Thank you to everyone who has read, alerted and favourited this story. Especially those who have taken time to review. It all means a lot, so thank you.
Chapter Six: Bastards and Beautiful Things
Only the scratching of a quill against parchment broke the silence in the room. With every word Robb wrote, he was conscious of the Tyrell army getting one step closer to the castle. One more word; one more forward step of the enemy. Therefore, lack of time and a growing sense of desperation dictated the tone of the letter he wrote. 'Dear Jon, I'm not dead…' to the point, no explanations of how, when or why. Just a bald statement of fact.
Even as he continued writing, Arya melted grey wax in a small pan held over a candle flame. She looked tense, her knuckles white where she gripped the damp cloth wrapped around the handle. Not that he blamed her. Whenever he thought of the army now beginning to gather around Riverrun, his throat constricted as if a noose were slowly closing around his throat. He scrawled his signature in a hurry and took the melted wax to affix his seal.
His uncle took the letter, signed it as a formal witness, verifying everything that was said and affixed his own seal of blue wax embossed with a leaping trout. After that, the act of succession redrawn, stipulating that Jon was now heir presumptive of the North and henceforth freed from his Night's Watch vows. He knew he had no real authority to do it, but without Jon the Stark line could well be extinct.
"Don't forget his legitimisation," said Arya, sliding over another sheet of parchment.
But it was already signed, sealed and ready for delivery. His late mother would be furious, but this was no time to fret over the troubles of the dead.
"Harwin," he said, looking to the hooded man in the shadows. "It's time. Take these to Castle Black with all haste. I would recommend riding hard for Seagard and taking ship to Bear Island. But I don't know the situation with the Ironborn. If you deem it too risky, then by all means travel by land."
Harwin drew up his hood and sheathed a long, lethally sharp dirk at his hip. On the other, Robb knew, he wore a new sword of castle forged steel, but that was concealed by his full-length cloak – a gift from the castle seamstress. "Whatever it takes, your grace, this message will be in the hands of Jon Stark before you know it. None shall stand in my way."
Harwin was Winterfell's Master of Horse. His father was Master of Horse before him. Robb knew he could ride through seven hells and still be home in time for supper. But, after all that had befallen his house, worry and anxiety had become a natural state of being.
"Good luck," he bid the man.
With that, Harwin touched his fingers to his brow in a gesture of farewell before striding out into the hallway beyond. A black charger was harnessed and awaiting him in the courtyard below. Nervously, Robb glanced out of the window again to see the host of golden roses gathering below. In the middle of them, an ornate wheelhouse was ambling along at a leisurely pace. For a moment, he wondered who was in it.
"He should be gone before they block the exits," the Blackfish assured him.
"Yes." He was absent minded now.
A small hand folded around his own. "You've done what you can." Arya looked up at him, her grey eyes wide but with just a glimmer of dull hope remaining. "Even if the Night's Watch won't let him go, he'll defy them," she said, optimistically. "We're his real family, not the brothers of the Night's Watch. He'll do it for us. He'll do it for father, for Bran and for Rickon. And Sansa, too."
But what can he do? Robb wondered. He was just one man sworn to a life of celibacy in a brotherhood far, far away. Between Jon and them there was league upon leagues of hostile territory. And, the gods knew, they'd grown up seeing what happened to Night's Watch deserters.
"A raven came from Castle Black, not so long ago, from the Maester," said the Blackfish, jolting him out of his thoughts. "He said there's an army of dead men marching on the wall."
Robb frowned. "Dead men?"
"That's just silly," Arya said.
"Old Aemon Targaryen may be as ancient as the hills," Blackfish stated. "But 'silly' he certainly isn't. Be that as it may, it's not our fight. Whatever's happening north of the wall, the wall will hold them off."
Robb shrugged. "I suppose. It's stood for thousands of years, after all. Anyway, sounds like a euphemism to me. Whatever he means by 'dead men', I hope Jon can clear it up … if we see him again."
He turned back to the window, checking on the Tyrells. Still marching up the road, he was relieved to see. Harwin would surely be saddled up and ready to go by now? All the same, he strode out of the room and made haste to the gate tower overlooking the road north. The Blackfish was right beside him, with Arya jogging to try and keep up. They made it in time to see the black charger galloping off across the drawbridge, Harwin's new cloak billowing out behind him as he sped away before the advancing army.
