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Chapter Four: Puppets.

Ravens took flight from the Maester's Tower. A flurry of dark wings beating against the afternoon sky. Margaery once heard an old saying about ravens, but she had forgotten what it was now. Snapped out of her pensive mood, she watched the birds swoop out of sight as they carried news of Joffrey's death far and wide. Had they flown for Renly? That night was so chaotic, she could barely remember. They had certainly flown for Robb Stark and even for Balon Greyjoy. But now they flew for Joffrey … the worthiest of them all for such a dark and mortal honour.

The ease and grace with which kings died alarmed her. A matter of months ago, there were five of them. And now, with Stannis gone even from Dragonstone, there were none unless one counted plump little Tommen. Cersei may not have had her hand stuck up Tommen's arse, but he was still every inch her puppet. He did her bidding and he spoke her words and was a long way off from growing the spine he needed to stand up to her. How the realm would bleed while its king was a boy.

When the ravens vanished, she turned back toward the Maidenvault where her Grandmother held court. Her guards, Left and Right, stood over her, silent and stony faced as always. Everyone else tiptoed around her, kept constantly sheepish and jittery by that infamously barbed tongue. Olenna banished them all with a clap of her wizened hands when she noticed Margaery's approach from behind the rose trellises.

"Margaery, my dear, we shall take tea inside," she declared. Her code for when they spoke in strictest of secrecy.

She raised a smile. "I would like that."

Left and Right were left guarding the door. As nameless as they were, and Olenna never troubled herself to find out what they were really called, they were solid and trustworthy. None would enter on their watch.

The Maidenvault: a pretty name for what was a prison in which Baelor the Blessed kept his unfortunate womenfolk lest they should lead him into carnal temptation. The sept that bore his name now played host to the corpse of another King who had scorned the women in his life. It felt fitting in more ways than one. But, the Maidenvault was more than adequate for Margaery's needs. A spacious home within the Red Keep, central to everything with its own gardens and terraces overlooking the Blackwater.

Meanwhile, she escorted her grandmother deep within, the old lady leaning on her arm as they hobbled through the halls. They reached a solar, well away from the main entrance, with no places for little birds to hide. Outside the window was the curtain wall and a sheer drop into the Blackwater. Unless those little birds really had wings, they had no hope.

"I have been unable to locate the hairnet," Margaery said as they settled by the fire. "Sansa must have taken it with her."

Olenna stifled a laugh. "I don't know why you're so worried about it. Do you think I would have been so foolish as to use something that could be traced back to House Tyrell?"

"I know," Margaery replied, trying to keep her tone even. "I know all that. But still I feel as if we should get it and destroy it. While it exists, I cannot rest."

For a brief moment, Olenna held her gaze. Sharp as ever, but without malice or mocking. "My dear, even if I stripped to my name day gown and danced around Cersei singing "it was me! It was me!" her determination to blame Tyrion would render her selectively deaf to my confessions. What makes you think her finding Sansa with a poisoned hairnet will turn her attentions to us? If anything, it would only serve to validate her convictions all the more. In the meanwhile, Sansa Stark could be anywhere."

"She's heading for Riverrun," Margaery cut in. "The same castle our army has been commanded to take back for the Lannisters. Loras and Garlan are already preparing to leave."

Olenna skipped a beat. It was only a fleeting look of surprise, but she could tell her grandmother didn't know Sansa had gone there.

"What makes you say that?"

"Her sister is there," Margaery answered. "Loras told me the other day that Arya was taken to Riverrun. Tyrion knew as well and would have told Sansa."

They were supposed to be laying siege to Riverrun right at that moment, but Joffrey's death had delayed them. In three days, the funeral would take place and only then would Loras and Garlan leave for the Riverlands.

Olenna took a moment to process the information, her wizened brow knotted. "If Arya is at Riverrun, who's that girl being sent North to marry Roose Bolton's son?"

"What?" Now Margaery felt herself being thrown off-guard. "Everyone thought Arya was dead. Was she captured by the Freys?"

