Chapter 8: The Third of His Name

The Court of Winds and Winter

At twilight on the next day, Margaery had managed to gather the entire Stark family in the Crypts of Winterfell. Not an easy task, considering she wasn't exactly allowed down here. But between batting her eyelashes at the guards and Jon, she'd managed it. The hardest part, ironically, had been getting Arya away from her mother. She had still yet to speak, but if anything would correct that state of affairs, it was this. And Margaery knew that Jon would need Arya by his side tonight.

"Okay, my Lady. As much as I enjoy sneaking around and annoying my mother, why have you bought us down here?" Robb Stark asked as she held her torch high, light flickering off the stone walls as they advanced deeper into the tunnels. He was good looking, funny and well-spoken, the type of man that would have her ladies in Highgarden giggling and gossiping in moments. She wouldn't have minded being married to him if she hadn't met Jon, but she could admit she wasn't a huge fan of the cold. At least she had taken Jon's offer to help her pick out some furs in White Harbour to replace the ones they'd left behind on the road.

"I needed somewhere to speak to you all where I could be sure no one would overhear," Margaery said, eyes catching on the only female statue in the crypts. Lady Lyanna Stark.

"Why Lady Margaery?" Sansa asked, face furrowed in confusion. "If there is something important to speak of, why are mother and father not here, or Ser Garlan?" Lady Margaery. She suppressed a sigh. That would have to be corrected soon, or else Margaery would end up bashing her head into something.

"Because I don't fancy including a liar in my private plotting."

Sansa and Robb stopped short, though Arya – who was holding Jon's hand to steady her as they walked – kept going.

"What?"

"Your father has been lying to you for sixteen years. I puzzled out the truth and confronted him last night. I asked him, point-blank, and forced him to admit it to my face. That's why I wanted to come North so bad. I needed to know if I was seeing things that weren't there. I wasn't."

"Father doesn't lie," Robb said flatly.

"Which is why no one questioned him when he came home from war with a bastard in his arms."

Sansa's jaw dropped open, and Jon's entire body tensed.

"What do you mean?" he asked, voice hesitant.

"You asked me in Dorne if I thought you looked Dornish; if your mother could be Ashara Dayne," Margaery said, watching Jon's face. If there was ever a moment he might decide to hate her, this was it. She was about to rip his world apart. That's why she needed his family here. If she was to break the news, he needed someone other than her to fall back on.

"I told you I didn't think so, even if you were born in Dorne."

"Yeah…"

"But I couldn't stop thinking about it afterwards. Why would Lord Stark not tell you who your mother was? Grief, perhaps, but that seemed too easy. Why didn't you know about Ashara Dayne, Ned Stark's first love?"

"Ashara Dayne?" Sansa whispered.

"Sister to Arthur Dayne and the Lady of Starfall," Margaery said, turning to look at Sansa and Robb. "Your father danced with her at Harrenhal, and there was talk of a betrothal before the Rebellion started. I knew the story; most people in the South do. But none of you. Why?"

Robb, Arya, Sansa and Jon all looked confused now.

"If Jon was Ashara Dayne's son, why didn't Lord Stark leave him with the Daynes in Starfall? They take in bastards all the time – they would have insisted, most likely. So, I started researching. Fortunately, I had access to the Citadel and had a pre-existing timeline. That narrowed things down. If you were born in Dorne, Jon, we can go back nine months and see where Eddard Stark was at the time. It's far too early for anything to have happened at the Tourney of Harrenhal, so that rules out Ashara Dayne, likewise, it can't have happened in the North, or Jon would have been born long before Robb and in the Riverlands. That means the conception must have been sometime while Lord Stark was in the Riverlands – not long before or after he married Catelyn Stark."

Margaery looked Robb in the eye.

"He's never told you, to your face, who is older, has he?"

Robb and Jon shared a bizarre look of confusion.

"I… I mean, everyone says… we always assumed," Robb started, but Jon cut him off.

"No. He's never actually said it to our faces."

Margaery nodded.

"That's what I thought. I started looking into where Jon's mother might have been from, based on his appearance. You look Northern, but there are differences. Your features are sharper and more defined than the standard northern gruffness, though you have the colouring. I assumed, then, that your mother must have been from the South, but not from a family like the Lannisters, which tend to turn out golden-haired babies by the barrel."

That elicited a short laugh from Robb. He wouldn't be laughing if he knew what else she had uncovered. That secret, she would take to her grave.

"The black hair and strong physique had me looking to the Baratheons at first, but that turned up a dead end. The Baratheon appearance is even more dominant than the Lannister one, and you don't look like Robert, thank the Seven. With more dead ends appearing faster than leads, I sent to the Citadel for books on family history, appearances, and how Andal blood might mix with that of the First Men."

