Chapter 30

Steffon's hands trembled as he continued to re-read the message Penrose handed him. Arya, finally collecting herself after witnessing Baelish's "gift", pulled away from Jon, who had done his best to comfort her. "What does it say?" She asked.

Steffon closed his eyes, letting a deep breath escape through his nose before reluctantly handing the paper for Catelyn to read. She squinted, the writing was clearly rushed. "This… is it true?" She asked, her hands shaking with a mix of anger and worry.

Steffon nodded, sincerely. "I recognize my sister's handwriting anywhere; she's never been one to lie." He then turned to Jon and Arya to deliver the news. "Theon has joined the Iron Islanders and has attacked Winterfell. There's little doubt that he's taken everyone hostage. I'm sorry."

"I warned him!" Catelyn cried. "I warned Robb, never to trust a Greyjoy!" Steffon looked over at Jon and Arya, their faces twisted with horror once they realized the weight of situation.

"Theon…" Jon muttered, as Steffon gave a "He really betrayed us. How could he? We always considered him an honorary brother…"

"Bran… Rickon…" Arya said, horrified, only for Steffon to approach her, taking her hands and gently caressing the back of her palm with his thumb.

"Don't worry. He's not going to harm them. He knows too well what would happen if he did. A smart invader would keep them hostage." He added, before turning to Jon. "Why would Robb even send Theon to Pyke? We didn't need Greyjoy ships; we already have the Royal Fleet."

"He thought the reinforcements would have been useful." Jon said, bitterly. Steffon grunted in agreement.

"Then, what's the plan?" Edric asked, rising from his seat. "We're going to retaliate, aren't we?"

"Your Grace, if I may?" Stannis asked, approaching his nephew.

"You may, uncle."

"Attacking the North would take too long and cost us too many men. And, if provoked, Theon could retaliate by executing the hostages. I suggest we organise our defences in the North and have them isolate Winterfell. Cut off their supply chain and starve Theon out."

Steffon was silent, pondering over his uncle's suggestion. As usual, his words stung with bitter truths. "Send a message to Robb on that straight away, Jon." Steffon ordered. Jon nodded, before excusing himself from the tent. "Lady Stark… I wish I could offer you some measure of comfort, but–"

"My sons will starve along with Theon and his men if your strategy is used, Your Grace." She protested, fixing Steffon with her steely gaze. "And don't forget, your sister is at Theon's mercy as well."

"And attacking Winterfell head-on would only put them in further danger. The least we can do is buy them time. We can't give Theon any excuse to put their bodies on display." He replied.

"Your Grace, I-"

"I will hear no more. Edric, escort Lady Stark back to her tent." He said to his brother. "I believe you intend to leave on the morrow? Be sure to knock some sense into Robb while you're there." He said. Edric was hesitant to forcefully remove Catelyn from the tent, but thankfully, she complied, but not before shooting another glare at Steffon. Once they were gone, Steffon felt a hard slap across the cheek.

"What in seven hells is wrong with you?!" Arya demanded.

"You heard what Stannis said!" Steffon shot back, caressing his cheek. "If we were to retaliate, Theon will have every reason to kill Bran and Rickon."

"So, instead you do nothing and just leave them to starve?!" Arya scolded.

Steffon let out a heavy sigh, before resting his hands on the war table. "What choice do I have, Arya?"

"Your sister writes to you, asks you for help, and this is what you do?" She rebuked. "Do you even love her?!"

"Don't you ever suggest that!" Steffon yelled, pushing himself away from the war table and meeting Arya's glare. "I love my sister with all my heart, you know that! But I'd rather she go hungry for a short time than die a burnt corpse!"

"But you-"

"I made my decision!" Steffon yelled, cutting off Arya's sentence. Arya went quiet. Steffon did as well, waiting for her to respond. No response came, however, which took him by surprise. He knew that Arya wasn't given to the sort of silence that she was giving him now. Without a word, Arya turned around and began to leave. Realizing what he had done, Steffon leapt up. "Wait. Arya, I-"

"Don't, Steffon." She said, not even bothering to look at him. "Just… don't." Steffon could hear the pure, unbridled anger in her voice as she exited the tent.

