Even in the Reach, thinks Olenna Tyrell, the night has started turning cold. Mayhaps she shouldn't have agreed to this brainless meeting.

(Winter is coming, indeed.)

"Lord Tywin," she greets, as the old lion enters her tent. Thank the fucking gods. "I was beginning to wonder if you had planned to have me freeze to death. Another player out of the game?"

"I assure you, that wasn't my intention, Lady Olenna." Tywin sits across from her. "And you had happened to die, well, I am sure Lord Mace would have played admirably in your stead."

"Oh, cut out those frivolities, we both know my son wouldn't be able to outplay a Stark." She rubs her hands together- some warmth, finally. "Why are you here?"

"I assume you know that."

"I assume you mean to elaborate?"

Tywin Lannister leans forward. (Both of them know chit-chat is no use. One reason Olenna enjoys dealing with him.) "Grain for the winter, our previous prices. Spies in Robb Stark's camp. My daughter will marry your son."

"Good enough," Olenna agrees, Mace would marry Cersei happily enough. "Go on."

"Conquest of the Stormlands, the defeat of Stannis Baratheon. The King would grant you Storm's end."

Olenna raises an eyebrow. "Come on, Tywin, you can do better than that."

Tywin's hand clenches around his cup. "And a rescue for my son, kept quiet."

Unexpected.

(Olenna thinks it through.)

"What is in it for us?"

"Casterly Rock."

Olenna Tyrell leans back in her chair, an amused smile on her face. (There has to be a catch. He isn't giving her half of his kingdom). "You would wed my granddaughter to your son, then."

"If he survives."

"If he survives," Olenna agrees. She senses the slightest bit of frustration on Tywin's face. "But what of the Starks?"

"What of them?"

'"They are winning. Why should we not ally with Robb Stark instead?"

Tywin smiles, cold and brittle. Of course, he can't imagine why one wouldn't want to ally with his family. "What will Robb Stark give you? He does not want the throne; neither is he out to conquer." And he has married another, it is left unsaid.

"All I want is a happy life for my granddaughter and grandson," Olenna tells him, blithely. "And protection. Starks can provide that. They will be allies loyal to death."

Tywin Lannister's expression shifts, just the slightest bit, and Olenna knows he gets it.

(He is remarkable at controlling his expressions, but Olenna is the master of that craft. No one can tell what she is thinking. But on the other hand, her strategy or warfare doesn't stand a chance against his.

It is probably because he is a man, and she is a woman. No one ever taught her warfare, and no one ever taught him mummery.)

"Your granddaughter," he says, putting down his cup of wine, "will be married to my son. My daughter to your son. You will be family. Your armies can help us crush the North, if the Starks are fools enough to keep fighting. We will owe you much, Lady Olenna."

"And a Lannister always pays his debts." And we'll have your precious children. "Very well." Olenna stands up, glad to finally get out of this cold. "Your son will be out of Robb Stark's prison in a fortnight." Hopefully. If not, well, there's still Edmure Tully. "As for Storm's End, we can discuss that later. As you surely know, I am hardly qualified in matters of warfare."

Tywin Lannister releases a breath. "We have an agreement, then?"

Olenna nods, smirking slightly. "I have half the kingdom, yes. And thanks to us, you have this war in a bag."

…

Every one more second that Alton Lannister blabbers, Jaime's choice becomes agonizingly clear to him.

Of course, he doesn't want to do it. To kill a cousin, and worse, the only person who's spoken to him in a year-

But then again, Robb Stark is feasting his host in honor of his new lady wife. (how could the boy be stupid enough to marry the first whore he looked at? From what Jaime gathered, listening to the guards talk, the king hadn't even suspected she might be a spy, or a decoy, or an intruder. Love at first fucking sight, they said.) and there are but few guards patrolling his cage, and Jaime doesn't think he'll get a better chance than this.

Well, he thinks, fuck. And if when he pulls the boy close and then bashes his head in, he feels the slightest bit of remorse, he doesn't care.

…

"Is it truly wise, though?" Tyrion sits perched on the edge of his chair, wine goblet in hand, and his father's stern face staring back at him. It is a dangerous position, indeed, even if one is not a dwarf. "Sansa Stark is but no-one, her father dead, her brother unwilling to trade her back. How would we benefit from this match?"

Tywin Lannister sets aside his own goblet, his eyes hard, unyielding. "What do you suggest we do instead?"

Tyrion refills his goblet, pondering the question (Test, it is a test. Father knows the answer already. He has likely implemented it, too.)

