Chapter 6: All Summer Long

The Old Lion

'Father,

I trust this letter finds you well, and that my lovely sister's screams have not deafened you overmuch. I have managed to edge my way into Olenna Tyrell's trust, as you asked, and have learned a great deal as a result. She plans to kill Joffrey, but I already guessed as much, as I said in my first letter. The far more important news I have learned is thus: she has a Targaryen prince up her sleeve. I don't know how or who – she won't tell me, no matter how I pry – but I'm sure she's telling the truth.

Her plan is to kill Joffrey, wait for Robert to die, then support Myrcella's claim to the Iron Throne – bringing the Tyrell, Martell and Lannister armies to bear against Stannis or Renly. The hope is that Myrcella will divide the Stormlords, creating an easy victory there. Once the alliance is cemented, Olenna will bring out her Targaryen King and steal Stannis' support in the Narrow Sea and Riverlands. Myrcella and Trystane become co-hands, and the Reach gets a Queen.

Oberyn is not entirely on board. He wants you dead, vehemently so. I would recommend checking your food lest you end up shitting your guts out on the chamber pot. His condition for agreeing to this alliance at all is the Mountain's head. Can you even behead a mountain? I leave that to you to determine. Olenna also has one of the Stark children apprenticed to Willas Tyrell, though how that came about or why I'm not sure.

The weak point in her plan, and she knows it, is Tommen. She needs him abdicated, though I suggested the Citadel and will see if that idea festers. For now, I think he is safe in the North, but I don't know if he'll stay that way. She might just get rid of him if no better option surfaces.

I will relay anything else I learn, but her plan seems concrete for now.

Tyrion.'

Tywin placed the hastily scrawled letter carefully on the table and stared at the paper for several long minutes.

Tyrion, the complete and total disgrace House Lannister name that he was, was its only member even trying to secure their legacy. He had seen a potential plot against his house and inserted himself brilliantly – all so he could benefit the family. Only once he'd been sure had he contacted Tywin, asking permission to proceed, and Tywin had granted it.

It was intelligent, cunning and clever – exactly what Tywin himself would have done. Olenna had sought to use Tyrion against him, but Tyrion had remained loyal to the family and done what he needed to. Nothing more, nothing less.

Why? Why did near everyone in his family have to be fools? All he had were Kevin, Jenna, and the filth that killed his wife. The rest? Utter imbeciles.

Tywin closed his eyes and rubbed his temple, trying to soothe away the headache that built there. He needed to focus on the news itself, not the source.

Olenna Tyrell had a Targaryen prince stashed away. Clever. Very clever indeed. But who? Elia's Aegon? It had to be – Doran and Oberyn would support no one else. Rhaenys had survived the sack after all, so it was certainly possible. Tywin had been content to let her live the life of a Dornish bastard, comfortable that she could never be used to gain the Throne. But if Aegon had survived too…

Varys. The Spider must have saved the boy's life. That man was an eternal thorn in Tywin's side. But where was Aegon hidden?

It was well thought out and strategized, this plot of hers, and Tywin was almost thankful to her, as this news was the perfect solution to a situation threatening to boil over very soon. Joffrey was becoming a problem. Tywin might have been able to ignore it had Cersei not come riding down on the Rock screaming about Tyrion and his sending the princess to Dorne. He'd deliberately ignored her for two weeks; he saw her a grand total of once, and that was it. Instead, he spent the trip observing Joffrey. Trying to determine what of the many rumours about him were true.

Even Tywin was deeply unsettled by what he saw.

The hate in the boy's eyes, his unnatural desire to inflict pain on others… Tywin had seen it before. In Aerys, when Tywin had been Hand of the King. He'd watched the man sink into insanity after the Defiance, and it was Tywin's fault that he hadn't done more to stop him then and there. He should have sided with Rhaegar earlier, promised him Cersei after Elia proved unable to carry more children. Rhaenys and Aegon could have been removed, or Aegon could have married his half-sister by Cersei or a daughter of Jaime's.

Perhaps this was his penance? To watch a madness in his own blood fester and grow. Tywin needed a better ruler on the Throne. With the debt mounting and the Lannister mines running dry, coin would soon run out. Jon Arryn, Stannis and Tywin could keep a grip on Robert – Joffrey?

Three days after his arrival in Casterly Rock, a guard had brought Tywin news of Joffrey going down into the cells, where he ordered a prisoner to be tortured. Within his authority, if unorthodox, but Tywin had wanted to know why. All men had reasons for the things they did. Even Aerys had, until the very end.

The prisoner Joffrey had interrogated was a girl of perhaps fifteen, who'd been arrested for stealing bread several days previously. The punishment for such was a week in Casterly Rock's infamous 'Silent Cells'. Deprived of sound, light, rhythm and reason. The few meals provided were staggered to confuse and utterly ruin any sense of time the person within possessed. It was a brutally effective and clean method of getting information and ensuring people were far more crime averse in the future.

Joffrey had ordered the girl removed from her fourth day in the Silent Cells and whipped. Not for any information or punishment or manipulation, but for personal enjoyment. He'd watched and laughed the entire time. It had not taken Tywin long to realize the girl was nearly identical to Myrcella.

Tywin couldn't live through another Mad King. He would not do it again. And he would not let a madness like that taint his own family name.