"There he goes," he murmured.
"He'll make it," Arya said, determined. "I know he will. Then he'll come straight back and Jon will be with him."
Robb wished he shared her optimism.
"Arya," said the Blackfish. "My squire's down in the inner courtyard looking for a fight. Why don't you give him what he wants?"
She looked to Robb for approval, which he gladly gave. "Go, and knock him into the dirt. I'll be watching!"
The seamstress had made new clothes for her, too. A nice grey and white tunic of wool over similar woollen breeches. Her boots were tooled leather. Robb couldn't help but wonder how long they'd last as she sped away. Inside the walls, she would be safe from the army surrounding them now if they decided to let loose a few volleys of arrows. With no sign of siege engines on the horizon, he allowed himself a little more security and his sister a little more freedom. At least, while it lasted.
Meanwhile, still in the gatehouse, Brynden looked worried. "Your mother really didn't trust that bastard boy of your father's. Just as she never trusted Theon Greyjoy, or Roose Bolton, or Walder Frey- "
"Jon is not like them," he cut in.
"With all due respect, you said that about Theon Greyjoy when insisted he return to the Iron Islands."
The truth of his words stung him, but Jon was different. He knew Jon was different. "My mother hated Jon because she had no one else to blame my father's infidelity on. So, she lashed out at him. He did nothing to deserve it."
The Blackfish backed down, his blue eyes growing dull with defeat. "Catelyn was a kind and loving woman. You couldn't have had a better mother than her. There must have been something else about that boy that set her on edge. She wasn't the type- "
"She did!" Robb cut in again. "I loved her as much as you, Uncle. More, since she was my mother and you only ever get one of those. No one can replace her in my life. But I won't make excuses for the way she treated Jon. Now I think we ought to concentrate on the Tyrells. It's them at our gates, not Jon nor anyone else."
In case either of them needed reminding that they were now under siege, the air around them was rent by the blasting of horns and the cries of the garrison. Rusted chains clanked and groaned as the drawbridge was raised and the portcullis dropped. Every gate was sealed and locked. Archers ran to take up positions along the battlements, every murder hole in every tower was suddenly occupied.
Robb watched it all happen in a daze. Even though he had been fully prepared for the siege, he hadn't expected to feel like a rabbit caught in a snare, only able to watch the enemy circling slowly inwards. There was no going back now: they were trapped.
"Is Aunt Lysa worth a try?" he asked. "The Lords of the Vale could lift this siege. Surely, she is worried about her childhood home, her brother and you, if not a nephew she's never even met before."
"Now that the Tyrells are here," Brynden replied. "We won't even be able to get a message to her. Not unless someone fancies a swim across the fork and even that will be risky. If they're seen they'll be shot at with arrows. Any raven will be shot down on sight."
"She'll hear about it all the same," Robb said, desperately.
The Blackfish shrugged. "Lysa is … an unusual woman. Don't bank on her for anything."
They lapsed into silence as the first lines of Tyrell men reached the outskirts of the castle. Immediately, they began setting up camp with tents and marquees. Small fires were started, ready to feed the hungry army. Within a day, this whole castle would be surrounded, save for the river. The wheelhouse he had seen earlier was still on the move, trundling up the road with a large Tyrell banner fluttering from a pole fixed to the roof.
"Do you know any of them?" Robb asked, glancing at his uncle.
"I met Mace once," said Brynden. "I defeated him at the Tourney of Storm's End, many moons ago now. If that's him in the wheelhouse, there's little to fear. He was a pompous fool with a fat head. His mother, on the other hand, may be almost as old as Maester Aemon, but she could tear these walls down with her wits alone, if I remember her rightly."
Robb couldn't help but smile. "We better hope the wheelhouse isn't hers, then."
Even Brynden laughed. "I doubt it. You can't have a lady as old as that at a siege."
"Why did Cersei send them? Why not the Lannisters themselves, since they're so friendly with the Freys now."