"The books in your carriage on the way North," Jon noted, and Margaery nodded.

"Mira was helping me, but I kept most of my work hidden from everyone else – even you and grandmother. If I was chasing something best left hidden, I needed to make sure all my research was airtight." She shivered, silently thankful that she'd sent her friend away before they left Kings Landing. "According to the Maesters and the people I spoke to, Andal blood tends to merge with First Men blood, creating a blend between the two."

She gestured to Robb.

"You're the perfect example. Red hair and colouring of a Tully, but the build, stance and speech of a Stark. Bran and Rickon follow the trend too, as do most of the Houses in the Riverlands and Vale that boast First Men ancestry."

Then she turned, pointing to Sansa and Arya in turn.

"You represent the two outliers — people who look entirely like one parent. There's barely anything of the other side in your faces or physique. Based on everything I've learned, it's usually a noticeable blend or nothing."

Now, Margaery started to smile slightly, proud of her intense deductive reasoning.

"For the life of me, I couldn't find any clue as to where Jon's mother might have been from. I was really starting to give up and believe that she must have been a maid or whore." Jon winced, and Arya gripped his hand tighter.

"Then, I realised there was one blood type I hadn't considered—the Blood of Old Valyria. I spoke to a woman who owns an orphanage in Highgarden, and she said the Valyrian look could be overwritten incredibly easy by new blood – part of why the Targaryens wed siblings after all was to keep their silver hair and other physical features. The so-called pure blood. But, and here is the kicker, all the Valyrian children this woman had ever seen had a defined and regal look about them. I went back to my books and looked over the Maesters notes and sketches again. I'd assumed the constant reference to 'noble features' were just misconception and embellishment – apparently not."

She reached into her satchel and drew out a leaf of paper depicting Aegon the Conqueror and his Sister-Wives, handing it to Robb.

"What do you notice?"

Robb stared at the page in concentration, then looked up at Jon's face, then down again. He handed the page to Sansa, who gasped, raising a dainty hand to her mouth.

"The similarity is uncanny," Margaery said. "If you change the hair from black to silver, the eyes from grey to purple…"

"He's the spitting image of a Targaryen," Sansa said. Jon snatched the sheet from her, staring at it.

"So… my mother was Valyrian? From one of the Narrow Sea houses?"

Margaery shook her head.

"Lord Stark never went near the Narrow Sea until after the war was over. He was always amongst Northmen and Valemen and Rivermen until the Sack of Kings Landing, far too late for you to be conceived. And it doesn't explain why you were born in Dorne. The Daynes are famous for having bizarre features – silver hair sometimes, or lilac eyes. So, I thought, maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe Ashara Dayne was your mother. But the timelines still don't add up. Eddard Stark was nowhere near Ashara nine months before your birth."

"She was near Brandon Stark, though."

Robb's eyes flared wide, and Arya bit her lip. Jon… he was still staring at the page before him.

"It's a good story. I could have stopped there and not looked any further. Ashara Dayne supposedly had a stillborn daughter near the end of the war. What if that was a lie? But… something kept tickling at the back of my mind. My initial doubts still stood. Why didn't Lord Stark leave you in Dorne if Brandon was your true father and Ashara your mother, fathered while Brandon was in the Black Cells at Kings Landing?"

"I wrote to Edric Dayne in Starfall, asking if I could speak to the wetnurse Wylla, whom he said nursed Jon on the way North. He told me she'd died years before, in the same accident that claimed Edric's mother and father. But he also confirmed that Ashara's babe had been stillborn – and a girl. His aunt, Allyria, had shown him her tomb in the Palestone Sword. Maybe he lied to me, maybe not, but I doubt it. According to the story Allyria told, Ned Stark came to Starfall after he found his sister and returned Dawn and Arthur Dayne's body before he set sail for Kings Landing. Where he arrived with his sister's body and a babe in his arms."

Margaery turned away from the Starks, stepping up to the statue of Lyanna and reaching out to touch the face.

"How did Lyanna Stark die?" She asked the statue.

"Father said she died of a fever?" Sansa said, hesitant as they started putting the final pieces together.

"A fever?" Margaery queried. "A young and healthy maiden, with three Kingsguard around her? That doesn't sound right. With the news of Rhaegar Targaryen's death and the Sack on the wings of every raven in Westeros, why didn't the Kingsguard move Lyanna Stark from a hiding place no doubt compromised or turn her over in exchange for clemency? Fever or no fever. Why not ride for Starfall, a fortress never taken by force? Why were the three best Kingsguard guarding a Tower in Dorne when they could have turned the tide for their prince at the Trident?"

