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Chapter Seven: A Ghost in Riverrun

Sometimes, when the sun shone and burned away the thick river mists, the Riverlands would be revealed in all its glory. On days like that, Margaery ceased to notice the sprawling siege camp surrounding the castle as best they could. She and Jeyne could walk the riverbanks right up to where the Tumblestone flowed into the Red Fork, always under the watchful eyes of Tully soldiers that lined the battlements. She didn't fear them, but she stayed out of arrow range to play it safe.

"Aren't you afraid?" Jeyne asked her, on one such afternoon.

"Why should I be?" she had replied, with more confidence than she felt. "I am an unarmed woman who means no harm to them. And it's very beautiful here, don't you think?"

Nor was she lying. Under the shroud of mists, the Riverlands boasted wide fields of emerald green, fertile pastures and dense forests full of deer. And wolves. Even inside the protection of her camp she could hear the howling of a great wolfpack. Every morning, when she walked the outskirts of the woods, she would often stumble upon the remains of their feasts scattered on the edge of the land. Forest animals reduced to pulped flesh and bones. Probably the same deer she had been admiring the day before.

This close to the castle, she was beginning to notice the habits of some of its inhabitants. For instance, every evening – come sundown – Ser Brynden would walk the battlements, right up to the gatehouse. He always brought someone with him, more often than not it was the girl she had mistaken for a boy. Other times the Maester, often it was the Master at Arms: the more obvious of choices. But never the son.

Tristifer seemed to be left inside at all times. If she saw him at all, it was as he seemed to be admiring the view from his chamber windows, but he always seemed lost in thought. Looking without seeing. The other day, he had noticed her standing there, looking up at him. Their gaze met for just a moment, but he bowed his head to her and quickly reclined from view.

Did Brynden confine him to his turret because of his bastardy? All too many noble lords would have done that. However, it didn't seem likely since Tristifer was also doubling up as a cupbearer at their occasional parleys. Even so, there was something else about Tristifer that seemed to snag at her. He was a bastard born cupbearer and sometime squire, yet after their meeting he had lingered in her mind. Apart from the occasional interjections at their parleys, he barely spoke a word and lingered at the side lines. But his presence in the room was such that she never forgot that he was there. He was young, but he was man of a certain bearing.

While lost in her thoughts about the strong and brooding mystery bastard, Jeyne cut into her thoughts once more. "While you were in there, did you get to see if Sansa had arrived? I do miss her so, although I suspect she'll be displeased when she hears I pretended to be her sister."

That was a point. Sansa had seemingly vanished into thin air. "No, child. I'm sorry. They might have her somewhere I would never see her – it's a big enough castle and I'd understand why they would hide her. But I don't think she's here. There was another girl I saw, one I mistook for a boy, who I suspect is the real Arya Stark. But no Sansa."

Jeyne looked up at her from where she was wading in the shallows of the Tumblestone. "If you see her again, point her out to me and I'll tell you. I remember all the old Winterfell gang."

Margaery had found an old tree stump to sit on, which overlooked the waters of the Tumblestone, where it converged with the Red Fork in a strong and frothing current. Meanwhile, Jeyne's suggestion got her thinking. She suspected the Frey's wouldn't give up Edmure for anything, but their Northern hostages could be another matter. It was Riverrun they wanted, after all. Not Winterfell or the North. And if Walder Frey was as loyal to Roose Bolton as he was Robb Stark, then they might just be able to prise a few notable names from the dungeons of the Twins.

"Jeyne, would you be able to identify many Stark bannermen?" she asked.

She stopped wading and turned to give Margaery an apologetic look. "Some, but not many. They came and went from Winterfell all the time and my father dealt with them all. But I didn't pay enough attention."

Small wonder, she would have been a child at best and the intervening years would have eroded what she did know. But still, it was worth a try.

"Are there any at all that you think you would remember?"

"The Cerwyns," she replied. "Their son played with us at Winterfell, but I heard he is dead now. The Karstarks visited often. The Manderlys, too. The Hornwoods, Glovers and Mormonts. But I wouldn't know the Mountain Clans, or anything like that. But I know the sigils and their house words. I memorised them all in lessons."