"No, child," Olenna answered. "She was here all along. Baelish had her hidden in one of his whorehouses and now he's seen fit to marry her off to the newly legitimised Ramsay Bolton."

Curious, Margaery thought to herself. "So, Roose Bolton is now Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell and his bastard son has been legitimised and named his heir. He has a new Stark bride to validate his claim, so they have the North all sewn up." She allowed herself a deep sigh. "If only half of what Sansa told me about Arya is true, Ramsay Bolton's going to have his work cut out in taming her."

"If only half of what they tell me about Ramsay Bolton is true, 'cut it out' is exactly what he will do to her," Olenna tersely replied. "Anyway, he has the wrong Stark girl. Sansa has the greater claim. She is Ned Stark's eldest, trueborn daughter. Gods, if we had acted sooner we could have gotten her to Highgarden and used her ourselves."

Margaery chafed against the word 'used', but she didn't let it show. Sometimes, she looked at people and wondered whether they remembered that the puppets they played with were other human beings with minds of their own. More and more often, she felt herself slipping into that world and slowly, she turned into one of them. It made her uncomfortable, but it had to be done. The game had to be played she'd rather be the puppet master than the puppet.

She swallowed and found her mouth dry. "Now that Sansa is so tragically about to be plunged into widowhood, and she's wanted for regicide, would there be worth in us finding her? If we succeed in bringing down House Lannister, we will need all the help we can get. And if Cersei knew-"

"It would be best if Cersei never finds out," Olenna retorted. "But the North is in disarray. True, most houses are still loyal to the Starks, others have gone to the Boltons and many are split down the middle. With so much chaos and confusion, it may well benefit us if we have the key to stabilisation in the region – the sweet and kind Sansa Stark. Many men would take up arms to defend such a Lady. She appeals to their foolish side."

Margaery laughed. "I suppose she does."

And Sansa had been her friend. True, she had been sent to befriend Sansa hoping to win her for Willas, bringing them the North – should they ever need it. But she soon found herself warming to the girl and she had begun to care and she cared still.

"Do you think that you, also, could appeal to the foolish side of the Tully's?" asked Olenna. "If you go with your brothers to negotiate a settlement, you could find out if Sansa is there, get that wretched hairnet back and, possibly, even deliver the keys of Riverrun to Cersei while you're about it."

"Me?" she asked, surprised. "If you trust in my abilities to reach a peaceful settlement, then I would gladly go."

"Loras and Garlan will be with you," Olenna assured her. "And a host of one and a half-thousand. You'll be living in siege conditions, so you'll bloody love that. And if that castle surrenders, make sure you get Sansa and get her to Highgarden. We might be able to make use of her. When the Lannisters finally come crashing down, we would do well to make peace with their enemies."

"And just about the entire North are their enemies," Margaery continued. "What about Arya? If she's here, we would do well to protect her, too. Restoring one of the Ned Stark's daughters would win us friends in the North. Restoring both would be better yet."

Olenna thought about it for a while, weighing up the options. "True. And if you have Arya with you, then Brynden Tully will have no choice but to come out of his castle and see for himself."

"How will the Queen react if her great northern marriage falls through?"

"She barely cares what happens in the North now that the Boltons are in control," Olenna explained. "It was Baelish who arranged the match, not Cersei. Cersei had no idea Arya was even still in the capital."

"So, Baelish won't be happy if his puppet bride is snatched away from under him?" she ventured, growing hopeful that she could ruin his game. "Baelish knows what we did to Joffrey, but is equally as culpable as us. Would he betray us?"

"He cannot, not without implicating himself. Besides, there's ways of going about this without him finding out it was us," Olenna replied. "She can always escape and vanish into thin air. Regardless, make no fuss, my dear. If you can manage to capture the girl, then do. But I would rather you focus on Sansa. She's the one you need. Arya is expendable, to put no finer point on it."