Slowly, torch still in hand casting flickering golden light across her face, Margaery turned back around. By the looks on their faces, they'd figured it out just as she had.

"Lyanna Stark didn't die of a fever. She died in the birthing bed."

Jon started shaking his head, grabbing the stone wall for support. He tried to pull away from Arya, but she had a grip like iron, holding to him with all her will.

Then she spoke.

"You're my brother; who cares whose cunt you came out of?"

Robb was there a second later, pulling Jon from the wall and grabbing him by the shoulders. His face was deathly pale, grey eyes filled with panic. This… this terrified him more than the attack on the road. He dropped the page she'd given him to the ground.

"Arya's right. You'll always be my brother. You were raised in this castle, that makes you a Stark – be it through your father or your mother."

Sansa stepped up to Margaery, hands trembling something fierce.

"You're… you're sure? Father confirmed it?"

Margaery nodded, holding back the tears that threatened to fall as she watched Jon's agony.

"He did. Last night when I confronted him. But he says Lyanna was never abducted. She went with Rhaegar willingly; he said there are letters and proof. Things he found in the Tower of Joy."

"Fucking hell," Sansa whispered, then flushed bright red. Margaery met Jon's eyes again, then he was pushing free of his siblings and wrapping his arms around her, and she let out a desperate sigh of relief at just being in the warmth of him.

"You don't hate me?" she whispered.

"Never. I… thank you. Just… thank you."

They separated, and Margaery stepped away from the statue. He knelt before it, then reached out and touched the base.

His mother.

He sat like that for several minutes, silence settling over the crypts once more, until, on shaky legs, he rose to full height and set his jaw straight.

"What do we do now?"

Margaery bit her lip.

"Grandmother knows, I think. She engineered your whole trip South so she could get her thorns into you. Squiring to Garlan, the errors in the accounts I found, I'm certain it was her the entire time. If I had to guess, the Dornish Princes know too."

"They do," Arya confirmed. "Obella and I overheard Olenna talking to Doran, Oberyn and Tyrion Lannister about a 'secret prince' in Sunspear. They're going to kill Joffrey and use Myrcella to start a war in the Stormlands, then place you on the Iron Throne. They have a whole plot arranged. Obella swore me to secrecy."

Margaery shivered violently. Grandmother was trying to start a war? Why?! When the Great Houses started wars, it was the smallfolk who suffered.

"That explains why Rhae and Obella have been following us since we left Sunspear then."

Jon's eyes flew wide.

"Rhae? Where?"

"The guard that saved me in the Riverlands," Margaery said, smiling softly at him. "She shadows your every move. Has been for near a year now."

Jon blinked several times, his gaze becoming unfocused.

"We look the same…"

Margaery nodded.

"I'd put betting money on 'Rhae Sand' being about as real as 'Jon Snow' is."

"She's my sister?" He muttered into the dark.

"Probably."

He swallowed, taking several deep breaths.

"Jon…" Sansa said hesitantly. "If Rhaegar was your father, and Lyanna went willingly, that makes you a Prince."

"No," Robb said, shaking his head. "It makes him a King."

"I'm still a bastard, though," Jon said.

"Not so much."

Margaery drew another sheet of paper from her satchel – a record from the Arch-Maester's diary in the Citadel.

"Mira and Myrcella found that in the Citadel only a few days ago. They sent it by raven, and it was waiting for me here."

"The Citadel? That's where you sent Mira?"

Margaery nodded and watched as Jon unfolded the paper and read, Robb leaning over his shoulder.

"They were… they were married?"

"The Targaryens practised polygamy for hundreds of years. No law says they had to stop. They only did because of the Faith."

"Which neither Lyanna, Elia or Rhaegar would have cared for," Robb concluded.

Then, in a move that astonished even Margaery, Robb dropped to one knee.

"What are you doing?" Jon asked, horrified.

"You're the King of Westeros… Trueborn." Robb smirked up at him, winking slyly. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

Seizing the moment, Margaery dropped to her knee as well, though her grin was far more flirty than smirk.

"In the name of my father Mace Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach, I pledge House Tyrell and the Lords of the Reach to Jon Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, the Song of Ice and Fire."

Robb spoke the same, pledging for House Stark. Jon looked utterly terrified, and Margaery worried for a second that he might faint. Then Arya was grabbing his wrist once more, looking up with a pleading expression.

"Can I be your first Kingsguard?"

Like a spell suddenly broken, all five of them burst out laughing. Margaery and Robb rose to their feet, looking to one another in solemn solidarity.

