Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

Lord Damon Marbrand reached the peak of the hill on jittery legs, leaning on one of the oaks as he struggled for air. The light mist parted to reveal a cragged valley down below, dotted with enormous boulders. It steeped back into a sharp climb before reaching the next hill, where squat oaks impeded the view. He turned behind to gaze at the survivors from Stonedoor; the column of stomping soldiers and worn sleds was strung-out and on its last legs, men dropping by the sides as the rest marched on like sleepwalkers chased by a nightmare. Those who fell were swiftly covered by the howling snowstorm, turning into mounds of snow in a matter of minutes. Damon could only hope that would slow them down when they opened their eyes again.

Ser Fedrin caught up to his side, using a Guard halberd as a walking stick, "M'lord. They're gaining on us. Lord Prester's detached from the host and's fighting a rearguard." He said it matter-of-factly; the man was beyond shock. It wasn't the first rearguard action to doom itself so others could live, though Damon suspected it might be the last. They would barely march another league with the half-hour Lord Prester could buy them… at most. He stared at the ascending column; ghosts in the mist carved out of the aurora's light. The banners of House Marbrand, Lydden, and Foote swayed with their half-dead standard bearers, surrounded by a caravan of limping armsmen, shell-shocked knights, and shivering Handmaidens. Of the three thousand men that had manned Stonedoor, less than a third remained. Fewer still, now that Lord Prester's men are gone.

"This is it then," he said, looking at one of the lead sleds as it passed by him. Addam seemed almost purple, eyes closed shut and his beard rimmed with frost. Wrapped in furs too big for him, his son's frame had waned to the point he seemed more wight than man.

Is this truly my son? Damon wondered as he blinked twice. The burly knight who'd won the tourneys at Lannisport, eyes mirthful as he gave his wife a crown of flower? With mounting anguish, Damon tried and failed again to convince himself otherwise. Even bone tired and at wit's end, Damon Marbrand would always recognize his eldest son. "Stop the sled," he told the man pulling the horse ahead. He thought Addam would wake up then... but of course, his son slumbered on.

He found himself gripping his dagger as he touched his son's cheek. 'Ear to ear; spine and twist,' went the wisdom of the smallfolk. It'll do for my son and heir, he thought, bile crawling up his mouth as he reversed the grip.

"No, my lord," said a familiar voice.

Damon turned in an instant, shock crawling up his flesh as he saw a woman stand by his side. Her courtly dress did not sway before the harsh winds, but the white furs around her neck stood on edge, as if roused by hidden danger. The dagger slipped from his fingers as Queen Sansa gazed at him, eyes aglow with bright sapphire, of a color with the three gemstones on her coronet. Her presence held a surreal edge, a miraging quality that seared itself into one's vision. "My Queen," he whispered as he fell on his knees, half-convinced he was hallucinating again; sleep deprivation had grown rampant even amongst the nobility.

The gasps of his companions put paid to that notion. "Seven Above…" whispered Ser Fedrin, eyes wide as knelt on the snow, his scarf whipping around him like a strangler's rope. The rest of his retinue followed suit—frostbitten faces aglow as they gaped at the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Rise, Lord Marbrand," she said, touching his chin. Though he couldn't feel her touch, his entire face tingled as he rose to his feet. "There's another group of survivors beyond the next hill, fortified below an overhang. If you but join forces with them, you'll stand a chance against the wights."

Damon slipped a look at his son. Was he even breathing anymore? "We'll never make it time," he whispered.

"You will if you hurry. Move!" said the Queen, and it was not a suggestion. "Move for Ser Addam! Move for the men in your care! Move, lord of the west!"

Her utter certitude propelled him to his feet, a second wind filling his lungs. "Yes," he said, giving his son one last look before turning to the nearby soldiers. "Yes!" he yelled, shaking them out of their reverie as they stared at the Queen, "Pick up the pace! Safety's but a hill away! Run damn you! Run!" he said, infectious hope tingling in his belly as they picked up the cry.

"Move!"

"To the next hill! Quick pace!"

"Move!"

