taov: Unfortunately, these people didn't care too much for innocence or guilt

riayi: Raping customs? Wyl's just an asshole.

Enthessi: It cycles in to another plot point.

osterreicher: There's a second piece of Ice still in the capital.

Sage: You're not wrong. Rowan also was a little delusional/ambitious/tick all that apply

Margaery

Margaery could only stare outside the windows of the Red Keep as the raindrops kept falling. Long gone were the days of sunlight and warmth, winter was coming, and if the snows eluded the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, the rains had well and truly arrived and swept away all the light.

Not only had winter come and swept away the light outside, but it had also swept away the light inside Margaery's heart.

Instead of hearing of a glorious taking of Riverrun, stories of fire and death had only come back. And she had lost another brother.

It is said that they could not identify most of the bodies, so little of them were left after the dragon swept them away in a sea of blue flame. The little that survived scurried back to the capital, bruised, burnt or terrified. She had seen most of them, huddled outside, shivering, looking at the sky and running to take cover under the stone walls, sometimes even crying, at the sound of a small bird flying by.

Shock made way to disbelief. How did the Starks get a dragon? Did the northmen have this trick lying around for years and not made anyone aware of it? According to some, the dragon was larger than the castle of Riverrun itself, something she had a hard time believing. For a dragon to grow to that size, it should be hundreds of years old.

And after disbelief, came the news. The Starks had not one, but two dragons. A dragon sheltered under their noses for five-and-ten years, the bastard son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. How did they miss it? Surely, someone should have known, noticed something! One does not hide a Targaryen bastard easily!

And then came the anxious wait. The dragon was going to come for them all, he was going to burn the capital to the ground for what had happened to Eddard and Sansa Stark.

But nothing came. The days went by, and although the bad news accumulated, it seems the dragon had no interest in them.

However, she had no time to even breathe a sigh of relief. News came, from Oldtown, of the massacre at sea, then the sacking of Oldtown. The Hightower had fallen, and although Leyton was dead, Baelor had rallied the survivors. The Ironborn were marching north, in a mad quest to fill their bloodlust by pillaging the Reach.

They were not the only ones.

The Northmen and Riverlanders had reached Goldengrove not three days before. Fortunately, the dragon did not burn the old keep, but the Northmen greedily served themselves in the stocks of house Rowan, taking everything they could get their hands on: gold, silver, grain…everything disappeared north.

And the dragon went south. From Goldengrove, there weren't many targets you could aim for…

Margaery was shattered. She had lost Loras, then Garlan…she would lose Willas too? And then what?

Would the Starks just let them be, after having destroyed their lands? Or would she be saved for last, after having seen all her family die around her?

There were knocks at the door.

Margaery got up, a tear rolling down her cheek, quickly swept away. A Queen doesn't cry, even if she really wants to.

"Enter," she finally said.

The woman who entered was one of her handmaidens and cousins, Elinor. She was not smiling, instead showing some kind of anxiousness.

Her betrothed, Alyn Ambrose, was at the Massacre at Riverrun. She had worried about him, thinking him to be amidst the pile of charred bodies. Thankfully, Alyn got lucky, he was only slightly burnt, something many could not say. A half-burned sword arm would be all he'd have, and Margaery remembered Elinor breaking down at the sight of her betrothed, alive.

Today, Elinor wore a simple gown, anxious, like everyone in the Keep.

"Your grace," Elinor almost whispered, "it's about Alla."

"Has the maester found what was wrong with her?" Margaery asked.

Alla had not been feeling well in the past few days, in a state oscillating between fever, vomiting and tiredness. Everyone just thought that it was stress, especially since what everyone had gone through in the past few days.

But, as the days passed, nothing changed.

"Erm, your grace…" Elinor continued, avoiding eye contact.

"Get on with it, Elinor!" Margaery snapped, catching herself cold, "Sorry, it's…been a long day."

"She's pregnant, your grace." Elinor finally sighed.

"Pregnant?" Margaery's eyes widened.

Elinor nodded.

"Not very advanced, but due to the stress, she had a few side effects, the maester said thus."

"And, the babe? Is it alright?"

"It should be fine but Alla has to rest for a few moons, to try and calm down her state."

Margaery nodded in response.

"Thank you."

Elinor curtsied and left the room.

Margaery shook her head. There was no doubt to who the father was, and her current state did not allow for her to take moon tea. It would be too dangerous for her…

Gods, the Dornish always sowed their problems wherever they went.

Suddenly, another knock.

Margaery once again beckoned the person to enter. This time, it was her grandmother, who was also in a somber mood.

"Grandmother, what news?" Margaery swiftly asked.

"Nothing good, I'm afraid." She sighed. "No news of that dragon and no news of Highgarden since Willas' last letter."

"And the council meeting?"