Yes, the Queen of Thorns' plan had merit. Great merit if Tywin acted quickly. Myrcella would be safe in Dorne for now, and no one could touch Tommen while he was in the North. His grandchildren secure, Tywin would direct his attention towards this Targaryen the Tyrells had hidden away. Getting spies into Highgarden was not easy; Olenna Tyrell's own agents were meticulous in that regard, and she kept things close to her chest as much as possible. It was no wonder she refused to tell Tyrion the boy's identity. Still, Tywin wouldn't stop until he had the truth, even if he had to go to Highgarden himself.

If he acted before Myrcella married the Dornishman, she could marry Aegon once Tywin found and extracted him. Olenna clearly wanted her granddaughter to marry him – Tywin wouldn't allow that. He would need to suggest someone for her to Jon Arryn, and soon. Robb Stark was a solid choice. Tuck the Tyrell rose away in the North where she couldn't do anything and punish Olenna for daring to plot against him.

For once, Tywin could admit that Tyrion had done him a favour. He had known for years that Oberyn wanted vengeance for his sister's death, but a threat to his direct person was new. Tywin would give the Martells Clegane if necessary. The man was a useful tool, but a tool he remained. Tywin could forge another. Still, he didn't trust Oberyn to keep his word, so he would make sure his food was carefully checked before consuming anything from now on.

There was much to do. First, he needed to find Aegon Targaryen. Then a meeting with his granddaughter and grandson at the soonest opportunity, so he could get the measure of them in person. If Myrcella was as intelligent as his reports led him to believe, she could be a valuable asset in controlling Aegon once Tywin found him. He would also need to see what could be done about Tommen. Hopefully, some Northern rigidity was just what the boy needed to beat the simpleness out of him, then Tywin could name Tommen heir to the Rock. If not, then Tywin would cross that bridge as he came to it. He would not tolerate madness in the Lannister line – if the boy was a fool, he would not tolerate that either. Finally, Tywin would see about banishing Cersei and Joffrey back to Kings Landing. He'd been keeping them here until he decided what to do with them, but if the Tyrells were going to solve Tywin's Joffrey problem for him, all the better. And he could easily blame them later to extract even greater concessions after he got rid of the Margaery girl.

For now, he would let Olenna's plan play out without incident. When her plotting inevitably caught up with her, Tywin would be there to claim the ashes of House Tyrell and use her own precious weapon against her.

With renewed vigour, Tywin reached for the inkwell and some blank parchment. He would set his agents to search Oldtown first – that would be the easiest place to hide a Targaryen prince…

Orphans

Margaery never abandoned the Warrens.

Every few months or so, she would dress in her threadbare clothes and vanish for a day or two into the shantytown outside the city. She would apply dirt to her face, scratch up her arms and dirty her hair, effectively transforming her into just another urchin on the street. Her grandmother's lessons on how to manipulate her appearance in the eyes of others – how to walk or speak in a way that disarmed or endeared you to whomever you spoke – were invaluable. No one ever realized who she was unless Margaery let them.

She wasn't stupid. She knew there were Tyrell guards that tracked her every movement in the slums, but Margaery didn't care. This was something she needed to do. To keep her grounded in reality. Each time she visited, she would scope out the run-down businesses, whorehouses and orphanages while in disguise and single out the ones that seemed less corrupt. Then, a few days later, Margaery would return as herself and give them patronage. It was always less than she would like, but it was what her father would allow.

Today was one of those days.

Margaery walked through the mud lined streets not in silks or slippers – even on official visits, she refused to flaunt the privilege these people lacked to their faces. Instead, she dressed in simple leathers and riding skirts, raised enough from the ground to avoid most of the mud. The family staff hated these visits. Her father preferred them, at least, as they involved no sneaking or actual risk to her person, and she had Jon with her.

Jon walked beside her in his usual black and grey gambeson and long pants, but proudly displaying for the first time the sword Garlan had presented to him yesterday. He had more than earned it.

Margaery gripped the railings, heart racing with each swing of Jon's blade through the crisp air. He dodged a blunted morning star swinging for his head, then rolled between two of his opponents and swung his sword behind him, scraping the metal greaves and leaving a pale scratch against the burnished metal, right behind the men's knees. If this were real, they'd both be on the ground – Knights or no – so they collapsed as if they had been, and Jon tapped each man's neck in turn to single the killing blow. Then he was dancing away from a thrusted bastard sword and bringing up his shield to deflect an axe stroke from another direction.

Margaery had been instantly terrified when she and Jon arrived at the tourney grounds on Highgarden's lowest level that morning and found near the entire stadium full of people, Garlan standing in the centre of the field with an enormous grin on his face. She'd had to resist the urge to kiss Jon then and there, restraining herself to just wishing him good luck. By the gods, those lips were just so kissable…

Garlan had apparently designed an exercise to simulate an actual battle. He was going to throw the entirety of Highgarden at Jon and see how long it took him to 'die'. Margaery nearly screamed bloody murder and had her own brother arrested.

Now, the entire ring was full of people – knights, squires and men-at-arms – all standing as if frozen, waiting for Garlan to call them to action as he ran through the sea of people tapping shoulders too, essentially, bring the soldiers to life and send them to attack Jon. Jon's goal was to reach Garlan. Not an easy task when there was a proverbial army between the two of them.

Half the city had turned out to watch them, and Margaery spent her entire time clinging to Mira like her life depended on it. But he held his ground, dodging and weaving and 'killing' near all who came before him. Margaery honestly had no idea how long he'd been at it; she couldn't take her eyes from his sweat-drenched form. Another knight defeated, tourney sword 'pulled' from beneath the man's shoulder blade. There were never more than three men at a time, and Margaery had seen Jon take on at least five and win before, but he'd never been going this long before.