Cold, but true. "I suppose you're right. Are there any assurances that I can offer Lord Brynden in return for the surrender or Riverrun? Surely, if we bring about the fall of House Lannister, it will serve us best to restore the Tullys and gain the support of the Riverlands. But Tully won't take my word for it. He will want something in return. Something more than his lost great niece. The only thing we have going for us is that the Red Wedding was none of our doing."

Olenna paled. "As for that … butchery…" For once, words failed her and she had to pause to regain her composure. "We cannot afford to let on to anyone what we're about, what we're really seeking to do. Tell him nothing, but try to win his trust. In the meantime, your wedding to the child King is being negotiated. Escape while you can and make the most of this all too-brief respite."

If she never wed again, it would be too soon for Margaery. At nights, she still dreamed of Joffrey and his swelling, purple face. She could still see the fear in his bloodshot eyes as the breath was choked out of him as the Strangler did its work. Marriage was a very unfortunate state of affairs.

The Brotherhood were like ghosts. They materialised, soundless and effortless, out of thin air. They ambushed, assaulted and leapt down from the boughs of trees, descending on their foe like the wind. And, from what Robb could see, they genuinely distributed their spoils among the smallfolk. They stopped at Inn where the proprietor had taken in orphans – orphans his war had made – and was raising them as her own with the help of the Brotherhood.

They never stayed more than one night in the same place. They were constantly moving. Always on the side-roads, away from main thoroughfares. Often, they had nowhere to stay at all and made do with sheltering beneath trees. On such nights, Robb lay awake and listened to the howling of the wolfpack and the patter of rain against the overhead canopy of leaves. It was cold and constantly wet, to the point where he never thought to be properly dry again.

All the while, his injuries still played up. Both places where the crossbow quarrels had hit him reopened, all of Septon Meribald's good work coming undone. He refused to complain, not after seeing the devastation endured by others. After the massacre, he could only think of his mother, wife and unborn child. Then the men he had lost. Now that well of guilt was expanding still, to accommodate the orphans and widows and the displaced elderly who had been chased off their lands and forced to seek sanctuary elsewhere.

By the time they forded the Blue Fork and they were on the final stretch of their journey to Riverrun, the infection was back. He was left feverish and shaking again, weak and struggling to keep up with his companions. Only the knowledge that they were trying to outrun Walder Frey's army kept him going. They would be coming to lay siege to Riverrun, the Lannisters would be coming up from the south to do the same. And he had to get home before any of them did. If he lost any more time, he would be too late.

The nearer he got to Riverrun, the more acute his fears became.

"What happens if we reach Riverrun and find the place surrounded by lions already?" he asked, one night. They had set up camp in the woods five miles from Riverrun, under the cover of trees.

Harwin was with him, as always. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"But, what if it does?" Robb persisted.

"There are other ways in," Harwin pointed out. "There's a water gate and you've proved yourself a strong swimmer already."

"Or, I could stay with you."

Harwin hesitated, before giving their camp fire a thoughtful poke with a stick. "And why would you want to stay with us?"

Robb had been giving it some serious thought for days now. "Because I've seen what you do, the people you're helping. If it hadn't been for the war, these people wouldn't be in this situation to begin with. What better way to make a difference than by giving up my lands and titles to help them get their lives back? I can make it right again."

He remembered Harwin as a stocky man, but clean shaven. Now he wore a thick beard and he was thinner, showing the privations of his new lifestyle. Robb was not deterred.

"You misunderstand us, my lord," he now replied. "We protect the smallfolk with the means we have available to us. The means you have available to you are the means to restore order from above."

Robb rolled his eyes. "Just because I'm highborn-"

"It's not that," Harwin broke him off. He always did speak boldly. "Beric's a fucking Highborn, my lord, and here he is: slumming it with the commonest of us."

"Then what? If Beric can do it, so can I. I can help you. You know I can fight."

"I don't doubt your abilities, my lord-"

"I'm not your lord," Robb cut in, defensively. "I'm nobody's lord. I have nothing. I am one of them."

