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Chapter Forty-Two: Seven Houses

Margaery

He was a boy. Her father and Petyr Baelish had arranged for her to marry a boy. She was a woman, just past her twentieth name day and her father had agreed to have her marry a boy. Her father had not even bothered to ask how old the boy was, though she supposed she should count herself lucky that he had, at least, consulted her before he agreed.

But what was she supposed to say? The proposal had come from the king's Small Council itself, his mother had approved of it. And it really was a good proposal considering that she was the widowed wife of a traitor who named himself King. With one word from her she would go from being nothing to being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She was a woman now, but deep inside she was little more than a girl.

A girl who still wanted to be Queen.

And not just a queen. She wanted to be the queen.

Joffrey could give that to her. And would do it happily, if the way he looked at her when they were introduced was any indication of how their marriage would be.

She did feel sorry for the Stark girl. No doubt, the girl had once dreamed of being Queen too. But she had not truly wanted it, not as Margaery did. Otherwise she would have made it happen, she would have played the game better. When she first arrived at court Margaery had asked about the girl, she was curious about what she was like. The general consensus seemed to be that she was beautiful and well behaved, quiet, and completely empty headed. Some of the maids even whispered that Queen Cersei thought the girl to be quite simple minded. Perhaps that was why the queen had agreed to set Sansa aside and allow her son to marry Margaery.

Still, whatever the girl was Margaery was sure that she had not deserved to be set aside the way they had done it.

Loras had told her that Sansa Stark had been in the gallery the day her family was honored for the part they had played in the Battle of the Blackwater. He told her that the poor girl had to stand and watch as Joffrey and his Small Council playacted a scene where Loras asked Joffrey to marry his sister, Joffrey's mother instructed him to do it, and Joffrey pretended that he would not break his betrothal to the girl because it had been done in the sight of the Gods.

She had to stand and watch as the High Septon declared her family a group of traitorous snakes whose word was nothing and who had sinned in the eyes of the Gods when they entered into the betrothal agreement.

She had to stand and watch while her betrothal and at one point certain marriage were ridiculed and belittled.

And then she had to stand and watch while Joffrey declared himself free from her and celebrated that freedom by agreeing to wed Margaery.

Whatever the girl was, simple minded or not, Margaery was sure that she did not deserve that.

But Joffrey was a boy, and he would not waste an opportunity to humiliate the girl. Apparently he had not wasted an opportunity to do that since he had her father beheaded. She had been his plaything. And she had been too quiet, too reserved to fight against it.

Margaery would not be his plaything, she was sure of it. She would not allow him to humiliate her. She would not allow him to disrespect her.

He was King of the Seven Kingdoms, but he was a boy. She was to be his Queen, and she was a woman.

She would control him.

And it would start today.

From all the whispered rumors she had heard about Joffrey, Margaery knew that the boy had a cruel streak to him, no doubt from his mother. He believed that it was better to be feared by his people than loved.

But when people feared their King, they hated their King.

And a hated King cannot rule. At least for long.

Margaery would guide him. She would make herself beloved of the people. The Lords and Ladies of court would love her. The smallfolk would love her. The Seven Kingdoms would love her. And she would quietly show Joffrey that they could love him too, if only he would follow her example.

It all began on their way back to the Red Keep after their betrothal ceremony at the Great Sept of Baelor.

They were riding in separate litters, out of respect for his position she was riding behind him as they passed through Fleabottom. It was a dirty, crowded place. She could smell the small folk though the vented windows. Her nose involuntarily scrunched at the smell of all the dirty bodies around them. But she forced the look of disgust off her face and in a loud, commanding voice ordered her guards to stop so that she could exit the litter.

They seemed bewildered, but did as she asked. And she smiled at her handmaiden, some cousin of hers, before she climbed out. "My Lady," the girl called out to her as she followed quickly behind. "We should have guards, My Lady," she continued when Margaery did not immediately respond to her.

Margaery turned, flashing an impish smile at the younger girl, "Why?" she asked before turning away from her so that she could continue down the road on foot.

