Book II – Chapter 20: The World Turned Upside Down

The Iron Throne

This time it wasn't Joffrey's blood smeared on the ground when Jaime and Tyene returned to the throne room of the Red Keep. Oh no, this time… this time the bloodstains were Jaime's. Leftover from their frantic retreat days before.

They entered through the abandoned oak doors, steps delicate and silent to avoid disturbing the nesting bats hiding amongst the rafters. A dull fog of gloom clung to the room, unnatural silence pushing down against Jaime's shoulders as he advanced in a combat stance, a pilfered iron shortsword outstretched before him. Tyene followed behind, eyes darting around the enormous hall, scanning every shadow, every crevasse for some sign of an enemy. A blazing torch held in one hand, wicked curved dagger in her right. Jaime hadn't asked where she'd gotten it.

The table of food sat precisely as they'd left it, though any food Jaime had knocked to the ground during his fright had apparently been cleaned away. The stench, though… the stench was worse. If that was actually possible.

But the big difference as they hesitantly made their way towards the monolith that was the Iron Throne were the torch sconces around the perimeter of the room.

Someone had lit them.

Dancing shadows of black and gold flitted about the room, yet the flames did nothing to warm the cold, dank space. If anything, they seemed to be consuming what little breathable air remained. What had once been a spectacle and statement of the power of the king was now sick and twisted. Even the decorations, tapestries and stained-glass windows seemed dull, lifeless, and ill. Shit stained the floor, and Jaime was sure he caught sight of rats darting from their holes.

None of this held Jaime's attention for more than a moment. Instead… instead his gaze was focussed on the Iron Throne. Or, rather, who sat upon it.

Cersei… gods…

She sat upon the throne of twisted iron, wearing one of her favourite gowns – the red satin with the low neckline and the lace at the hem. She'd wrapped a sleeve around the arm Tyene had cut off, but the crimson colouring of the dress made it impossible to see if she were bleeding or not. Despite her bald head and cracked skin, she'd still applied her powders and tints, even going so far as to highlight her eyes with a golden Lannister shine.

And she cradled the decaying body of… of their son in her lap.

"The Kingsguard always returns… always comes back to his king… it's the oath. Oaths are always more important… more important than me…." Cersei muttered as they approached. It was all Jaime could do to keep a flood of bile from spilling up his throat. Skin clammy, hair sticking to his forehead and neck, goosebumps riddled his flesh.

"Cersei?"

"Jaime? Jaime, come back to me!" Cersei wailed, clutching Joffrey's corpse tight to her bosom, long jagged fingernails – easily the length of a grown man's hand – scraping across decaying skin that flaked away at her touch.

Jaime's voice trembled as he spoke, and Tyene gingerly placed her torch on the ground, freeing up her second hand. She looked as terrified as Jaime felt… in fact, he probably looked a great deal worse.

"It's… it's me, Cersei. I… I came back… just like I promised."

"Jaime," Cersei sighed, and Jaime almost collapsed at how utterly familiar that sound was. As if nothing had happened at all. "He always comes back. Always always always always…."

"Your Grace… what happened? Who did this to you?" Tyene tried, steeling her velvet voice into some semblance of calm Jaime certainly couldn't replicate. Cersei didn't appear to hear her.

"Always comes home. Home to me. Until… until they got their claws into him."

Her voice hardened, face contorting into a scowl, and Jaime finally got a good look at her eyes. The lustrous green was gone. Instead, a fevered colour like swamp water had replaced it, dark flecks across her irises. He glanced at her arm. The cloth looked damp.

"He sent my Jaime away!" She shrieked, rocking back and forth again and again, "He sent him to those barbarians, and they ruined him!"

Sent him away? "Cersei, I never… Nobody ruined… me…." He trailed off, mind lurching back to their conversation the day he returned from Winterfell with Tommen. The first time he'd seen her in four years. Four years they'd been separated when Robert sent him North with Tommen. "Serves you bloody right," the king had said. "Just standing there and doing nothing when Aerys murdered Brandon and Rickard. Maybe up North, you'll run out of gold to shit. I doubt it, but if anyone could do it, it'd be Ned."

Jaime had expected to hate Winterfell, hate being parted from Cersei. She had certainly screamed and howled about it for days and days before declaring her intention to travel to Casterly Rock and scream at their father and demand he fix things. And Jaime had hated it. He'd gone to the snow-covered perpetually gloomy country more than ready to detest everything he found, and it had been so easy to do so. Every single Northerner expected him to act in a particular way. They wanted the Kingslayer? Well, that's what he gave them. But as the time passed, he'd started to almost enjoy the relative quiet of the North. He got to spend time with Tommen and not feel guilty about it. He'd even had fun training Robb – Stark's son.