"Well," he says, "If Littlefinger is to be trusted, Margaery Tyrell is a maiden, still. If Joffrey marries Sansa, she is like to run to Robb Stark. He will gladly set aside his Frey girl for such a match. And our host is severely weakened. We will not be able to face the Starks and Tyrells both."

Tywin smiles, in that eerie, dangerous way of his. "Margaery Tyrell will not run to Robb Stark. The Queen of Thorns was clever to stay neutral, but she dithered too long. Robb Stark has married some foreign whore."

Seven fucking hells.

For a moment, surprise colors Tyrion's face, then he leans back into his chair, and drains his goblet in one gulp. "Is that boy crazy, or merely suicidal?"

"He is a green boy, led by his cock. And so," continues Tywin, "there are few men left eligible for young Margaery Tyrell."

"If Joffrey marries Sansa, then their child will be heir to the North." Tyrion's mind is racing. "And the Rose of Highgarden will have no king. It is Riverrun, or Casterly Rock." He laughs suddenly, then looks up at his father. "The foreign whore is no foreign whore, is she?"

"That," states Tywin, "is of little consequence. What matters is that it would be a slight to marry Joffrey to another, if the Tyrells do ask for his hand-"

"And he has been betrothed to Sansa Stark for long enough that he can claim to be unwilling to break such a sacred vow. So, we get the north, we get the biggest army in Westeros, and we keep the Tyrells mercifully away from the Iron Throne." Tyrion raises his goblet to his father (the smartest man alive). "And we win."

Tyrion pushes down the nagging guilt in a small corner of his brain.

(Because Sansa Stark doesn't win. She will marry joffrey.

Her only powerful friend in kings landing is too caught up in impressing his father-

and her brother is caught up fighting a war, too bent on revenge to salvage what scraps remain of his family. Soon enough, he will have no chance to do so anyhow.)

…

They catch him but three miles away from their camp.

It's almost humiliating how his skills have degraded- he barely manages to take down four men before the rest of the party overpowers him.

(Being chained to a post for months at no end, that's what it does to a man.)

They put him in chains and drag him back on his knees, like a dog on a leash. Jeering and calling for his death. He's stoned and kicked and some arsehole throws a pile of pigshit at him, but he's alive.

(barely)

And then some proud Northron lord with a stick up his arse demands his head; says he killed his son. Catelyn Stark saves him that time (all the while glaring, hostility barely masked), but when the night falls and the men start drinking, and the call for his death grows louder and louder, that's when Jaime Lannister realizes he's seriously fucked.

…

If she were a year younger, Sansa Stark believes, if she were still sweet and innocent and naïve and childish, she would love her wedding gown.

She looks like a princess, wearing it- white and gold with a plunging neckline, intricately embroidered, the bodice made of pure silk, it is a garment from every maiden's dream.

In all honesty, she should love it.

But now, all it does is remind her of Joffrey. Of her groom.

(If it weren't for her groom, maybe she would've loved the gown anyway.)

She doesn't cry. She's a Stark of Winterfell, the daughter of Eddard Stark. She's a direwolf. (A lone wolf. And when the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

Where is her pack?)

She doesn't cry. She wouldn't.

Tywin Lannister gives her away. She thinks she glimpses pity on his hard face- but why does it matter if Tywin Lannister pities her or not? He is selling her to his grandson twice over.

Joffrey stands on the platform, kingly and gallant and beautiful as she'd thought him to be, back when she was a child. He smiles at her, and Sansa grits her teeth, smiles back (prettily, she hopes), and tries hard to keep her food down.

I am his, she says, and he is mine. All the while feeling numb and unfocused. (numbness is a fucking relief. She doesn't want to feel.)

Then they change her maiden Stark cloak for yellow and black Baratheon, and there she is- Sansa Baratheon, Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. Joffrey's pet torture victim and whore.

(She almost hears a wolf howling somewhere.)

…

"Grandmother." Margaery tilts her head, smiling. "I assume the negotiations went well?"

Olenna Tyrell grins. "Yes, darling granddaughter, they went very well indeed."

"How so?" she asks, childish curiosity mingled with indifference (yes, that's the mask, that's the right one this time)- "What did he ask for?"

"Tywin Lannister," grandmother says, sitting down on the couch next to Margaery, "was tense. He is probably the most ruthless man I have ever met-" Margaery snorts- "no, he is, granddaughter. Remember to never underestimate your enemies. So, what was I saying? Yes, he's a ruthless man, but I could see cracks in his demeanor. I could tell he needed something, terribly."

