Book II – Chapter 12: Love and Duty

Godsgrief

Godsgrief indeed, Jon thought, standing atop a grassy hillock, spyglass held to his eye as he examined the monstrosity of a structure before him – Storm's End, the impregnable fortress of Durran Godsgrief, the first Storm King of Westeros.

Everything about the castle was just overwhelming. A massive outer curtain wall, one hundred feet high and eighty feet thick, barred the way between the Tyrell/Martell host and their goal. And even if they could somehow breach the thing – a feat no one had ever managed before – they would still have to get inside the drum tower at the castle's heart.

Furthermore, they'd only arrived a few days ago, but Jon could already tell the morale the army had picked up from their victory at Bronzegate was dissipating fast. Many of the Tyrell soldiers had been here before. During the Rebellion. Useless. Jon didn't want to make that mistake again. And, fortunately, neither did Willas.

Jon thanked the gods that something had managed to pull the Lord of Highgarden out of his stupor before his mother arrived and had to look down on two of her sons' corpses. Jon… he didn't have the heart to see Alerie. Didn't want to see the hatred she must feel for him. Hatred he deserved. They'd died for Jon, though only one of the two brothers had known it.

No, Jon couldn't look Alerie in the eye. But he could, at least, keep up the work. If Garlan wanted anything in death, Jon had known his mentor well enough to believe it would be that. He had to succeed, had to get this right. If Jon failed again… House Tyrell and House Stark would be at risk. Everyone. From Robb and Willas to little Rickon and Margaery's legion of cousins.

"What do you think, Snow?"

Jon lowered the spyglass and handed it back to Lord Tarly, doing his best not to show distaste for the man on his face.

"I think Durran Godsgrief is a person I'm glad is extremely dead, because the man could hold a serious grudge."

Tarly didn't respond, and Obella kicked Jon in the ankle.

"I don't know," Jon said honestly, biting his lip as he continued to scan the defences. Renly had posted only a few paltry sentries atop the wall. There was no real need to defend the thing all the time after all, so why should he give the Tyrells target practise. The false king had all the cards here. They didn't know what his stock of provisions was like, but it was unquestionably expansive. They didn't know how many troops Renly had, but their best estimates said a few thousand at least – more than enough to hold such a fortress-like this. Meanwhile, the Tyrell/Martell host was exposed to the Autumn storms, which the Maesters said should be arriving soon, and to both the still absent Stannis and any allies Renly had on the outside. Fortunately, the ambush Renly had planned never materialised.

All thanks to Jon.

He'd ridden out from Bronzegate ahead of the bulk of the army with most of Garlan's cavalry and Lord Anders Dornish Sand-Riders, and together they cleared the route ahead of them. Several hidden camps of soldiers had tucked themselves into the mountain ridges and secret hollows. Wiping them out had not been easy, but it had been efficient and brutal. And total.

It didn't make Jon feel any better.

He hadn't thought it would.

"We can't take it," Tarly said, the cadence of his voice never once changing in that creepy way of his. "Even with a plethora of the best siege weaponry in the world. That means we have to use other options. A siege."

"Too risky, given the climate and the situation," Jon answered, glancing anxiously towards Shipbreaker Bay, dark clouds looming over rough waters.

Tarly nodded, face like stone as he continued to gaze at the walls before them. "Agreed. If strength of arms will not avail us, then it is to guile we must turn our attention."

Tarly turned on his heel and started down the bluff, and Jon and Obella followed. Below, the enormous encampment of the Tyrell and Martell host spread out before them, stretching near to the horizon itself. An immense force, ready to fight, yet they couldn't use it. Anathema. Infuriating. The rows of tents were all strictly ordered and the exact same distance apart, as per Lord Anders instruction. Apparently, if you spaced your tents in such a way that light pooled between them at nearly all times of the day, it was far more difficult for intruders to break in. Jon supposed that was true, but doubted it would stop a skilled assassin. Either way, the camp was bustling with soldiers and camp followers – merchants, women, and children – moving goods or cleaning equipment. There was this buzz of noise that lay thick over the entire camp that Jon couldn't quite explain or understand, yet it was oddly soothing. A little slice of civilisation, death hounding on all sides.

"I've sent some of my men with the companies securing the nearby villages. They will round up the women and children, and we will search for those who have husbands and sons leading the defence…."

"You what?!" Jon exclaimed, digging nails into his palm. "Did Lord Tyrell approve that?"

"It doesn't matter. Without them, we cannot take the castle, and as you so eloquently pointed out, we cannot stay here for long." Tarly stopped abruptly, then finally looked Jon in the eye.

