The Lannister Ascendency came to a final and brutal end, harried from without and betrayed from within. The very survival of one of Westeros' oldest families hung in the balance, completely dependent on the will of others.

MARGAERY

No matter how strange and unpredictable her life had become, she would always derive great comfort from the walls of Highgarden. The castle of her house, the greatest castle in the realm, with its beautiful white towers rising up on the banks of the mighty Mander. It was the centre of the Reach, and the heart of chivalry.

These gardens within the inner sanctum were her favourite place in the castle. They were refuge of her girlhood. The elaborate displays of exotic flowers were perfectly maintained, a pristine monument to House Tyrell. It was a soothing and wondrous place.

She had brought her new husband here. This new marriage was the furthest thing from a song, but it could hardly do harm to share this place. In truth, there was a great deal of which she wished to speak with him. She was intrigued by him, and there was much she did not know.

She took her husband's arm, pulling him along with her through the gates and into the garden. "I loved to be here, as a girl. Far and away, it is my favourite place in Highgarden. Did you ever have such a place at Winterfell, my King?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Not a place as such, but as a boy I would spend near all of my free time in the training yard. My brother Jon and I imagined ourselves great prodigies with sword and bow alike. There was no one besides our lord father who could hope to pry us away for more bookish lessons for any length of time."

She smiled. That sounded so much like her brothers, Loras especially.

She could not fail to notice his manner of speaking of his bastard brother, both familiar and affectionate. It was uncommon for a bastard to be raised beside trueborn children in the Reach, though some provision would often be made for their condition. She noted it in her mind, it would not do to alienate him by unintentionally insulting the ones he loved.

"That would be your brother, Jon Snow? I was told he had joined the order of the Night's Watch. An honourable vocation, is it not?"

Robb nodded. "It is, though the Watch has been in severe decline for some years now. I mean to arrest that decline, when this war is over. The last time the wildlings found the Night's Watch neglecting its duties, Raymun Redbeard made them pay for it. It took the sacrifice of my twice great grandfather, Willam Stark, to save the realm from that would-be King.

The wildlings have a new King now, and I do not mean for history to repeat itself. When peace is restored, I will see my brother again."

That was all interesting, she thought. There was still so much she did not know of her new house, of the strange cold North and its strange young King. What little she had learned as a girl had portrayed it as a miserable land of savage people. Now at least she knew that such a depiction did not do it proper justice.

"Perhaps I could accompany you, my King. It would not be right of me not to see the lands of your House, to meet its people and learn its culture."

He nodded. "As Queen Alysanne did."

Her eyebrows raised in surprise. "Why yes! She always was particular idol of mine."

"I thought as much." he replied. "I have a low opinion of the Targaryens, in truth, but I find Jaehaerys and Alysanne to be broadly admirable. They understood the real meaning of leadership. They possessed a balance of virtue and strength, for each are meaningless without the other. Their reforms genuinely improved the condition of the realm."

They fell into a silence as she appraised him. He was a serious boy. She rather admired that, she herself had always been far more earnest than her years would suggest.

He really was nothing like she had expected. When she had first heard his name, then newly married to Lord Renly, he had been a curious but distant figure. A boy at the head of an army, on a desperate mission to rescue his father from foes who far outmatched him in both strength and reputation. It had been admirable in a sense, most had respected it at least a bit, but no one thought it likely that boy would make much of a mark.

That had proven to be a complete misjudgement. Months later, one dead husband behind her and two smashed armies behind him, he had been recast in her mind. More than likely, Robb Stark would be a savage boy to lead his savage people. Some low cunning and much military skill, but at heart a simpleton in pursuit of vengeance, glory and lust. When it had become possible she would marry him, she had begun to consider how she could manage such a man.

She could remember clearly when news had reached them at Highgarden of his crossing into their domains, wild rumours of a horde of savage Northmen come to pillage and burn by the tens of thousands. Then there had been the missives, even more stunning. Practically a proposal concealed in the polite coded speech of a noble envoy.

It had threw her family into disarray. Her lord father had been tempted, but indecisive. It was a risky alliance, but one that could bring the Reach back from a destiny of fratricidal conflict. He had rode out to meet with Garlan and his army at Bitterbridge, and to parlay with the wolves. The result had been an alliance, a rapid betrothal and a new destiny for House Tyrell.

When she had come to see it all for herself, she had found once again that her mental depiction had been entirely wrong. Robb Stark hardly seemed a savage at all, although it had taken her some time to acclimatise to his fearsome wolf pet. He was civilised as any lord of the Reach, albeit with a certain foreign flare in his manner and speech. He seemed intelligent, courteous even.

Some of his men met her image far more closely. She had wondered, why do they follow him? And why with such evident devotion?

Even grandmother had seemed mollified, thinking perhaps there was something to be found they could work with. She herself had been.. unopposed. He interested her. Certainly, it had been a pleasant change to have a husband who knew her as a woman. She was rather enjoying that.

Loras was becoming tiresome, though. More the grieving widow than her, he had been become prone to wild fits of temper. It had begun to irritate her, given the forbearance she had shown him during her interlude with Renly.