He stood frozen in shock, trying to process what had just happened. This one time, his mouth had been quicker than his mind, and it had cost him dearly. Then the rage took over; at Robb, at Theon, at himself. Wanting to distraction, he went back to studying the war table and sorting out the next plan of attack. He grabbed his goblet, but stopped before the iron could touch his lips. He stared at the transparent water it held, before dumping it out and replacing it with red wine from a nearby silver jug. He took a heavy swig, wincing at the tart, zesty taste before getting back to work.

They had been trudging through the snow for some time now, desperately trying to remain unseen by the Wildling lookout post. Gendry struggled to ignore the sting of the crisp, cold air that felt like scraping the edge of a knife along his cheek. He pulled the edge of his cloak up in a desperate attempt to warm up his ears, which were beginning to go numb.

"Not used to the cold air, lad?" Qhorin asked.

""Not really." Gendry replied. He wasn't at all, truthfully. "It's not King's Landing, that's for sure."

"Aye, that much is true." The old veteran said. "How much do you know about Wildlings Gendry?"

"Enough." He said.

"So you think." Qhorin sighed. "You can never understand wild things, lad. These Wildlings, they find a nice cave to hole up in when the sun's up, then come out and kill when it goes dark."

"We could do the same, couldn't we?" Gendry asked.

Qhorin shook his head. "You start thinking you know this land, lad. That's when it'll beat you. You're not in Westeros anymore. This is Wildling country. They know where to walk, where to hide. We don't. More than once I've lost good men who've fallen into a crevasse they didn't know was there till they were in it. And I've lost more thanks to thinking the same." Qhorin removed the glove on the left hand, revealing only his thumb and index finder attached to the palm. "See to it you don't make the same mistakes."

Gendry nodded. He knew he couldn't afford to make such a mistake, but also knew there was no use in becoming complacent, either. There wasn't room for it in Flea Bottom, and even less room for it now. He was in Wildling territory now.

Soon enough, the Rangers were closing in on the Wildlings. They stealthily moved into position, staying low to the ground and hiding behind the rocks and snow piles. Qhorin raised his good hand, as one of the Rangers loosed an arrow; the heavy shaft burying itself in a Wildling's chest as the rest charged forward. The short skirmish quickly intensified, with Gendry slashing another across the chest as another Ranger grappled a hooded Wildling to the ground, pulling the hood back, revealing a thin face with fair cheekbones and a head of ginger hair.

"A girl?!" Gendry said, stunned.

"A Wildling." The Ranger grunted, throwing her to the ground and drawing his sword, ready to execute her at a minute's notice.

"Wait." The Halfhand growled, putting a hand on the ranger's shoulder and having him lower his weapon. He approached the Wildling girl, kneeling down so he could look her in the eye. "Do you know who I am?"

"Yes." The girl nodded, her voice quavering. "You're Qhorin Halfhand."

"Good." He replied. "What's your name?"

"Ygritte." The girl replied.

"Alright then, Ygritte," Qhorin began, "tell me truthfully: what lies beyond the hills?"

"The Free Folk." Ygritte replied. "Hundreds of thousands of them. More than you've ever seen."

Qhorin raised an eyebrow. He'd had his fair share of encounters with small Wildling parties and camps, but never an entire army. "Really, now? Then tell me, why come down to the mountains? What does Mance Rayder have planned?"

Suddenly, Ygritte's panicked expression turned into a smug grin. "Ask em' yourself." She replied, before punching one of the Ranger's in the groin and sprinting towards the distant snow-coated hills.

"Stop her!" Qhorin shouted, as one of the Ranger's knocked and arrow and took aim, only to be stopped by an arrow embedding itself in his chest. Gendry turned around to see a another group of Wildlings advancing on the group from over the hilltop.

"Get down!" He shouted, tackling Qhorin to the ground as a small hail of arrows came pouring down from the sky, impaling the second ranger through the neck and eye, while one stray arrow found its way into Qhorin's calf. The two readied their swords just in time for the Wildlings to charge down the hill. Gendry ducked under one wild axe swing and thrust his sword through the belly of one, before managing to parry another and slash him across the back. He turned to face another before collapsing on his left leg. He looked down to see an arrow sticking out of it.

"Die, Crow!" One Wildling shouted, raising an axe. Gendry closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable blow, followed by a sudden death, but it didn't come. He opened his eyes to see that the Wildling was halted by an arrow embedded in the snow, just shy of piercing one of his feet. The one who had saved him was Ygritte.