In the box beside her, Grandmother stood with a near maniac grin on her face with father, mother and Willas. But two others stood there too—Renly and Loras, who'd been on one of their semi-regular visits to Highgarden. Loras looked positively giddy, though his expression certainly didn't compare to Arya, who screaming with glee every time Jon landed a stroke. Renly… his gaze was far more calculating, and Margaery didn't like it one bit.

Three men-at-arms destroyed in a single stroke, then Jon's blade rang against… against Garlan's longsword. He'd done it. The field was almost entirely empty. When had he done that? Had she missed it? How? She never missed things.

Garlan disarmed Jon of the blunted blade, and Margaery realized just how tired he was. He was panting hard, sweat beading across his entire body and between the cracks of his armour. He refused to wear plate like most Reach knights, preferring his more northern style padded and oiled leathers for better agility. Jon was not a tall man, and lacked the overbearing power of most knights, so he leaned into his manoeuvrability – he called it 'trading his advantages'. Armour and defence for speed and offence.

Margaery just didn't like seeing any type of blades swinging at him, though she was also woman enough to admit that seeing him as he looked now always sent shivers through her body. Quickening her breath and causing a near unconscious rubbing of her thighs together beneath her dresses.

Garlan gestured to a page boy near the side of the arena, and he ran over with a blade of live steel. A gorgeous thing, with a slight curve to the razor-sharp steel. The crossguard was styled with two wolfs heads, vines wrapping around them, then patterned into the handle. The page presented the weapon to Jon, who looked down at it in awe.

The battle of live steel that followed between her brother and her love was terrifying to watch, lasting at least ten minutes before they admitted stalemate. Margaery would have stayed to congratulate them both as the crowd burst into raucous and riotous applause, but she instead ran for the nearest privy, hiked up her skirts and rubbed herself to the quickest and most explosive orgasm of her life.

'Um, Margaery? Maybe don't dwell too much on that memory right now. You're in a public place, remember!'

Margaery stopped outside one of the larger orphanages and knocked politely on the door. Urchins and dirt-covered common people cast cautious looks at her from a distance, but Margaery was a known quantity in the Warrens at this point, so they didn't question her presence.

The door swung open, revealing the kindly matron Margaery had met in her muddied persona two days before. She was a young woman – far younger than most orphanage runners – a former whore who had left that life to run a shelter for the bastards born of such relations.

"Oh my! Lady Margaery! And Lord Jon!" The woman exclaimed, curtseying deeply.

"Relax, Miss Flowers. No need to stand on ceremony for my account," Margaery said sweetly, noticing the blush that crossed Jon's face at the address of 'Lord'. She had long since explained to him that corrected small folk who called him a Lord didn't actually do anything. To the small folk, he was a lord because he lived in a castle; last name or no.

Jon bowed slightly to the woman, and her poor face flushed red as a tomato. She tried to rise from her unsteady curtsey but tripped, so Jon caught and steadied her. Margaery made a good effort of not laughing.

Miss Flowers pushed a strand of curly golden hair from her face, eyeing Jon's impressive forearms, and Margaery decided now was a good time to proceed.

"Might we see the children?" Margaery asked, and the woman nodded vigorously, leading the two of them inside.

Margaery spent the next half an hour meeting each of the children in turn, asking after their parents, what they wanted to do with their lives, how she could help. One older boy wished to be a smith, so Margaery gave him the address of a smithy inside the city walls she knew was looking for a new apprentice. Another, a black-haired girl, wished to learn how to grow flowers, and Margaery told her to come to one of the rose farms outside the city on the morrow to meet with her. And so the process continued until a boy asked to see Jon's sword, inevitably creating an instant crowd of 'awing' children begging for fighting tips. Jon started showing them simple things, inviting those old enough to join the free class he taught on the weekends.

"Miss Flowers," Margaery asked, pouncing on the distraction, "might I have a moment in private?"

The matron took Margaery into a separate room while Jon was occupied, which doubled as an office and bed-chamber.

"What can I do for you, m'lady?"

"I have three things," Margaery explained, drawing a pouch of gold dragons from her satchel and placing it on the table. "First, this is for new beds and some extra food."

The woman's eyes flew wide.

"M'lady, I can't possibly…"

"You can, and you will. My people will watch the building for a few weeks to ensure nothing untoward happens and protect you if robbers note my presence. I promise you will be protected. You need it, and I can provide."

The woman nodded, a grateful smile crossing her face. That was more than enough to run this place for a year. Maybe two. Margaery had learnt the hard way what happened if she just gave people the money. Since the first, she had made sure her guards were obvious and angry looking. Only one other house had been attacked since, and the assault repelled. Angering House Tyrell when you lived right beneath them was not a good idea, and Margaery made it abundantly clear each house was under her protection.

"Thank you, m'lady."

"The second thing I wish to ask will seem odd, I'm sure, but you must see many children and people from across the Seven Kingdoms, yes?"

"Yes, of course."

"Have you noticed, perhaps, that the children from the different regions tend to look different? Enough even to tell where their parents are from?"

Miss Flowers nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh yes, m'lady. Some are easier than others, for certain, but it's always there if you know what to look for."

Margaery suppressed a glint of victory. The books on lineage and appearance in the library had said much the same, but she wanted to confirm as such at the ground level.

"So, you could tell, for example, a Northerner from a child born to Riverlanders?"