"Well, then," Sansa said, folding her arms, a grin slowly spreading across her face. "Where do we start?"

A Spark of Rebellion

'Sunhair,

He knows.

I thank you for the documents; they were the final tipping point for the wolves. All four of them know, now, and are ready to do their part.

I will be stuck here for a while, organising and strategising. However, we have a more significant problem at hand. You've no doubt heard by now, but if you haven't, we were attacked on the road by bandits we believe dispatched by the Lannisters. The little wolf was injured, but the rest of us are fine. My concerns are more for the purpose. I doubt it was the old man – he's too clever to leave loose ends – nor do I believe it was the Imp, as he is clearly affiliated with my grandmother somehow, though I could be wrong. That leaves the Queen.

If the Queen is responsible, I feel more confident in my following assertion.

He wasn't the target; I was. And with this failure, my worries at what she might do have risen through the roof. I'll need to take significant precautions when I return south. But you know her far better than I. What do you think she will do next?

I will keep you updated on my work here. The Court of Winds and Winter is coming along nicely, and our newest sister, Frostfire, is eager to hear from you.

I fear my own court will be far harder to build.

Goldflower, of the Court of Spring and Songs.'

The Red Viper

'This is the Golden Company?' Oberyn Martell wondered as he stared down at the force camped along the beach below him. It was of an impressive size, but that was about it. The men wore old armour made mostly from hide that exposed their skin in dozens of places, and their equipment was subpar at best, rusted at worst. Oberyn was genuinely concerned the bigger threat from those weapons would be rust infection rather than sharpness.

Oberyn had always been told the Golden Company had elephants. Where were the elephants! What fun was sneaking into an enemy encampment to kill its captains and steal a priceless artifact if there were no fucking elephants to send on a rampage as a distraction!?

Calm as the river, Oberyn. Calm as the river.

Alas, he should have predicted there would be no elephants. One could not ride elephants over the sea, and if the company had been hired by Tyrosh to whittled down the pirate infestation across the Stepstones, the elephants would need to be left behind. A pity.

Oh well. It just meant the stakes were far higher.

Which would make for a far more thrilling getaway.

"Everyone knows the plan, yes?" Oberyn whispered. Four proud warriors – and Areo – of Dorne lay in the grass beside him, poised to move on his command. On his left – Areo Hotah and Obara. Dressed in full armour plate, hands on their swords, their task tonight was to secure the departure. On his right – Edric Dayne and Sarella. Garbed all in black, they would be setting the distraction. Without elephants, it would be less entertaining, but they knew what to do well enough.

Oberyn would be after the prize.

"We are well aware, my prince," Areo said, rolling his eyes. Enormous with skin black as pitch, even Oberyn was not one to challenge the Dornish guard captain without preparation. The man was a demon. Fortunately, he was Oberyn's demon tonight.

"Good. Then let us begin."

The three groups broke away from the refuse ditch on the edge of the camp where they hid. The rustling and clanking of Obara and Areo's armour more than enough to obscure any sound Oberyn, Edric, and Sarella might have made as they darted across the field towards the rows of tents. Edric and Sarella started skirting the northern edge of the camp while Oberyn slinked into the shadow of a mess tent. Then, he waited.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes…

BOOM!

A blast of fireworks lit the sky on the far side of the camp, setting a tent ablaze and showering sparks in all directions. Like clockwork, the thousands of soldiers all looked towards the disturbance. Many started running towards the blaze; others – drunk – cheered on the celebration. Very few were intelligent enough to grab buckets of water before they ran towards the fires.

Smirking at a job well done, Oberyn rose from the shadows and donned the worn hide cap he'd hung on his belt. Coupled with the crappy uniform he'd stolen from a guard days previously, he looked as much a member of the company as anyone else did, and in the commotion, no one looked twice at one of their comrades sprinting towards the command tent. It was an enormous structure, lavish and pompous and not defensible in the slightest. It was like they weren't even trying. Where was Harry Strickland, supposed leader of the company and tactical genius? Not here, apparently.

Oberyn walked straight into the command tent, right past the guards stationed outside. It was ridiculously furnished, with a varnished wooden bed, side tables and wardrobes, candle settings and woven rugs from the Summer Isles.

Oh, and there was an orgy going on.

Damn, he should've come sooner.

"Girls, are you about done?"

Arianne let the dick in her mouth pop free, saliva dribbling down her chin. She rolled her eyes, turning towards Oberyn as the man in question – a not overly ugly brute with a tiny penis – looked to him in rage.

He opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but before he could speak, Nymeria pounced from behind and sliced his throat open in a single move. The captain flopped to his bed, lifeless, revealing Nymeria's naked form.