The column strained like a twitching snake, pushing forth against the blizzard with one last gasp of effort. They went down the slope and through the valley, up again between cragged boulders bigger than castle towers. Though made lesser by the distance from the Wall's corpse, the mist was still thick enough to hide tantalizing depths, crawling with terrors real or imagined. It seeped between the heavy boulders that dotted both slopes; towering masses too large to have been carved by giants, relicts of a forgotten age witnessing man for the first and final time. The Queen was their pathfinder, their talisman, dispelling unknown horrors as she led them through the mist. She was a mirage half-glimpsed between the boulders, pointing at trails with imperial certainty, the tails of her fluttering dress leading stragglers back to the main force. Words floated through the mist, guiding Damon through the broken landscape, her silent encouragements felt rather than uttered, felt by lords and levies alike. They could just about see the campfires as they reached the squat oaks atop the second hill; pinpricks of misty light cowering under a big overhang, carved out of the valley's side. Just as the Queen had said.

"Faster," she whispered in his ear.

"Come on!" he roared, waving his hammer up against the howling snow, "Double time! Reach for the lights!" They twinkled amidst the storm, tiny dots of light promising warmth. A haven. Warmth for Addam.

"Reach for the lights!!!" he screamed. The men surged forward, shaggy northern horses whinnying with foam as their handlers struck them with bloody whips, eyes as crazed as their handlers'. Men howled against the storm, pulling their sleds with ropes thick with frost, torchbearers pointing the way. The Westerlanders made their way down the second valley with desperate hope, dragging limping comrades and tattered banners. One man collapsed and didn't get back up. Someone screamed in the distance; an agonizing screech cut short. Lord Preston's men, come back to haunt those who left them to die. "Faster!" said Damon, "Faster!!!" His son's sled clattered over a patch of crumbled stones, his head rattling from side to side. They were going too slow.

"To the left," said the Queen, urgent haste dripping from her voice, "A spoiling attack."

"Left flank! Shieldwall now!" he bellowed, taking the kite shield off his son's sled and leading a line of Marbrand men, forming up to the left of the caravan. Have to buy time, he thought, wrestling with the shield's strap as it refused to buckle unto his arm. Damon looked around him; the wights would come screaming out of the mist any second now, and he had but few men to stall them. His heartbeat roared louder as he struggled with the leather strap, his fingers numb and clumsy. Ser Fedrin did his best to order the ragged ranks closer together, poleaxes emerging from the gaps like a grudging hedgehog roused from sleep. They didn't have enough shields.

Ser Fedrin's face was locked tight as he reached Damon's side, "We won't last for long," he whispered.

Damon clutched the man's pauldron like a lifeline, "I know."

"Hold fast, lions of the Westerlands," said the Queen. She was a vision walking in front of the line, sapphire gaze touching the faces of his men. Damon followed her steady stride with rapt attention. "Let them shriek and cry, let them howl and tear." Her gaze settled on Damon's own—he pulled the strap secure, the shield tight against his forearm. "Let their fear crawl over you and leave nothing but bared steel."

An ululating shriek scythed through the mist, halberds and long axes quivering as Lord Marbrand took a breath of frozen air, "The Queen's with us!"

"The Queen!" shouted the men, panic and defiance twined together, "Westeros!!!"

"Now," she whispered to him.

"Shields high! Brace!!!" said Damon—wights flew from the mist in between breaths, slamming against the shieldwall with a deafening crack. An undead wildling almost cut his head in two, flailing at his shield with twin axes made of bronze. He strained backwards, feet sliding through the snow as he raised his hammer and paid him back seven-fold. He tore two holes in its skull, but it kept pummeling at him as if in the midst of a rage. "Hold!" he bellowed, voice breaking at the end as the wight tore a wound past his vambrace. He planted his feet on the mud below the snow and pushed back with a heave, and now the wildling lay replaced by a fresh wight in brigandine. One of Lord Preston's men, and more behind it. The unarmed wights flailed like whirlwinds against Daimon's men, tearing the shields out of their hands and leaving them open for their armed brethren; leaping devils armed with hammers and axes—obsidian daggers glinting in the fog. Even the King's fearless Raiders could be turned.

"Nothing but bared steel." Damon whispered the Queen's words at the wight clawing at his shield. It peeked above the steel rim with pale blue eyes, staring into him with such unnerving precision he slipped on the mud yet again. The whole line was ground back under the onslaught, but they held. Longer than he'd hoped. Somehow, for a while, they held. It was all he could ask.

