Author's Note: Having at least temporarily defeated the monster that is Writer's Block, I bring you the long-overdue seventh chapter of The Queen Gambit. Special thanks to philosoph-ie, cinderellasfella, and meridaweasley on tumblr who encouraged me to bring this fic out of hiatus, rather than let it die.
The siege was broken, Riverrun freed, and Robb declared not only King of the North, but now King of the Trident as well. By all accounts, everyone should be at their highest morale since the entire war had started. Breaking the siege had been surprisingly simple. Without the lead of Jamie Lannister, Forley Prester had retreated to Golden Tooth to save his men, and the leader of the western camp, Ser Andros Brax, had drowned. The remaining camp, full of Tyroshi sellswords, under threat and with the gold from Tywin cut off, turned on the Lannisters and for the moment had joined the northern army.
All was not well in the camp, however, and Roose Bolton was making sure of it, even as the camp moved into Riverrun and the forces swelled with the Houses of the Riverlands.
"Next thing you know, King Robb will be giving the Tyroshi a northern house." He muttered quietly, behind several of his banners, planting more seeds of discord. King Robb, a boy of sixteen, had the gall to disrespect him and dismiss his advice. For what? Honour? The attentions of some Southern flower? Robb Stark needed to learn the dangers of going against him, and against House Bolton. It irked his pride even more that it had him regretting allowing Ramsay to keep Eleana Glenmore after he caught her in the wood. If she was still alive, half of his problem wouldn't even be happening.
"So we're northmen now." Erren Vyrwel said as he sat, cleaning his sword, surrounded by people he had known his entire life.
"Looks that way." Duncan Norcross replied, seemingly unbothered.
"And you're just...okay with that?" Erren asked, eyes slightly wide.
Duncan snorted at that. He was an old knight, who had seen the last war and survived it, and then survived Highgarden intrigue for even longer. Most of the men in this camp hadn't seen everything he had, though he had to admit, they fought well. However, they still hadn't had the softness entirely beat out of them, and some, especially second and third sons like Erren Vyrwel didn't quite understand the boon they had been given. "What did you think would happen?" He asked, amused. "Did you think we would win Northern Independence and then happily march through the Crownlands back to the Reach, where Mace would welcome us all back with open arms?"
Erren looked around at his friends, and then admitted: "I thought Stannis would crush Renly, and then Lord Mace would come and offer Lady Margaery to King Robb, with all the strength of the Reach, to put Lady Margaery on the Iron Throne. With the North, the Riverlands and the Reach, he would be undefeated, and Lady Margaery would be queen...a better one than Cersei." He frowned. "Now we are the smallest of the Houses in the North, and Mace has lost his daughter as a bargaining chip."
Garrin Leygood shook his head. He wasn't a veteran of the war against the Mad King, but he had known more of what he had gotten into than Erren. "The Starks and the North don't care for the Iron Throne. Had Margaery gone to Renly, like Mace suggested, sure she would be a queen, until Stannis put her to the sword for a traitor. At least this way we'll be alive."
Erren paused to consider this. "And Margaery will lead the House better than Mace." He admitted, with a sigh. "But you know Mace always wanted her to be a queen, and she would have been a good one."
Duncan looked out of the tent into the courtyard, watching as Margaery Tyrell wandered around the encampment, stopping to talk with soldiers, scouts, and horses alike, even with her ribs and shoulder bound from the injuries she had taken in the battle for Riverrun. This was normal behaviour for Margaery, who always looked after everyone, even if it meant buying less than appetising meals from a rundown pub in the far reaches of, well, The Reach, but what amused him was the large wolf that was, quite literally, dogging her steps. He smiled to himself, watching as she stopped to praise someone from House Flint in the same way she would have if they had been from Fossoway or even Tyrell. He didn't say it, but while the Starks had no interest in the Iron Throne, he wouldn't be surprised if Mace and his ambitions might find that there was a rose queen sitting on a winter throne instead, with no help from him.