"Yep," Nymeria said cheerfully, spinning around and grabbing a sheer silk whore's robe from the floor.

"You couldn't have come sooner?" Arianne asked, rising to grab a goblet of wine and gargling the contents before spitting it out.

"Everything good in there?!" One of the guards asked, a humorous lit to his voice.

"More than good, ser!" Oberyn shouted back.

"Do you have it?" he asked, stepping into the tent, avoiding the puddle of blood forming on the ground. Nymeria stepped over to a wardrobe, then pulled out a longsword in a worn black leather scabbard.

"That is it?"

Nymeria nodded, half drawing the weapon. Though the hilt had obviously been changed to an unadorned one, and the scabbard designed to diminish its appearance, nothing could hide the distinctive ripple of Valyrian Steel.

"Blackfyre, ancient blade of the Targaryen kings," Arianne finished, having cleaned herself up and redressed as well. Nymeria tossed the blade to Oberyn, who caught it with ease and pulled the weapon free, admiring its weight and feel.

"Gorgeous indeed," Oberyn muttered, then he grinned.

"Lads! Get in here and have some fun!"

A second later, the two guards outside ducked through the opening. They died with smiles on their faces, at least, as Blackfyre sliced across their throats in Oberyn's hands.

From there, it was a simple enough endeavour for Oberyn to strap the sword to his belt, wrap his arms around his daughter and niece's shoulders and set off back into the camp stumbling like a drunk with two whores on his arm. They nearly got pulled into another orgy, and he might have accepted if time wasn't pressing. By the time they reached the longship Obara and Areo had secured for them, Sarella and Edric had already arrived, and the fireworks had died off.

"Excellent," Oberyn declared, unable to keep the smile off his face. "Now, let us be away from here. I would stay to enjoy the chaos, but without elephants, it hardly seems worth it."

By the time voices raised the alarm in the camp of the golden company, Oberyn and his team were long gone.

Cold Wind Rising

The Stark family was cursed. That was Catelyn's only explanation.

Every time her husband went south, he came back a different man. The first time, he'd ridden off to Dorne and come back with another woman's son. Catelyn had been furious – how dare this man bring such an insult and demand she raise him alongside her own son? But they'd not known each other then, and Catelyn had no choice but to obey her Lord Husband. She fed and clothed the bastard, but she didn't care for him. Refused to.

The second time, Theon Greyjoy was the result. The less said about that impetuous foul-mouthed and uncultured swine, the better. He was a horrid influence on Robb, but Catelyn had no power to get rid of him, much as she would like to.

The third time, Catelyn was almost in heaven. At first, at least. He took the bastard with him to the Reach and left him there – all Catelyn had ever wanted. Then she'd realised Arya hadn't come home either. Catelyn refused to even speak to her husband for weeks.

That, it seemed, had been a poor choice. Not only had he agreed to take on another ward without telling her, but he'd also ordered reconstruction teams to Moat Cailin, Flint's Finger and Old Castle. Massive endeavours without any prompting or warning. Catelyn didn't even know why he'd done it.

But this time, there was something else. Ned always came back from the south more beaten down and melancholy than he left – it made sense; he'd seen war all the other times. This time, he hadn't. It was just an expedition to Highgarden (where he'd sold off their daughter without EVEN TELLING HER!). There had been no fighting or anything. According to Sansa and Bran, neither of whom would shut up about the trip for near six moons after they returned – the journey went perfectly. So why did the melancholy follow him home this time? And why did it linger, even through Rickon's first steps and words?

She could come up with only one answer. They were cursed. Every time her husband went south, something changed in him. This time, he came home scared. Of what, Catelyn wasn't sure, but he was. Higher volumes of trade from the Reach, lumber deals for the Umbers, reinforcing three strategic positions long since fallen into disrepair? Her husband was preparing for war.

Now, her sweet, sweet Arya had come home, scared and silent – a shell of the girl that left her four years ago. Maester Lewin had pulled Catelyn and Ned aside yesterday and given his prognosis on her wound.

"There is no way to be sure, but I'm confident in my assessment. Though her wound was not life-threatening – missing the vital organs by some miracle – it has caused serious internal bleeding and damage to her womb. Furthermore, their hasty flight ensured the wound didn't close properly and allowed an infection to fester. Hence her constant tiredness. It will linger, though I have medicines for both the pain and the disease itself. With luck, she will recover. But even then… I would strongly advise against any child-rearing. She will grow with the wound, even after it scars over, and I can't be sure of how much damage was done deeper than I can see. If she should fall pregnant in her later years, if she can at all, which I doubt, she and the babe would most certainly die."