Jaime had discovered something about himself in the North. He'd always believed that he craved Cersei more than anything, that he'd do anything for her. But that wasn't it. What he really craved was simplicity. Peace. Cersei had given him that.

So had the North.

He'd tried explaining that to her when he came back – after the make-up sex, of course, and by the gods had it been good make-up sex – but she'd refused to hear it. To her, everything was a complex web of intrigue and manipulations and strategies. Simplicity… she could never understand it.

He had been ruined.

"Cersei…" Jaime tried again, voice catching in his throat. "What happened to Tommen? Where is he?"

"Corrupted too; had to rip it out. Joffrey, my Joffrey, he had to be safe. He had to be mine… Robert… was going to send him away. My Joffrey, sold to that flower whore who fucked a bastard. Had to stop it. Had to save him. My son had to be the king. You're such a beautiful King, my Joffrey." Cersei practically purred her last words, turning the corpse's head to look at her, staring down as if he… it… were still alive.

It was true.

Jaime stumbled backwards, body bursting into violent shakes. The sword clattered from his hand, and the bats set to shrieking above.

No… she hadn't… she'd… she'd killed Tommen? Tyene was right. Cersei was behind Robert's poisoning.

Tyene looked to Jaime, an expression full of pity etched across her face. There were tears welling in her eyes.

Jaime didn't want them. He wanted… no needed, to be ill. Horrifically ill. The stench, it was infesting his skin, his lungs, his head. Why was everything spinning?

"Jaime?"

"Mayhaps your sister's body still walks in the nightmare beyond, but the person you seek is dead and gone."

"You know, you complain, and you walk around with that chip on your shoulder all the time, but you aren't so bad as you pretend to be, Ser Jaime."

"Find out… who did this. Avenge… everyone. Don't do it for the… the king. Do it for your brothers, and… all the dead outside."

He gripped one of the columns taking deep, hoarse breaths as the bats cried above, and Cersei continued to moan about traitors. Tyene grabbed his shoulder, and Jaime's eyes met her blue ones, fear filling the orbs like spring water in a well.

"Snap out of it!"

"Is she my replacement then!" Cersei shrieked then, and it was enough to force Jaime back to where he was – pervasive stench or no. She had stood upon the throne, Joffrey's corpse sagging against the armrest as she stared down at them, body quivering in fury.

"Young, pretty, smart too, probably. Or maybe she's a fool like you? You couldn't handle a powerful, intelligent woman, so you settled for some whore?"

She advanced down the steps of the throne, stumbling and hissing each time she tried to step on her shattered leg. The flecks he'd seen in her eyes… the closer she came, the more obvious it was. They weren't just in her eyes. They traced lines underneath her flesh, mapping the blackened burn marks and cracking skin.

Mistress Almeara had been right.

The woman Jaime had loved died in the firestorm, along with everyone else.

This was just some vicious, warped spectre wearing her corpse.

He had to believe that, or he'd collapse right here, right now.

Cersei rounded the table, nails of her one remaining hand stretched out before her, broken face contorted into an animalistic snarl. Tyene pushed Jaime behind her, dagger held horizontal between them.

"Stay back," Tyene warned, edging backwards and pushing Jaime with her. The iron sword lay discarded on the floor.

"You can't replace me, Jaime! I made you who you are… I AM YOU!" She prepared to pounce, and Jaime was about to pull Tyene from her path when the ground beneath them began to shake.

A trembling quake thrummed through the flagstones, shaking all three of them. The bats launched into a frenzy; Cersei collapsed to the ground – her leg giving way. The tell-tale echo of crumbling stone reached their ears, and Jaime cast his eyes around, searching for some source of the tremors.

"What's happening?!" Tyene exclaimed.

Cersei leapt at them.

Tyene thrust out with a perfectly timed kick, catching Cersei in the gut and throwing her aside, but the round rumbled underneath, a thunderous crack ripping through the sky above. Tyene overbalanced, tripping backwards. Jaime caught her, holding them both upright… in time for a chunk of the ceiling to come crashing down mere metres away from them. They jumped away, barely keeping their feet, and finally caught sight of the swirling tempest high above. Flashes of lighting and sleets of rain tore through the air. The bats emerged in force, a great black cloud of vile creatures swarming in the rafters, their cries bouncing through the room drowning out even the thunder. What the fuck was going on?!