"Certainly. Northerners tend to be dark of hair but pale of skin – paler the further north you go. But they also have sterner features too. That's the Blood of the First Men, I believe, because I've seen Valemen much the same. The Riverfolk, they're mostly Andal blood, and the Andal blood tends to wash out that of the First Men. The red hair is a common example, though you're more like to find that in the West. The build is what you watch for. If a Northman and a Riverlander have a child, odds are good he'll look a Riverlander, but with the stocky build of the north. Maybe taller. Of course, there are always wild cards, but that is the general trend."

"What about Dornish colouring?"

Miss Flowers paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts.

"That is more dependent on where a child is born. The Dornish have that sunburnt skin, which tends to push out other colourings, but if the child is born outside Dorne and never travels there, their skin will be more white than brown. The sun burns it dark; the less light, the lighter you are."

Margaery nodded. That followed what she had read as well.

"Have you ever had any children with the blood of Old Valyria?"

Miss Flowers nodded, and Margaery's heart soared.

"Two. You don't find so many anymore. Not since… the rebellion and all that. But I've cared for two children with the Valyrian look from the same man. I thought he was a Lord, but I couldn't be sure."

"They shared features then?"

"Oh no! That was the odd part. The Valyrian look was almost invisible in the children. One was as red-haired as a Tully, with the freckles and all. The other looked quite like yourself, if you pardon me, with the golden-brown Reach locks and your heart-shaped face. The only similarity was that they had an almost… regal, look about them."

Margaery jerked involuntarily in her seat.

"Regal?"

Miss Flowers shrugged.

"I might have just been seeing things, the Valyrians being who they were and all, but I could have sworn their chins and eyes and noses were more defined than others. But the weirdest thing I found was that, when one of those kids had children of their own, two of her five were born with silver hair! Quite incredible. It just skipped a whole generation!"

Margaery took a second to digest that, adding it to the growing pile of evidence that didn't make sense. A regal appearance and defined features hidden by another colouring? That described Jon perfectly. She glanced towards the door. A little girl near the spitting image of Arya was now holding the blade. Yeah… he wouldn't miss her for quite a while yet.

"Thank you, Miss Flowers. Truly, you've been a great help. Now, if I'm not taking up too much of your time, I'd ask a final question, of… a personal nature?"

"It's no problem at all, m'lady. Ask away!"

Now it was Margaery's turn to blush. But never let it be said that she was a coward.

"I wondered… You have considerable experience with matters of a… carnal nature. I had hoped that you could give me… some tips? Advice? To make my first time easier?"

Miss Flowers didn't gawk or blush or even shiver. She just took Margaery's hand in her own and looked on with kind eyes.

And what followed was one of the most awkward conversations of Margaery's entire life.

Ages, at the end of the four years:

Garlan: 22

Nymeria: 21, near 22

Arianne and Tyene: 21

Rhaenys: 19

Sarella: 18

Loras: 16

Age of Majority – 16

Robb, Jon and Daenerys: nearly 16

Margaery: 15

Joffrey: just turned 15

Sansa: 14

Elia Sand: just turned 14

Myrcella and Edric: just turned 14

Arya and Obella Sand: 12, nearly 13

Bran: 10, nearly 11

Tommen: 9

Sunset Over Highgarden

Olenna's four years were drawing to a close, and what four years they were shaping to be.

At only age twelve, Arya Stark was a falconer of no small skill, mistress of raven, hawk, and horse. Willas was in the last stages of teaching her to train her own birds, and Olenna had no doubt that she would endeavour to master an eagle of her own once she was older. Despite her small size and young age, she was also an expert with horses, though the larger stallions were still beyond her, and she could not hold a lance.

Willas had been more enthusiastic about life in the past four years than he had been since his accident. Training the Stark girl and helping Garlan educate King Jaehaerys had done him wonders, and Olenna had already started thinking of who he might take on as his next apprentice. Another young woman for certain.

Garlan was harder to read, as he was always optimistic and courteous, but his smiles had been all the larger thanks to his dedicated and talented squire. Garlan was ready to knight the lad and would do so soon. Getting to teach Jon Snow not only the blade but his unique style of swordplay had been a great boon. Furthermore, educating the King in tactics and strategy had helped to strengthen Garlan's own skills. And that was to say nothing at how thrilled he'd been when Mace brought up Doran's offer of marriage to Arianne. Olenna's lackwit son had yet to agree, but Olenna and Garlan were wearing him down.

The Martells… Olenna was lucky they had decided to help her in this, or all her planning might have been for naught. To think that vengeance for the destroyed Targaryen Dynasty might just be what finally healed the old wounds between the Reach and Dorne. Even now, there were three Sand-Snakes in Highgarden. Obella Sand, whom Oberyn had sent to be a companion to young Arya – and a guard/spy most likely, but Olenna had decided she didn't care. Tyene Sand, now embedded with Highgarden's sept and ready for transfer to the Sept of Baelor. And Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, or Rhae Sand, Jaehaerys' hidden shadow.

Olenna didn't know if the girl was following Snow on Oberyn's orders or of her own volition, but she approved either way. She was an expert at stealth and camouflage and was as close to a Kingsguard Olenna could get. If she had to remain undercover – even from her brother – so be it. At least Olenna knew where the girl was, and if something happened… knowing they were together was comforting.