He gestured to the Riverlands at large, meaning the displaced smallfolk that now populated it. To his annoyance, Harwin laughed loudly. Wolves howled in response, as if they found Robb's ideas for a new future hilarious too.

"You can't give up being Lord Eddard Stark's eldest trueborn son," said Harwin, good naturedly. "Listen, my lord, and listen well. You could join us, you're probably a better fighter and general than all of us. But you can't use the suffering of these people as an easy way to assuage your guilt. Not when you could be doing so much more."

Robb felt himself reddening in anger. "That is not what I am doing and you know it. I want to help, I want to join you, permanently and put it all right."

"You're not listening, boy!" Harwin spoke in a low growl, a feral glint in his grey eyes. "The best you can do is put this right is by regrouping what's left of your forces, regaining your health and your strength, and liberating the Riverlands and the North as soon as you can. That is how you can help. Your tore the land asunder, but the Freys and the Lannisters will do a lot worse and well you know it. Don't let them. Don't just cut and run. Fight and fight again."

Robb simmered down, turning away from Harwin to look into the flames of the camp fire. "And how am I supposed to do that? I have no armies, no bannermen, I don't even know if my little sister is alive."

Harwin was thoughtful again, rubbing his bearded chin. "I wish I could tell you. But I cannot. I knew your father, and remember him as fondly as I remember my own father. He had faith in you, and so do I."

Robb almost laughed aloud, but it made his injuries cry in pain. "And what do you think my father would make of me now?" he asked, bitterly. "The Starks have ruled the North since time immemorial, until me. Until I fucked up and lost it all in the space of a few months. And that's what hurts the most, Harwin. I can't stop thinking of how father would be looking at me now. I remember when I was child, and I did something that disappointed him, he had this look in his eye. Some fathers would shout and rage, others would whip their children's arses to the bone. But mine just got that look in his eyes, the silence that thickened around him, and you knew you'd fucked up completely. Seeing that look in his eye was more painful than any beating."

He almost broke down, but fought to keep his emotions in check. Something Harwin seemed to understand as he swung himself in front of Robb, shielding him from the others in the camp. Their faces were inches apart.

"And that's it," said Harwin. "That's why I can't let you join us, Robb. Because every day you're going to live with the shame of dishonouring your father. Your debt is to him and your forebears and the North. That is your fight, so fight it."

It was so easily said and words are wind. But he was right.

"The Northern Lords will never accept me back," he said, morosely. "I let them down. Their men died for me."

"They knew that when they called their banners for you," Harwin pointed out. "They knew that when they called you King in the North when you were barely fifteen."

"They didn't know they'd be sold out to the Ironborn and slaughtered at a wedding feast," Robb interjected. "And my brothers are dead, my sister is a Lannister, Arya could be anywhere."

"Win back your losses and you'll win back the respect of the North," Harwin said. "With all due respect, my lord, you're making excuses. By all means, hide away and let the shame and guilt eat at you day-by-day. Grow into an angry, bitter old man. But do it alone. Otherwise, count your losses and regroup and fight for your honour."

It was then that it occurred to him. He remembered that rain drenched night at Hag's Mire, when he signed his will and legitimised Jon. The breath caught in his throat, even though his cause was still hopelessly bleak. He sat up, looked Harwin in the eye.

"Jon is my heir," he said. "I legitimised him. I sent my will to him at Castle Black. He's every bit a Stark as I am now, and if the Lords won't accept me, they'll accept him."

"Where is your will now?"

Robb had no idea. The guard he sent sailed on a ship called the Myraham, it originally came from Oldtown. That was all he knew. His hope faded, but didn't die altogether.

"Ser Ilyn Payne is outside, your grace. He has the girl." Megga curtsied sweetly as she announced their guests.

Margaery didn't even try to suppress her sigh of relief as she set down the book she'd been trying to read. Although getting an illiterate mute to carry out this highly sensitive mission had been an undoubtedly good idea, she was still worried that the brothel keeper might give him a hard time. However, she should have known, no one dared defy the King's justice, even if he walked into an establishment with a scrap of parchment bearing only a name and no seal.