Margaery frowns. (ignorance. innocence.) "Needed what, grandmother?"

Olenna sighs. "Oh, my dear, I have absolutely no idea. It is definitely not anything regarding his captive son, whom he required us to rescue- apparently, Robb Stark is too wrapped up in his foreign whore to think of parleying, as of now."

That, thinks Margaery, is interesting. "There is more."

Grandmother nods, a vague look of pride passing her face (it makes Margaery's day). "He wanted us to assist him in all wars to come, if there are more wars to come." Olenna sighs. "Somehow, I think there are."

"And in return?"

Grandmother quirks an eyebrow. "What could we possibly want in return, more than the Lannisters' friendship?"

Margaery sighs. (teasing, sweet, charming). "Grandmother."

The older woman shrugs. "Yes, well, he'll give us his heir. You are to marry Jaime Lannister."

Gods.

For a moment, her composure shatters; her mask slips. Then she schools her features back to indifference, like they've taught her too.

(there's still cracks, and she can't meet her grandmother's eyes without exposing them)

"Not the prince Tommen?" she whispers.

"What will you do with a second son, prince or not? Once Jaime Lannister is rescued, Tywin will dismiss him from the Kingsguard, make him marry you, and you will have the west. We will have the west."

Since she was little, Margaery has known she'll never marry for love. But seven hells, she'd never thought-

"He's twice my age, grandmother, and a Kingslayer and oathbreaker at that."

(does it matter? his father will make him, grandmother said. surely if he's forced into marriage like she is, he wouldn't treat her horribly. or would he? if only she knew-)

"And you will seduce him, gain power in the Westerlands, and then dispose of him, if necessary." Grandmother shrugs, as if it is that simple. "Isn't power what you've always wanted?"

She closes her eyes. Yes. Yes, it is.

(but I've wanted something more too, something bigger.)

Margaery Tyrell smiles. Pretty, and beautiful, and fake. (just like her). "What do you want me to do?"

…

Tyrion gets drunk at the wedding feast.

Granted, he almost always gets drunk, wedding or not, but that day, he takes specific care to get even more drunk than usual.

It is not because he feels like he could have prevented it, he swears. It isn't because of that, at all. No, he's just pities the girl who marries Joffrey.

And it isn't because of guilt, at all, that he seeks out Sansa Stark to dance with her.

The girl looks beautiful. Withdrawn, distant, and ice-cold, but beautiful. (Maybe the iciness is a beauty in itself.) And she glances down at him in apathy, not disgust, which is how she's been glancing at most of her partners, so that is something, at least.

It is somewhat awkward dancing with her, considering he barely reaches above her navel. But she tells him she's in no discomfort- "I am taller than most men, my lord, you just happen to be a bit shorter"- and then Tyrion reverts right back to his guilt regarding her.

"Do you know Shae?" he asks her as the song is ending, leading her off the dance floor. "Your brunette handmaiden who speaks in a Lorathi accent?"

Sansa frowns, but speaks quickly; the song has but ended. "Of course I do."

"If there's anything wrong, go to her. If you need my help with anything, go to her. If you need to commit arson, or murder, for that matter, go to her." He takes her hand and presses his lips to her knuckles, and nods his head at her. "Good luck, Lady Sansa."

"Wait," she blurts. She looks around- most people are drunk, and still dancing- and leans down to his height. "Will it hurt?"

And for a moment her mask slips off, and he sees her as she is, small and vulnerable and a child, in for a life sentence. His guilt intensifies.

"Drink," he tells her, which does not answer her question, but is an answer anyhow. "A lot. No matter what, do not resist. Seduce him, if you can." Tyrion closes his eyes, and his heart (what's left of it) about shatters for this girl. "I wish you luck, Queen Sansa. I hope you will not need it."

…

"Loras. Please."

Her brother sighs, leaning against the wall. "You know I can't."

"I know you can." Margaery places her hand on his, gritting her teeth as so not to swear. She really, really wants to swear.

"You're a girl."

She scoffs, frustrated. "What's the difference, really? You like boys as much as I do."

Loras stiffens, and Margaery almost feels sorry. "That's different."

"I ride better than you, anyway. And I'll be easier to disguise."

"You can't fight."

"You're not going to fight."

"They'll catch us!"

Margaery smiles. "So? What will grandmother do, throw us in the deep cells?"

"But- gods, I just can't- why are you so difficult to argue with?"

"Because the gods gave you your sword hand, and they gave me my mind." In truth, Margaery would've preferred a sword hand- but that doesn't matter much right now.