"If you wish to be a skilled commander of men, Jon Snow. This is the reality you must learn. Put aside your childish belief in right and wrong; there is no place for it in war. Your father believed in right and wrong. All that remains of him now are ashes. Are you going to join him? Or are you going to prove yourself a leader?"

With that, Lord Tarly stormed away, leaving Jon and Obella behind, soldiers swarming around them in all directions.

"He's a right piece of work that one," Obella muttered, shaking her head, curls flying in all directions.

Jon took a deep breath and relaxed his hands. He'd need to find where Tarly was keeping his captives and ensure they were well cared for. Then… then, well, he wasn't sure. He needed a better plan than the one Tarly had. Preferably one that wasn't even riskier than the siege.

Where are you, Myrcella? You should have been back by now.

"Ah! Ser Jon! Just the man I wanted to see."

Jon spun on his heel and bowed to Prince Trystane as he approached, flanked by Martell guards.

"Your grace, how may I be of assistance?"

Trystane stopped in front of Jon before nodding slightly to Obella. He gestured to the edge of the camp overlooking the cliffside, beckoning them to follow.

"I'm sorry we haven't had much of a chance to talk, ser. The Queen speaks very highly of you."

Jon hid a smile at that. Jon had seen Myrcella drunk off her ass, dancing like a courtesan in a bar. He doubted Trystane possessed a similar memory.

"I appreciate that, your Grace. I consider the Queen a good friend."

Trystane was about as Jon had expected he would be when Myrcella described him to her. He was somewhat handsome, though not as good looking as Robb, and smart enough for a boy of barely fifteen name-days. He wanted to prove himself; Jon understood and respected that. But he was no warrior, and his smarts didn't mean much in an army with so many commanders already butting heads against one another. And even then, according to Myrcella, Trystane's intellect and attentions lay in politics, not warfare. He would be a valuable ally on the senate one day. But in the middle of the war camp, with his elder brother and Myrcella conveniently absent? He was little more than an ornament.

They reached the cliffside, and Trystane waved for his guards to back away, giving the two space to talk. What did Trystane want?

Obella rolled her eyes, then stepped away as well, getting the hint.

"Is everything alright, your grace?"

"I… I wanted to ask if there was anything I could do. Anything you need help with. For your plan and stuff."

Jon froze, eyes narrowing as he scanned the boy's face. Had Myrcella told him? Did he know who Jon truly was? Jon's heart started pounding in his ears, but he let none of his panic show on his face. Just as Margaery had taught him.

"How much do you know?" Jon asked carefully, hedging his bets. Surely Myrcella wouldn't have revealed the truth without telling him?

Trystane snorted.

"Nothing really. She doesn't trust me, and I understand, I suppose. She doesn't love me. I don't love her. We're only married so this alliance doesn't fall apart. But I'm not a fool either. She has a plan, and you're involved with it. Before she left, she told me to make sure to listen to you if you proposed something outlandish or stupid. That it was important you prove yourself to the entire army."

Tension bled from Jon's body like a wave. He should never have doubted her. And his 'stupid' plan had worked. The entire army knew his name now – respected him for breaking into Bronzegate and throwing his life on the line. Half of the men seemed to think he'd done the entire thing single-handed. Before, he would have corrected anyone who claimed such a thing, blushing scarlet the whole time. Now, he just waved and smiled when he heard the stories. Sometimes, he'd even sat down around a campfire and shared stories and drink with the men.

'No one can truly live up to the legend they leave in their wake,' Olenna had said to him long ago. 'To rely on your legend is foolish, for it's always fickle and easy to change. Instead, you must weaponise legend. People will always be more willing to follow someone they like than someone they hate or fear. Use the stories and legends others bestow upon you to build a reputation as someone you wish to be remembered for. Then, when you find yourself in need of help, watch the people around you lay down their lives for your sake. That is true loyalty.'

Even now, all these years later, Lady Olenna's lessons were never far away.

Trystane sighed. "I feel useless here. I need something to do. Some way to be useful. I just thought, if there's anyone that knows what her intentions are, that can give me some advice or point me on the right path, it's her paramour."

WHAT!?

Jon coughed so loud he was honestly surprised Obella didn't immediately scream 'poison!' Still, his entire body flooded red, eyes nearly falling out of his head, jaw slack, and he thought his heart may have stopped for a moment.

"I… what… I never… that's not…."

Trystane chuckled softly under his breath.

"It's okay. I don't care. Myrcella and I have an arrangement. We're Dornish. So long as we have an heir quickly, we don't see a need to restrict ourselves to one partner we don't particularly like. I've heard her screaming your name a couple times when I passed her chambers before she left. Sometimes before that two, if we're being honest."