Shaking out her skirts and taking some gold coins from her purse, she went to greet the grim-faced headsman. He was a tall man, with cold, dead eyes and showed not even a trace of emotion as she approached him. All the same, she smiled brightly and thanked him warmly.

"Take this coin as your payment, ser Ilyn," she said. "We thank you most kindly."

Turning to Megga, she added. "Cousin, be so kind as to give Ser Ilyn some of our Arbour gold. A fine vintage, if it please you. Show him out and then send Ser Loras in."

Ser Ilyn left, taking his foul stench with him but leaving behind a trembling, terrified girl. She was dressed in a full-length cloak that completely covered her, hood and all, and it rendered her shapeless. All the same, Margaery could see her shaking like a leaf. From beneath the hood, the occasional sniff and sob emanated.

"Lady Arya," said Margaery softly, trying to peer beneath the deep hood. "Lady Arya, I would be honoured if you would join me for some wine and lemon cakes." She laughed and added: "This time, you won't have to fight Sansa for them."

The girl hiccuped and sobbed harder. Desperate for a way to soothe the girl, Margaery steered her into the Maidenvault to get her out of the rain. Although she flinched from her touch, Arya obediently followed and allowed Margaery to remove her cloak. Underneath that, she was dressed in a simple linen shift and stood with her head down and her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapped protectively around the middle. She was shivering from cold.

"Lady Arya, please sit by the fire." She gestured to an empty chair, but the girl still didn't look up.

The impression she had of Arya Stark was something half-wild, but this girl was timid and dared not speak a word. So much so, that Margaery had to guide her into the chair and again the girl flinched and shied from her. Then, Margaery caught sight of her back through the shift she wore. It was criss-crossed with scars, some old and faded, many fresh and raw looking. The child had been whipped mercilessly. Small wonder she trembled so.

"Who did this?" Margaery asked, her voice low. "Arya, I am to marry the King and will soon be Queen. Tell me who did this and I will see that receive thrice what they gave to you."

The girl's head snapped up, looking at her at last. She was such a pretty child, with large, deep brown eyes and a round face framed by thick chestnut curls. But those eyes were filled with terror.

"Men," she stammered, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Just men."

Margaery softened, letting her anger pass lest the girl should become even more terrified. "Do you know their names? Was it Baelish?"

She violently convulsed at the sound of his name. So much so, Margaery gathered her up in her arms and held her gently.

"Hush child," she cooed. "Now is not the time for revenge, I understand. Now is the time to get you back to your family. Sansa misses you so much; she talks about you all the time, child. Can you imagine her face when she sees you again?"

Arya responded by breaking down in tears, her small and emaciated body wracked with heaving sobs. When Loras appeared minutes later, she motioned him to wait outside until the girl had composed herself. Once she was wrapped up in one of Margaery's own cloaks and she'd had a gulp or two of wine, Loras was beckoned back inside.

"Is this Lady Arya?" he asked in a whisper.

"Look at Ser Loras, child," she beckoned.

To her surprise, Arya did so and met her brother's gaze with a glimmer of hope shining in her wide eyes. Loras, meanwhile, studied her intently for what felt an age. There was recognition in his eyes, at least.

"I saw you, didn't I?" he asked. "You were sat next to Sansa at the Tourney of the Hand."

Arya almost buckled with relief. "A r-rose. Y-you g-g-gave my sister a red rose."

"Yes, I remember you now," he said, then turned to Margaery. "This is definitely Arya Stark. She was there when I beat the Mountain. She screamed when he killed his horse."

"I remember you so well, ser," Arya said, a little bolder now that someone had verified her identity. "You were the most gallant knight there."

"That's very kind of you, my lady," Loras replied. "And now that we have found you, you have my word as a knight that no one will hurt you again."