Her baby girl… She would keep herself together. For Robb's sake, and for Arya's. She still hadn't spoken a word, even when Ned and Catelyn broke the news to her. Her sweet Sansa, at least, wasn't letting Arya out of her sight and was taking the time to tell her all about the things she'd missed while she was away.

Was that the extent of the curse? Oh no. No. That was the gods' cruellest joke yet.

The bastard was back, and he apparently had the Tyrells wrapped around his finger.

Margaery Tyrell – a gorgeous and perfect lady – should have been Robb's bride. Would be Robb's bride if Catelyn had anything to say about it. Now? She hung off the bastard's every word, making doe eyes at him for all the world to see. Somehow, the bastard had extended his influence. Not only were Robb and Ned and Arya ensorceled by him, but he'd trapped the girl who should be Robb's. And Robb didn't even care! He'd spent the days since they arrived either locked up with the bastard, Arya, the Dornish rat, her Sansa, and Lady Margaery in Robb's solar. The only time they seemed to do anything else was when Robb and the bastard spared with Garlan Tyrell and Jaime Lannister.

And that was to say nothing of Garlan Tyrell! A knight of true nobility, and he was practically doting on the bastard. Knighting him in that sham of a ceremony, without the proper oath. Now, he was duelling with the bastard against Robb and Jaime Lannister. The entire castle and anyone who was anyone had come to watch the confrontation. While her boy was more than good enough to destroy the bastard several times to raucous applause – even without Lannister's help – the bastard claimed just as many victories. If not more. It was an enormous and horrific insult. To her, to Robb, to everything Catelyn held dear. Without Jaime Lannister's year of training – and by the gods was Catelyn grateful for that – she knew in her heart of hearts that the bastard would have obliterated him in the yard.

That, however, was not what irked her the most about the bastard. No. He was plotting. She was sure of it. Right in the middle of her home! Trying to figure out how to kill Robb and take Winterfell and Lady Margaery for himself, and he clearly intended for the Martell bastard to help him do it. That snake witch, Obella, followed Arya wherever she went. Always watching, always listening whenever Catelyn tried to get her daughter to speak. Even when Arya slept, the snake would sleep with her on a cot in the corner of the room.

Catelyn wouldn't let it happen.

First, she needed to secure Robb's future with a good wife.

"Lady Margaery? I wondered if I might speak to you?" Catelyn called sweetly when she spotted the young lady gliding away from the rookery on the morning of Robb's name day. The feast and presentation of gifts would happen that afternoon. If Catelyn could announce something…

"Of course, Lady Stark," Margaery said, clasping her hands behind her back. She had done a full face of make-up today, Catelyn realised. From powders to eyeliner to paint on her lips. She'd blown out her golden-brown hair, so it fell flawlessly to the base of her neck, and her pretty brown eyes gleamed in the half-light. She even looked stunning in the thick furs and wools she wore. Catelyn always felt she looked a fool in furs, an outsider.

'Yes! This will help.'

Lady Margaery was flanked by two Tyrell guards as usual – she rarely went anywhere without them. Understandable, given what had occurred on the Kingsroad.

"I noticed you've become quite friendly with my son Robb while you've been at Winterfell."

Lady Margaery smiled softly.

"Oh yes. He's quite the charmer and excellent in the yard too. I'm sure he'll make a great Lord of the North someday. I can't wait to work with him."

"Well, that's excellent!" Catelyn beamed; heart aflutter. "I was wondering then, if you'd like to sit beside him at the high-table tonight, during the name day feast?"

"Oh! I'd love to, my Lady. I do so love speaking to Lady Sansa as well. But, if I may be so bold, I'd ask for Ser Jon to sit with us. He's so proud of his brother, and getting to show that pride by sitting beside him would make his day and Robb's all the better, I'm sure."

Catelyn resisted the urge to flinch, keeping a smile firmly on her face.

"A brilliant idea," Catelyn said. "I'll make sure the servants know."

Lady Margaery shot Catelyn a grin of victory.

"Oh, excellent. I'll be sure to tell the boys. I'm off to see them right now; care to join me?"

Catelyn swallowed.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude. Go enjoy the day."

Suffice to say, that had not gone as she'd intended. He'd gotten in her head, somehow. Corrupted even a girl who should be the epitome of perfect femininity. How though? From Catelyn's observations, the boy had never been very smart. How did he gain such loyalty? How did he manipulate people so well?