"Your father wishes to raise a new host to go defend Highgarden, which is fine, if we weren't sure it would be torched." Her grandmother shook her head. "Tarly convinced him not to. We would be taking away all our forces that we dearly need to hold the Stormlands. With a bit of luck, Willas won't do anything stupid and give in to any demands the Northmen have."

Margaery silently nodded.

"What do you think will happen?" she asked.

"Well, if we're not burnt to a crisp at this moment, I can only assume the Northmen just want to plunder our stocks of food to prepare for the winter, the longest in living memory, according to the masters…" She sighed. "They will go back to their frozen wastes and hopefully leave us alone."

"You think the Kingdoms will stand?" Margaery asked, although knowing the answer.

"The North is out of our hands. The Riverlands and Vale might just be too. I'm afraid that if we do come out of this alive, you'll be Queen of Five Kingdoms."

Margaery swallowed. Four, without Dorne. Not much. The richest kingdoms, to be sure, but when she had been crowned, it was as Queen of Seven Kingdoms, including the Rhoynar and the First Men. It seemed now that both were out of her reach…

"No need to be so gloomy. I certainly trust Willas to be smarter than your father," her grandmother scoffed, "these are dark times, do not doubt it, but the storm seems to have passed."

"What of the Lannisters?" Margaery asked.

Her grandmother snorted in response. "Cersei is still grief-striken, half-mad, if you ask me. Lord Kevan is trying to play mediator, but secretly, he would like to see himself or his son Lancel inherit. He plays a good game, trying to make us send Cersei Lannister to Casterly Rock, thus wiping his hands of her probable capture by the Riverlanders."

"Why not give her to them, then?"

"She's more useful to us here. The lull in power in the Rock works to our advantage…for the moment."

"And…" Margaery gulped… "Lys?"

Her grandmother went silent. She knew that particular issue was touchy. They'd known the Dornish were up to something with their fleet, and it was only recently that they learned what they were yearning for: Daenerys Targaryen.

If the rumors were to be believed, she had three dragons, not just one, and this would be…catastrophic for them. One dragon had already wiped out an army, imagine three.

But it also seemed that the Mad King's daughter had other aspirations in mind than the Iron Throne. Namely, liberating Essos from slavery. A great, noble cause, to be sure. And, fortunately for them, one that would last a lifetime to complete.

But if she was turned away from that goal…all would crumble once more.

It is thus that her grandmother had activated contacts in the Free Cities, where the Dornish were sure to stop before heading further east. Of course, their privileged location was Lys, something they should have expected.

All the better for them, it was easy to make people disappear in Lys. However, it was even better when they learned who else was apparently there…

Quickly, her grandmother had worked with her father on the issue. Scraping together a bunch of old contacts, from all levels of society, they managed to hatch a plan: to kill Prince Quentyn, thus stopping the Dornish's mad quest and provoke a succession crisis, or, failing that, to cull as many Dornish nobles to start small fights which could disjoin their effort. And with that, if they could also finally settle the score of these pesky pirates…

Margaery had scoffed at the first reading of the plan. It sounded so outlandish. If Prince Quentyn had survived three attempts on his life already, a fourth surely would not work any better. And if he couldn't be killed, why even bother with the rest? Killing off Dornish nobles may do nothing for them except fulfill some old grudges buried from hundreds of years ago.

But there was no real alternative. If the Dornish succeeded and brought back Daenerys Targaryen…then all they could really do is keep the seat warm for her.

Better to try and gain nothing than do nothing and gain nothing…

"There has been no news," her grandmother said with a shake of her head, "but news travels slowly, especially from far away. I do not doubt that we shall have our answer soon."

Margaery grasped her necklace nervously, spinning the golden rings around her fingers.

"Is that all?" she asked.

"I'm afraid it is." Her grandmother stood up and sighed. "All we can do is wait, unfortunately."

Margaery watched her leave slowly, while she found herself alone in her rooms once more, looking out the window at the rain drops falling on the city.

Truthfully, for once, she hoped that her family's scheme would fail.

With Prince Quentyn dead, Daenerys Targaryen would come back regardless. He had planted an idea into the Dornish's heads, and they would bring it to completion. No, it was futile, all they could do now was try to find a way out of this.

Margaery looked at the grey skies, searching for a ray of light amidst the clouds, finding none.

She had had a ray of light, not so long ago. Why was she so foolish not to take it? Dorne was not the Seven Kingdoms, but it was still prestigious.

Yes, she would be second to another, but did that truly bother her? As long as her children inherited, she could care less. And if he promised her ruling and riches…

She remembered Prince Quentyn's words, then. As long as I am not wed…

Would those words still ring true now? Could she not take a ship and run to Dorne right now, give up her crown and place herself at his mercy?