The people around them, seemed as bewildered as her guards when they saw who it was walking among them. Their mouths dropped open, their conversations stalled, but they all moved out of her way to let her pass, and some even bowed to her. No doubt they were grateful, since the end of the Battle of the Blackwater Highgarden had been bringing food to the city on a daily basis. And Margaery's grandmother had instructed those who brought it in to make sure that it was known that the food came from House Tyrell.

Growing Strong indeed.

Outside of the orphanage the High Septon had told her about she stepped around a puddle of human waste dropped from a window above. She was proud of herself, no matter how disgusted she was by the smell of the fresh waste, she did not let it show on her face. The only thing the people of Fleabottom saw was her sweet smile.

The only thing they heard was her quick dismissal of her handmaiden when the girl begged for her to not walk through the puddle for fear of ruining her dress.

"I have others," she told the girl before she stepped over the puddle, deliberately allowing the hem of her skirts and the end of her sash to trail through the puddle.

She would smell like them now. And they would love her for it.

After speaking quickly with the women who ran the orphanage and explaining her purpose she was allowed inside. They gathered all the children to meet her and she sat in front of them. Once she was seated she silently gestured to one of the younger orphans closest to her and allowed the boy to come sit with her. "Hello," she greeted him with a soft smile, she did not want to scare the boy. "My name is Lady Margaery. And who are you?"

"Jaremy, My Lady," the boy told her with a quick nod.

"And why are you here, Jaremy?" she asked him, leaning in closer to him so that it could almost be a conversation between just the two of them. This way he would not be shy.

"What happened to your father?" Margaery asked, prompting him to answer her question when he seemed too afraid to do so.

"He was a soldier," he told her, a hint of pride in his voice. "He went to fight on the walls when the ships came to Blackwater Bay." Margaery smiled softly at that, to the boy the smile was encouraging, but she was happy that she had picked this orphan to speak to. It fit her purpose. "He never came back," the boy added after a moment.

"And your mother?"

"She died when she had me."

Margaery watched the boy for a moment, the pain of losing his mother was something that he had lived with his whole life, but the pain of losing his father was still fresh. She could see it in the tear streaks on his dirty face. She reached out one of her hands for his. "Bad men wanted to come into this city and do terrible things, but your father stopped them," she told him. She kept his tiny hand in hers and turned toward one of her other handmaidens who held out a beautifully carved toy knight, his shield painted in Highgarden colors.

She took the knight and handed it to the boy. "Whenever you look at this knight I want you to remember your father," she told him with a smile.

The boy took the toy from her and smiled at it, but he shook his head, "He wasn't a knight," he told her. "He was just a soldier."

"And what do knights swear to do?" Margaery asked him. "Protect the weak and uphold the good. Your father did that, be proud of him." The boy nodded in agreement. She turned from him then and smiled at another young orphan, another little boy, "Was your father a soldier too?" she asked him. He nodded. "You should be proud too," she told him.

Then she nodded to her handmaidens, at their feet were two matching baskets, filled with toy knights. Enough that every orphan in the orphanage would be able to have their own. At her nod the girls picked up the baskets and began to move through the crowd of children, handing out the little Highgarden knights.

When she spoke next she addressed all the children. "Under King Joffrey's leadership your fathers saved the city. They saved us all. From now on, we're going to take care of you." She was careful, Joffrey had not come in with her. It was her face the people saw, her family colors on the toys they handed out. But she reminded them who had lead the victory at the Battle of the Blackwater. Everything she did was in Joffrey's name.

She turned to the little boy in front of her and reached out, gently stroking his dirty cheek with her finger, "All of you," she told him softly.

They stayed for a bit longer, playing with the toys before she realized that she had most likely kept Joffrey waiting for far too long. When she announced that it was time for her to leave she asked if any of the children would want to walk her out of the orphanage. A large number of them agreed. They ran and danced in front of her, held her hands and skipped with her, and played their way out from behind. She laughed with them as they burst out the doorway and onto the street.

Once out there she turned to the septa who had followed them out as well. "Come to me with whatever you need to feed them, clothe them, or house them," she instructed the woman, just loud enough that others on the street would hear her order. "Directly to me."