The Blackfish looked puzzled. "Who knows? Mace Tyrell may have been stubborn when he laid siege to Storm's End, all those years ago. But he still lost when your father broke his lines."
While he spoke, the wheelhouse had come to a halt just before the bridge over the moat. Or rather, where the bridge once was. It had already been raised, preventing any Tyrell was getting over the moat. The Tyrell banner was taken down by a young squire and, in its place, a white flag was run up the pole.
"They want to parley," said Robb, breathing an audible sigh of relief. "Uncle, I want to be there."
Brynden gave it a moment's consideration. "Go and put your livery on, remember who you're supposed to be. I'll tell them you're my cup-bearer."
Robb nodded, turning to look again at the wheelhouse. He couldn't make out the finer features of the people's faces, but he saw a young woman unfolding herself elegantly from the back seat of the carriage. She stood up with her back straight, hazel brown curls falling down her back, off-set by a pale blue silk gown. She turned her face to the gatehouse, but whether she could see him or not, he could not tell.
"Lady Margaery," said Brynden. He looked puzzled again. "They've sent the dowager Queen."
The rain had eased to a fine mist, and for that Margaery was grateful as she turned to get her first proper look at Riverrun. It was a formidable castle, ringed by thick curtain walls. Something she was even more grateful for than the weather was the white peace banner flying proudly from her carriage. Especially when she noted the archers now lining the battlements and peering down from the murder holes.
No wonder Cersei sent them. It was impossible to have this castle surrounded completely. Not unless they built wharfs out into the river, and they would be destroyed from above as quick as her men could erect them. She noted two pale faces watching from a window in the gatehouse, just as one ducked out of sight.
"Sister."
Garlan approached her from the other side of the wheelhouse, holding open a pale green cloak for her.
"Thank you, brother."
She allowed him to drape it over her shoulders as she groped for the sleeves, wrapping it up snugly around herself. It was colder than she expected, with the first hints of winter in the air.
"Loras and I are going to ask for the parley now." Garlan eyed the archers. "In the meantime, I think you should remain here."
He and Loras were both armoured, while she wore silks and a woollen cloak. "Very well, and good luck."
While he went in search of Loras, she opened up the wheelhouse door again. Inside, Jeyne sat bundled up in a new cloak of Tyrell colours. She still hadn't heard back from anyone about a place for her, but it wouldn't be much longer. In the meantime, Margaery kept the girl close and wanted to check on her one last time.
"Do you remember who you're supposed to be?" she asked.
Jeyne nodded. "Esme Flowers, your illegitimate cousin."
Margaery gave her an encouraging smile. "You can stay here with Loras for now. I'll warn ser Brynden that someone was set up as Arya Stark, but he won't know it was you."
In the week or so since learning the truth, it had been clear that Jeyne was still loyal to the Starks. She had only gone along with the marriage plan to get out of that brothel, away from the clawing men who groped at her and used her, exercising their sick desires on her. Anyone in that situation would have done the same. But she had still agreed to marry the enemy of House Stark and the guilt weighed heavily on the poor girl.
Now, Jeyne peered out of the open door of the wheelhouse, looking up at the direwolf banners still flying from the battlements.
"What will you do to the people inside?" she asked, fearful. "Will they be killed?"
"No, child," Margaery assured her. "All we're doing is talking to Ser Brynden. We will see if we can reach an amicable settlement. If we cannot, we will decide what to do next when we reach that bridge."
Before the girl could say anything else, Garlan interrupted them.
"Sister, they're letting us in."
Already. Margaery leaned inside, hugged Jeyne briefly and shut her back inside. Loras would take care of her, as she promised. Meanwhile, she turned to face the uncompromising edifice of Riverrun's curtain walls. The drawbridge was still up as Garlan offered her his arm, which she linked her own around and began walking.
Those granite-grey walls blended perfectly with the slate-grey skies that loured overhead. Still a fine rain fell, misting her cloak and dampening her hair. The wind was the coldest she had known. A soft breeze, blowing from the rivers in reality, but it chilled to the bone.
"Do you know Ser Brynden?" she asked, just as the drawbridge began to lower.
"Only be reputation," he replied.