When the end came, it came quickly. A thrown axe whistled past him and slammed into Ser Fedrin, who'd been covering his right side. It tore through his cheek before he collapsed without a sound, and then a sword sneaked past the shieldwall and caught the man to his left in the armpit. Damon didn't see the blow that got him; he gasped as something churned inside his groin, warm blood gushing down his legs. He turned to see a wight standing over Ser Fedrin's corpse, a bloody longsword in its hands which was now making for his head. Damon blinked and realized he was on the snow, Westerlanders falling all around him as blurry figures scuttled between them at a dead run, making for the rest of the column.

He stared at the campfires in the distance, his head numb. The searing cold crept up his back, tinier and tinier wisps of steam escaping his nose as his vision turned into a pinprick. They never told you how fast it was, but he'd known. Learned it when the Reyne cavalry smashed into their right flank and Ser Fedrin's brother died without a pip—he couldn't remember his name. Knew it when Tywin brought down Tarbeck Hall with a single boulder. Old lessons learned anew when the Comet's gaze brought down a Wall. He wondered if his liege was still alive. Carving up a deer or an elk in his very command tent as some young lord was ushered in for the first time; they always looked so green at all the blood. Gods but the Old Lion was fond of that trick. Hard to find an elk in this mist though. Hard to survive in this mist. Did the Shadowtower collapse like Stonedoor? They'd found a man from Sentinel Stand and he'd sworn his part of the Wall had barely swayed. He wondered why he felt so cold. Addam, he remembered, the thought a light against the delirious darkness.

Queen Sansa crouched by his side, eyes serene but rimmed with unshed tears. The Comet pierced through the mist with ease, its distant glow shining scarlet against the Queen's hair. "Breathe and close your eyes, Lord Marbrand," she said, her voice soft and soothing. "Close your eyes and rest." It was a tempting proposition; he had the strangest certainty she had done this before. Still, not every lord's deathbed had royalty by its side. Lucky. He was forgetting something. Addam.

"Son," he whispered.

"He reached the camp with the others," said the Queen, her palm over his breastplate. Her touch was there but not, her smile grieved but real. "You did your duty, my lord. You saved them."

Damon sighed in relief and closed his eyes.

-: PD :-

Sansa came out of her trance with a sigh, wisps of wind tugging her red locks as if reluctant to let her go. Yesterday, it had been Lord Marbrand and his men. Today had been the Karstarks. The maesters and Handmaidens around her stood up attentively, and Sansa swallowed a thick knot before nodding at them, "The Karhold couldn't evacuate in time. They gave the wights one last defiance."

They turned to the great map tacked to the wall of the tower, crossing out the Karhold with a thick red X bisected by a third line. There would be no fresh wights coming from there. Sansa gazed at the map for a long while; the red X's on the map spread from the Wall like smallpox, most of them bereft of the third bisecting line that signaled a Last Defiance. Lines of yellow string pinned with her handmaiden's sewing needles signaled the course of the various armies of the living fleeing south, brown ones noting lines of fortifications. The grey ones pointed the axis of advance of known wight hosts; an inverted grey dawn radiating from the Wall along main roads and snaking valleys.

Though the Weeping Water and the Lonely Hills were a solid anchor for the North's right flank, the center was pummeled everyday, the lines shifting just a tiny bit southward with every report she received… with every death she witnessed. Joffrey and Lord Tarly were doing their best to maneuver and use each other as hammer and anvil, but by now their retreat along the King's Road had left Long Lake behind and was solidly into the Wolfswood; skirmisher's terrain. The pitched battles had devolved into one drawn out twenty four hour brawl between heavily armed patrols and rearguards against wight hosts broken up by the forest. While the left…

The conflicting lines and pins hinted at something of the mess that was that front. The broken terrain of the western mountains hindered the retreating Westerlanders almost as much as they did the wights chasing them. The Westerlanders—being no strangers to hilly terrain themselves—were slowly eking out a lead over the chasing wights, who sometimes preferred to scatter when reaching new areas, searching for hamlets or lone survivors before moving on. The danger wasn't so much the dead breaking through there, but the Westerlanders getting cut off if the front reached Winterfell before them. She'd have to speak with Lord Harlaw and Theon, see if they could send a few more ships to recover the groups nearest the coast. Ease logistics. If they haven't burned down Bear Island yet.

Maege Mormont was a dependable lady, but hosting a third of the Iron Fleet in her island had chafed more than a few old blood feuds raw. I'll catch my breath and contact-

A strong hand gripped her shoulder. Wylla Manderly had been working on her frown, "It's been enough for one day. Why don't you lay down for the rest of the afternoon? I'll keep watch over the paperwork here."