Then she knelt and pressed a kiss against one young girl's cheek before she allowed her handmaidens to lead her back to her litter.

...

Later that evening she and Loras were invited to dine with Joffrey and his mother. Margaery was excited, this would be the first time that she spent any real time with Cersei and she was interested in how the woman would act toward her. They were kept waiting for quite some time and Loras began to get annoyed, but Margaery kept a smile plastered on her face, just in case the king and the queen regent entered the room unannounced.

Her smile served her well, because soon after her brother complained out loud that they had been waiting for close to an hour Joffrey and Cersei walked into the room. And Margaery, unlike her brother, did not have to rearrange her face into a pleasant smile when she turned to curtsy to the king.

"Please sit," Joffrey offered to them, before he even sat down - a great honor. Both Margaery and Loras remained standing. "I do apologize," he told them, though his eyes remained on Margaery, "Small council meetings. At what point does it become treason to waste a king's time?"

It was a joke, Margaery and Loras laughed, though Cersei remained stony faced.

Joffrey sat and Margaery remained standing a moment longer, allowing him one last good look at her. She did not miss the way his eyes scanned her body, taking in her dress, from the cut outs near her hips to the plunging neckline, both showing quite a bit of tanned skin.

Her hesitation served its purpose. "That's a lovely dress, My Lady," Joffrey told her before she finally began to sit in her chair.

Before Margaery could thank him, Cersei cut in. "Yes," the queen regent agreed. "It suits you perfectly. I would imagine you would be quite cold."

It was a subtle dig, but Margaery recognized it for what it was. The queen regent was threatened by her.

"The climate is a bit more forgiving back in Highgarden, Your Grace," Margaery told Cersei with an easy smile. She would not rise to the queen's bait. She laughed off Joffrey's offer to get her a shawl. "I am touched by your concern, Your Grace," she told him, leaning closer to him so that he could get an even better look at her breasts. "Luckily for us Tyrells, our blood runs quite warm, doesn't it, Loras?"

Her brother agreed, smiling his charming smile at the king and his mother.

The king had complimented her dress, it was only right that she compliment his mother's. So she turned away from Joffrey, "Loras," she called out. "Isn't the queen's dress magnificent. The fabric, the embroidery, the metalwork. I've never seen anything quite like it."

"You might find a bit of armor quite useful once you become queen, perhaps before," Cersei told her, a smile on her lips as well, though not half as convincing as Loras'. "Joffrey tells me that you stopped your carriage at Fleabottom on your way back from the Sept this morning."

Margaery smiled, yes the queen was threatened by her she could see it now. She nodded and explained to both Joffrey and his mother how she had heard of the orphanage. Loras did his job as her brother by bragging that she did work with the poor people of Highgarden. And Margaery spoke to Joffrey about the only difference between the poor people and rich people was the amount of love they were given. It was a lie of course, but he ate it up.

"Not long ago we were attacked by a mob there," Cersei told her, clearly disapproving of Margaery's approach to the poor. "We had a full compliment of guards and that did not stop them. The king barely escaped with his life."

Joffrey shifted in his chair, no doubt he did not like the picture his mother was painting. A boy king, hated the people of his own city, almost killed by them. That was not the way he wanted Margaery to look at him. "My mother has always had a penchant for drama," he told her, shooting a glare at his mother. "A quality my sisters and younger brother picked up from her, no doubt." He turned back to Margaery, "Facts become less and less important to her as she grows, older. Our lives were never truly in danger."

"You're right, of course," the queen told him, instantly cowed into agreeing with her son. "But you are your father's son. We can't all have a King's bravery."

There was an awkward pause after that. Joffrey did not speak, his mother did not speak. Margaery glanced at Loras for a moment before she turned back to Joffrey. "Hunger often turns men into animals," she told him. "I heard that one hundred wagons arrive daily now from the Reach. Wheat, barley, apples. We've had a blessed harvest this year and, of course, it is our duty and our privilege to assist the capitol in time of need."

Joffrey smiled and nodded at her, "As Ser Loras said, Lady Margaery has done this sort of charitable work before," he said before he turned to his mother. "I'm sure she knows what she's doing."