…

…

…

Um, okay?

Only Jon had never slept with Myrcella. Never even imagined it, actually. Which meant she was…

Thinking of him.

Him.

When she…

…

…

Yeah, Jon had no idea what to say to that.

What did you say to that?

"Trystane, I…"

Whatever Jon might have been about to say (and, let's be honest, it would probably have been exceedingly stupid), neither would ever know. Because Trystane, who had been studiously not looking at Jon's face, suddenly lifted his hand and pointed towards the ocean.

"What are those?"

Jon followed his gesture, extremely thankful to have something else to… think about…

What was that?

There was something out there, on the water, moving closer. No, not something, some things.

Ships. Lots of them.

"You want something to do?" Jon muttered, sharing a deliberate look with Trystane.

Trystane nodded, skin going pale.

"Run as fast as you can to Lord Anders. Tell him we'll be under assault in less than an hour."

Trystane bolted, his guards shouting as they fell in behind him. Obella, meanwhile, stepped up to Jon's side, spear gripped tight in her hand.

"That's a lot of boats," she whispered.

Jon swallowed, heart now racing for a whole different reason. Fear.

It was fear.

"The die is cast," he answered. "Time to see where it falls."

The Scale of War

"Lord Tywin! Welcome to Riverrun!"

Tywin ignored Lord Vance and his entourage of insignificant Riverlords, dismounting in a single motion and scanning the courtyard for the only two people he particularly cared to see. Sure enough, standing near the entrance to the castle's central keep were Kevan and Genna.

Tywin had not seen his sister in many a year, but, unsurprisingly, she was exactly as he'd last seen her. Still fat, still smiling in that ridiculous way of hers, and still threatening to burst out of the dress she wore, which was far too small for her rather enormous figure. Kevan, too, hadn't changed since Tywin had last seen him several moon-turns before. He supposed, to them, Tywin probably looked the same as well. They couldn't see the patchwork scaring along his right leg or feel the constant throbbing in his joints.

Lord Vance and Lord Marbrand continued speaking at him, but Tywin had no time for their blathering. He'd lost precious time in Casterly Rock. He would not waste anymore.

"Kevan, lead me to your solar," he commanded, gesturing with his hands for the crowd of onlookers to part. "Genna, come with us. The rest of you get back to work."

Genna chuckled under her breath as Lord Vance trailed off, and Kevan gestured towards the main doors. Behind them, men at arms began calling for the drawbridge to be raised. Without a word, Kevan and Genna led him deep into the castle, then up a broad staircase he supposed many would find quite impressive. Crews of Lannister men traversed the corridors and rooms, some carrying rolled up tapestries and carpets, others mop buckets or cleaning clothes. He even spotted one group pushing a wagon piled high with stone.

"They're cleaning and repairing the castle," Kevan stated without Tywin having to ask. "The Mootons and Hawicks did a number on this place. You don't want to know how many bodies we dumped in the moat."

"Anyone of import?"

"Outside the Tullys themselves? Jonos Bracken, Ramen Darry, Marq Piper and plenty more. Blackwood and Mallister both made it out, you have ravens waiting for you from both, and obviously, Vance escaped, though he refuses to say how. The two Stark children – Brandon and Sansa – are both unaccounted for. I believe Blackwood has the girl."

Tywin clenched his jaw. That was nearly half the leadership of the Riverlands, all dead. Quite the disaster, but also a significant opportunity, if he could rid himself of the nuisance that was Jon Arryn and his insane wife.

Kevan opened a door, gesturing Tywin and Genna inside. The space beyond held a lavish open-air solar, arched windows looking out over the rolling wheat fields to the south of the moat. A long table stood in the heart of the room, covered in maps and raven scrolls. The second Kevan shut the door, Tywin released a long sigh, easing himself down into a chair, wincing as he did so.

"Shit, Tywin, are you…." Genna tried, moving to his side as fast as her girth would allow.

"I am fine, Genna," Tywin said, rubbing his head to ease the ache beginning to build even as he stretched out his lame leg. He refused to use a cane any longer, regardless of how much it helped. It made him look weak.

"Pig shit, Ty, but whatever," Genna muttered, rolling her eyes and slumping into the chair next to him while Kevan took a seat opposite. He looked just as concerned as Genna did, but he didn't ask or question, and Tywin appreciated that. Kevan always knew when to talk and when not to.

"First, what news from the Rock?" Kevan asked instead.

"None good. We repelled Baratheon's attack from the sea – a clever ploy, admittedly, but ultimately doomed to failure given the strength of Lannisport. The city sustained some damage from the barrage, but the Rock remains unscathed.