Margaery Tyrell was more aware than most in the camp thought she was. She made her way through the courtyard of Riverrun, checking on the wounded of the army, but also trying to keep up spirits, and because she stayed in the hurriedly put-together camp, rather than a room in the keep, she heard the murmurings and the judgements, by herself and through the sharp ears of her scouts. Some of the people liked her, some were grateful for her aid, for the food she had brought that had now dwindled, some found her useful for her deft hand with herbs and a needle, but many still found her an interloper. She had heard whispers that she was a spy, an assassin, come to kill King Robb in his tent, or a Southron witch, meant to do any number of despicable things. She pushed down every feeling at these slights, and did her best to remain cheerful and upbeat.
This was slightly harder to do while in pain, but she persevered. She had known, after all, that battle was not a game, and she was actually surprised that she had survived her first encounter in battle. She knew many men more trained and worthier than she did not come home after their first experience on the battlefield. Some didn't even come home from their first trip to the lists, after all. When her horse had fallen, as she hit the ground, all she could think about was Willas, his bad leg, and all the anger suppressed into good humour and sublimated into breeding perfect specimens of horse and hunting dog that he could never truly enjoy. She had gotten lucky.
Very lucky.
Dacey had not been wrong about the need for a shield, and Margaery would have to find one light enough to suit her, because had Grey Wind not ripped the throat out of a Lannister swordsman with perfect timing, she knew she wouldn't still be here. Even now, with her cracked ribs bound tight and her shoulder bandaged with salves from Riverrun's Maester, she realised just how close The Stranger had come to her. It was a strangely liberating experience, but to a woman so used to maneuvering and plans, moving in tight spaces with no room for error, she had no idea what to do with herself.
Grey Wind seemed to have decided that since he had saved her, she was somehow his responsibility or some such, because ever since the King in the North had gone into the castle, the direwolf had been following her. She put her hand down and stroked it's large head as she checked on an injured Mallister man, and, her rounds done, headed towards her tent, unsure of what else there was for her to do.
She hadn't gotten far toward where her men were camping, before Dacey Mormont appeared, jogging in her direction from the keep, and smiling cautiously, Margaery slowed to a stop. "Is something the matter, Dacey?" She thought, perhaps, they might someday become friends, though she wasn't quite sure. As the northmen were saying, the North remembers and she had no idea how long it would be until the sins of her Aunt Lynesse were forgiven...or at least no longer held against her.
Dacey nodded to Margaery, noting with grim amusement the obvious wounds, but also the straight spine of the Tyrell rose. "The king has called council. There's been a raven."
Robb sometimes felt his war spiraling out of his control. He had gone from the Heir of Winterfell marching to save his family with his father's banners, to Lord of Winterfell marching with his banners, to the King in the North marching with his men, and now he was The King of the North and the Trident as the Riverlords had bent the knee without so much as a 'by your leave.' He had accepted, of course, after seeing what the Lannisters had done to his mother's homelands.
Now, before he had even become accustomed to that, or the new lords now pushing their way into his war council, there was another raven, promising to be even more complicated. However, a raven, at least, gave him time and space enough to think and gather advice. He reread the scroll worriedly, unsure what it meant for him and for...his fight. He leaned back in the chair, between his Uncle Edmure and the Greatjon, as the called lords entered the room that he had set aside for his strategising. Grey Wind loped over to his side at the large circular table, where the maps of Westeros were laid out, with marks of troop movements and battle sites. When everyone was there that he expected, he removed the golden stag pin. "Renly Baratheon was killed by Stannis and his Red Priestess." Robb announced.
There was a gasp and he turned toward the noise, unsurprised to see Margaery covering her mouth. He cleared his throat slightly. "Lady Margaery?"
Margaery flushed as all eyes turned toward her. "My apologies, Your Grace. It's not important."