Margaery smiled and took a sip of her wine. "I'm sure she does," Cersei agreed, her tone low and rueful.

That was all Margaery needed to hear. Perhaps the queen had thought Sansa Stark stupid and simple. But she had not urged her son to set her aside because she did not know how to play the courtly game. Cersei Lannister did not like to be outplayed. If Margaery was not careful the queen would speak against her to Joffrey. She would have to make the boy love her.

By the way he looked at her he was already halfway there.

-.-.-.-.-

Tyrion

It had been a month since the Battle of the Blackwater, a fortnight since the maester looking after him had declared him out of danger of dying, and days since he had woken up. And his father had not come to see him.

Not that it surprised him that much. His father was not a man who wasted time with emotions. Especially not on Tyrion. He missed his brother and his niece. They would have visited him. They would not have left his side. They would not have let that sorry excuse for a maester, Pycelle, keep him sedated for so long. They would have been there when he took the bandages off his face. And they would have told him that it wasn't as bad as it looked.

And he might have believed them.

But neither of them were in King's Landing. They were both north with Robb Stark. And it would be a while before he got either of them back. If he ever got either of them back.

He was jealous of them if he was being honest. They were out of the city. He wished he was no longer in King's Landing where his sister or his nephew was trying to kill him.

And it was that desire that drove him to leave his new room and visit his father in the Tower of the Hand.

The Lord of Casterly Rock was as lean as a man twenty years younger, even handsome in his austere way. Stiff blonde whiskers covered his cheeks, framing a stern face, his hair was thinning on top, but it did not take away from his good looks. He was tall. Long ago, when Tyrion was a child and had not quite grasped what he was he had dreamed of one day being as tall as his father. Now he knew he never would be, but he wondered if his father would like him more, love him better, if he was.

He was seated at his desk, writing a letter to someone when Tyrion entered his solar. Tyrion's fingers clenched on his right hand, it used to be his job as Hand of the King to write those important letters. For a moment he wanted the job back, but all he had to do was close his eyes and imagine the scar on his face and he remembered why he was here. And why he wanted to leave.

On the right side of Tywin's chest the Hand's badge was pinned to his doublet. When Tyrion could not take the silence anymore he spoke up, "The badge looks good on you," he told his father. "Almost as good as it looked on me."

Tywin did not even look up from his letter, "You'd best be seated," he told his son. "Is it wise for you to be out of your sickbed?"

"I am sick of my sickbed," Tyrion told him, rolling his eyes. His father despised weakness. And Tyrion desperately needed his father to be in as good a mood as possible for what he was going to request. He did, however, take his father's advice and sit in a chair on the opposite side of the desk. "Such pleasant chambers you have," he told his father, looking around the room that used to be his. "Would you believe it, while I was dying, someone moved me to a dark little cell in Maegor's."

"The Red Keep is overcrowded with wedding guests. Once they depart we will find you more suitable accommodations," his father promised, though he still did not look up from the letter before him.

Tyrion wanted to scream. He wanted to yell. He wanted to demand that his father look at him. But instead, he fiddled with his hands, "I rather liked these accommodations," he told him rather sullenly. Then he changed the subject, "Have you set a date for this great wedding?"

"Joffrey and Margaery shall marry on the first day of the new year, which as it happens is also the first day of the new century. The ceremony will herald the dawn of a new era," his father told him.

A Lannister era, Tyrion thought. "Oh bother," he told his father, rather dryly, "I fear I've made other plans for that day."

Finally Tywin glanced up at him, though only for a moment, "Did you come here just to complain of your bedchamber and make your lame japes?" he asked before he turned back to his letter. "I have important letters to finish."

"Important letters," Tyrion repeated sarcastically. "To be sure."

"I visited your sickbed as often as Maester Pycelle would allow it, when you seemed like to die," his father snapped at him, picking up on the point of his son's irritation. "Why did you dismiss him?" Tywin Lannister was not concerned with his son's health, Tyrion knew him well enough not to assume that. The fact that Tyrion had dismissed the maester was only a curiosity, one that Tywin was only mildly concerned with.