There was even Tyrion Lannister. The lecherous Imp of Casterly Rock. Spurned by his father, yet the only one of his children to inherit even a modicum of Tywin's intelligence. Olenna quite enjoyed their verbal sparring matches, and the dwarf had a head for politics nearly as good as Olenna's own. Her oddest ally in this adventure for sure, but for certain one of her most valuable. He kept her updated on the deliberations of the Small Council while Cersei was away, and when she and the prince returned, he started touring the Stormlands under the guise of supposedly 'fucking a woman from every keep'. Oh, Olenna was sure he did exactly that, but he also reported what he could of where each of the Stormlord's loyalties truly lay. The number who spoke proudly of Robert and little of Stannis bolstered Olenna's confidence a great deal.

Last, and certainly her greatest accomplishment: Jaehaerys and Margaery. The couple had fostered a relationship even stronger than Olenna had dared hope. When Jon had problems or questions, it was Margaery he went to first. When Margaery needed a shoulder to lean on or someone to bounce ideas off, Jon was her first port of call. Together, they grew both as people and as future rulers. Olenna couldn't be prouder.

Even apart they exceeded, be it on the training ground or in the library. Jon's skill in the yard was awe-inspiring. His spars with Garlan ended in victory nearly half the time now, and he could defeat most opponents with ease. Of course, the real test would come in battle, but Olenna didn't think he would face one of those for some time yet. Margaery's understanding of sums had far outstripped Olenna's, and she had taken over all the house accountings from the prickly ass Maester. Olenna was sure the man intended to retire as soon as the Citadel allowed, if only to get away from Margaery. She could recite the entirety of Westerosi history from Aegon's Landing to the present day and knew the names of every member of every Great and Major house in the country.

But for Olenna, the best part had to be when Margaery and Jon had come to Mace with a comprehensive and thought-out plan for binding the minimum wage to the price of bread in perpetuity. Their proposed system would see the minimum wage in Highgarden increase immediately to three copper pennies a day – the price of a loaf of bread. In exchange, any man or woman who owned a business but earned less than three times the new weekly wage in a week – 63 coppers – would be exempt from paying taxes on all their goods, though not their personal liability. If it worked, they would roll out the system in Oldtown, a city much larger and more complicated.

Mace had agreed to look it over for two weeks. Two weeks during which the couple had sweated and agonized for an answer. What they didn't know was that Mace had actually sent the plan to the Citadel in one of the first genuinely smart moves Olenna had ever seen the man make.

The Arch-Maester had replied in person.

Olenna's jaw had dropped at that.

The answer had outlined all the benefits, disadvantages, and side effects likely to result – like another influx of refugees and potential overpopulation. Mace had sat on the proposal for two more days, then, without consulting Olenna once, had approved the proposal for testing. Testing only, and he wanted auditors appointed by House Tyrell to ensure no one cheated, but he agreed.

Jon and Margaery had been utterly overjoyed.

Of course, some things didn't fare so well for her.

After being knighted, Loras had decided to stay on with the youngest Baratheon brother in Kings Landing. Olenna believed the two were fucking, but couldn't well tell him to stop. She just worried what he might do should Tyrell and Baratheon find themselves at war.

Eddard Stark had sent her not a single message since he returned to Winterfell, which was just as well, though she doubted it was political acumen that guided his hand. He spoke to his children irregularly; the messages they received mainly came from their siblings. The Stark heir, Robb, most prominently, though young Bran was a close second. The flighty one, Sansa, had even struck up a regular correspondence with Margaery concerning, of all things, mathematics.

Olenna was no closer to solving the problem of the Riverlands. Both the Brackens and Blackwoods had eligible daughters Tommen might marry, but Olenna didn't want to ignite that age-old feud. Lord Royce's daughter Ysilla looked a better option, but if Olenna didn't move soon, she would be betrothed to another. However, she also wasn't sure royal blood in House Royce would be enough to stop the Vale from allying with Stannis. At best, it might start a civil war, but that could cause even more problems. She didn't have any answers, an incredibly frustrating truth.

All that said, in terms of potential pitfalls, one stood out somewhat more prominent than the others.

'Dearest Queen of Thorns,

My little birds sing fascinating tales from Sunspear and Highgarden of late. Songs of snakes shadowing the children of House Stark, bargains struck with Dornish Princes, and of secret dealings with cunning Imps.

Perhaps I can be of some assistance to your endeavours.

I have heard two whispers that might be worth something to you.

The first concerns a treasure with considerable value, but only in the hands of one who can carry its weight. In two weeks, the Golden Company will arrive in Tyrosh to root out the latest pirate infestation in the Stepstones. They have what you seek, but act fast, for it will not linger long.

The second is cheaper but worth more to the right ears. The Lioness grows ever more dangerous and eager for blood. I advise caution, less she divine the true source of the recent strikes against her.

These are my words of wisdom, from one Spider to another.'

The Spider. How much he knew Olenna could only guess, but Varys was on her trail, which meant Tywin Lannister, Peter Baelish, and Jon Arryn would soon be too. She had expected as much, prepared for it, but having one of them reach out so openly was a shock.

Olenna knew Cersei blamed Robert for Tommen and Tyrion for Myrcella – she had counted on it. The bitch Queen was nothing if not predictable, assuming her woes caused by the two people she hated the most. She was partly right, of course, but Cersei was far too consumed in herself to look past her own nose. Olenna wasn't worried about her. At least, not yet. Still, she would be more careful and send word to Oberyn's assassin. Just in case.

But the first piece of information… that was very interesting. It hinted at a truth far more dangerous, but Olenna would play Lord Varys' game for now.