Something slammed into their side, and the couple collapsed. Tyene lost her grip on the dagger, body colliding with a pillar while Jaime hit the flagstones with his shoulder. Cersei threw herself atop Tyene in a frenzy, trying to tear at her chest.

"HE'S MINE MINE MINE MINE MINE!"

Jaime grabbed the dagger.

Tyene punched Cersei in the face and attempted to roll away, but Cersei was relentless, scurrying after her as she kicked and screamed, mouth set in a firm line of determination, courage and will.

"Avenge everyone."

Limbs sluggish, whether from the weight of the storm above of the nightmare before him, he wasn't sure, but Jaime rose from where he'd fallen, dagger in hand.

I…

I love you, Cersei.

I'll always love you.

Cersei scraped her nails across Tyene's stomach, and she screamed in agony, eyes bulging at the pain. And then Jaime was there. The dagger cleaved Cersei's dress with ease and sank deep into her breast. Her body seized, but Jaime held on, pushing the weapon further until Cersei's breath stopped, and her eyes clouded over.

She fell limp in his arms, and Jaime watched, entranced, as her rage faded away, leaving just the face of the woman he'd loved his entire life. The mother of his children.

He supposed they were both Kingslayers now.

"J… Jaime…"

He spun around, and everything seemed to dim. Tyene was clutching her stomach, blood quickly soaking through her shirt.

Jaime discarded Cersei and grabbed his friend as she collapsed, holding her as tight as he could. The ground continued to shake, but he pulled her into his arms anyway and made for the exit, desperation fuelling his movements.

Lightning struck the roof, another part of the masonry collapsed, and Jaime was thrown from his feet once more. He rolled so his back hit the ground and she did not, but Tyene screamed anyway, clutching his jerkin with trembling hands.

He tried to rise, tried to move towards the door as the wind howled and the thunder roared. They were so close… Another tremor ripped through the Red Keep, tapestries crashing to the ground, pillars collapsing under too much weight, and just as they reached the exit, the walls began to crumble around them.

"Jaime…"

He pulled her head tight to his chest and glanced back towards Cersei and the Iron Throne. The floor around the throne had crumbled inwards… Cersei was gone, Joffrey was gone… But the Iron Throne remained, monstrous and formidable, as if daring the storm to try undo Aegon's might where hundreds of lords had failed.

A great flash of white tore through the clouds; Jaime closed his eyes and released a single breath.

For once in his life, Jaime Lannister had kept an oath. He'd avenged his king and his people.

He couldn't bring himself to care.

Instead, he just clutched the girl in his arms, fell to his knees, and let the world fall apart around him.

The House that Built Me

Seven moon turns earlier…

"I've never done anything like this before," Myrcella whispered as she followed Margaery and Jon into a pub, a heavy woollen cloak pulled over her head. The golden-haired girl – who was, now that she thought about it, probably Margaery's best friend after Mira – was staring around the small building with its smoky roof and constant noise with wide eyes, jaw hanging slightly open. Her cheeks and nose had turned a rosy red from the heat, and Margaery resisted the urge to giggle at her expense.

"That's why you're here," Jon replied, throwing back his own hood and leading her to a table near the fireplace while Margaery approached the bar.

"Evening, Barliman," Margaery called to the barman, waving as she pulled out her coin purse and placed a few dragons on the bench.

"Ah! If it isn't the Lady Goldflower, what might I get for you and the Whitewolf?"

The barman was a kindly man; old, with heavy laugh lines and a forever cheery disposition. He was the reason Margaery kept coming back here – despite its distance from the keep and its location in one of the shadier parts of the city. He was also more than amenable to keeping the few ravens that Margaery had purchased from the Citadel, so long as she paid him, of course.

"Three bowls of beef-stew if you please, Barliman, with some bread and cheese on the side. Oh, and three mugs of ale." Barliman furrowed thinning eyebrows, glancing towards Jon and Myrcella at the table, who were both laughing at something one of them had said.

"Oh, thank the Seven," Barliman muttered under his breath.

"For what?" Margaery asked, smile marred by confusion.

The man sighed in relief. "Well, it's just you never ask for three servings, so I thought for a second that the young lass, little Arya, was with you, and I didn't want to have to try and wiggle out of giving her an ale!"

Margaery burst into laughter at the thought of Arya sculling an ale, getting froth on her lip, then wiping it off on her sleeve and demanding another. She really would do something like that.

"No Arya, I'm afraid. Just a friend who could do with a taste of what it's like out here in the real world."