"As we feared, the Ironborn have begun reeving the coasts, but it seems Greyjoy has elected to focus on the Reach for now. According to the watchtowers at Banefort and Kayce, a fleet of considerable strength was spotted sailing for the Shield Islands. We also had word of a failed attempt to enter the Neck, no doubt hoping to take Moat Cailin by surprise," Tywin explained. Opening a front to the east as a distraction was clever – the fleet would no doubt assault Oldtown or Starfall next - but to distract Tywin from where? What was Stannis' plan? He'd been delayed near two weeks at the Rock dealing with nuisance after nuisance, and he was still no closer to an answer.

Tywin didn't like not knowing things. At least Jaehaerys Targaryen was in position. All that remained was Renly's impending execution. Tywin had set his people whispering such words near both the Targaryen and his granddaughter, but, just in case, he had people in place to ensure Renly died in prison if either of them proved spineless. Renly was a loose end; Tywin could not allow him to live.

"What is the situation here?"

"Tense," Kevan stated, and Genna snorted.

"That's an understatement."

Kevan and Tywin shot her a side-eyed glare, and she backed down, raising her hands in acquiescence.

"Blackwood and Mallister have incited a rebellion and have as many troops as they can muster holding the Green Fork against the Knights of the Vale, but they're losing."

"Why?"

Genna pointed towards a worn parchment map of the lower Riverlands, all the way to Harrenhal. Numerous wooden markers were scattered across the surface depicting the state of the conflict.

"Our scouts tell us Mooton's main encampment surrounds Lord Harroway's Town, which he's claimed as his own and is using to blockade the Trident."

"What of House Roote?"

"Executed, the first group committed to the Red Witch's fires." Kevan and Genna both shivered, and Tywin frowned in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Genna swallowed, then spoke in a low and frightened tone Tywin didn't like one bit. Genna wasn't scared of anything.

"Reports are conflicting, but there are enough to be sure of some things. Jon Arryn hasn't come down from the Eyrie, and no one has caught sight of Stannis himself. Instead, Mooton is marshalling Maidenpool, Driftmark and Dragonstone men to control the Trident, while Lyn Corbray leads the Knights of the Vale but…." She paused for a breath. "Every scout we've sent speaks instead of a woman dressed all in red silk who commands them both without any resistance. And every time either force captures a town or position, they wait for the woman's arrival before moving on. When she arrives, she walks amongst the defeated, declaring some sinners and others faithful, then burns her 'sinners' alive. Entire towns have been put to the torch at her direction, inhabitants still inside."

Tywin gripped the table. Great. An insane fanatic. Just what I needed. Yet the Stannis Baratheon Tywin knew wasn't one to be taken in by fancy or delusion. For all his faults – and there were many – he was an earnest and practical man. Why take up with someone like the woman Genna described? And furthermore, to wield such a significant influence unchallenged? Something else had to be at play. Bribery? He needed more information. And if Stannis wasn't here, then where was he? His spies in the Tyrell host reported no sign of the man in the south, and there'd been no glimpse of him with the Royal Fleet, thought that was no guarantee.

"Very well," Tywin said eventually. "That certainly merits an investigation. What of our own position? Why hasn't the host advanced along the Red Fork as we discussed?"

Kevan sighed.

"Blackwood and Bracken. They hold the north and south banks of the river; to pass, we would have to smash through one or the other. It would be doable, particularly with Blackwood's attention focussed to the east. We could march along the north bank and brush aside Blackwood's defence, but it would leave us open to ambush from the south. The alternate path, through Bracken territory along the southern bank, is far better defended, and though Blackwood would probably let us through, it would cost manpower and time."

Tywin grit his teeth. A problem. Damn Blackwoods and Brackens. Even when they were being invaded, they still managed to bitch amongst themselves.

"Who leads the Brackens if Jonos is dead?" Tywin asked. Genna shook herself, smile returning, and plucked a raven scroll from the table.

"Funny you should ask. This came for you a few days ago."

He took the scroll and unrolled it.

'Lord Tywin,

With my father's murder at the hands of Willem Mooton and his pack of traitors, as his eldest child, I have taken authority of House Bracken, its lands, and levies. I intend to strike back against these traitors and support your granddaughter as King Robert's rightful heir, but my holdings are beset on all sides by enemies, my hands tied. If you can guarantee that Blackwood and his 'rebels' will not attack Bracken lands, I will allow the Lannister army to pass south of the Red Fork and join my forces to your own.

I await your reply,

Barbara Bracken, Lady of Stone Hedge, Head of House Bracken.'

A woman. Interesting.

"What do you know of her?"

"Lefford's son, Richard, won't shut up about her," Kevan stated. "Says she's incredibly intelligent and a student of language and tactics."