She looked proud of herself and Margaery smiled at her approvingly. Meanwhile, the seed of an idea took root in her mind. Something she discussed with her brothers that night.

"If we can get inside the Twins with Jeyne, she can give us a better idea of who is still alive and held captive," she explained. "If Walder Frey expects us to take his castle, he can't very well refuse to cooperate with us when we say we need to know exactly who he's got rotting under his cellars."

Garlan looked sceptical. "It's a good idea, sister. But I've heard that Walder Frey is one of the most objectionable shits ever to walk this good realm's hallowed ground. However, even if we only get a first-hand look at Edmure Tully, we can reassure Ser Brynden he's being looked after and that might win us some favour with the folk inside the castle."

"Precisely," Margaery replied. "This siege looks set to last for forever and a day, and we'd do well to foster as good relations as we can. If we win friends in Riverrun, we stand a better chance of resolving this peacefully."

"Can we offer sanctuary to all those inside?" Loras asked, pulling up a seat. "The Queen doesn't need to know of any deal we make here, while it's between us and Ser Brynden."

"We can give them safe passage and that's about it," Garlan answered him.

"And they won't take safe passage unless they have somewhere safe to go to," Margaery reasoned. "Why go rattling around the realm when you already have a safe castle to live in."

They were huddled around the brazier inside her large marquee, doing their best to ward off the night time chills. And when their conversation lapsed into silence, she could hear once more the distant howling of wolves. Sometimes close, too close for comfort, but now they were far away. Even the woods around here were dangerous to take sanctuary in.

"Sister, you seem to have struck up well with Ser Brynden's illegitimate son," said Garlan. "We would do well to make friends with him. Do you think he trusts you?"

"I doubt it, why would he?" she replied. "But I'll keep on trying, brother. If I can win him over then I think that's half the battle won where Ser Brynden is concerned. He seems very fond of the boy." As am I, she inwardly added…

Growing stronger by the day, Robb resolved to make the most of the fine weather while it lasted. Come sunrise, he broke his fast quickly and headed out into Riverrun's sparring yard. Over the last weeks and months since the massacre, he may have given up on himself. But Arya, Brynden and Riverrun had not. Nor had House Mallister and House Blackwood. Perhaps, a few of the Northern houses hadn't, either? While they had faith in him, he had had rediscover the faith he had himself. A good place to start looking for it was in the said sparring yard with a sword in his hands.

As soon as he stepped into the yard the volunteer partners lined up, weapons at the ready. Dispensing with formality and preamble, he lunged straight into the fight. One attacked and, once engaged, the second entered the fray. Opponents in battle didn't do him the courtesy of lining up to take him on one at a time, so he didn't see why they should in the sparring yard either. Within minutes, he was fending off two of them sword and shield, while kicking out at a third to buy himself time and breathing space as he recovered his old skill.

Rusty from illness and inactivity, he tired easily and his opponents quickly overpowered him. A blow to his stomach sent him reeling backwards, where he hit the ground so hard it knocked the air from his lungs. It would have been embarrassing, had anyone other than Arya been watching. All the same, pride alone compelled him back to his feet and back into the fight. From atop the perimeter fence his sister cheered him on, wide-eyed and tense as a bowstring. He couldn't help but wonder why she was using his bastard name. Other than that peculiarity, Arya looked like she would have vaulted that fence and come running to his defence, had their uncle not been holding her back.

Meanwhile, Robb grit his teeth and ducked under the swing of another's sword, drawing his blade again and thrusting it right at the man's gorget, knocking him out of the fight. Had the battle been real, that man would have been dead. A sharp elbow to the face of another sent him crashing into the dirt packed ground, leaving just one more that Robb disposed of with a sharp jab of the pommel and quick kick.

The fight, frenetic and chaotic as it was, left him gasping for breath. But he had won, and that was all that mattered. Arya cheered his bastard's name, grinning from ear to ear and making the efforts all worthwhile. Meanwhile, Robb himself was still doubled over and fighting to get his breathing back under control. It would be weeks, maybe months, before he was back at his fighting peak.