"He's a prisoner." She said gruffly. "We'll take him to Mance."

The Wildling scoffed. "Have it your way." He grabbed Gendry by his cloak, hoisting him onto his feet and shoving him on the ground by Ygritte's feet. "You look after him."

It had been at his insistence that Joffrey tour the defences in the southern part of the city, despite Cersei's repeated concern that the king would be killed. Tyrion of course had the final word, as per their father, but Cersei had demanded that Sansa go with them so the whole world could see the daughter of Eddard Stark cowering before the one true King of the Seven Holds.

A vain and senseless idea; much like my dear sister herself. Tyrion mused, knowing full well that Sansa's death would only serve to enrage the Northerners even further. What's more, Steffon would have no inclination to stop them. After all, the boy had the white-hot temper of his father.

He recalled the first time Steffon had truly given into his inner rage when he was thirteen. Myrcella came to him in tears, presenting her brother one of her favorite dolls with its head severed from her body. She claimed the deed had been Joffrey's doing, who said he would do the same to her if she told anyone. Steffon then stormed into the main hall to confront Joffrey and for the first time in his life, didn't submit to his harsh words or threats. Instead, Steffon proceeded to beat his older brother until he cried. It took the combined forces of both Jaime and Cersei to pry the two apart. Tyrion couldn't help but give Steffon a pat on the shoulder.

Currently, the sizable entourage consisted of himself, Joffrey, Sansa, The Hound, Ser Aron Santagar, most of the Kingsguard and several members of the City Watch. All were looking over the three trebuchets that were under construction on the walls; The Three Whores, they were called, likely constructed at Cersei's insistence. They certainly were impressive to look at, several feet tall and likely capable of hurling heavy projectiles, but ultimately useless. There was little chance of Steffon or Renly arriving on their doorstep while they were still engaging each other in the Stormlands, which was a relief.

"These will sink any of Steffon's ships to the bottom of the Blackwater." Joffrey grinned, looking over one of the trebuchets.

"It may not be Steffon who attacks us, Your Grace." Tyrion replied.

"Renly, then. It makes no difference." Joffrey grumbled. "It is too good a death for those who take up arms against the crown. They should die screaming." He continued. "When I kill Steffon, I will have his head mounted on a pike, right next to the traitor Eddard Stark."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. He had gotten used to hearing Joffrey's tirades about the various deaths he had in mind for his brother, which ranged from from a public hanging to hanging, drawing and quartering to, perhaps most disturbingly, a brazen bull. Of course, there were also the threats to kill Steffon in battle in a variety of ways. Of course, while he had gotten used to Joffrey's bluster, it appeared that the mention of her father had caused Sansa to shed a tear. That got the king's attention.

"Why are you crying?" He said angrily. "Your father was a traitor. Your mother and brother are traitors, and your sister is fucking my traitor brother."

"Time to leave, I think." Tyrion said, silencing Joffrey's insults. The Hound nodded in agreement. The group made their way down the staircase that took them off the wall. On the way to the Red Keep, they were greeted by the anticipated jeers from the smallfolk.

"Hail Joffrey!" One man shouted, his voice oozing with sarcasm. "Seven blessings on you, Your Grace!"

"Murderer!"

"Bastard!"

"Yellow-haired shit!"

"Please, Your Grace! We're hungry!" Another voice pleaded.

So, the food was disappearing now as well. Tyrion silently lamented. Not a pleasant thought.

"We just want some bread, Your Grace!"

As they rounded a corner, a woman walked in front of them, blocking the path ahead. Her face was covered in dirt and other unspeakable grime, and bundled up in her arms was the dead body an infant. It couldn't have been more than a few weeks old.

Tyrion knew this was not a good spot to be in, with high buildings all around them, the woman at the front and more smallfolk gathering at their rear; they were boxed in. Perfect for someone to plunge a knife into Joffrey's heart. "Get the prince to safety, now." He quietly ordered one of the Goldcloak sergeants with them, who promptly moved his men to escort Tommen away. Hopefully to safety.

"Move, woman!" Joffrey spat. Tyrion sighed, Did the boy have no clue that the entire crowd was ready to tear him to pieces?

"Your Grace, maybe give her some coin? She is obviously struggling and with your wise and noble nature, surely you can spare some for a poor woman in need?" Sansa suggested. She was getting smarter.