Barliman snorted as he swept up the gold. "Well, I reckon alota folks could do with a taste of that, Lady Goldflower, but I bet I'd find it hard not to wallop most of them, so I'll leave that sort of thing to you."

Margaery winked at him before gliding over to her table. Myrcella had dressed in one of Margaery's spare outfits – a simple cotton dress that wasn't threadbare but certainly wasn't new in any capacity. She'd also forgone the usual touches to her hair, tying it up in a bun at Margaery's insistence. She had refused to go without her make-up, however, so Myrcella basically looked like the most gorgeous commoner in the history of Westeros right now.

"…then I was like, 'well I'm sorry Lord Oberyn, but I simply have no idea what you're talking about,' while Sarella was bolting in the other direction," Myrcella was explaining, hands flying around in all directions as she told her tale. Jon was utterly engrossed, elbows on the table and not taking his face from hers. Yet his eyes never stopped darting around the room, making sure he kept his eyes moving between Myrcella, Margaery and the exit.

"You got away with it?!"

"Oh, hells no. Oberyn saw through me in a second. Knew in a moment that I was lying and was about to spin around and see Arianne making off with his favourite whore, so I did the only thing I could think of."

"What?" Margaery asked, sitting down on her chair as one of the barmaids, Mindy, appeared with the ales.

"I shoved him into the fountain and ran like hell, that's what!"

Margaery and Jon both burst into peals of laughter, and they grabbed the handles of their mugs, raising them up in the air and clanking the wood together.

"To knocking people down a peg!" Margaery said through her giggles.

"To conveniently placed fountains!" Myrcella agreed, face slit in a massive grin.

"And to willing co-conspirators!" Jon chorused, and they all drank.

And Myrcella spat hers back out, spraying beer across the table in a tin mist.

"EWW! That stuff is vile. How do you drink it?!"

"With persistence," Jon answered, chuckling into his mug. Margaery, on the other hand, was now wiping her face with a kerchief.

"Thanks, Cella. Real classy."

"Hey! I thought we were supposed to be acting like 'normal' folk."

Margaery narrowed her eyes at her friend. "That doesn't mean spit on me! That's just disgusting."

But Myrcella was no longer listening, her attention caught by a man with long white moustaches and eyebrows dressed in a cloak of multi-coloured patches who'd jumped atop a nearby table – a lute in hand. He launched into a rendition of the 'Bear and the Maiden-Fair,' and Myrcella started singing in tune with him.

It was in that moment that Margaery and Jon both learned Myrcella had a magnificent singing voice, and they weren't the only ones. The bard spotted the singing Myrcella instantly, hopping across tables and stepping in two men's food before reaching his target. He reached his hand down to Myrcella, who took it gracefully, winking at Margaery. He pulled her atop the table, then hopped onto the one beside her, and they began to sing and dance in time, Margaery and Jon laughing and clapping alongside the rest of the room.

"He smelled the scent on the summer air!
He sniffed and roared and smelled it there!
Honey on the summer air!

Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!
A bear! A bear!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!"

The bard continued his jaunt, leaping from table to table, the entire pub either dancing, singing or clapping along, and Myrcella? Well, there wasn't an eye not locked on her as she danced, flaring her skirts in just the right way to show a little leg, but never more than was proper. And she looked as though she were having the best night of her life.

"I called for a knight, but you're a bear!
A bear, a bear!
All black and brown and covered with hair

She kicked and wailed, the maid so fair,
But he licked the honey from her hair.
Her hair! Her hair!
He licked the honey from her hair!

Then she sighed and squealed and kicked the air!
My bear! She sang. My bear so fair!
And off they went, from here to there,
The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair!"

Myrcella spun in a circle, then dropped back to the ground and curtseyed to the crowd. Everyone launched into raucous applause, and Thom bowed low to her. Myrcella blew him a kiss before sitting back down, sucking in a long breath of air. There was this magnificent sparkle in her eyes then, a look of pure glee and happiness, and Margaery froze that image in a fragment of time with her memory and promised herself that she would never, ever forget it.

"That was amazing!" Margaery exclaimed, beaming in pride and awe.

"Oh, that was nothing," Myrcella said, face flushed utterly red, painted lips quirked into a magnificent grin. Mindy appeared with their meals and a platter with no less than six glasses of wine.

"From the gentlemen of the room," she said with a wink before ducking away. Myrcella blushed even brighter.

"That was definitely not nothing, Cella. You have a real talent, and that dancing was phenomenal," Jon said. Myrcella looked down at her soup, fiddling with the spoon.

"You really think so?"

