leader admits his own worries that seem to be growing, "It's not his men that worry me. It's his horses. I know what mounted knights can do to us." The man's eyes shift over to Stannis and Davos—beside Gabrielle—as he reminds them, rather crudely, "You cut through us like piss through snow."
"We're digging trenches all along our flanks," Jon reassures Tormund as he points to the map which is boggled by many shapes. "They won't be able to hit us the way that Stannis hit you, in a double envelopment."
But like Gabrielle feels at that term—even if she understands the strategy—Tormund stares blankly at Jon as if he's spoken another language just now. So Jon tries again, "A pincer move."
But that shines light on nothing but pretentious education, Davos and Jon sharing a look before Stannis explains it fully to Tormund, "They won't be able to hit us from the sides."
"Good," Tormund nods, content with that promise as his eyes count across the table... "But we still have less men."
"Fewer," Gabrielle and Stannis voice together, eyes shifting between one another with uncertainty as the others stare strangely upon the two.
But Davos breaks the rather tense and echoing silence, "That's why it's crucial that we let them charge at us. They've got the numbers, we need the patience. If we let him buckle our center, he'll pursue. Then we'll have him surrounded on three sides."
The group about the table nods in understanding of the strategy, taking to looking at Tormund as he asks Jon, "Did you really think that cunt would fight you man to man?"
"No," Jon shakes his head lightly, "But I wanted to make him angry. I want him coming at us full tilt."
"I don't think it was you who did that," Tormund snorts with a pointed look at Gabrielle as she grins wickedly, the light of the candles about the table only making it darker.
Davos sighs wearily as he shuffles between his feet, "We should all get some sleep."
Gabrielle nods and follows him out of the tent, parting from the others to gather a large bowl and water for the direwolves that rest deep in the burrow of her tent. Placing it before them, she turns back and out the door, passing alongside the outside of the war tent as she hears the end of Sansa and Jon's conversation.
"If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive," Sansa tells him with sincerity and truth that family deserves to know, even if it is better that Jon doesn't. "Do you understand me?"
"I won't ever let him touch you again. I'll protect you, I promise," Jon returns and Gabrielle can imagine the deep and protective look in his eye as he stares at Sansa.
But the girl's fast and right to admit, "No one can protect me. No one can protect anyone."
Footsteps sound in the snow as Gabrielle walks up beside Sansa in her exit of the tent, knowing the girl was listening and not caring, for they'd discussed this much a night prior. So, Sansa just lets the silence linger as they walk back towards their tents, passing few men and none they recognize as the night grows chillier and they fold their arms closer into themselves.
"You're right. Promises to keep others safe are never absolute. Humans are unpredictable and spiteful, will do things that can't be protected against," Gabrielle echoes Sansa's sentiment, turning and stopping to face Sansa's blue eyes. "But Jon will do anything to keep you safe, as will I—take faith that while we cannot promise your safety, we shall do everything in our power to keep you safe."
Sansa looks into the blue eyes of her friend, reminding herself that Gabrielle can be trusted for the prize Sansa promises, before nodding her head with a soft smile. The girls exchange a soft farewell before Sansa turns into her tent and Gabrielle lets herself sigh wearily at the plights she's dug herself into.
And it's not made better by the ruckus before her eyes as she notices Shaggy biting Lady's tail within her own tent, rushing in after to the two with a shout of irritation.
/////////////////////////////////////////////
Davos and Tormund walk beside one another through the thinning lights of the camp, gazing about in an attempt to keep their minds occupied and thinking little of conversation for a start. Passing the tents dedicated to the women and Jon, both Tormund and Davos erupt into grins as they notice Gabrielle trying to tug Shaggy away from biting at Lady's tail, revealed by the open flap of the tent.
"You think there's hope?" Davos asks as they pass from that sight, feet crunching with snow beneath their boots.
"I've never seen these Bolton fuckers fight. And they've never seen the Free Folk fight, so, yes, there's hope," Tormund nods, looking to the man. "You want to see someone stop him, after what he did to Stannis, don't you?"
"It wasn't the Boltons that defeated Stannis. It was Stannis himself. I loved the man—I still do," Davos stumbles with that past tense he's still trying to reconcile. "He lifted me up and made me something. But he had demons in his skull whispering foul things. I don't think he does anymore, now that he's lost everything but his own life."
"You saw these demons?"
"What?" Davos questions, both men halting at once as the elder turns to the younger with a bit of confusion before realizing. "No, it's a manner of speaking. Not actual demons."
"Oh," Tormund mutters while still trying to understand, "Well, you love that cunt Stannis and I loved the man he burned. Mance didn't have demons in his skull. He didn't torch people or listen to some red witch. I believed in him. I thought he was the man to lead us through the Long Night. But I was wrong just like you."
"Maybe that was our mistake," Davos grins, "believing in kings."
"Jon Snow's not a king," Tormund reminds him.
"No, he's not."
Both men grin widely at the revelation of this sudden 'wisdom' in their choices before Tormund turns his squirrely mind elsewhere entirely: "I need a good drink to help me sleep the night before a fight. You want some? I have a jug of sour goat's milk stronger than any of that grape water you southern twats like sucking on."
"No, thanks," Davos denies as his eyes twinkle in the direction from whence they came. "You might offer it to Gabrielle if you come across her—she's been talking about it lately. And it does sound delicious, but I better keep a clear head. I can never sleep the night before a battle."
"So what do you do all night?"
"I walk. Think and walk. Think and walk until I'm far enough away from camp that no one can hear me shitting my guts out."
Tormund laughs loudly at the rather crude tongue of a Southerner he never expected until meeting Gabrielle and Davos—two rather unnoble nobles. He leans into the man with a massive grin, "Happy shitting," before walking off and back in the direction of Gabrielle's tent, still propped open but now revealing a girl in the threshold, looking at the stars as the direwolves shift against her for warmth.
Hearing the crunching of snow at his approach, Gabrielle turns her head to look up at the man with a smile, "Tormund."
"I heard you wanted some goat's milk," Tormund offers her the pouch against his side, prompting Gabrielle's eyes to bulge as she quickly stands to her feet from the snow on the ground beneath her.
"Fuck yes, I do." He hands her the wineskin full of the liquid, watching as she removes the cork and sniffs it, cringing back but keeps it all the same. She smiles up at him, "Thank you, Tormund."
But the man just waves the gift off, "You're the only cunt that actually wants it. You sure you belong to these folk?"
"I grew up in a whorehouse surrounded by strong liquor and sex," Gabrielle tells him through the swell of her laugh and the bravery in her eyes. "I'm the wildest you'll find in the south, but, yes, that's where I come from."
Tormund grunts as he gazes at the rather tall female whose eyes shine with what should be innocence but is certainly a mischief and great deal of experience. "Well, Jon's lucky to have found you then. Ygritte was a lot like you—it's no wonder Jon took a liking to her like he did. She reminded him of you."
Gabrielle's eyes shift across his face as she gazes thoughtfully upon him before startling into a smile with the rise of her cheeks, "Goodnight, Tormund, I'm going to go drink myself to sleep in my wolf den. Don't get into too much trouble."
The man chuckles after her as she turns her back and the wolves turn to follow after her, untucking the cord that keeps her tent open and letting it shut loosely before he turns away.