Robb was patently sure that this was untrue, but it was the proper, polite answer, so he didn't push. "The part of his force from the Stormlands have already joined with Stannis…" He trailed off slightly. "However, Lord Mace Tyrell has sent a raven wanting to meet at the source of the Mander to discuss joining us." This immediately started grumbling from the Northern lords, which Robb expected, what he did not expect was the quick and vocal disagreement from Margaery.
"No!" She said quickly, and then, flushed again, actually dropping into a curtsy this time. "My apologies, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn. It is, of course, your decision."
Rob blinked, and waved off the apology. "I would have thought you would be pleased, Lady Margaery...what has you so upset? Your father's forces are strong."
"And his ambitions unchecked." Margaery answered, and then her shoulders heaved, as if in a silent sigh. "You told me in your first message to me, Your Grace, that you had no interest in the Iron Throne, only in saving your sisters and establishing Northern Independence. Have you changed your mind?"
Robb shook his head. "Only insofar as I have accepted the Riverlands into the Kingdom of the North. Stannis can have the Iron Throne, it is his by rights."
Margaery nodded, as if she had expected this answer. "My father will meet you, offering up sixty-thousand men, probably even ships, with kingship over The Reach. If you take it, then you'll have three of the seven kingdoms, and the only way to keep the peace would be to take on Stannis and the Stormlands and Joffrey and the Westerlands and maybe Dorne."
"Sixty-thousand more men could mean the end of the Lannisters!" Clement Piper demanded, beating his hand on the table.
"It could." Robb admitted uneasily, hating to admit it. His people were winning and morale was high among the Northmen, but the Riverlords had been besieged and burned out by the Lannisters and their bannerman. "I shall go and meet with him, and at least hear him out."
Margaery looked torn. "Your Grace, if you go to him, my father will see you as another Robert Baratheon, brilliant on the battlefield, but lacking in politics. He'll try to set himself up like another Tywin Lannister putting your kingdom in debt to his gold and gifts, and you to his...advice."
"And you his Cersei, to sweeten the pot." Roose Bolton remarked, cold eyes hard on hers. "A way to guarantee the Tyrells breed little princes and princesses. I suppose we should be glad that your brother's unnatural tastes don't run toward women."
Before Robb could defend her, to tell Lord Bolton that he was out of line, the former Rose of Highgarden showed her thorns, and the King in the North found himself amazed at how her usually soft eyes had gone dark and dangerous, reminding him of the trees in Wolfswood: powerful, wild and unyielding.
"Rillwater Crossing is independent of Highgarden." Margaery said, tersely. "We love our families from The Reach, but we are not theirs to bargain with, nor will we bent to their whims." She did not falter, however, and gave him a smile. "Don't worry, though, I shall inform dear Loras of your interest, Lord Bolton."
The Northmen howled in laughter, and even some of the Riverlords snickered, as Roose went white with rage. Robb quickly stood, to end that particular discussion. "What do you suggest we do, Lady Margaery, knowing Mace Tyrell best?"
"You are a king, Your Grace." Margaery said, the tension dropping out of her shoulders as she relaxed slightly. "You are fighting a war. Your time is precious. If my father wishes to see you, have him come here and present his offers properly. With both Tywin and Jamie Lannister as our prisoners, any fighting they should come across between the Mander and Riverrun will be negligible, and the risk low. Do not allow him to think he can tell you where to go."
"That'll be a sight!" Lord Galbart Glover hooted. "The Warden of the South hisself bowing to the King in the North!"
Robb smiled to himself as his men enjoyed the idea for a little longer, and then moved the discussion on to the discussion of how to best aid the scorched Riverlands. His mind, however, was not fully on the topic, because his eyes kept wandering back to Margaery Tyrell, and he found himself wondering if she objected to the idea of him meeting her father and being offered to him as a match because of her father presuming authority over her, because of the idea of being somehow like Cersei Lannister as Bolton had suggested...or because of him. He found himself hoping that it wasn't the last, and that hope surprised him more than he expected.