When the feast came, Catelyn kept her face carefully neutral as the bastard sat way above his station, talking and laughing with Robb, Lady Margaery, Wynafryd Manderly, her Sansa, and Yohn Royce's younger children – Waymar and Ysilla. Lord Royce himself was seated with Rodrik and Wylis Manderly, recounting war stories of the Greyjoy Rebellion one table down. Her husband spent most of the meal, aside from the toasts and the presentation of gifts by the many lords, in hushed conversation with Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, the Greatjon and Wyman Manderly. Even Bran and Tommen were enjoying themselves, chatting away at the low table with a number of the other children. Only Arya wasn't there, choosing to remain in her rooms, sleeping.

Catelyn was left mostly on her own. She didn't mind, though; she was too busy trying to listen to Ned's conversation without looking suspicious.

"If what you say is true, we must strike back," Rickard was saying.

"I agree, but we have no proof, and Tywin Lannister has far more gold to throw around than we do and won't take kindly to being accused," Wyman replied.

Ned sighed, scratching at his beard.

"For now, I don't think there's much we can do. I've written to Lord and Lady Tyrell, advising them of what we can't let get out. Their children were targets as much as mine were. What seems obvious, at least, is that the Lannisters are going to significant lengths to try and sour our relationship with the Reach, and with Winter coming, I hate to think of what might happen if they succeed."

The Lannisters? They were behind the attack on the Kingsroad? What other attempt had they made against… Were they behind the scandal four years previously? Why had Ned not told her?

"I think," the Greatjon said at length, and wasn't it weird to hear his usually booming voice suppressed in such a manner, "that we need to step up your preparations. I'm sorry for doubting you before, Ned. You had the right of it. If something is going to happen, the North needs to stand ready for it."

"Good to have you onboard," Ned said solemnly.

"If Robert dies, that brat boy of his will be a puppet of his bitch mother," Karstark pointed out, taking a sip of ale, mouth contorted in a foul way.

"Agreed," Ned said. "Which is part of the reason why I wanted his brother up here. As insurance."

Catelyn's eyes flared wide, and she glanced towards where Tommen was seated with Bran, laughing.

Tommen Baratheon was a sweet boy, but he was quite scatterbrained. One moment he would pay incredibly close attention to things, the next, he'd be swaying in his seat, humming to himself. He was soft and kind, but possessed no hint of a spine.

"The boy? I mean no offence, and from what I've seen, he's nice enough, but he's as ditsy as a prepubescent girl. He'd be as much a puppet of Tywin Lannister as his brother – maybe more," Karstark said, snorting his amusement.

"Who else is there?" Manderly pointed out. "Stannis? He's stern enough, but I'll tell you the man is as likeable as a dead tree. And the traders say he's taken up with a foreign priestess as well. I suppose there is the girl."

"You have a problem with a woman running things?" Maege asked, speaking up for the first time and shooting Manderly a side-eye. Wyman flushed, raising his hands in defence as Karstark and the Great Jon laughed at him.

"I don't, but I don't get to decide who can sit on that stupid chair and who can't. There are plenty of people who will refuse to follow a woman on the Iron Throne, no matter who she is."

"And what's to stop her from being as much a puppet as the rest?" the Great Jon added.

"Us," Ned answered, staring pensively towards Jaime Lannister and his golden armour.

"What do you mean?"

"According to my correspondence with Jon Arryn, and the stories I heard in the South, the Princess is the only one of Robert's children with even a modicum of intelligence. She's still young and impressionable, and living with the Martells will protect her from too much Lannister influence – considering they hate them near as much as we do. We might be able to influence her where we'd get nowhere with Lord Stannis. That, and I don't think very many up here will care that she's a woman."

Maege snorted.

"Bloody right."

But Karstark was frowning, and Catelyn couldn't help but agree with him. A girl on the Iron Throne? Unthinkable. And Prince Joffrey was young; he would grow into a strong man. Especially if her Sansa were to marry him…

"So, you want us to declare for a fourteen-year-old girl?"

"No," Ned said forcefully. "It's moot anyway, as Joffrey will sit the throne whether we like it or not. What I'm saying is it might not be a bad idea to get a friend from the North into the Princess's circle. She might hold some influence at court one day, and if a war does start with the Lannisters, it could give us a valuable piece in the game."

"The game? You sound like one of those southern schemers, Ned," the Great Jon exclaimed.

"Not likely; it took me near two years to figure that much out. I'm just trying to protect my children and the North. We need grain from the Reach if we're to survive, and if Winter does come, we won't be able to field an army to protect us from a Lannister attack."

The three Lords and Maege nodded in agreement.

"Who would you send then?"

Ned turned towards the other side of the table, and Catelyn carefully dug into her meal.

"My son, Jon. He's been squiring for Ser Garlan and knows the South better than any of us. He's a Northman to his core, though. Still worships the Old Gods, and you heard the oath he swore as he was knighted. He's a man of honour, and he and Robb are as close as brothers. If something does happen, he could be an important link between us and the South."