Sansa rubbed her face, feeling rebellious, "Joffrey's out there working on three hours of sleep. What kind of Queen would I make?"

"A sane one," said Wylla, unimpressed, "The offensive over the Weeping River stalled to a halt again. I don't think Lord Royce will need you till tomorrow."

"I need to speak with Lord Harlaw-"

"Staring over the old man's shoulder isn't going to speed up those ships. They already know, there's nothing you can do there."

Sansa kept staring at the map, the lines blurring as a forceful yawn took her by surprise. "Alright," she said after a moment, "But you tell me the minute a raven arrives from the front."

"Count on it," said Wylla.

"Liar," she told her, her smile teasing one out of Wylla in turn. She left the First Keep and walked on the elevated passageway over the Guard's Hall, turning on the Armory. The constant storms blew the snow sideways, flanking the tiled roof enough that every morning they had to be swept clear. Legate Rykker—never one to lose an opportunity—had immediately set up a scheme whereas soldiers on disciplinary duty would serve as sweepers for two whole days, paying the price for tavern brawls or other transgressions. Whatever they thought of the punishment, they bowed like Silver Knights when she passed them by, almost falling over the railing in their haste to make way.

Winterfell was fit to bursting with activity; sled trains arrived every hour, bringing in the wounded and departing with tied crates brimming with supplies. Scouts and outriders stomped the snow out of their boots by the covered fires, and teams of lumberjacks sharpened their axes with steady shrricks that lulled the ear.

Something gripped her hard as she stopped over the training yard, looking down over the handrail. For a moment she could almost glimpse Jon and Robb trading blows in the middle of the yard, Ser Rodrick's gruff voice cutting over the sound of wood-on-wood. Arya would flit by in a moment's notice, running from Bran with a quiver full of poached arrows. Sometimes she would spot Father standing by the door of the armory, a rare smile lighting his face as he tied a fur cloak around his shoulders. He'd always have that same smile, as if considering the merits of chasing after the both of them before deciding, always—not this time.

A droplet fell on her hand and startled her. She looked up to the blurred sky, looking for clouds but finding none; it was one of those rare days when the clouds kept their distance, letting the tired sun shine at will. Another droplet scurried down her neckline, and Sansa sighed as she took out her handkerchief. She couldn't stop seeing Father's face, smiling that rare, crooked smile, standing by the Armory's side door. She pressed it tightly against her cheeks, focusing on the ringing barks of the serjeant down below. Instead of her brothers, a double line of Stark levies hollered before charging in a rain of halberds against their wooden targets. Shieldbearers followed close behind, moving up to cover them as the halberdiers retreat two steps back. They formed a 'Penitent Hedgehog'—as Joffrey had named it—and held for a minute or two before the serjeant reorganized them and the exercise was repeated all over again.

Sansa took a breath of frigid air, steam curdling to nothing as she gripped the railing tight. At least she'd had the Purple before; always the prospect of seeing him again, no matter what happened. But not now. Never again. Sansa knew she needed more sleep, but she didn't want to go to her bedchambers. She didn't want to dream about Father.

A rhythmic beat on the floorboards made her turn towards a dashing figure, charging through the walkway at reckless speed before she started sliding on the slippery surface. She crashed against Sansa with a muffled umhp. "Arya!" she said, though it sounded more like a whine, "Don't run like that! You'll snap your neck!" Arya scoffed hard as she grasped Sansa's furs, a wild smile on her lips. A wave of disorienting nostalgia shook her to the bone as she beheld her huffing sister, the rest of the scold dying in her throat. Arya had grown taller these last few years, her so-called horseface acquiring a slender grace that often left the older hands reminiscing about Lady Lyanna.

Gone were the leather scraps of her youth; Lady Arya Stark wore furs over chain mail, Needle and an obsidian dagger strapped to her belt. Though her war-duties mostly consisted of scouting through warged beasts, her martial training had not been neglected. Every couple of days she'd challenge one of the green boys just arrived from the south; snot-nosed lord's sons boasting about how they would fell a Walker with two stroke. Guardsmen on rotation from the frontlines would always line up in the courtyard and swindle the boy's friends of all the coin they had, because surely he wouldn't be defeated by this slender lady and her oversized toothpick?