It would make so many things easier. She could stop worrying whether she'd die covered in dragonflame or covered by the rubble as the Keep collapsed over her. Perhaps an explosion of a stash of wildfire, forgotten by the Mad King somewhere, or cut down by a knight eager to please the new ruler?

Margaery sighed deeply.

She wanted to go back in time, shake herself silly and tell her to accept and bring Alla while she could.

Would her past self believe in the stories about a northern dragon and a foreign queen? She also doubted that very much.

All she could do now was pray, hope and stay alive. And perhaps the gods would grant her one final wish: to get out of this wretched city alive.

Arianne

Rain fell on Highgarden as if the gods were crying all the tears in their heart. Long gone were the days of sunshine, now the gloom had set into the capital of the Reach.

Gloom after the disaster at Riverrun, gloom after the sack of Oldtown, and finally, gloom as the dragons and krakens headed straight towards the heart of the Reach. She heard Oldtown was in ruins, the Citadel burnt and the Hightower flung into the sea as if it were a sand castle.

Her mind had raced to Sarella. Was she fine? Was she in Oldtown? What had happened to her?

No news came, and she and Tyene worried. Hopefully, a raven would come.

As for the Tyrells, gone were the days of the flower of the Reacher chivalry. Goldengrove had fallen, and it didn't take much thinking to know who was next.

On the other hand, disturbing reports came from the Mander, of seemingly unstoppable Ironborn hordes marching to Highgarden. Although exaggerated, these reports were enough to scare most of the population living beyond the walls to ask for protection inside.

As such, much of the smallfolk of the surrounding areas were now huddled here, waiting with grim anticipation. The Reacher army had tried to make another stand to defend Goldengrove, without much more success.

Now, they could only wait till Ser – no, lord – Baelor Hightower had managed to scrape enough forces from the rubble of Oldtown to come and relieve a possible siege.

But, surely, the Ironborn were at the end of their tether, they couldn't live off the land forever. All that would come would be half-crazy, half-starved fanatics that a simple charge of the household guard would break.

Still, it was now a matter of who came first, dragon or kraken.

Arianne looked to her desk, and, from one of the small drawers, took out a small glass vial, with a colorless liquid floating in it.

Slowly, she picked it up, and placed it in front of her. Should the walls fall…there would be no question of what men would do to her. All Dornishwomen had one of these little glass flasks, hopefully never to be used.

But should perishing in dragonfire was not a happy thought, and falling into the hands of the Ironborn was an even less enviable one.

She took the small vial, and tucked it into her dress, making sure it did not slip or break. There was just enough in it for one person to go to a dreamless slumber, but not much more. Every drop was thus precious.

Stroking her hair, she just sighed, and waited, powerless, for the end to come.

Perhaps the Targaryen bastard would prove merciful, perhaps the Ironborn would be defeated, but Arianne knew better. All of her hopes had been crushed, it was doubtful that the gods would listen to her anymore.

She'd been abandoned here, and although she thought she could control the Reach, she found out she was more of a prisoner in a gilded cage than a ruler. Despite Tyene's reassurance, Arianne found herself more and more isolated, unable to sway or control Willas.

She did her best to smile and be a proper lady in public, but more and more, venom could be heard in her voice while she did her best not to strangle her husband-to-be.

Well, so much for her wedding as well. It should have happened already, but the events at Riverrun postponed it again. And besides, the Tyrells liked their feasts and symbols. A rushed ceremony would not do.

Willas and Arianne hardly shared anything out of public life. And with her isolation, there was nothing she could do about it. She had resigned herself to her fate: if she couldn't escape, she could try to embrace what she had. A superhuman effort.

But then came the bad news, and Arianne could only smile at them, seeing the worried and completely panicked faces of the Tyrells as the Starks had pulled a dragon out of their arses.

Hah!

What a joke that was. One that turned very sour as the dragon avoided King's Landing and headed straight towards them.

A knock at the door, then. A guard clad in that ugly green color she'd learned to hate asked her to come down to the mess hall. She just nodded.

Moving down the corridors of Highgarden had become easy for her. She could finally find her way in the maze of the castle, no small feat.

Gathered in the hall was, of course, Willas Tyrell, with a couple of lords alongside him. Amongst them she could recognize Benjamin Cordwayner, Garth Leygood, Lapalice Sloane, Josua Willum and Bayard Norcross. On the side, a few ladies, including Willas' mother Alerie, but also Tyene and Sylva, as well as Ser Joss Hood, who had a worried look in his eyes.

"What is happening?" she finally asked.

"The Northmen have been spotted beyond the northern woods," Ser Joss quickly answered, "without their dragon."

"Where could it have gone?" she suddenly asked.

"That's what the flowers are trying to find out…" Sylva spoke up, pointing to the various lords around Willas, each showing worried glances.

Suddenly, the room shook as the stones themselves seemed to want to break off the walls.

Then, Arianne heard a large roar outside.