She sent word to Sunspear. One Dornishman in particular would no doubt find the offer far too promising to resist.

However, all good things eventually came to a close, and as Robb Stark's sixteenth name day grew near, Olenna started preparations to send the Starks home.

But all Kings needed an escort.

Riders of the Reach

Jon couldn't help smiling as he prepared to leave Highgarden, his home of four years, for the last time. He would miss this place with all his heart – its shining walls, the smell of flowers and the beauty of the sunsets across the plain. But he couldn't wait to see Winterfell again, to feel the cold snow against his brow once more.

That wasn't the source of his glee, though. That belonged to Mara, the gorgeous courser he sat astride right now. A Sand-Steed from Elia Sand's collection, with a coat as white as snow, dappled with the grey of House Stark. Hand-picked by Arya herself as an early name-day gift – given his would get near-no recognition when they arrived –, and "a thank you, for always appreciating me, for me." Jon had cried something fierce as she presented it to him awkwardly, and he knew he'd cherish the beautiful mare until the day he, or it, died. It wasn't as brutish or powerful as the stallion's favoured by Reach knights, but she was twice as nimble, far more comfortable to ride and easier to handle. Not to mention, Dornish horses were famous for outlasting all other breeds when it came to endurance. Jon loved her.

Thanks to Mara and Arya, Jon's heart was light as he watched the last of the retinue mount their horses and start towards the gates. Jon had initially thought it would just be him, Garlan, Arya, and the few Stark guards that had remained behind to protect his sister who would be travelling North.

Man, had he been wrong.

Not only had Arya's partner in crime, Obella Sand, decided to follow them North, but Lord Tyrell was sending an entire party North with them and his second son, complete with a wheel-carriage and everything. Margaery had literally jumped at the chance to invite herself to Winterfell with them, despite Jon warning her that Lady Catelyn would try and force her into marrying Robb if she could. Margaery had snorted at that and laughed.

"I'll marry because Catelyn Tully says so over my cold dead corpse. I'm sure your brother is nice, but I intend to bitch slap that hag, and there's nothing that's going to stand in my way."

Jon had to admit that only having his and Arya's opinions on Lady Stark had probably not been good for her reputation in Margaery and House Tyrell's eyes.

However, for all that the caravan going North to accompany Garlan and Margaery, mend relations with Winterfell and protect Arya had played out organically, Jon got the distinct impression that none of it was a coincidence in the slightest. This whole endeavour had the Queen of Thorns written all over it; Jon just couldn't figure out why. Even now, Jon could see Olenna sitting with Lord Tyrell atop one of the castle's balconies. Watching them as they departed.

"Come on then," Garlan said, slapping Jon on the back as he rode astride his brown stallion. "Margaery and your sister are already past the city gates."

Garlan was the last to leave, making sure no one was left behind. As his squire, Jon would wait with him.

This was the end of Jon's tenure as a squire. The journey home. Once there, Garlan had promised to knight him before his entire family. Jon already had a blade – beautifully forged by Highgarden's forge master just for him. Yet another reason he wasn't sad to leave Highgarden. If Margaery hadn't been coming with them… things would be much different. He would cross that bridge when he came to it, however. If things went according to Jon's plan, he and Margaery might not say goodbye at all.

He would reach his majority soon after Robb. Then, he was free to go as he pleased. While Lady Catelyn remained in Winterfell, Jon would never be at peace. He knew that, and feared she would be even worse in her treatment now that he had made something of himself. Now that he was more of a threat. Like Jon would ever dream of taking Robb's birthright. He would fight by his brother's side without a moment's hesitation, but he couldn't stay in Winterfell where he wasn't wanted. He wouldn't stay there.

There was a person who wanted him, though. A place where Jon knew he mattered. At Margaery's side. He would be a knight and could swear himself to Margaery. Not to House Tyrell, but to Margaery herself. A more than honourable path. He would follow her to the end of the earth if she asked, and she had so much she wished to do. Jon wanted to be there when she did it. Wished to see the shining faces looking up at her. To stand beside her as she built a better world. If he couldn't love her as he desired, he would protect her instead, with everything he had. And if someone ever dared raise a hand to her, they would lose the hand.

No, Jon was not sad to be leaving Highgarden. He was proud of the person he'd grown into in the Reach, proud of the man he'd become. He would return to Winterfell and show everyone his worth. His father, his brother, Ser Rodrik, Theon Greyjoy… even Lady Stark.

Together, Garlan and Jon brought up the rear of the caravan as they snaked beyond the city gates and started to bunch back together. They rode harder than the rest for a few minutes, catching up to Margaery's wheel carriage. Arya and Obella rode Sand-Steed fillies on either side and to absolutely no one's surprise, they were arguing.

"You won't turn white in the Snow, Obella," Arya was saying, smug with the knowledge that she was undoubtedly right for once.

"But you turn dark in the suns of Dorne," Obella pointed out. "Shouldn't the snow lighten your skin? Why else are you Northerners always so pale?"

Jon supposed, from a certain point of view, that was a reasonable assumption. Arya shot Jon a suffering look as if to say, 'help me with this uncultured swine.'

Margaery was sitting at the makeshift desk inside the carriage, head buried in a tome, while Mira made notes on a scroll beside her.

Jon rolled his eyes, chuckling softly, then turned his gaze ahead. Down the Roseroad and towards the distant horizon.