"He seemed much too determined to keep my unconscious," Tyrion told him with a wave of his hand.

"It was kind of Cersei to ask him to look after you," his father told him. "She feared for your life."

Tyrion scoffed at that. Feared that I would keep it, he thought. But he said, "Doubtless, that's why she's never once left my bedside."

"Don't be impertinent," Tywin ordered his son. "Cersei has a royal wedding to plan, I am waging a war, and you have been out of danger for at least a fortnight." He looked up from his letter again and this time when his eyes landed on Tyrion's face they did not leave immediately. He steepled his fingers under his chin and studied Tyrion's disfigured face, his green eyes, unflinching. "Though the wound is ghastly enough, I'll grant you. What madness possessed you?"

"The foe was at the gates with a battering ram. If Jaime had led the sortie, you'd call it valor," Tyrion bit out, his jealousy of his taller brother and their father's love for him getting the better of him.

"Jaime would never be so foolish as to remove his helm in battle. I trust you killed the man who cut you?"

"Oh, the wretch is dead enough," Tyrion promised him.

Tywin studied him for another moment before he nodded and turned back to his letter, lifting his quill to finish it. "Your face is pale as death," he told him. "Say what you want and take yourself back to bed."

"What I want ..." Tyrion started, his voice trailing at the end. He wanted so much and there was only so little he would get from the man in front of him. "I'm told that you made Littlefinger Lord of Harrenhal."

Tywin snorted as he began to fold up his letter. Tyrion squinted at it, sure he could read the word Westerling up near the top. "An empty title so long as Roose Bolton holds the castle for Robb Stark," he told Tyrion as he poured some warmed wax above the seal of the letter. "Yet Lord Baelish was desirous of the honor," he pressed his seal into the quickly drying wax. "He did us good service in the matter of the Tyrell marriage. A Lannister pays his debts."

I thought of the Tyrell marriage, Tyrion wanted to yell at his father. It was pathetic, truly pathetic how much he desired his father's approval. "The title may not be as empty as you think," he warned his father. "Littlefinger does nothing without good reason. But be that as it may. You said something about paying debts, I believe?"

Tywin chuckled, "And you want your own reward, is that it? Very well. What is it you would have of me? Lands, castle, some office?"

"A little bloody gratitude would make a nice start," Tyrion snapped at his father. The older man was not taking this conversation as seriously as he would have liked. If he were going to get what he wanted from his father he would have to prove that he could be taken seriously.

"I sent you here to advise the king," Tywin told him. "I gave you real power. And what did you do? You took a whore into my bed."

"It wasn't your bed at the time," Tyrion interrupted.

Despite himself Tywin was amused, he glanced up at his son, the corners of his lips upturned for the briefest moment before the smile disappeared. "You chose to spend your days as you always have, bedding harlots and drinking with thieves," Tywin continued as if Tyrion had not spoken. "And now you want gratitude."

He shook his head and stood from his desk, pouring himself a goblet of wine though he did not offer any to Tyrion. "Jugglers and singers require applause," he told Tyrion. "Aerys Targaryen did too. You are a Lannister. Do you think I demanded a garland of roses every time I suffered a wound on the battlefield?" He shook his head again, answering his own question. "Now I have seven kingdoms to look after and three of them are in open rebellion. So tell me what you want."

He sat back down at his desk and studied Tyrion over his wine glass.

Later that evening Tyrion would look back on this moment and realize that he should have thought long and hard about what he wanted to ask of his father. He should have given it a second and a third thought and then not asked. But he did not think, he was so angry and hurt by his father's dismissive tone that he spoke without thought.

"I want what is mine, by right. Jaime is your eldest son, heir to your lands and titles. But the knights of the Kingsguard are forbidden to marry, to father children, and to hold land. The day Jaime put on that white cloak, he gave up his claim to Casterly Rock, but never once have you acknowledged it. It's past time. I want you to stand up before the realm and proclaim that I am your son and your lawful heir. I want the Rock."

Tywin's green eyes were as hard and as unfriendly as his voice. "Casterly Rock," he declared in a flat, cold, dead tone. "Never."