Quickly, she got to the window, followed by a flock of people, and let out a gasp.

There, before her very eyes, was a dragon, flying over the spires of the castle.

She stared, wide-eyed, as it flew three times over the castle, its massive wings casting an even darker shadow than the grey clouds above. Its roar was like rolling thunder, terrifying everyone, who took a step back.

Then, as the dragon moved away, came the Northmen. There were Stark banners, but also Manderly, Mormont, Karstark and…Tully, Royce and Arryn?

The Northmen had friends it seemed.

Arianne didn't have time to think, as she expected the dragon to come back for them and unleash its deadly flame.

Reaching into her pocket, she got the small glass vial out, and clutched it, expecting to have to down it at any moment.

But instead, the dragon landed away, towards where the Northmen were setting up camp. She couldn't see very well from here, but there seemed to be a lot of horses and carriages, as well as small ships being brought down from the Upper Mander.

In the room, it was pandemonium, when suddenly, with a firm voice, Willas decided to end all the chattering.

"Silence!" he cried out, "Ser Bayard, send a delegation under a flag of truce. Tell prince Daeron I wish to negotiate."

There was stunned silence, before the voice of Ser Bayard cut back in.

"Negotiate, my lord? But…"

"I gave you an order, Ser Bayard." Willas frowned. "Ask the prince to come into my home, we shall be more at ease than outside."

"Very well."

The old knight scurried off, escorted by two to three guards.

"Everyone out, I wish only to have my betrothed and my mother with me to welcome our guests." Willas then sighed. "Do not worry, if their dragon hasn't attacked us now, it's because they do not mean to harm us yet."

Arianne could agree to that sentiment. Whoever that Targaryen was, he did not wish to quench some bloodlust just yet.

But Arianne did frown at Willas' words.

"Tyene stays too," she said, matter-of-factly.

"As you wish, dear." Willas nodded with a slight smile, which Arianne only wanted to rub off his pretty face.

While the room emptied of its occupants, who wearily went back to their rooms, or, probably, sought a place they would think to be safe from dragonfire, Ser Bayard came back and whispered to Willas, just in range for her to hear:

"They agree to negotiate, but the b…the prince warned that at the slightest hint of treachery, his dragon would know and burn us all alive."

The words sent a chill through Arianne's smile. She thought that the Targaryen would just throw himself into the lion's maw and deliver himself as a hostage, impulsive youth that he is, but if he was willing to sell his skin like this, it was he who had thousands of hostages…

Nevertheless, the meeting did happen, and when the gates were thrown open, only three men entered the room, quickly taking the bread and salt offered, while Willas swore an oath on the Seven not to do anything…risking their health or freedom.

While this ritual was going on, Arianne could take a better look at the three men.

One was old, tall and brisk. Likely a veteran of a hundred battles, his face was wrinkled and scarred, showing the signs of a tired man, bruised and who wished for it all to be over.

The second man was much younger, and likely Daeron Targaryen. Sandy hair, blue eyes, a wonder he wasn't found out sooner. Just where had Lord Stark found him? And how did he hide him under the nose of Robert Baratheon? Surely someone would notice he was slightly out of place. Then again, Ashara Dayne…

Then Arianne's eyes met the last man's, and she was nearly struck by lightning. The last was the youngest, but he was by far prettier than the Targaryen prince. Clean shaven, dark hair, grey eyes…she stared languidly at him, then remembered her dreams as a young girl. A dark-haired knight, dark and dangerous, who came to save her and then…

Her eyes met his. Brown against grey, as she fought to not open her mouth in awe. The gods, for once, had not forsaken her. They had sent her the knight of her dreams; they had gotten her a way out of this flowery hell she had found herself into. What was he? A northman surely. Stark? Karstark? Manderly? Or even an Arryn cousin, who knows?

The man's gaze stayed fixed on her for a few moments, enough for him to show a slight, compassionate, smile, before turning his head back towards Willas, who had started to speak, his body leaning on his cane, while trying to remain confident, as if there wasn't a giant dragon behind these walls.

"Prince Daeron, thank you for responding to my offer and gracing me, your humble servant, with your presence." He finished with an extended hand to the sandy-haired boy.

This one, though, had a flash of surprise go through him. He looked down at Willas' hand, and then took a step back.

To Arianne's complete shock, her…erm…the dark-haired knight stepped forward and grabbed Willas' hand."It's Lord Regent to you, Lord Willas. My name is Jon Stark, and my companions are Ser Brynden Tully and Lord Harrold Arryn. Now what is it that you wished to talk. Be brief, I'm afraid we do not have much time and Winter is very impatient." A wolfish grin appeared on his face. "Oh, and if you call me Prince Daeron one more time and I'll burn Highgarden to the ground, do we understand each other?"

This time, Arianne did not escape the need to immediately take a seat to stop herself from fainting.