It took two weeks of riding before they came to the border of the Reach. Two weeks of peaceful travel, Jon spending his time sparing with Garlan or riding with Arya and Obella. In the evenings, he would watch over the girls as they trained with dagger and spear.

Obella had decided since Arya wasn't getting any taller, that she should take over her training. Teaching her the Sand-Snake way. Jon didn't see a problem with his methods, and while she might not excel with the swords and dirks they tried, she wasn't bad either. But Jon could admit when he was wrong, and Arya flourished with Obella's style of training (though, like Obella's own, her spear needed to be considerably shorter than average).

Jon had more duties to attend to on the trip, like readying Garlan's horse and pitching his tent. But as with all things, the Knight of Highgarden was easy going and more than happy for Jon to spend time with his sister or just enjoying the countryside of rolling green hills.

What Jon did find odd, however, was Margaery.

While no expert horseman, she usually preferred to ride rather than sit in a confining carriage. Apparently not this journey. Though her windows were always open, she kept to the wheelhouse almost the entire trip, studying relentlessly with Mira – whom Jon knew did not share Margaery's propensity for work – from several heavy and thick books she had borrowed before leaving. She wore a visage of quiet contemplation at all times, even when they stopped for the night, and braked from her work only rarely. As far as Jon could tell, she was researching lineages and historical records dating back to the Andal Invasions. But she would answer none of his questions about it, keeping counsel only with Mira – who was studiously avoiding Jon at all costs.

'I don't want to say anything until I'm sure.'

There was one book she kept going back to repeatedly, 'The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.' An arduous and hefty book Margaery had to stoop to carry. Jon had glanced at the open pages a few times, and it seemed to be comprised mostly of lists of lords and ladies – their names, appearances, temperaments and deeds. Jon couldn't imagine what had her so fixated on such a boring topic, but he had learned to trust Margaery's mind over everything else. If she believed her research deserved that much attention, he would not interfere. She would explain things to him when she was ready.

Jon got his first glimpse of Kings Landing in the afternoon of their fifteenth day of travel. Enormous, overflowing, crowded beyond belief, the Capital was nothing like anything Jon had seen before. It was larger than Oldtown but lacked any hint of the careful design of the southern city. Yet it wasn't uniform with straight roads and planned districts like White Harbour either. If anything, Kings Landing felt… sick. As if a disease lay upon it. Neighbourhoods bunched against one another, houses sloping and in disrepair. Alleyways wound around the three hills, and an enormous slum stretched across the entire eastern half of the city – Fleebottom, Garlan called it. There was a foul smell to the air – like faeces – and near every person on the street looked as though they were seconds from death's door. Jon saw not a single smiling face amongst them.

It was enough even to get Margaery out of her books, and she sat by the window looking out on the people in a sort of dazed horror. Jon and Garlan made sure to keep close to the carriage and ordered both Arya and Obella inside.

Jon and Margaery had thought the Warrens a horrible place to live. But the Warrens was only a quarter the size of Fleebottom, and though the paths there were dirt and many of the houses mudbrick rather than stone, at least there was no urine lining the streets or dead bodies shoved in the corners. The Warrens were tacked onto Highgarden, an afterthought; Fleebottom was embedded within the flesh and blood of Kings Landing.

Perhaps that was why when Jon got his first look at the Red Keep, his heart was filled with sadness and contempt instead of awe. Oh, the enormous fortress was a sight to behold, tall towers and crimson walls gleaming in the afternoon sun. But Jon could not forget how it loomed over the slums as if trying to pretend they didn't exist. How could a King look down on his people living in poverty every day and not wish to do something about it?

Jon and Margaery received their answer as they laid eyes on the Iron Throne for the first time.

Towering over everything in the hall and silhouetted by the light from the stained-glass window behind, Jon had no trouble believing that the Dragonlords had ruled the continent from that seat for three-hundred years. The hall itself could hold thousands of people, if Jon had to guess, when you combined the floor space with the terraces lining the walls. At the moment, perhaps a hundred courtiers had come to witness the Tyrells arrival. Jon didn't know their names or faces, nor did he particularly care to. All his attention was on the man seated above them all.

King Robert of the House Baratheon was fat and black-bearded, wearing a black-velvet doublet that barely stretched enough to cover his girth. Red-faced from what Jon assumed was drink, his blue eyes were unfocused, and he was swaying slightly on the Throne.

This was the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms?

The Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, introduced the Tyrells first – Ser Garlan and Margaery. Both greeted the King with all courtesy, but Robert practically ignored them. Only when the Hand – a tall, wiry man with a short-cropped white beard – introduced Jon and Arya as Starks that the King jerked awake.

"Ned's brood?! Why didn't you start with them!" Robert demanded, striding down from the Throne, gaze now hard and piercing. Margaery and Garlan both winced, though Jon doubted Robert understood – or would care if he did – such a snub. Jon and Arya, after sharing a worried glance, stepped forward.

"By the gods, look at you two! You're the spitting image of Ned!" the King exclaimed, approaching Jon and grabbing his shoulders with the force of an ox. Then he turned to Arya, and Jon swore he saw a shadow pass across the man's face for the briefest of moments, but his gleeful visage was back after he blinked.

"And you, like Lyanna reborn. I'll bet you're a master of horses too?"

Jon couldn't help the frigid cold that pressed on him then; judging by how utterly uncomfortable everyone in the room grew in that moment, he wasn't the only one. Jon's aunt was rarely mentioned in Winterfell and always with cautious glances in the direction of the crypts. But she had been Robert's betrothed – Jon had forgotten that.