He glared at Tyrion for a long moment before he continued. "We'll find you accommodations more suited to your name and as a reward for your accomplishments at the Battle of Blackwater Bay. And when the time is right you will be given a position fit for your talents so that you may serve your family and protect our legacy. And if you serve faithfully you will be rewarded with a suitable wife. But I would let a bastard born of Lenora and Robb Stark become heir to Casterly Rock before I named you. I would let myself be consumed by maggots before mocking the family name and letting you be named heir of Casterly Rock."

Tyrion stared at his father for a long moment, shocked by the hatred in his father's eyes. He had always known that his father favored Jaime and Cersei more. He had always known that his father looked at him as an embarrassment. But he had never realized that his father hated him. "Why?" he made himself ask even though he knew he would regret the question as soon as he got the answer.

"Why?" Tywin repeated. "You ask that? You who killed your mother to come into the world? You are an ill-made, spiteful little creature, full of envy, lust, and low cunning. Men's laws give you the right to bear my name and display my colors, since I cannot prove that you are not mine. To teach me humility, the Gods have condemned me to watch you waddle about wearing that proud lion that was my father's sigil and his father's before him. But neither Gods nor men shall every compel me to let you turn Casterly Rock into your whorehouse."

He shook his head, looking at Tyrion with complete and utter disgust, "Go now," he ordered. "Go back to your bed, Tyrion, and speak to me no more of your rights to Casterly Rock. You shall have your reward, but it shall be one I deem appropriate to your service and station."

Tyrion stared at his father for almost a minute. He had never hated the man before him. He had spent his life looking up to him, wishing to make him proud. But all of that was gone now. His father hated him. And Tyrion felt the same about him.

"Go," Tywin ordered again when Tyrion had still not risen from his chair. Tyrion nodded and finally stood, turning from his father so that he could waddle out of the room without saying another word.

"Oh," Tywin called out when Tyrion was halfway to the door. "One more thing." He did not say what it was yet, he waited until Tyrion turned to look at him. Tyrion's hands tightened into fists and his jaw clenched as he turned to stare at his father. "The next whore I catch in your bed, I'll hang."

Tyrion did not say a word, but he nodded before he quickly turned on his heel and marched from the room.

Just like everything else Tywin Lannister had said during their conversation Tyrion did not doubt that the man meant it. He would have to be more careful with Shae. His father would hang her if they were caught.

-.-.-.-.-

Lenora

"Come on, Robb," Lenora called out as she dropped her sword arm to her side and reached up with her left hand to brush some hair out of her face. Her dark hair was tied back, but that did not stop a few pieces from coming loose and dropping into her eyes.

"What?" he asked her with a grin. He was feigning innocence, but judging by the grin on his face he knew exactly what he was doing to make her upset with him. "What have I done to displease you, my Lady?"

"Stop running from me," Lenora commanded. "How are we supposed to practice our sword play if you keep running from me?"

"I'm not running," Robb argued, though he had clearly been running from her for the past half hour. Lenora was out of breath and sweaty, her arms hurt, and her sword had not clashed against his for close to an hour. "I'm simply trying out a different tactic."

Lenora raised her eyebrows. "When in a battle will you ever run from your opponent?" she asked him. He shrugged his shoulders, a smile playing at his lips. "And when, for that matter, will a man ever run away from a woman on the field?"

"You're not just any woman," Robb reminded her.

Lenora waved him off, "I know that," she told him, his flattery would not work on her. "But on the field I will look like an easy target. No one will run from me. I can't have you running from me in practice. Now, pick up your sword and stop fighting like Joffrey at the Blackwater."

The official story being told around King's Landing was no doubt that Joff had fought bravely during the Battle of the Blackwater. She was sure there were many singers playing their harps and singing songs of Joff's prowess in battle and how he refused to give in even when it seemed as though the battle might be lost.

But Lenora knew her brother. And Lenora knew her mother.

Joff had never done anything bravely in his entire life. She was sure that he would not start with the battle for King's Landing. And of all of her children Cersei had always been the most careful with Joffrey, he had been the heir to the Iron Throne after all. She was sure that Joffrey had been given the best armor, new and in Lannister colors she'd bet. He'd have a sword that knights would be jealous of. And not once would he actually have to swing it. Not once would he be in any real danger.