Loras huffs. "I- why do you want to go, anyway? I thought you were against marrying the Kingslayer. Not rescuing him would probably help with that."

For the first time, Margaery hesitates.

(Maybe she doesn't know the answer herself.)

"Well," she says slowly, "well, I've been stuck in palaces and gardens and courtrooms all my life. Maybe I just want to- to get down there, get dirty. To see how it really is, you know?" Maybe I want to be the Knight, for once, rescuing my fair maiden.

"No, I don't know." Her brother sighs. "But I can see I can't talk you out of this bloody madness."

Margaery laughs, half in happiness and half in relief. "Thank you, brother dearest."

"But remember," he says, and his eyes flash to his sword, "let the men do all the work. If there is any sign of danger, any at all, then run. Remember, your life is the most important thing there is."

Margaery smiles (real, this time it is real). "You have my word."

"I'd rather have your safety, little sister, but it seems that is out of question." Loras shakes his head. "Mayhaps I am the one with the brain, after all. Tell me what you want me to do."

…

Gods, it is almost easy to goad Catelyn Stark into killing him.

She does cut a formidable figure- sword raised, eyes gleaming with fury, her face contorted in hatred. It wouldn't be that horrible, he believes, dying at her hand.

"Brienne-"

"No, that wasn't it-"

"Bring me my sword."

Jaime Lannister releases a breath. After the torture that was imprisonment, death should be but a sweet escape.

(He is scared as hell and more nervous yet, and his heart beats hard in his chest, but she doesn't see that, and neither does her beast. He'll die, but he'll die knowing he won.)

"Go on, do it quick," he spits, in that mocking, insufferable way of his. (the only way to end it sooner, to provoke her, to rile her up. Go on, Catelyn Stark, do it. Swing that sword.) "Or are you too craven to kill even a mere prisoner?" he taunts. "I pushed your son off a high tower when he saw me fucking my own sister, crippled him for life. And I would do it again."

End it.

The woman's gaze hardens. He sees, with relief, her hand clench on her sword. Do it. Now. She steps forward, and then there's steel at his throat, bitingly cold, and Jaime arches his neck, closes his eyes, and waits for death.

"For Bran," Lady Stark whispers, so low and so furious and so full of raw anger than he almost flinches, almost cuts his neck himself.

(For Brandon Stark, he agrees silently. One debt repaid.)

And her sword slashes upwards.

The blood registers before the pain does- warmth drenching his face, pouring into his eye, soaking his hair. For a moment, there is silence, surprise coloring his expression, and then-

and then he screams, strains against his chains, convulses as the cold air hits his split face, as pain sears through him, almost unbearable (he's taken worse. he's taken worse. he can handle a little cut-) and there's blood in his mouth (she's cut through the cheek) and it tastes of rust-

"There," Catelyn Stark says, and she rakes the blade back deliberately through his ruined face, and this time, he has to grit his as so not to cry, and his head spins, and his vision goes black, for a moment- "That's good enough. Lord Karstark should be satisfied."

Jaime breathes, ragged, broken (not broken, never broken). "Satisfied," he rasps, spitting out blood. "Do you- do you think my lord father will be satisfied? H-how will he return your whelps, I wonder?"

The Lady's face crumples, and lets out a strangled sob (weak, pathetic woman. She cut his face in half, and she's crying. Cersei would never cry.

but then Cersei would never care either.)

and she shoves her boot in his stomach, and Jaime doubles over (no, he doesn't. There's chains at his neck and his hands and his feet. Doubling over would be a mercy) and coughs up yet more blood and then breathes in- and breathing hurts like hell- but the expression on Lady Stark's face, he sees, satisfied, is worth it.

She storms out of the cage, followed by her beast, and Jaime breathes again, and he sags down in his chains and lets his façade collapse and if there's tears in his eyes, he lets them fall and hopes no one sees him cry.

(His stupid little guard does. The boy laughs and Jaime bristles and then gives up, and slumps back into his chains. There's no point.)

Well, Lord Karstark would be satisfied, indeed.

…

There is but no light in the sky as the lone figure, astride a pale mare, hair shorn off and a knife strapped to her belt, rides out through the Last Forest, out of the Reach and into the Riverlands.

Margaery Tyrell doesn't glance back, not at the five soldiers she paid off to run to the Stormlands.

She doesn't glance back at the distant, bitter town of Bitterbridge, where her grandmother would be seething, where her brother would be mad with worry, not even knowing she was now alone on this quest.

My apologies, dear brother.

Margaery Tyrell rides on, never glancing back.

Dawn is fast approaching.