"Oh please," Genna interjected, chuckling to herself. Tywin raised an eyebrow at the comment, and she elaborated. "I've no doubt the woman is rather clever – or at least the men surrounding her are – but Richard just wants into the girl's cunt. Don't trust a word he says."

Yet another intelligent and competent woman. It seemed there were quite a few of those running around these days. You would have enjoyed that, Joanna.

"Can she be trusted?" Tywin asked, cutting the two off before they started snipping at one another. Some things just came naturally to siblings, no matter how much you tried to stamp it out.

"I believe so," Kevan said. "If only because she is an unwed woman in control of a strong host. She knows her best chance to maintain her lands and titles right now is through a match with a powerful Westerlands house. It is in her best interest to help us, but Brackens and Blackwoods will never trust one another. We must have either both on our side or neither. Not one or the other."

Tywin agreed.

"What of Blackwood then?"

"He sent us a message two weeks ago, just after we arrived. It was… condescending and uncouth. He basically demanded we help him secure his lands, or he'd have his 'rebels' attack our troops on the march. Since then? Nothing. Yet his troops continue to falter, and more and more Knights of the Vale march down from the Bloody Gate. Without Lannister men, I predict he'll be forced back to the Blue Fork within another two weeks."

"Good."

Tywin paused, debating the merits of this new plan he was forming.

"What of your husband's house, Genna? What of the Freys?"

"Bah! Old Walder is doing precisely what anyone with a brain would expect him to do. Sit on his ass and wait to see who wins," she answered, tone flippant and dismissive.

They fell silent, waiting for Tywin to make his decision.

Move, counter move, strike, counter strike. He didn't like not knowing definitively where Stannis was. If nobody could find the man, then he clearly had some trick up his sleeve, an agenda hidden from Tywin and the other combatants in this war. Jon Arryn, at least, would see the writing on the wall sooner or later. There was little chance of winning against a coalition as strong as Tyrell-Lannister-Martell. To defeat such a force, cunning and an excellent strategy would be required. But what strategy? If Jon Targaryen and his future wife Myrcella were to sit the Iron Throne, Tywin needed to deal with Stannis. That meant securing the Riverlands and killing Robert's brother. Only then would Lannister supremacy be achieved, and the table set for Daenerys Targaryen's arrival.

Because Tywin knew that the only way Westeros would survive the return of the dragons and the armada that followed them would be to have a Targaryen on the throne already, with a Lannister wife. He'd sent out his instructions before leaving Casterly Rock. Margaery Tyrell and Trystane Martell would be dealt with. Quentyn Martell was being watched like a hawk. Should he step even a toe out of line, he would be re-educated. Tywin had even dispatched an emissary for Winterfell with a generous offer should the bachelor Lord Stark return from his excursion head intact. Everything was proceeding just as Tywin wanted it to.

But where was Stannis Baratheon?

"Kevan, I want you and your best scribes to sit down and prepare a treaty document. In exchange for their cooperation in the war and on the condition they do not raise arms against one another, the lands of the former House Tully are to be divided into thirds. All Tully lands north of the Red Fork and the Tumbledown are to go to House Blackwood, all lands south of the Red Fork will belong to House Bracken. The seat of Riverrun and its immediate lands will be returned to the crown for the Queen to distribute as she will." More accurately, as Tywin told her to, but that was neither here nor there, as the lands could very easily be given to her second son or daughter – either way, they would be marrying a Lannister, so it didn't overly matter.

There, that should appease the fools and their silly feud.

"In the meantime, Genna, send word to Blackwood, Mallister and Lady Bracken. Tell them to meet me at the Inn of the Kneeling Man in person to decide the fate of the Riverlands and put an end to this war. Then, have orders given to Ser Gregor. He is to take his company around Bracken lands, then march on Harrenhal and secure the castle. We will use it as a base once we reach the east."

If Tywin could pit the Riverlords against Mooton with minimal Lannister involvement, he could keep his own troops in the wing, ready for the ambush he was sure would come.

The Voice of Margaery Tyrell

Honestly, Margaery was rather grateful for the enforced solitude she endured during her confinement. She had no duties to attend to, which was highly conducive to thought and contemplation, there was no need to get dressed in the mornings, so she took to simply wearing her shift or going naked in her rooms, and she had all the time in the world to finish her book. The septa who brought Margaery's meals – a woman who would not give her name or look Margaery in the eye – had not been ordered to prevent Margaery's acquisition of papers and parchments. So, whenever the septa came to check on her or care for Margaery's 'condition', she ordered the septa to bring more paper and ink. She had amassed quite the stack of notes in the month since Stannis had taken the city, having completed seven more chapters of her text. There were maybe… five more to go? Yes, five seemed about right. Any more, and the text would become far too expensive to reproduce or purchase.