To meet the man himself, she wasn't kept waiting long. The drawbridge lowered, revealing a man in late middle-age, with iron grey hair and a sword at his hip. He stood there in silence, regarding them coolly through bright blue eyes. His arms were folded across his middle, his expression unreadable.
Garlan halted their walk across the drawbridge and opened his cloak. Reaching for his sword belt he took the weapon off and held it out.
"Ser Brynden, thank you for agreeing to meet us. I am Garlan, of House Tyrell and this is my sister, Lady Margaery."
Brynden Tully came up to meet them half-way, whereupon he took Garlan's sword. "Well met Ser, and my lady."
He also disarmed.
"How do you do, my lord," Margaery greeted him. "You can see that I am unarmed."
She took off her cloak so that he could see for himself, only her gown was beneath and there was nowhere to conceal a sword. Still he hesitated, watching as they got wet in the persistent drizzle. After what seemed an age, the older man beckoned towards his castle.
"Come, let us negotiate."
They were soon led within the walls, to a well garrisoned castle. Silence fell as they passed, however. A thick and smothering silence that carried with it the barely concealed hostility in the eyes of the hundreds of men now watching their progress across the courtyard. Despite her straight-backed stance, Margaery felt herself shrinking inside, just a little.
As she went, she caught the eye of a small boy in a woollen cloak of grey and white. The look in his eyes was one of pure hatred, the grip on his wooden sword tightened. Grey and white – Stark colours, she remembered. She tried to smile at the boy, a gesture made easier when she realised the boy was, in fact, a girl.
Brynden's pace did not let up until they were in the keep and being led up some turret stairs. She exchanged a look with Garlan, wondering if this was normal. But, they were only being led to a solar. Inside, it was warm and a fire was crackling in the wide, stone hearth. It was positively homely, after weeks on the roads in the unrelenting rain.
"Please, take a seat," said Ser Brynden, gesturing to two chairs arranged at the side of a trestle table. "Wine and refreshment is on its way."
Both she and Garlan thanked the man for his hospitality. Thanks that had barely left their lips when the servant's entrance to the back of the solar opened, admitting a young lad of about sixteen or seventeen dressed in red and blue livery, a silver leaping trout was embroidered into the breast. His hair was auburn, his eyes a piercing, dazzling blue. For just a brief moment, his gaze locked into that of Margaery's, almost causing her to blush and look away. It remained a brief moment, broken by Ser Brynden's introduction.
"Let me introduce you to my bastard son," he said, gesturing to the young man. "Tristifer Rivers."
The lad inclined his head in a gesture of respect. Meanwhile, Margaery continued to appraise him.
"Tristifer," she said, a smile slowly playing across her lips. "Like the Hammer of Justice."
There was a moment of silence in which both Tully and Rivers seemed surprised that she knew who Tristifer Mudd was. A smile passed between father and son, causing the son's blue eyes to glitter.
"Apologies, my lord, I heard the story when I was a girl."
"Don't apologise, my lady, there's nothing wrong with remembering our history," the Blackfish assured her. "Wine please, Tristifer."
As the cup-bearer set about his work, Garlan opened up proceedings. "My sister and I would like to begin by expressing our condolences on the loss of your niece, Lady Stark and your great-nephew. It may mean little and less coming from House Tyrell, who're allied to House Lannister, but that massacre was none of our doing. And I hope you understand that."
Allied to House Lannister. In this place, among these people, the words made Margaery's flesh crawl. All the same, she looked to her host and saw his jaw clench, a nerve pulsing in his temple. Garlan's sentiments didn't just mean very little within these walls, they made the man angry. Even poor Tristifer had spilled his wine. He recovered himself in time and proceeded to decant into each of their glasses.
"I met Lady Stark at Storm's End," she said, addressing Ser Brynden. "I would never claim to know her well, but I spoke with her on a few occasions. She was a brave and courageous woman, and you must have been very proud of her."
"None could have been more proud than I, my lady," Brynden tersely assured her.
"She tried to broker a peace deal between Renly and Stannis," Margaery continued. "Had she succeeded, this realm would already be at peace by now."