As she made to lead her husband from the garden and back to more of his war planning, he stopped and turned to her. "Have you ever considered the great power there is in a royal marriage, both for good and ill?"

"My King?"

"We spoke of Alysanne and of Jaehaerys, and the good they did. But what of the sorry tale of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister? A marriage to unite the realm, and yet their toxic hatred has poisoned it and brought House Baratheon and House Lannister both to the edge of total destruction. I know which example I would prefer to follow. I know what kind of King I would prefer to be, and the Queen I would prefer to have."

He kissed her cheek quickly, and made to go. "Think on that, Margaery."

TYRION

"LOOSE YOUR ARROWS AS YOU PLEASE!"

He was hot and uncomfortable in his armour, and he could feel the sweat dripping down his brow.

Tyrion knew this would be no easy task. Whatever confidence their recent victory on the Blackwater had instilled in his family, there were still many difficulties they would have to overcome.

The army of Stannis Baratheon had a rough parity with that of the city's defenders. In normal circumstances, that would concede the advantage to the defenders and the city's murderously strong walls. Say what you would about the Targaryens, but they knew how to build, they knew how to fight and they knew how to build things to help them fight.

Sadly, it wasn't that simple. Man to man, Stannis had an army of a higher calibre. Much of the defending force were gold cloaks of dubious loyalty and little skill, not the true equals to the bannermen of the Stormlords.

What's more, the manner of their approach was troublesome. On this side of the river, they had a free pick of where to press an assault. There was a lot of wall to defend, and many gates to keep closed. He himself had been given the singular honour of defending the stretch of wall between the Lion Gate and the Gate of the Gods.

It was just his luck that this stretch was proving to be particular target. It did make sense, though. The more pressure they applied to the men on the walls, the weaker the forces holding the gates themselves would become. And if they managed to get into the city, that was as good as victory.

All of his archers were loosing now. Their foes were coming steadily in shield wall, but they were an easy target and there were a great many archers. They were bound to fell many.

"Trebuchets." he said. Bronn, his reprobate right hand, needed no further command.

They began to rein their stone carries down onto the attackers, smashing bones and crushing men.

As their foes began to reach the walls, Tyrion held his patience. His men were throwing rocks over the side, where they smashing off shields and split skulls.

He waited until they were raising the first of their ladders. "NOW!"

Pots of scalding liquid tar were tipped over the sides. He could hear the screams as it inflicted agony and burned away flesh.

He paced up and down his position, directing and cajoling his men as needs be. They were holding. He was holding. Even his wildlings were fighting well, in what to them must seem a very strange kind of battle. There had been no break throughs, and in those places where a few brave souls had managed to vault onto the battlements they had been quickly felled.

Tyrion allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. They could win this, and he need not die today.

He saw the next wave of foes marching up now. Far too late for their fellows, but a menace all the same. His men were readying themselves.

"UNLEASH HELL!" he screamed.

They loosed their arrows once more. Arrows, stones and burning tar. He was a halfman of bustling energy. He would hold this wall. Whatever else happened, he would hold it.

Once more, their foes broke themselves in futile exertion against the walls of King's Landing. The bodies were piling up, burned by tar, felled by arrows and mutilated beyond recognition by the fall of heavy rocks.

It was only then that he noticed the smoke. Not beneath the walls, but coming from inside the city. He squinted, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

A terrified messenger boy came bundling towards him, just barely stopping himself before collision. The boy tried to speak, but could only muster a mousey little squeak. He looked terrified.

"Calm down! Calm down, child! If a halfman can hold himself together, so can you."

"M'lord, the King's Gate! It's took, by treachery it was. We was defending it, holding it good we were. Then we were attacked from within the walls. I saw them all, being killed or shackled, and the Stag men were pouring through. I climbed the walls and ran along to here."

Tyrion felt a deep dread settle in the pit of his stomach, a sense of being caught up in the centre of a storm with no escape. He felt the eyes of the men upon him. An eclectic mix of red cloak survivors from the Gods Eye, and his own half-trained wildlings from the Mountains of the Moon.

He was a Lannister, and he was the Halfman. By some peculiar will of the cruel Gods, it was down to him to lead them. "Form up, men! We will march to the King's Gate!"

He got only a few shouts of affirmation. Still, they obeyed.

Rushing along the top of the battlements, he espied another large group of men coming toward them from the beleaguered gate. Tyrion readied his axe. "Ready yourselves, men."

Tyrion breathed easier as they drew closer. More Westermen, Ser Addam Marbrand himself at their head. He loosened his grip on the axe.

"Ser Addam! What has happened? Is the gate fallen?"

Ser Addam looked grievously sad, a man torn apart by struggle. Their eyes met, and he seemed to visibly gather himself. "I'm truly sorry for this, Tyrion."

The strike of the sword came swift and strong. Tyrion felt his vision blur, and his footing collapse beneath him.

His last sensations were a confused vision of carnage and a strange melody of clashing steel.

He thought of his life, and his regrets. Many regrets, for Tysha, for Jaimie and for himself. He felt afraid, death seemed such a cold finality.

His eyes were pulled closed. All his sensation and worry seemed to slip away, as if drowsed by a warm and comforting blanket. Another moment, and no more.