The book was also a good distraction, as looking out her window only led to tears and the crushing desire to do something, anything, to help the people beyond. And it brought on thoughts of Grandmother. She would have done something, had some sort of contingency or plan to escape and retake the city. Margaery had nothing, no ideas or schemes, and did not want to think of her grandmother at all. Writing was a far more productive use of her time, so writing she did. From sunup to sundown.

It was in those moments after she woke or before she fell asleep that Margaery couldn't avoid her thoughts and fears. She wondered where Jon was. He might be dead, for all she knew. If he wasn't, why hadn't he come for her yet?

Logically, she knew this was because Jon simply didn't know anything had happened. Even if her grandmother… even if ravens had escaped Highgarden before Stannis closed the city and its surrounds, it would be Willas who received the message. And Willas would do what he must to protect House Tyrell. That meant leaving Margaery to whatever fate Stannis planned for her. In other words, he would tell no one of Highgarden's situation. It would sap morale from the troops and shatter the army in a matter of hours – more than enough time for whatever opposition force they faced in the Stormlands to mobilise and rip the Tyrell host apart. He would keep the news to himself – Jon wouldn't even know Margaery was in danger.

But her heart…

Her heart wanted him back. Wanted him to hold her as she cried. She wanted her grandmother to barge into the room and scold her for her tardiness. Her mother's voice, whispering that everything was going to be alright.

Her father, with that big, cheerful smile of his and that infectious laugh.

Writing. Writing was what Margaery was good at. Spinning ideas and weaving threads of theory. Nobody was as skilled in the acquisition, collection and manipulation of knowledge as she was. Maybe… maybe Margaery was destined to die in her own home. Maybe Stannis would grow bored of letting her rot in her rooms and have her executed. He was still here, masons and architects ripping the castle apart in their search for the treasury. With that, he controlled the Reach, the Tyrell army, and the war – a clean shot towards the Iron Throne. Without it, he held an enormous and expensive city with little strategic importance, the risk of discovery growing by the day.

The grating of metal on wood brought Margaery's head up from the parchment before her, the feathered end of her quill stuck between her teeth.

Oh, was it supper time already? No matter, she wanted to finish this section.

"Just leave it on the side," she said as the locks on the door uncoupled one by one. "I'm busy at the moment."

"Busy? Perhaps, if I had your ink taken away as well, you would have more time to contemplate your situation?"

Margaery looked up, raising an eyebrow towards the door. 'King' Stannis stood in the frame, that crown of twisted iron sitting atop his head. He stepped into the room, his Hand following obediently behind, Margaery's bowl of soup in hand.

"Yes, busy. I'm afraid I have no time for your speeches this afternoon, Lord Baratheon. I am debating whether to include my thoughts on how a ruler's policies reflect their character in this chapter or in the next."

Stannis was a simple man to understand. Strong-willed, raised with a strict moral code, hardened by watching his brother squander his kingdom and the legacy of his family. Now he found himself fighting over the disparate factions of his brother's disparate and aggravated empire, and not only was he once again facing the very people who'd almost driven him to starvation once before, but his own brother had taken half of the army that should be his. Oh, and there was an exiled princess with three weapons of mass destruction who could appear at any minute.

Therefore, like a classic middle child, Stannis Baratheon was trying to show the world that he wasn't to be ignored. He wore garments designed to contrast with his brother's frivolity, practical while still displaying his grandeur. Yet the sigil on his chest – that stag wreathed both in fire and stars – was a clear indication to Margaery that he wasn't quite sure who he was or what he believed, and he sought to prove his right to rule in the same way his brother had, waging war far more effectively than anyone had thought possible.

His Hand was not so easily deciphered. A stocky man with rough features, thin hair and a beard peppered with grey, he had the bearing of someone from the Warrens. He wore no outward display of family colours, favouring instead an ordinary seaman's mantle over a brown tunic, leather gloves covering his hands. By all measures – his posture, the way his eyes refused to settle on one place within the room, the cracked lips, missing teeth, a creased forehead and prominent laugh lines – he should be a commoner. More at home in a shop than standing beside a man who claimed to be king.

But even that yielded information Margaery could pick apart.

For a highborn to appoint a commoner to such a high position, he must be very loyal and worthy of a great deal of trust. It was friendship that held the two together, not politics, family, or alliances. However, he didn't wear the colours of his lord, so not a member of his household – like a tutor or man at arms who'd achieved acclaim or known Stannis as a child. Furthermore, he carried no weapon save a boot knife – no sword, mace or bow – and even that looked more like a tool than a blade designed for war.