That was today's Arya. Fierce and independent. Still not quite tempered, but possessed of a certainty absent from her childhood. Armed and armored—cloaked like her brother Robb. A perky violet plucked from the glass gardens dangled from her hair, hanging on for dear life. It was her only concession to Mother's fussing.

"Sansa!" she said, "Marge is-" Sansa cut her off as she enveloped her with both arms; an inescapable bear hug. She gave only token resistance before returning the embrace, her yard-trained muscles pushing the air out of Sansa's lungs. She didn't need an explanation; Arya understood. When they separated, her sister's eyes held the tiniest sheen; she wiped them off before giving her an excited smile, "Marge! The baby! It's coming!"

Sansa gasped, "What?! Why didn't you tell me sooner?!"

"Come on!" said Arya, sprinting over the walkway and dragging Sansa with her. Soon they were running around the Main Keep as if they were six again, their wild gibbering echoing across the hall. Sansa gave the servants a wide berth as they ran, half forgotten instincts flaring up. But instead of moving to cut off their escape, they stood aside with muffled 'm'ladies' and 'Your High'ness', eyes filled with respect instead of good-natured anger. They arrived outside Margaery's bedchamber to find Robb pacing like a caged direwolf, Ser Rodrik sitting quietly by a bench.

"Any news?" said Robb. He was scratching his face around the eye-patch, something he usually did when awaiting word on whether his right flank was in position or routed altogether.

"We've just come the other way you dolt!" said Arya, punching him on the shoulder. Robb didn't even notice.

"Is there anything you can do?" he asked Sansa.

"I pray there is," said Ser Rodrik, staring at Robb in irritation, "Else the boy's going to gouge out the other eye!"

"I'm a sorceress not a midwife-" she said before a hideous scream rattled the door. The stream of invective that followed had more in common with dockside sailor-speak than Highgarden poetry. Either someone was murdering Maergery, or the baby was on the last stretch.

"I'll do what I can!" she said before she and Arya barged through the door. Just in time for Margaery to scream again. The sheets need to be replaced, was the first thing Sansa thought. There was a lot of blood.

"I can't!" screamed Maergery. She was on her bed, legs splayed—her dress hid the midwife on the other side. Maester Luwin stood by a cupboard on the other side of the room, furiously mashing something with a mortar and pestle.

"Yes you can," said Mother, confidence oozing from her voice as she held both of Maergery's hands, "Just one more time, one more time and it'll be over."

"Liar!" howled Lady Stark, "That's what you said last time! Fuck him! Fuck Robb Stark and the prick he rode me with! I never should'veaaaAAAAAA!!!"

They stood by the door, horrified by the sight, not daring to move an inch. Arya clutched her arm like a lifeline, teeth gritted together. "Never," she whispered.

"Everyone's breathing down my neck for an heir. And if I do it you'll damn well do it too!" said Sansa, squeezing back just as hard.

Mother looked up, "You either help out or get out! Which is it going to be?!"

Their grip on each other turned painful, but in the end there was no real choice. They washed their hands and moved in to console Margaery, but scarcely five minute had passed before her screams were joined by a squealing cry, a cry accompanied by the howls of direwolves. Sansa could feel Lady startle from her light sleep by the Godswood, jostling Nymeria's head as they howled to the tune of Grey Wind, who must have been prowling right outside the keep because his howl was positively deafening. The entire pack howled long and hard, ululating near the end.

They both stared at the bloody, shriveled baby with something close to awe, at least until Arya shuffled her shoulders. She shot Sansa a glance. "Nymeria was far lovelier at that age."

"Which is it? Which?" Margaery gasped between breaths, the midwife cleaning the babe before handing it off to Maester Luwin. A thorough examination. A nod.

"It's a boy," said Mother, a proud smile on her lips as she received the swaddled bundle of twisting limbs. He cried with mighty lung-fulls of air, clearly unhappy to have been born. Can't blame you, little one, she thought. The world was not exactly a welcoming place right now.

But it could be. The warm-cold longing in her chest took her by surprise.

"Thank the Seven," said Margaery, lying back on the bed with a heave. "Oh Gods. Never again."

"An heir and a spare, dear," said Mother, smirking at the sweaty wreck that was her good-daughter, "Heir and spare."

As if summoned by a spell, Margaery screamed again, long and hard like the direwolves, almost startling Sansa out of her skin.

"Mother what's wrong?!" she asked her.