When the battle looked to be lost, she was sure that her mother would have ordered her brother back inside the Red Keep. She would have wanted him as close to her as possible, even if that broke the morale of his men. Even if that opened him up to ridicule. Even if it made him a coward.

Growing up she had often heard her mother complain that even though she and Jaime were so much alike, even though they had grown up together they had different lots in life. Jaime had his armor and his sword, she had her gowns and her courtesies. She had complained that it was always the man's job to wield the sword. Her mother knew the way of the world, but when it came time for Joff to wield a sword Lenora knew her mother would never allow it.

Perhaps she should have put Joffrey in dresses since he was old enough to walk. She seemed set on making him the laughing stock of the Seven Kingdoms, the least she could have done was given the correct costume.

"That was low," Robb told her, referring to her comment that he was fighting like her brother had. He was still smiling though. "Truthfully, you have me on the run because I know I will never beat you," he added.

"Of course you won't," Lenora teased. "But when I was learning to fight there was never a chance that I would beat my uncle Jaime and do you know what I did?" Robb raised his eyebrows, silently waiting for her answer. She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if it were a secret, "I kept fighting anyway."

She was silent for a moment, thinking about when she used to practice with her uncle. Then she got an idea, "Hold on," she told Robb, rushing forward to hand him her sword before she turned to walk into the stables. It did not take her long to find an old cloak hanging on the wall. She grabbed it and tore a long strip of it. Then, once she had the strip in her hand she walked back out to the yard.

Robb stared at her, his eyebrows raised, his lips turning up at the corners. "What do you think you're doing, Nora?" he asked her.

She smiled at him as she reached up and began to tie the strip of fabric around her head, using it to cover her eyes. Jaime had done this many times with her. "Leveling the playing field," she told him as she finished tying. Then she held her hand out, expectantly, waiting for him to hand her her sword.

She heard him chuckle, "I am not going to fight you blindfolded," he told her.

"You won't be," Lenora assured him. "Blindfolded, I mean, you will be able to see everything. I will be blind." She waved her hand in the air, still waiting for her sword.

She heard him sigh, "What if I hurt you?" he asked.

"You won't," Lenora promised him. "Now, my sword please."

Being blindfolded was a different experience. She could not see him, but with her eyes covered, her ears picked up the slack. She could hear the fabric of his clothes move as he walked toward her. She could hear his footsteps. She hear his breath. He took his time handing her the sword, taking a moment to wrap each of her fingers around the handle as if she were a small child who did not know how to hold a sword.

She rolled her eyes and huffed out an impatient sigh. He chuckled and let go of her hand. And she took a step back, raising her sword so that it was in front of her face, a defensive position. "No running this time," she commanded.

"No running," Robb agreed.

Lenora waited, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet until he made his first attack. It took a moment, but she heard it, the sword moving through the air as he attacked her from the right, she let her sword arm fly out, stiff armed and strong and was rewarded with the sound of steel hitting steel. Before he could move away from her she dragged her sword arm down toward her side, quick and strong.

This move would not work if he had kept a strong hold on his sword, but he had no doubt been so relieved that he did not hurt her that he had slackened his grip. His sword fell from his hand and landed on the cobblestones by his feet. Lenora smirked.

"Show off," Robb whispered to her as he moved to pick his sword up.

He was loud, Lenora noticed. Much louder than she had ever realized. They continued fighting, he got a couple good hits on her, but more often than not she heard him coming before he attacked, she met his sword with strikes of her own.

He was not going to hurt her. And she was not going to let him win easily.

They would have continued fighting like this for the rest of the afternoon if little Rollam Westerling had not come running into the yard, yelling for Robb. The boy took his job as Robb's squire quite seriously, though he had yet to learn that he did not always have to yell for the king. They stopped fighting and Robb took Lenora's sword so that she could untie her blindfold as he asked the boy what had gotten him so riled up.

"There's a raven from Lord Bolton at Harrenhal," Rollam told him before he handed Robb a sealed letter.