That left only one potentiality. This man had saved Stannis' life in some fashion, then proved himself enough that he'd risen to his current position.

And there was a man Margaery's phenomenal memory recalled who fit that description perfectly. Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight. A smuggler from Fleebottom who'd brought goods into Storm's End during Robert's Rebellion. Margaery's father had complained about him regularly. Naturally, his story had enraptured a young Margaery fresh from her first visit to the Warrens.

Stannis was boring. Ser Davos, on the other hand, was a confounding mystery, and Margaery itched to understand him. Why would he help the man during the siege of Storm's End? He had nothing to gain from it, and even after Stannis took his fingers, he still stood behind him. Why?

"There is a phrase oft-quoted in Westerosi literature. 'Love is the death of duty, and duty the death of love.' I find this idea repulsive and simple-minded, for a simple look through history shows that many of the greatest kings and lords of Westeros have been supported by queens and ladies whom they professed to love. In fact, those Kings who stayed faithful to their wives and listened to their counsel instead of consorting with maids or whores are the ones we laud for the grandest achievements. Furthermore, love is more than simply the relationship between spouses. There is the love between brothers, the adoration a son holds for his father, the unfathomable connection between mothers and their daughters, or the comradeship born between men in war. The strongest leaders are the ones who do not have to shoulder their burdens alone, the ones who can trust the people around them with their fates and their lives.

Love is not the death of duty. It is the mortar that holds duty together, for what is a life without love? Why should a man, even one who is dutiful and lawful, be trusted to rule if he cannot love? How will that king understand the value of mercy or the power of friendship? This train of thought leads to an inevitable conclusion. If a man professes that his duty supersedes what love he has for his family, he cannot be trusted to love the nation.

Rebellions and uprisings are often founded on a fabled 'duty to the nation', the perceived understanding that the rebels have a 'responsibility' to change the status quo for the betterment of the rebels' cause. The rebel's duty is to see the regime changed. Once that is done, what happens after? A man who claims to rule through duty is inherently toxic, for once his task is complete, what will he do next?

But the ruler who loves their nation is motivated by the need to better the nation itself – the entire nation, not just themselves or the people who support them. To love the nation is to feel a genuine connection with all the people – even those who stand in opposition to your ideals. Here lies the fundamental difference between the ruler of love and the ruler of duty. The ruler of duty will sacrifice everything to achieve their dream. The ruler of love will sacrifice themself to achieve the dream, trusting others to continue after they are gone. For the ruler of love, the nation is the most important thing."

Those were Margaery's own words, sent to the scribe compiling her book before the city was taken. Stannis held a stack of sheets in his hands and had read them line by line.

"You're quite learned for a young lady," Stannis said, quirking an eyebrow at her. What game was he playing?

"I am."

Stannis flipped several of the sheets, placing his finger on a specific paragraph.

"I take issue with your characterisation of duty," he said finally, not looking up at her. The baby in Margaery's womb chose that moment to kick, and it took every fibre of her willpower to sit perfectly still. No acknowledgement at all.

"Oh?"

"Indeed. Though I agree with your description and explanation of the nation as independent of the country in the earlier chapters, you have faltered here by not considering how duty is necessary as a shield against the corruption that love presents."

… Well, alright then.

"Furthermore," Stannis continued, tracing the lines with his finger. "Love is the wrong choice of word if you intend for anyone of import to take you seriously. Devotion is a more accurate phrasing."

"No," Margaery countered, biting the inside of her lips to keep from smiling. "Devotion implies that the connection between the nation and the individual is inherently fickle and unsustainable. Devotion is a form of love or infatuation that is one-sided or unreciprocated; therefore, corruptible and exploitable. A ruler can be devoted to his nation, just as he can be dutiful, but that devotion can be twisted into obsession or fear. An unhealthy need to see the nation reflect your will perfectly. It infringes on the freedom of choice."

"Is love not the same thing?" Stannis asked. "Simple to damage or corrupt with ordinary words or malevolent action, and weak – wives, children or brothers can die. What replaces love when it is snatched away from you. Anger, vengeance, hate. Duty is steadfast and unchanging. It is a responsibility to the people you rule, to make their lives better and more prosperous."

"That isn't freedom. You're imposing your will on the people – what you think is better for them, not what truly is."

"Freedom is an illusion created by the strong to keep the weak at the heel," Stannis said.

"Freedom isn't the illusion; it's what lies behind. Pull back the curtain, and there's always a choice, Lord Baratheon. Always."

Stannis frowned – the greatest change of expression she'd yet to see on his face.