"Of course," Jon said, nodding emphatically.

"Jon doesn't lie. When he says something, you always know it's the truth," Margaery said, poking him in the side. "He has too much of his father in him. At least I managed to teach him not to stick his foot in his mouth."

"Ha!" Jon exclaimed, rolling his eyes. "Maybe not on purpose, but I still gaff more than either of you. Poets with the spoken word. Me? I'm more like a blundering oaf who just happens to have very patient and brilliant friends."

"Don't say that," Myrcella said, suddenly serious. "You're good with words too, Jon. You just have this… this way of speaking from the heart that I could never do."

Margaery reached out and grabbed Jon's hand, giving it a solid squeeze.

"And I have to rehearse everything I say, or it comes out as some elaborate and overcomplicated spiel," Margaery admitted, well aware of her tendency to ramble.

Myrcella choked on her drink.

"Gods, but that's true. How many times have I accidentally started some philosophical debate when all I wanted was for you to pass me the honey?"

Margaery and Jon both winced, breaking into laughter once more. Yeah… guilty.

"Or ordering food!" Jon exclaimed, brightening up once more before attempting a terrible rendition of Margaery's accent. "Well, having the chicken salad is healthier and the more ladylike option. The fish could be seen as a symbolic gesture to the smallfolk, but certainly not the beef, because it sends a poor message!' Seven hells, but you really do overthink things, Marg. It's food, just eat it," Jon said, taking a sip of his ale as Myrcella started spooning soup into her mouth.

"Image is important!" Margaery retorted, though she was still smiling. Gods, but this was fun. "And you're one to talk! You just eat the same thing every time we go anywhere. 'Oh, what's your best meat dish? I'm a big man with big muscles, rawr!' Blah!"

Her impression was even worse than his.

"I'm a growing man!" Jon said, adopting a hurt expression and raising a hand to his mouth in faux outrage.

"Neither of you knows how to eat food," Myrcella stated flatly, rolling her eyes. "The sheer lack of spices is atrocious. When we rule the Kingdoms, we must mandate that every palace needs to keep a stock of proper herbs and a cook capable of preparing them. Because honestly, the lack of flavour diversity is killing me."

*cough! "Snob!" *cough!

Margaery reached out and patted Jon on the back, not taking her eyes off Myrcella as she smirked.

"Are you alright, Jon?"

"Yeah," Jon said, clearing his throat. "Must have just gone down the wrong way."

Myrcella poked her tongue out at both of them, then raised one of her wine glasses and drank the entire thing in a single sitting.

"Careful, Cella, don't want to end up drunk like Tyrion," Margaery berated as Myrcella gagged, coughing for real.

"I think I'm going to vomit. Gods, how does he do that?"

They all cracked up once more, digging into their food and just… just living.

Now…

Margaery snapped awake, sucking in a heavy breath as the world flooded back into her mind. She was still in her room. But something was wrong.

Something was different.

It was the middle of the night, far from dawn, by her guess. Yet the candlelight eternally visible under her doorframe was gone.

Click!

The locks on the door. Somebody was undoing them.

Margaery threw off her sheets, taking a deep, long breath as she rose from her bed, belly heavy and constantly aching nowadays. She made her way to the wardrobe, grabbing a shift designed for her pregnant body and throwing it on just as the final bolt came undone, and the door swung outwards.

"Your Grace!"

Mira and Joy rushed into the room, enormous grins on their faces, and Margaery breathed out a heavy sigh of relief.

"Mira? Joy? How in the hells…."

"No time to explain," Mira said, rushing to Margaery's side and helping to steady her as Joy ran to the desk and started shoving Margaery's papers into a satchel thrown across her shoulder. "But King Stannis has left the castle, and he's taken all the best guards with him. We don't know how long it will be before he comes back, so we've got to move fast."

"I can't… I can't run. The babe…" Margaery began.

"Don't worry. We'll be careful. We just need to get to Olenna's secret tunnel without being seen," Mira said, and with that, Margaery was being ushered towards the door, heart thundering within. The guard outside? He was out cold, his candle blown out.

"How did you…."

"Sleeping draught, in his wineskin. No time for questions, your Grace, just come on," Mira hissed. Margaery swallowed her comments, her thanks, her relief, and let Mira push her down the hallway, toes digging into the cold carpet. Joy appeared from the room with the satchel – now bulging full of Margaery's notes – grabbed the unconscious guard and dragged him into the room. Then, she bolted the door back closed, entire body trembling, and chased after the two fleeing girls. They reached the end of the corridor at the same time Joy did, and the blonde-haired bastard grabbed a servant's cloak from the floor, throwing it over Margaery's shoulders and drawing up the hood.