Lenora watched as Robb read the letter, inwardly steeling herself when she saw the way his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed, and the blue in them darkened in anger. Whatever news Roose Bolton had for him it was not good.

Once he was done reading Robb looked up at her. "He's taken Harrenhal," he told her. "All the Lannister men had left before they got there. But not before they killed two hundred Northmen and left them in the courtyard for us to find."

"Two hundred?" Lenora asked, echoing his words in a whisper.

Robb nodded, "Ser Jaremy Mallister being the most notable."

"No one survived?" Lenora asked.

Robb shook his head, "All perished except for one, a maester named Qyburn who is being treated now." His hand clenched into a fist around the letter. "I sent them there," he told her. "I sent them there to die."

Lenora shook her head, "You couldn't have known," she tried to comfort him.

Robb shook his head, "I could have," he told her, his voice dark. "Everyone knows the stories of Harrenhal. Hoare. Qoherys. Harroway. Towers. Strong. Lothston. Whent. Seven Houses have ruled over Harrenhal. And seven Houses have died out at Harrenhal. It's cursed. It's full of ghosts. And now there are the ghosts of two hundred Northmen residing there. Two hundred Northmen that I sent to hold the castle. Two hundred Northmen that I lost."

Lenora shook her head again, "That's the way of war, Robb," she told him. "They went because they believed in you. They fought because they believed in you."

"They died because they believed in me," Robb interrupted.

Lenora shook her head, "They died because that is what happens to men in war. But you will get your vengeance. The North will get its vengeance."

Author's Note:

Hello friends! Did you miss me while I was gone? I missed you!
I hope that you guys enjoyed this chapter! I did. I especially loved writing Margaery's point of view. I had so much fun writing her.
She's not a bitch. But I don't think she's as innocent as she seemed on the show. She wants to be queen and she knows how to play the game. And I had a lot of fun writing in her voice. So there may be more of it in the future. Keep a look out for it!
Thank you for reading! And thank you for favoriting this story. Or for adding it to your alerts list. But as always the BIGGEST thanks goes to those of you that reviewed the last chapter.
You are wonderful.

Mattia18: You are not cruel. And you are not the first person to say that. I will not tell you what I have planned for dear sweet Robb, but I promise that it will be interesting. Thank you for your review!

DannyBlack70: Don't worry, you are not the only one not getting the alert emails. It went on for about a week. But I've got my fingers crossed that they've fixed it now. (Seriously, I just crossed my fingers!) As for why Walder Frey pulled half of his forces back, he claimed that it was because he needed them to defend the Twins, Lenora thinks he's feeling weary, but perhaps ... in a future chapter ... you will learn that someone sent him a Raven. Someone who has important letters to write. And Seven Kingdoms to rule. ;)

DannyRangerPhantom: Two reviews! I love it! I was going to PM you in response to your review on Chapter 18, but then you caught up with us and I didn't have to. Now I can answer both here!
Not going to lie, it had been so long that I had to go back to chapter eighteen to see why you were so upset. But yeah, eighteen was Ned Stark. I am sorry for that. But I needed Robb to go to war and the best way to do that was to make sure that Ned did not live a long and happy life. As much as I wish I could give him one. Ned was one of my favorites from day one, (I watched the first season before I read the books) but I should have known he was going to die. Sean Bean always dies.
As for your request. I will try not to rip your heart out. But if you read my author's notes from past chapters you know that I've been hinting about the Red Wedding. Something will happen. And people will die. I will not say if Robb is one of them. But whatever happens I ask that you guys trust me.
This story will have a happy(ish) end.

Guest: So many questions! I will answer what I can without giving too much away. Here we go!
1. Will Jon have a point of view: yes. He will.
2. When will he come in: in roughly twenty-five chapters. But when he does come in, he'll stick around and have some important parts to play. (For example: there will be a Battle of the Bastards.)
3. Will there be a Lenora and Jon: well they will interact. And they will be friends. And perhaps they will be together. I won't tell you yet though, that might give away the Red Wedding.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter friend!

That's all I've got for now! I hope that you enjoyed.
See you back here tomorrow!
Chloe Jane.