"And when you've pulled back that curtain and exposed the games of the Great Houses and the High Lords to the people? Given the choice of what to do with their lives, how do you trust them to make the right one?"

"You teach them. Guide them. Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime. If you could teach the people their own history, how their government works, how to make their own money, they could make their own decisions instead of being reliant on the Great Houses to make decisions for themselves and pass them off as ones for their people."

Stannis looked up from the page, staring deep into Margaery's eyes. Ser Davos shifted nervously behind him.

"And you think a ruler who loves his people can honestly achieve that?"

A question she'd considered herself for a long, long time.

"Love works both ways, Lord Baratheon. The ruler who loves his people, who does what's best for them instead of what's best for himself, no matter the cost, is loved by the people in turn. A king can be as dutiful as he wants – law-abiding, peace-loving, and a genuinely good man. But a ruler who loves his people never stops working to improve their lives, even if it costs their power and crown. Would you be willing to give up your crown to save the people of Westeros if you knew that there was someone out there who could do a better job than you? When Daenerys Targaryen flies across the Narrow Sea with her dragons, will you stand in her way with your armies and let the people suffer? Or will you lay down your crown and broker a peace to save them?"

Stannis didn't answer, didn't so much as flinch. But Ser Davos was looking towards Margaery with something strange in his eyes. Something a little like awe.

People didn't often change their minds. Not unless they were thrown into the seven hells, saw themselves in the flames and didn't like what stared back at them. Like Margaery had when she survived the Warrens. But Stannis' hell, the Siege of Storm's End, had not changed him. Instead, it had hardened him to diamond.

She respected that, far more than he would ever know.

Ser Davos on the other hand… If Margaery had to guess, he was one of those people who saw what lay behind the curtain and chose to go back to the illusion of freedom. Hiding in the security of a new life or an old one, yet constantly looking over his shoulder, unable to forget the truth that true freedom lay just out of reach. She wondered if he had learned to read when he became a knight or if he'd turned down the offer. She would wager the latter.

"You're wrong," Stannis declared. "No matter how much your hypothetical ruler claims to love the people, they'll never love him back in the same way. Even if he teaches them about history, reading and writing, it will just breed resentment. Then, when the greedy and the corrupt reach the point where they can glimpse power over the horizon, they will betray the king who gave them their strength. That is the wheel of power: one man must be at the top, another at the bottom. There is no middle ground. I intend to stop the wheel and make the Westeros as strong as it can be. Strong enough even to beat Daenerys Targaryen back into the sea. When Aegon Targaryen came to Westeros, we weren't united. This time, we will be."

With that, he turned to leave, Davos following behind, but Margaery would not let him have the final word.

"Maybe you're right, my Lord. After all, I'm just a silly little girl playing fantasy and politics. But I can't help but wonder, if you stop the wheel – end the Great Game once and for all – who sits at the bottom so you can stand at the top?"

Stannis vanished into the darkened hallway beyond, and after placing Margaery's soup on the empty dresser, Davos fled after him.

If Stannis thought Westeros was united, he was in for a rude awakening. Westeros hadn't been united in centuries. Not since the last Targaryen Dragonlords had danced to their deaths. When Daenerys Targaryen arrived with Margaery's good sister behind her, she would find Jon waiting for her, a champion at the head of an army. That was what would unite the country.

The only thing that could.

Margaery ate her soup at the desk, pressing more ink into her roles of parchment. She worked herself to exhaustion and beyond, until, by the time the sun rose the following day, she could barely see the paper before her eyes.

There was another reason Margaery wouldn't stop writing, one she didn't dare admit, even to herself.

She needed to leave something behind. Something for Jon, for Rhaenys, for Myrcella and for Daenerys even. A guide, a plan, a legacy, perhaps. Margaery was fighting for something much bigger than just herself. Once, long ago, she had dreamed of being Queen. Then, after she'd discovered the truth of Jon, she'd watched as that ideal – pressed into her by her grandmother and her father – had faded away. Replaced by the simple knowledge that she was already a queen. Jon's Queen. In her heart of hearts, Margaery no longer truly cared about sitting on the Iron Throne one day. The throne was a means to an end; once Jon sat atop it, he could realise the vision of a better Westeros. He didn't need Margaery there to do that. She trusted him because she loved him, and she knew he wouldn't make his decisions alone.

Two weeks locked in a cell – her own home, a prison. A baby, now due in less than two moons. A baby that, should it be born with silver hair, could see all her grandmother's carefully laid plots come undone in an instant.

Margaery kept writing because, deep down, she was preparing for the bitter truth. By the time any rescue came, she and her babe would probably be long dead.