Ned shivered slightly, face clouding over with rage for a moment.

"I would have suggested Arya, before this. I've been speaking with Allyria Dayne, and her nephew, the Lord of Starfall – my name's sake – is of age with her. Apparently, they've met before and got along. But now… if she cannot have children, I fear for her future. She doesn't speak and barely eats. I had assumed she would welcome returning south anyway; her skill at falconry is phenomenal as I understand it, and we know little of the art up here. I don't know what to do. Time will tell on her front."

WHAT!

Catelyn's entire body twitched, and she dropped her fork to the ground. Ned noticed, and Catelyn bid an awkward apology as she knelt to retrieve it.

"My granddaughter Wynafryd might be a strong choice," Wyman said eventually. "It would do well for her to learn about Southern tradecraft if she is to inherit White Harbour one day, and I have contacts with House Hightower in Oldtown that might work to our advantage."

"I'll speak to Ser Garlan and suggest something," Ned said, reached out to shake the man's hand. "I appreciate the offer; the North appreciates it, Wyman. Truly."

Wyman nodded, though he certainly looked apprehensive.

"I will send my daughter, Dacey, to Winterfell," Maege said. "She's a skilled rider and has a talent for war, much like your youngest girl. She might be able to coax young Arya out of her shell." The follow up 'And worm her way into Robb's bed' went unsaid, but Catelyn heard it clearly enough.

"I'll send my son Harrion and my daughter Alys as well," Karstark added. "It will do them good to get to know their future Lord."

And so, the vultures started to swarm. Karstark and Mormont both looking for a daughter to be the next Lady Stark. Catelyn's replacement.

"Tonight. I'm meeting my… Lord Stark, in the Godswood. He knows that Margaery knows and probably assumes that I do. I suggest you get good seats."

The bastard's voice.

Catelyn glanced to her left from the corner of her eye. The bastard was looking down the table to her husband, a look of… of pain twisting his face.

"We'll be there. If you need us after," Robb said. The bastard smiled back awkwardly, clapping Robb on the shoulder.

"I know you will."

Meeting Ned? In the Godswood? Why?

Catelyn was done. She was done being left in the dark. Done being kicked to the side by her own husband and shamed by his bastard. She would be there at that meeting, one way or another.

Notes – on Sex Scenes and Story Flow

First of all, for the Golden Company stans… Oberyn's chapter is designed as a massive 'fuck you' to Dan and Dave, so don't get your panties in a twist and have a cow at me for not 'showing them like in the book.' You should really be thanking me. There will be more Golden Company in the future.

I will confirm that Young Griff will NOT be appearing, however. Maybe in the books he's Serra's son or some Blackfyre pretender, I don't know, nor do I really care, but I'm dead certain he isn't the real thing. Jon Connington will show up, and he will very much be gay when he does. Real or fake, just assume the kid died or something.

Also, I know Areo Hotar is white in the books. Here, he's black, because I think that was the one thing the show actually did right concerning Dorne.

Now, onto the meat of the notes…

As you can see from this chapter, there will be sex scenes/sexpositioned scenes going forward, but probably not as many as some of you would like, lol.

I'm not concerned with writing scenes of an obscene nature, but what does bug me a little is plot relevance. Is it necessary to put sex scenes where they aren't really needed? For example, the first sex scene I wrote for this was supposed to be in the previous chapter, at the end of the 'Mists and Mires' scene, with Jon and Margaery. It was a comfort type scene – nothing very heavy; they were just sleeping together and getting a bit too cosy before they put a stop to it. But it interrupted the flow of the story too much, so I cut it out.

Of those types of scenes, I've ended up cutting about half of the ones I originally had in because they broke the pacing or weren't necessary. However, I am but one reader, and you guys are a lot more (a hell of a lot more than I expected to be honest), so what do you all think? Should I put the scenes back in, despite the flow issues? Release them as cut-scene omakes in a separate document on Archive? Or leave in only the scenes that fit the story?

As a final note, you might have noticed that I've added the Robb/Rhaenys tag up the top. You can thank the many commenters and reviewers who begged me for some interaction between the two of them for that, as I loved the idea so much I went back and edited some of the scenes in this chapter and the next for them. They will, unfortunately, not be endgame, as I'm going to stick to my original plan for Robb because I love it so much. His future ladyfriend WILL NOT APPEAR UNTIL BOOK 2 (sorry, Robb fans, but I do have the first three chapters of that book written, so I promise you won't have to wait too long). She will play a significant role in his storyline in that book. I'm quite proud of it, and I hope you're all going to love it too when we get there.