Arya nodded, for once not even daring to open her mouth.

"Excellent!"

The King straightened, then threw out his arms.

"We shall have a grand feast to celebrate! I don't get to see Ned's children enough! Jon, have the cooks break out the finest wines!"

Then, the King seemed to remember the Tyrells, to Jon's utter relief. He pointed to Margaery and Garlan, then to Jon and Arya.

"You four will sit at the high table with me. I want to hear about why two of Ned's pups are travelling in the South and why he didn't tell me!"

With that, the King turned on his heel and trudged away. Garlan, Margaery and Jon all let out shaky breaths they hadn't realized they were holding.

It was nothing compared to the abject terror on Rhaenys face, hidden from all beneath a closed metal helmet, breastplate and mail of a Highgarden man-at-arms as she stood in the back beside Tyene and Obella. But while Rhaenys was watching Robert, the other two Sand-Snakes had eyes only for Queen Cersei, stood in the gallery with a sour face, and her son beside her.

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms

Queen Cersei Lannister of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros fought a war within herself as she sat through Robert's impromptu feast. A battle between the slick and bitter rage boiling just beneath the surface, and the pit of fear in her stomach it concealed.

She just… just kept staring at the Tyrell girl. The bint was gorgeous; there was no doubt about it with those shoulder-length golden-brown locks carefully cut to fan around her heart-shaped face.

'Queen you shall be... until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.'

A beautiful young girl with a powerful name…

"With Prince Joffrey now fifteen, your grace, it's time to start thinking about a wife for him," Jon Arryn had said, taking advantage of one of the few times Robert had decided to come to a Small Council meeting. Cersei's gaze instantly snapped to the old man, restraining her sneer through sheer force of will.

Robert put down his wine glass and belched.

"Suppose you're right. Who did you have in mind?"

"There's Sansa Stark…"

"No," Cersei snapped from her seat, unable to contain the anger that exploded within her at the mere thought of it. "You already sold Tommen to those tree-fucking cunts, not Joffrey as well."

Jon winced, and Cersei repressed her satisfaction.

"The Queen makes a good point, your Grace," Varys said, leaning forward to see past Stannis's uninterested form. "Sending two of your children to a Kingdom you already hold would be counterproductive."

Robert grunted.

"Fine. I can be reasonable, even if Ned's girl might finally make something of the brat. Who else is there?"

"Margaery Tyrell?"

Margaery Tyrell. Cersei had hated her for years. Ever since that pillow biter Renly had started parading around her likeness at court. But now? Watching her sat at the high table only a few places down, ignoring Cersei's own son in favour of talking with that… that bastard… Cersei wanted nothing more than to rip out her throat.

Robert, the eternal fool, had apparently given up talking to the bastard and the two Tyrells, instead favouring the young Stark girl. After an awkward start, the two were getting on swimmingly for one simple reason. Neither of them Ever. Stopped. TALKING!

Every second it was 'I did this, I did that', 'I can tame hawks', and 'did you really kill this person with your big hammer' 'yes and all these other people because once upon a time I wasn't a fat drunk!'

So, Cersei just stared at the Tyrell girl, seething.

Was this the girl from Maggy's prophecy? Was this brown-haired bitch going to destroy all Cersei had built?

It made sense. She could piece things together, and they all linked back to the Tyrells. First, Tommen had been stolen from her – by Eddard fucking Stark. But only after he'd come South at the Tyrells' request and feasted in Highgarden. Because of Stark, Robert and Jon Arryn had yelled at her son and embarrassed him in front of the entire city; his fault Cersei had left Kings Landing. If she hadn't left, Tyrion and Arryn couldn't have sold Myrcella like a broodmare to the Dornish. She could have stopped it, but they had moved while she was on the road and out of touch. A dirty trap, and she'd fallen for it. Then, what should happen but the announcement of a marriage between a Tyrell and those Dornish cunts. The Tyrells were working against her – stealing her children and sending them away.

And now they wanted Joffrey too.

Over Cersei's dead body.

Tyrion was hiding from her, running around the Stormlands fucking and drinking himself into some kind of coma. She had people following him, but she couldn't kill him, much as she'd like to. Her father wouldn't allow it, and he'd know it was her. Father never believed her; refused to see what was so obvious! But neither could Cersei get at Stark himself while he was hiding in that shithole of a castle he called home. That left the Tyrells and the Martells. She could get at them, but how was the question. She had to protect her baby boy, get her daughter back, and cripple those who sought to attack the Lion.

How?

Cersei needed to act soon. Once Joffrey reached sixteen, the pressure for him to marry would be even stronger, but he could also rule without a Regent, and no one would contest him.

Cersei finally tore her gaze away from Margaery, turning instead to Robert.

And smiled for the first time that night.

Notes:

Hahahahahaha!
You all wanted Tywin to show up? Well, you got him! And Cersei as well.

I'm sorry for any of you who are Robert fans, but he isn't going to look very good in this fic. I don't agree with authors who betray him as outright villainous, but Jon and Cersei and Margaery all see Robert in the worst possible light, so there will be no sympathy here. 😢

For anyone still asking about Tyrion - he's working for himself here, as much as he's helping Olenna or Tywin. He won't betray his family, but if he can get what he wants out of this whole arrangement, he'll take it. He's also kept Jon's true identity hidden. Waiting to see his father's next move.

Seven hells, but writing all these people as they manipulate others on incomplete or incorrect assumptions is fucking fun!