Mira eased the door at the end of the hallway open, a long breath escaping her before she opened it wide. No guards on the outside.

"You have no idea how long it took to figure out the timing of their shift change," Joy whispered as she took over helping Margaery walk. "Stannis orders it changed every five days, with new guards on the roster each time. The guy is seriously paranoid."

Mira grabbed a torch from a nearby wall sconce, then ushered them through the door and onto the twisting staircase that led down from the tower.

"One-hundred three, one-hundred four," Mira muttered. "Twenty seconds…"

Margaery's belly jolted with every step, spine aching from the weight of her babe and the lack of movement in prison, but she didn't slow the pace, and the three girls reached the upper level of the keep as Mira counted one-hundred and thirteen. She grabbed the nearest tapestry and pulled it back, exposing one of the small doorways used by the maids to manoeuvre around the castle unseen. Joy and Margaery ducked inside, and Mira followed, letting the tapestry fall back into place. Then, she left the door open wide open. Margaery reached to close it, and footsteps echoed in the hallway beyond. The three girls stood wholly and utterly still, not even daring to breathe. Heavy boots and the clink of mail. They came right past the tapestry… and continued on, the clank of metal rising up the staircase. Only then did Mira close the door as softly as humanly possible.

"Quick!" Joy said, and Mira took Margaery's other side as they hurried her down the passage. They'd barely gone more than a few meters before the shouting started.

"Ring the bells! Ring the bells! The prisoner is gone!"

The trio rounded a corner and came to a sharp halt. A host of serving girls stood waiting for them, guarding a four-way intersection. Each of them carried torches of their own, and they were dressed… Oh gods, dressed identically to Margaery. That's when the plan finally clicked in Margaery's head. Even Mira was clothed as Margaery was, in nothing but a servant's cloak and a shift, brown hair flying loose around her shoulders. And for every maid mimicking Margaery, another girl accompanied them, wearing proper Tyrell servants' attire instead of the new garb used by Stannis' staff. Only Joy wore the Baratheon dress.

"No," Margaery exclaimed, louder than she should of. But no. This… they couldn't. She wouldn't allow it. "No way. You can't. You'll be thrown in jail, or… or executed. Or…"

"Apologies, milady," one of the girls dressed as Margaery said, and… all the gods in all the heavens, Margaery didn't even know her name. How horrible was that? "But I'm afraid for just one night, you'll find that we're the ones giving orders. You're heading straight to the War Room, where you'll take the escape passage through the fake sewer grate near the northern portcullis…."

"You… you knew?" Margaery whispered.

"Of course, we knew," one of Margaery's old nursemaids said – Deena. She was getting on in years now, but she wore the Tyrell green and gold and stood as tall as anyone else in that room. "We know far more about the castle than you, or even your grandmother, ever will. We're servants, milady. It's our job to know."

"You can't do this," Margaery begged, glancing back down the passage she'd come. The bells had started ringing.

Then the Mistress of Staff herself stepped out of the shadows, her mother's best friend.

"We can, and there's nothing you can do to stop us. You have to get out of here. Lord Jon made us swear to keep you safe while he was gone, and while we would have done it anyway, we're making good on our oaths tonight. While you go one way, the rest of us will fan out throughout the keep."

A young maid dressed as Margaery, one of her girlhood friends, Allrianne, stepped up to Margaery and grabbed her hands.

"Run, milady. Run."

A door burst open beyond one of the hallways, and the girls all burst into action, fleeing in pairs in all directions while Mira and Joy grabbed Margaery and pulled her towards a staircase.

"Stop in the name of the King!"

One floor down, and they were following two decoys down a passage towards Margaery didn't know where. Margaery's mind was a whirl, her entire body thrumming with tension and fear and… and desperation. Desperation for her babe, for all the girls laying down their lives tonight. All for her.

The first set of decoys pushed open one of the servants' doors, then shoved a tapestry out of the way – and instantly barrelled into two guards in the hallway beyond. The second group of girls, followed by Mira, Margaery and Joy, raced out behind them.

"Here! We have them!" One of the guards tried to yell, but one of Margaery's doppelgängers punched him in the face.

"Go!"

Go they did, two groups running in sync down the hallway – the third level, deep within the castle proper. Margaery ran as best she could, but hobbled at speed was probably a better term, and she was quickly panting with the sheer effort.

They passed an intersection and caught a glimpse of another pair of decoys being chased by six Baratheon guards.