The girl was almost hyperventilating. "R-ramsay-"

"Ramsay be damned," Margaery cut her off. Not only had she been grossly abused, she was about to be wed to the son of the man who murdered her entire family. "Listen carefully, you must return to the brothel for another two days. The morning after next, at dawn, two of our men will come for you. They will give the names "Left" and "Right". Don't resist them. Don't be afraid. They are working for us and will bring you to the city gates, where I will be waiting for you. From there, we go on to Riverrun."

The wedding to Ramsay Bolton was some way off, Margaery knew, and Baelish hadn't been seen since the King was poisoned. With luck, it might even be a few weeks before anyone noticed Arya was missing. However, the girl looked terrified at the prospect of being sent back to that place. She was crying again, shaking badly.

"Please, your grace, don't make me go back!"

Margaery had no choice. Even though Ilyn could say nothing and sign nothing, it could still fall back on them.

"Arya," she said, cupping the girls tear-stained face. "You have survived until now because you're strong and determined. You're wild and free-spirited, just as Sansa told me. Don't let them break you. Remember who you are."

Silenced, the girl nodded.

"Very good," said Margaery. "Now take these treats and go back. Tell the brothel keeper Ser Ilyn only wanted you for a courtly guest."

Seconds later, the girl was back out of the door and Margaery had never felt so appalled before in her life.

Robb could hardly breathe. He'd been shoved onto a cart and had sacks of wheat, grain and barley packed on top of him, neatly arranged so he could just about breathe. The produce was donated by a farmstead still loyal to House Tully. His vision, however, was restricted to nothing more than the sacks that weighed him down. A donkey pulled the cart, bumping and jolted over every bump in the road, until they reached the drawbridge of Riverrun.

Harwin led the donkey, dressed in roughspun and waving a white flag so the guards wouldn't shoot him on sight. All the same, the challenge was issued.

"Who goes there?"

"Harwin," came the reply. "A Northman once sworn to Lord Eddard of House Stark. I come with a gift from the Brotherhood Without Banners."

"Outlaws!" one of the guards sneered.

"We are king's men through and through," Harwin answered. "I would speak with Lord Brynden, the Blackfish."

Robb willed the ordeal to be over. His rib cage couldn't take much more. But he couldn't risk showing himself, they needed to be sure that Brynden still held the castle. Somewhere, rusted chains groaned into life as the drawbridge was finally lowered. Robb only wished he could see what was happening. After what felt like an age and a day, voices spoke once more.

"You're settling in for a long siege, lads. I'd say the Blackfish will be grateful for the grain."

"We'll see about that," answered another man.

Above him, Robb heard a sack being cut and grain spilling out.

"I come under a banner of peace," Harwin continued. "Please, let me pass. You can see I am alone."

More deliberation, before finally a guard answered. "Come on in then. No further than the yard. The Blackfish is armed and waiting."

The donkey move off and Robb was once more being jolted and bumped along. A sensation made worse when they reached the cobbles and he tried to keep silent. His senses strained as they came to a halt in the courtyard, and he held his breath.

"What have you got there?"

Robb almost cried at the sound of his great-uncle's voice.

"Two sacks of wheat, my lord," Harwin answered, pulling them off and dumping them on the ground. "Two sacks of barley… Two sacks of grain…"

Robb's vision suddenly cleared as the sacks where pulled off him, giving him an unimpeded view of the sky above. Still deep in the cart, no one else could see him. Until…

"And finally, my lord, one King in the North."

Harwin leaned into the cart and hauled Robb out bodily, setting him carefully down on the cobbles. Robb's knees almost buckled, his legs barely holding his weight. Meanwhile, the first person he saw was Brynden, staring at him in open-mouthed amazement. Robb steadied himself, grabbing the side of the cart before he fell.

"Robb!"

A small girl's shrill voice split the air.

"Uncle," he said, smiling crookedly. "Arya!"

She leapt on him, knocking him to the ground. Her skinny arms wrapped around his neck tightly, but Robb didn't mind the strangulation. He hugged her back, gripping her tightly.

"Little sister," he laughed. "Arya, thank the gods you're safe."

He pulled away to look at her properly. She still looked like a little boy.

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