Brynden now fixed her with a measured look, weighing her up. However, that was as close as she was willing to get to admitting she loathed the Lannisters as much as he and that her house was seeking their destruction as much as any other. She pretended not to notice that look by transferring her attention to Tristifer, who was still decanting wine neatly into goblets. He was a little old to be a cup-bearer, but she supposed the castle staff was running low in the siege and that the children had been taken to safety.
He appeared beside her, ready to fill her glass. As he did so, he glanced sidelong at her. His jaw was lined with stubble, a deep russet colour. His hair auburn, and pale skinned.
"That's enough for me," she said, placing her hand over her cup. "Thank you, Tristifer."
He looked at her properly, then. Meeting her gaze again, he nodded but said nothing as he withdrew. Once Garlan was served, Tristifer retreated to the side lines where Margaery could not see him. However, Brynden commanded all of their attention now.
"The short story of this siege is that I will not yield this castle," he said, resolutely. "You can bring the armies of the seven hells and I will not surrender. We will not be moved. And you can tell Cersei that and you can tell her the direwolf still flies over Riverrun, as it does at Raventree Hall and Seagard alike. One day, I promise her, the direwolf will once more fly over the walls of Winterfell."
This defiance was nothing more than she expected. Both she and Garlan expected it.
"The direwolf of House Stark belongs over Winterfell, my lord," said Garlan, leaning forward in his seat. "It has done for thousands of years. It belongs over Winterfell as much as the leaping trout belongs over the walls of Riverrun. House Tyrell does not dispute this. However, the same cannot be said for House Lannister- "
"And you're here at the Lannister's behest," Tully broke in. "I understand all that; you're here to do their bidding and not your father's. But you may as well turn around now and go back to Cersei Lannister and tell her it is futile."
Tristifer emerged from the shadows of the solar, his expression hardening. The look in his eyes now sent a frisson of danger shivering down her spine. She felt the temperature in the room suddenly drop.
"Tell her the North remembers," he said, voice low and icy.
"I will," she assured him, keeping her tone even. "Anything you want us to convey to the Queen Mother and we will."
"My sister speaks true," Garlan backed her up. "We may be here to do Lannister bidding, but we're still Tyrells and Tyrells keep their word and honour their promises. I can assure you of that, my lord. And we have news that may be of interest to you."
The tension dissipated, but not much. Brynden nodded, gesturing for one of them to continue. Which Margaery did.
"Petyr Baelish was keeping a servant girl in his brothel," she began, noting the Blackfish's eye-roll.
"That snake!" he guffawed.
"He gets worse, my lord," she said. "He planned on passing this servant girl off as Lady Arya and marrying her to Ramsay Bolton in order to prop up the Bolton's rule of the North."
"The girl had no choice," Garlan assured them. "It was that, or stay at the brothel and be abused for the rest of her life. She is barely ten years old and deeply afraid."
Both Tristifer and Brynden looked vaguely sickened.
"Needless to say, we have put a stop to his scheme and the girl is now being cared for," said Margaery. "When I took this girl from King's Landing, I was still under the impression that she was the real Arya Stark. My intention was to bring her here and return her to you for some concession. But even if it was for a concession, I hope you see from that that I mean you no harm."
"You would have handed her over in return for the surrender of the castle, you mean?" Bryden asked. It was purely rhetorical. "Even if it was the real Arya, the answer would have been no. So, here you are, with no bargaining chips but for a servant girl no one knows. I would say your position is weak and there's little left to discuss."
From where Margaery was looking, she could see no reason to disagree. Unwittingly, she caught Tristifer's eye again. He did not shy from her. She was glad of it, since he was rather pleasing to her own eyes.
Come dusk and they called a halt to proceedings. Something Robb was grateful for as he stepped out onto the solar terrace and looked out over the river. His livery had itched all through the talks, he was rubbish at being a cup-bearer and had to be reminded to top up every time. After dribbling wine in Ser Garlan's lap, Brynden had even been forced to give him a scolding, lest the situation look suspicious. Having taken his admonishment with good grace, he retreated back into the side lines where he had felt the most comfortable.
Now he could clear his head and breathe in the fresh river air. Always, after the rain, he could catch the scent of the rushing waters. Something that had always helped soothe him, even in times of high conflict.