"Find them all!" A voice screamed from somewhere below – the voice of the knight who'd escorted her to her cell that first day – Andrew Estermont. "I want every single one of them alive!"

And therein lay the genius of the plan, Margaery realised. By keeping her locked up and allowing no one to see her, none of Stannis' guards actually knew what she looked like beyond a vague description – if they even had that.

Mira and Joy kept hands on her arms, pushing her forwards. Another group of guards appeared, but the decoys split off, running through another servant's passage.

"Run, milady!" The decoy maid screamed, shoving her fake Margaery through the door and trying to hold it closed as the real Margaery, Mira, and Joy continued down the corridor. The guards took the bait, shoving the maid out of the way and bolting down the passage after the decoy.

And then, the War Room was before them. Once a monument to knowledge and Tyrell prestige, now a ruin, a burnt-out husk. And Margaery had been the cause. She'd sacrificed her own escape to commit what to her mind was the gravest of all sins, the wilful destruction of knowledge. How many long hours had she spent with Jon in this very room? Dreaming up the Senate, their plan, their hopes, their dreams. How many times had she kissed him, shelves upon shelves of books all around, the smell of paper and parchment heavy in the air?

Mira let go of Margaery's shoulder and raced to the back of the room. Then she reached behind a half-burned bookshelf and pressed the loose stone tucked away. A metal air-grate in the wall popped open, a pulley hidden behind the rock pushing the panel free.

Gods… she used to use this as a cheeky escape to get out of the castle with Jon and go on their morning rides. Was that really so long ago now?

"My lady, come on," Mira hissed, and Joy pushed Margaery forward. They helped her sit down despite her weight, then put her legs through the passage. A smooth metal dip lay beyond, a small slide that would drop her down the three levels to the ground, then a fake sewer tunnel connecting the kitchens to the outside. Oh, gods… Would she fit?

"Stop!"

Margaery, Mira and Joy all spun around, and found themselves staring at the figure of Ser Davos, a torch in his hand, alone at the entrance to the room. He looked at them, saw Margaery's face, and knew he'd found the true her. He opened his mouth, Mira and Joy started shoving Margaery through the passage, belly squeezing against the stone, baby kicking at the constriction and pain…

But no sound came.

Davos just stood there.

There were tears in his eyes.

Margaery jerked through the passage, and her body – heavy with the child – went hurtling down the slide. It took all her willpower not to scream. Spin one, spin two, spin three… and she hit the ground with a hard thump, and a flush of liquid saturated her thighs.

Head thumping, body cramping, heart-pounding, and every fibre of her body trembling and shaking, she braced against the wall and pushed herself upright.

Mira and Joy did not appear.

She waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. A minute.

They didn't come. They weren't coming.

Oh, girls…

She needed to move. Needed to make their efforts worth it.

That meant getting to the end of the tunnel before Davos sent men following her.

Using the wall as an anchor, she hobbled down the tunnel. Someone had lit the torches lining the walls, so at least Margaery could see where she was going, but her bare feet were freezing cold on the rough stone and dirt floor. She had to keep stopping as waves of pain rolled through her, body cramping and spasming, her control simply failing. But she would not scream. By the time she reached the end of the passage – what should have taken her no more than five minutes – her lips were bitten raw, her entire body was shivering from cold and fear and the crashing of the pace of the run, and… and there was a steady trickle of liquid making its way down her leg.

She reached the portcullis, sucking in hoarse breaths. Fumbling with the latches, she shoved the grate open and climbed out onto trampled grass. She was immediately drenched in sleeting rain.

The passage ended right in the outer curtain wall, so Margaery pushed herself up against the stone so the guards atop couldn't see her beneath the overhang. Thunder rolled across the grassy plain in time with the howling wind, forks of lighting dancing in the dark sky, icy water cascading from above.

Nothing and nobody waited for her. Resigned, tired and frozen to the bone, Margaery carefully pulled the portcullis back into place, wet hands slipping on the metal, leaving no sign she was ever there. Another cramp ripped through her, and she froze in place, water pounding her face, just breathing in and out for several moments. When it passed, she looked around, exhausted, trying to peer through the rain blind. Her only light came from the torches and braziers within turrets on the wall above – shielded from the water.

Or, well, that wasn't exactly true.

There was another source of light further around the wall.

The outer edge of the Warrens; lights from within the few houses that could afford candles.

Slowly but surely, she dragged herself along the wall, stopping every few minutes to ride out another cramp… another contraction. The babe was coming. Oh, for fuck's sake, why now?!