She looked between her and Margaery, the baby in her arms wailing louder still, "I don't know, I-"

Margaery screamed again, gasping. Sansa's heart leapt to her throat, and she grabbed Margaery's hands in fright. "Ohh Sansa! It hurts!"

"Hold on!" she said, her own blood preparing to lash out to the phantom enemy, "Just-" Something's wrong-

"It 'tain o'ver yet!" said the midwife. To their shock, after another gut-wrenching scream, Maester Luwin emerged from behind Margaery's dress toting another baby.

He examined it with an expert eye, "An heir and a comely girl to marry off too," he said, a smirk on his lips as Arya crossed her arms, "All in a day's work."

"Twins?!" said Margaery, receiving both crying bundles. "Grandmother's going to kiss Father silly," she said, entranced by the babies. She coddled them with newborn instincts, a rainbow smile on her lips as the girl smacked her with a clumsy arm. In an instant she was feeding both of them, and Sansa couldn't help but stare at the sight, fascinated. She'd just witnessed something inexplicably hallowed. She imagined herself in Margaery's place; holding a little bit of Joffrey and herself in her lap, a tiny speck of life unconcerned with war and snow. Only food, apparently.

"Bring another towel," Luwin told the midwife, shaking Sansa out of it. She eyed the blood past Margaery's thighs with a frown. It certainly didn't look healthy. Luwin shrugged at her silent question, so she passed a hand over the mess, blood pooling around her arm before entering her bloodstream; Margaery's skin was left as clean as her newborn's. Less chance of sepsis that way, she thought, throttling down a sigh of pleasure. A bit of it must've been the baby's because… Yep, definitively Robb's. Blood of Kings indeed.

Arya raised both eyebrows at her.

"Baby blood's more delicious," she told her.

"Ewww!"

As the midwife returned from the washing tub and puzzled at Margaery's clean skin and sheets, both sisters surrounded the new mother. "Well done, Marge!" said Arya; anyone still conscious after that ordeal deserved all the praise they could get.

Sansa wiped the sweat off Margaery's brow, using her handkerchief. It felt silly she'd once been jealous of this brave woman, thrust into the unfamiliar North mere months before a world ending war. All so Tyrell blood could join Westeros' ruling alliance… almost exactly as Lady Catelyn had done, more than twenty years ago. History rhymed in its own interesting ways, no edicts from the Purple needed. No wonder Mother took to her almost instantly. "Congratulations, good-sister," she said, beaming at her.

Margaery giggled, exhausted, "One day it'll be me giving them to you."

Sansa stared at the babes, happily suckling for all they were worth. "I think… I'd like that," she said. Maybe. Possibly.

Hard knocks thundered against the door. "I heard crying! Everything alright?! What happened!?"

Mother glanced at Arya, "Better open the door before he brings a battering ram."

Arya giggled. "It's a girl!" she said as she threw the door open.

"And a boy!" said Sansa.

Robb stumbled into the room. He'd looked less shell-shocked the night the Wall collapsed. "A girl… and a boy?"

"Congratulations, my lord," said Maester Luwin, nodding happily; he now had two generations of Starks now under his belt. Mother kissed him in both cheeks, though he couldn't take his eyes off the twins.

"Look Eddard, it's your Father," said Margaery, gently extracting the baby from her breast and holding him out to Robb.

"Eddard," said Robb, falling on his knees by the bed and receiving the baby like a flask of wildfire. "Of course," he whispered in a pained voice, smiling.

"What about the girl?" asked Sansa.

Margaery smiled like the cat who caught the raven, "And this feisty bundle," she said, interrupting the girl from her meal. She began to cry at once, moving tiny limbs in outraged distress. "Is Olenna Stark."

Sansa sputtered, hiding her mouth with one arm. Goofy grins spread around the room, and they all just stood there before little Eddard started crying again and Robb looked as if someone had jutted a torch straight into the wildfire. News soon spread around the castle, and all throughout the day and the following night Sansa could hear the cheers and toasts from the soldiers, servants, knights, and visiting lords, boasting raucously of the One-Eyed Wolf and thanking a certain wight for going high instead of low. Robb withstood it all in silent mirth, telling the men they should thank Lady Stark instead of him… and his codpiece instead of the wight. Sansa of course greased the wheels with food and ale; a relatively extravagant gesture in times like these, but in the end completely worth it.

It felt good to be reminded of life and love, in times of white and death.

-: PD :-