"Hello." He had barely been out there a minute when Lady Margaery's voice drew him from his musings. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
Robb turned to face her, finding her standing in the doorway with her cloak over her shoulders.
"No, not at all," he replied. Remembering he was meant to be Brynden's bastard, he remembered his courtesies just a second too late. "My lady."
She smiled sweetly, waving his apologies away. "Please, just call me Margaery. Do you mind if I join you?"
He stepped aside, even though there was plenty of room on the terrace anyway. In reality, he thought, he really shouldn't be doing this. She was the enemy, here to do another enemy's bidding. But all through those talks, she had been unfailingly polite and kind. He hadn't expected her, nor had he given Lady Tyrell much thought. When he had, on those seldom occasions, he imagined a female Joffrey. What stood beside him now was quite the opposite.
"I hope your father won't be angry with you about spilling the wine," she said, glancing up at him. "It's not like you ruined Garlan's best breeches, they're just tatty old things."
Her eyes were golden-brown, the colour of dark honey. He felt them on him as her gaze raked over him, from head to toe.
"No, he'll be fine," he assured her. "And I hope you forgive his abruptness, my lady. Tension is high here. The war is not over. Not for us."
She said nothing for a long moment, but she continued looking at him. "I wondered where I had seen your face before."
"We've never met," he insisted, growing a little nervous now. "I would have remembered."
"No, no we haven't met. But your cousin. You look so much like your cousin, that I thought I had met you," she explained, stifling a laugh. "Silly of me, I know."
Out of pure habit, he thought she meant Lysa until he twigged that she could only mean his mother, Catelyn.
"I mean what I said about Lady Stark," she continued. "I really did admire her. Not just from those brief meetings with her, when she came to Storm's End. But from what your cousin, Lady Sansa, told me."
Robb's heart raced, he had almost forgotten that she would have known Sansa. "How is she? Do you know where she went?"
"No," she replied, looking genuinely regretful. "No, I don't know where she went. But she's a very dear friend of mine …" she blushed coyly. "I don't have a sister of my own, Tristifer. I rather hoped Sansa would become like one. News of her mother and brother's death broke her, I fear to say. She was holding out for Robb Stark to come riding through the gates of King's Landing, to take her home and keep her safe. After he was slain, I wouldn't have dared step into dead men's shoes."
Robb felt like he had been punched in the gut. "He left her there…" he murmured low.
All the same, Margaery heard him. "I really don't think he had much choice."
"But he did," he said. "He could have organised a proper prisoner exchange, he could have reached a settlement before it was too late. But he didn't."
She was looking at him again, her brow tightening into a frown. "People make mistakes, Tristifer. Hindsight is a bitch, too. My grandmother warned me that life can only be understood when you look back on it, once the mistakes have already been made. And she's right."
"I can't argue with that, my lady," he replied. There was another moment of silence in which Robb looked down at his boots, just in case she thought he was staring down her bodice. "Thank you, for being a friend to my cousin. I loved her well when I served my Cousin at Winterfell."
Margaery's eyes widened. "Oh, you served there? I did wonder; you have a bit of a northern accent. Sansa had it too."
He forced himself to laugh. But, before they could grow too comfortable in each other's presence, Ser Garlan appeared on the terrace, acknowledging him with a nod.
"Nice to meet you, Tristifer," he said. "Margaery, we're returning to camp now."
"Very well," she replied, fastening her cloak. "Again, I'm honoured to make your acquaintance, Tristifer."
He smiled again and offered his hand. "And mine. I hope we meet again."
He realised he meant it. Whatever else she was, she was a human being. A rather nice one, at that, or so it seemed to him. He watched her leaving with her arm locked into her brothers. Before vanishing from sight, she looked back at him over her shoulder, a smile on her lips and a curious look in those golden-brown eyes.
Thanks again for reading, reviews would be great if you have a minute.
A few readers have asked about Jon and when he'll be coming into the story. Well, in about two or three (max) chapters time, he will be appearing as a point of view character. There will be a few other PoV characters appearing over time, such as Sansa and Daenerys, but the focus will still be mostly on Robb and Marge.