She made it to a muddy alley, the bells still ringing overhead, a lightning bolt arcing from the sky to strike a tree in the far distance as water crashed down all around her. Margaery embraced the dirt, sucking in breath after breath. Still leaning against the stone, but now protected by the shadows and the shanty houses crammed around her, she could calm down just a little. But the second she was deep enough inside the slum that she couldn't see the way out any longer, she slumped down with her back against a wooden house. Head coming to rest against the wood, Margaery spread her legs and screamed.

Raw, pure, and full of pain and fury and terror and agony.

Her cry rang out through the Warrens, and Margaery dissolved into tears as the pressure between her legs continued to build, agony growing with each second that passed.

Jon, where are you? I need you. Please…

Jon was not there, but his baby was coming right now, whether Margaery liked it or not.

All Margaery could do was lie in the dirt amongst ash blackened and mud-stained buildings, utterly saturated and exhausted as the sky tore itself apart, and labour to bring a child into the world.

The End of Book II

The Guardian Angel – Book III: The Wrath of Men

The Others are destroyed! Brandon Stark sacrificed his life to lift the Hammer of Waters and undo the horrible magic of the Great Other permanently. At least, that is what the people of Westeros believe. Now, Jon Snow and Myrcella Baratheon must unite with Dragonlords Daenerys and Rhaenys Targaryen if they hope to reclaim the Reach and save Margaery from the clutches of their rival, Stannis Baratheon. With his wife and babe in chains, his identity exposed, threats on all sides and the lives of millions at stake, Jon must prove he is truly a king worth following, lest he succumb to doubt, anger and fear, and fall prey to the Targaryen madness, as his father and grandfather did.

However, what Jon and his allies don't know is that Margaery has already been rescued, at great cost. Clambering out into the Warrens – the place of her rebirth – Margaery must place her faith in the people she has sworn to protect and come face to face with the consequences of her past actions. Her child, the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, is only a newborn, but Margaery's long-fought goals could finally be within her grasp. Margaery may be forced to make a terrible choice – the safety of her baby, or her dream of a better world.

Meanwhile, the realm reals from the devastating impact of the Hammer of Waters. The Iron Islands have been obliterated, the Ironborn without a home or anyone willing to take them in. Jaime Lannister and Tyene Sand, crawling from the ruins of the Red Keep, must bring their desperate information about Cersei and Littlefinger to the Tyrell/Martell/Lannister coalition, but the agents of the Red God hound their every footstep. The sisters Stark, Arya and Sansa, head for the Vale, the heart of the Red Witch Melisandre's Westerosi Church of R'hllor, to prepare for the impending arrival of the Dornish and Targaryen host. Melisandre's power and authority have only grown since her actions during the quake, and the Stark girls will need all their newfound talents and abilities to counter Melisandre's twisted magics. All the while, Stannis Baratheon grows more and more suspicious of the woman in red silk he has pledged himself to. Her magic and prophecy are undoubtedly real, but how much of himself is Stannis willing to give up in order to win the Iron Throne?

In the North, the very land has been torn anew. Roose Bolton occupies Winterfell in Stannis' name, while a tense alliance of Mance Rayder, Benjen Stark and the Greatjon try to settle bitter and ancient rivalries amongst the clans of the Free-Folk, the Black Brothers and the Northmen. Robb Stark, the one man who could unite them, is missing. Trapped on a glacier with Val – the so-called Wilding Princess. If no one finds them soon, Robb and his bride to be will certainly perish in the Shivering Sea, and what little hope the North has for peace will die with them.

And in the cold dark of winter's heart, the Great Other smirks, his agents moving closer and closer to the ultimate prize: the undoing of the world.

Coming Soon…

Afterword:

So, we come to the end of Book II, I hope you all enjoyed it! As with the last book, I will complete writing on Book III before I start posting. I'll admit, I don't know when that will be, as I'm still working on the plotting. It won't be before the end of the year, as I'm doing NaNoWriMo as a kick in the pants for the latest redraft of my original novel, and that will take up all of November and most of December. So don't expect anything from Book III before late February or March next year at the earliest. Sorry for making you wait, but it's for the best. I am committed to my oath of not being one of those people who abandons a story halfway through, so I won't post anything until I'm 95% comfortable with every element. If that means waiting a little longer for higher quality, so be it. And let's be honest, in this fandom, we're all exceptionally good at waiting by now.

Thank you all so much for your comments and reviews and kudos and subscriptions and favourites and follows and kind words! Until next time, everybody!

LordofVibrance (who, let's be honest, really needs a better username).