I am so sorry to all my readers that this took so long. i don't really know why, I just could not seem to get it written quite the way I wanted to. Hopefully this chapter has been worth the wait.


Robb knew that not everyone agreed with his decision to let the Lannisters where they lay. He didn't have to be a genius to know that his men were muttering. He had ears, and moreso than that, he had considered slaughtering them all in their sleep for a brief moment before he reminded himself of the kind of king he wanted to be, the kind of man he wanted to be. He wanted to be like his father. Unfortunately, his place meant he had to make his people follow.

"We could end this here, Your Grace!" Roose Bolton hissed to the king, as they rode through the camp. "We could give the incest king his own Rains of Castamere."

Robb pulled his horse to a halt, and looked at Lord Bolton. "And what do you think Jaime Lannister and the rest of his bannerman will do when they hear it? What do you think that incest king will do to my sisters, Bolton?"

"We could at least kill Tywin. Without the old lion, they'll have to regroup." He argued.

The conversation was interrupted at the other side, by one of the Tyrell handmaidens, all three of which were marching near the front, between Robb and Dacey, to ensure nothing untoward occurred between the Southron maidens and his men. "I asked Margaery the same thing." Nyssa said lightly. "I wanted to know why we couldn't just kill them all once they were asleep. She told me that war is waged in the hearts of the people as well as on the fields. No one ever forgot Elia Martell, and no one will forget the slaughter of the bastards, slaughtering soldiers while they're asleep would reek of cowardice and poison the people against us." She pouted prettily. "I asked her about killing Tywin, and she laughed at me. With Tywin dead, control of the Lannister finances goes to the Kingslayer or the Imp." Nyssa clucked to her white mare, patting the horse's neck. "That's why she ordered us to capture him instead. Keep him alive and you cut off the supply of gold to the Lannister soldiers, to the throne, to any he may have bribed or bought. Lannisters buy their men, they won't stay faithful when the gold of Casterly Rock is cut off."

"Do Southron girls tell you how to rule now, Your Grace?" Roose asked, glaring at the maiden.

"No, Lord Bolton." Rob said in turn, voice harsh. "But neither do you."


Margaery woke to the sun on her face and a furry pressure on her chest. She blinked several times, shifting slightly and looking up at the blue sky. She took a few moments to take inventory of where she was, and moved to sit up, only to startle the direwolf who had apparently been sleeping with his head on her chest.

A small spike of fear went through Margaery almost instinctually, before she relaxed. Even if it was a direwolf, it had apparently taken shelter in her wagon and never so much as bit her. "Hello," She said in a soft voice, one she reserved for Willas's hounds. She offered the wolf her hand to sniff, hoping to keep the wolf on her side if she attempted to move. It would be quite annoying if she were to go through all of this just to have her throat ripped out by a direwolf.

The wolf looked at her with large yellow eyes and sniffed her proffered hand, taking a step closer.

"My name is Margaery." Margaery offered, slowly moving her hand to pet the wolf, keeping her voice soft and even. She cautiously scratched between the wolf's ears She felt a little foolish for introducing herself to a direwolf, but really what else could she do?


Robb heard a bark from Grey Wind, and wheeled around on instinct. He had learned to trust his direwolf and to be alert for warnings from him. He gestured for Greatjon to keep the lead and went to investigate. He rode through the ranks toward where the bark had come from, only to find the last sight he would have expected.

Grey Wind, his ferocious direwolf who had torn off Greatjon's fingers before anyyone could react, was currently licking the face of the now awake Margaery Tyrell, who, despite the size of the beast, was giggling and had her arms around his neck as if he was an over-affectionate puppy. Robb couldn't help but stare for a moment, before clearing his throat. "Are you well, my lady?"

Margaery started, her already pink cheeks flushing further in embarrassment. She lowered her arms from the wolf, and cleared her throat. "I am well, if all has gone to plan." She looked away nervously. "Where are we now?"

Robb could not help but compare how the Lady Margaery looked now, with meadowgrass in her hair, face smudged, and blushing as opposed to the still, put-together prettiness of when he had first seen her. "Approaching Riverrun, though we have slowed to allow forces from House Mallister to join our group." He looked to Grey Wind, who was nudging impatiently at Margaery's hand, as if annoyed he was no longer getting attention. "Is he bothering you, milady?"

Margaery noted this with a precise nod, and shifted somewhat. "Not really, though I would like to leave the wagon." She admitted, patting the direwolf on the head.

"Grey Wind, to me." Robb said, pointing to his side. Obediently, the direwolf jumped out of the wagon and to his master's side, with a little gruff noise.

Margaery blamed the Mother's Sleep and the fact that she had expected someone who looked more like Eddard Stark that it took until he called the great direwolf for her to realise that she was speaking to the King of the North. "Your Grace," she said, flushing again and lowering her eyes and head slightly. "It is an honour to meet you."

"The honour is mine." Robb replied, ignoring the courtly games. "Your men speak very highly of you, and your handmaidens as well." He gave a little bow and offered her his hand. "May I assist you from your wagon?"

Margaery was startled from the offer, as one did not usually expect kings, especially kings who were trying to win thrones and keep them, to be so humble as to offer help for such things. Bemused, she took the proffered hand and allowed him to help her down, which wobbly-kneed from Mother's sleep, was very helpful.


Margaery had to admire the martial cunning of the young king, when the plan for the battle was laid out, helped in no small part by Jamie Lannister's overconfidence. Now, however, she was left to wait. The idea hadn't bothered her at first, until the quiet of the camp had invaded her ears and she thought back to all the things she had learned about soldiers, war and command over the years.

Grandmother Olenna, mocking her father's claims of battle-glory...All that fat son of mine ever sieged was his table in his tent...he starved Storm's End and doubled in girth...some warrior.

The whispers in the barracks...Lord Mace pushed Willas into tourneys so he could save his gold in case it came to war again. That didn't end well for his heir. He can't buy the lists!

Loras, visiting home after squiring for Renly, annoyed and heartsick...They're never going to respect me! Someone said I was more useless than father! Don't they know he's their liege lord?

Her father never earned his men's respect, they stayed out of duty and for gold. She had no gold to offer, no promises of advancement, and who knew how they might feel after meeting the Lannister forces in battle. She had only their love, but love could sour from pain. She had no idea how to fight a battle, not truly. She knew strategy, gleaned from Garlan and Willas and even from her father, but not how to wage war. Garlan had made sure to teach her how to defend herself should she ever be come upon by bandits while taking care of the smallfolk of The Reach, but that had meant to be used against small groups, and, if it came to it, against herself. He made sure she knew how to slit her own throat, just in case.

Her hands stilled over her box of herbs and salves, which she had been worriedly arranging and rearranging. She could see to the injured, with the best of her ability, the ability that made Great-Uncle Gormon bemoan her gender and pretty cousins claim Alerie would send her to be made a Septa. She could heal them, yes, maybe, she could stitch them up with fine stitches as if they were samplers, but even that was too after the fact.

She tried to rationalize, she is, after all a woman. Lady Catelyn stayed behind, and Margaery realized with a start that she had still not met the king's mother, too busy making sure her men were ready for battle, that she took time to encourage each one of them, in a litany of house mottoes and platitudes, telling them how much she valued them. In the North, though, gender seemed to matter little. She had watched the king ride off with multiple women in his wake, and if they could do it, so could she. She must, for her men, for herself and for the war she had chosen. This war would be the making or ending of her, and she could not just sit and let it pass her by. She must, in a new way, grow strong.