"Very well." Joffrey huffed, tossing a few coins in front of the woman. Still she didn't move. Joffrey's face went red. "If you do not move this instant, I will have you killed!" He shouted at her. Something flew out from the crowd and hit him straight in the face. Dung, most likely. "Who did that?! Find who did that and bring him to me!" He ordered. Two Goldcloaks tried pushing into the crowd to find the culprit, but that was exactly what they had been waiting for.

The crowd surged, hurling rocks and other projectiles from the roofs as those on the street charged into the procession. Tyrion saw two Gold Cloaks pulled into the crowd for some horrible fate. "Move!" He shouted to the Kingsguard knights and remaining Gold Cloaks, who had taken up position to protect the nobles. As they began moving, Tyrion noticed Aron Santagar taking a knife in his side. As Ser Preston Greenfield moved to aid him, another rioter smashed his helmet with a wooden hammer before pulling the two soldiers into the crowd.

They were moving as quickly as they could; with the Gold Cloaks having discarded their long pikes in favour of the iron cudgels they carried. Several more were taken by the crowd on the way as they finally made it to the Red Keep. Lannister guardsmen rushed out with swords and shields to hold back the crowd as the door was sealed behind them.

"Traitors! I'll have their heads!" Joffrey growled.

"We've had vicious kings and we've had idiot kings," exasperated Tyrion, "but I don't recall there ever being a vicious idiot for a king!"

"They attacked ME!" Joffrey snarled.

"One throws a cow pie at you, so you decide to kill them all!?" Tyrion exclaimed. "They're starving, you fool! All because of a war you started!"

"You're talking to a king!" Joffrey shouted, only for Tyrion to slap him across the face.

"And now I've struck a king! Did my hand fall from my wrist?" He asked. Then he noticed something. "Where is Lady Stark!?"

"Let them have her!" Joffrey snarled, only for Tyrion to strike him across the cheek again.

"If she dies, you'll never get Myrcella back! Or your uncle Jaime!" Tyrion shouted. "You owe him quite a bit you know!" Tyrion turned to address the Hound. "Clegane! Find Lady Stark and bring her back alive and unharmed!"

The Hound nodded before turning to face the angry crowd. The man used almost no effort to plow his way through the mob, pushing people aside or intimidating them into backing away with a glare.

Sansa

Sansa had become separated from the crowd now, desperately running every which way she could find to avoid the three men pursuing her. She knew exactly what they would do to her if she were caught. Sansa ducked down an alleyway but tripped over the skirts of her dress, tumbling to the floor.

Before she had a chance to regain her footing, the men were on her; their expressions twisted with hunger and lust. She kicked and shoved, working desperately to push the men off of her, but they were too strong. One of them pulled out a knife and cut open her skirts with a psychotic smirk. Sansa began to struggle even harder, trying desperately to escape, but now she was being held down by the two other men.

"Let's see what a highborn virgin's cunt feels like." He laughed, pulling down his trousers and spreading Sansa's legs. She screamed in terror before one of the men slapped her across the face hard.

She continued struggling when suddenly, she could feel the man's hands no longer bruising her thighs. She looked to the side and saw that the man had been cut open, his guts spilling out from his stomach onto the alley floor. The other man released his grip on Sansa before charging forward to attack, only to get impaled through the stomach by a long sword. The third one turned to flee, but was too slow, as the man grabbed him by the back of the head. The man begged for mercy, only for his throat to be a slashed open. Now she looked up to see her savior, who was none other than Sandor Clegane.

"Come on, little bird." He said, hoisting the still sobbing Sansa over his shoulder. "I need to get you to the Red Keep or I'll be on your good-brother's fucking enemies list." The Hound escorted Sansa through the crowd, swinging his sword with his left hand, unflinching as he hacked his way through the mob. By the time they had returned, Sandor's blade was drenched in the blood of the smallfolk he cut down without hesitation.

Once the Hound sat Sansa down on the one of the benches, she was immediately attended to, as several servants wrapped her in a blanket. "Lady Sansa, are you alright?" Tyrion asked.

"The little bird's bleeding." The Hound stated. "Someone see to her cut."

"Well done, Clegane." Tyrion commented. It would have been easy for the Hound to claim that he had arrived too late.

"I didn't do it for you." He grumbled, before walking away and ignoring the rioters nearby.

And done! Be sure to comment!