He got up slowly, pulling off the gauntlets he'd donned before the fight and looked up to where Margaery and Garlan Tyrell were watching from a terrace above. The Lord looked quietly impressed, while the young dowager Queen held his gaze, a smile playing at her lips. He dared return it as he bowed his head to her in a small act of deference, a gesture she answered with an elegant curtsey.

"I wouldn't say 'no' to getting stuck into that one." It was one of his recovering opponents who leaned in close to ear and made the crude remark.

Robb laughed. "As if she'd look twice at any of us."

Assuming another meeting was coming up, he called a halt to his training and returned to the castle. He didn't want to keep the Tyrells waiting, so washed hastily as best he could with a basin of lukewarm water. Stripped to the waist in an antechamber off the main hall, he used an old towel to wipe the blood and dirt from his skin. It was a small room, barely larger than a garderobe, but well-lit by the tall, narrow window built into the exterior wall.

It was there that he took a moment to scrutinise the wounds he had picked up at the Twins. His right shoulder was now crossed by a livid pink scar where a Bolton crossbow quarrel had entered through the back and protruded through the front. It had begun to putrefy, before Septon Meribald had found him and stopped any infection from spreading. Had he not done that, he could well have lost the arm. One day, he resolved, he would find the Septon again and reward him properly for saving his life.

In the meantime, he wrung out the cloth and ran it over the scar once more. The wound had healed now, but the scar would be a permanent reminder of what happened that night. Another faint scar, from where a blade had grazed his side, marked the ridge of a lower right rib. He hadn't even noticed it before. He reached for the laces of his breeches, ready to inspect the last of the damage done to his leg, when a knock sounded at the door. It was Brynden bringing him a fresh towel and clean shirt.

"Come in," he said, fastening his lacing again.

The door opened and Lady Margaery gasped, almost dropping the clothes she had in her hands. Robb was a little on the shocked side, too.

"Gods, I thought you were Brynden!"

"No, no I'm not Brynden," she laughed. "He, er, he asked me to bring you these while he went to deal with someone at the gates. There are no servants left."

He was acutely aware of her gaze lingering over his body, pausing over the scarred shoulder. But, after a moment, she tossed him the clean clothes and retreated outside. No footsteps retreated back into the main hall, so he knew she was waiting for him just beyond the door. Not wanting to keep her waiting, he dressed quickly and wriggled into the soft woollen tunic the seamstress had just finished making for him.

He also remembered what the Blackfish had told him the night before, when they saw Margaery out walking with her brother along the banks of the Tumblestone: "She likes you, I saw how she looked at you. Get to know her. Get her on side."

"You mad old goat," Robb murmured under his breath. Inwardly, he swore to get revenge. "No servants, my arse."

He stepped outside, blushing faintly as he met up with Margaery. It came as a relief to see she was similarly red-faced and laughing the incident off.

"Forgive my father, my lady, I can only think he took leave of his senses," he said, still fastening the buttons of his tunic. "He is apt to be rather gruff, often forgetting the gentle born are unaccustomed to being mistaken for servants."

"Oh, please, Tristifer, I lived on a Battlefield for months with my first husband," she laughed, good-naturedly. "During that time, you had to know how to look after yourself and that included fetching the odd shirt every now and then."

He fumbled with a button, getting it snagged in the fabric of his tunic. Seeing his distress, Margaery took over, freeing it and pushing the ivory button through the right buttonhole. Their hands brushing against each other briefly.

"I don't think I'm the only one used to battlefields," she remarked. "I saw you fighting in the yard back there."

"I fought for my cousin," he said, bluntly. But she waited for him to continue. "I wasn't always a cupbearer, you know."

He led the way out of the antechamber back into gallery that led directly to the common hall. To his dismay, Brynden was nowhere to be seen. Whatever had called the Blackfish to the gates, Robb could only hope it was bloody important.

"You must have been in the thick of the fighting," she said. "Apologies, it's just I couldn't help but notice the shoulder…" She gestured to her own, over the spot where her own imaginary scars lay to mirror his own.

"I was hurt at Oxcross," he replied, not altogether a lie. It was recovering from those injuries, hearing of the deaths of Bran and Rickon, that had led to him sleeping with Talisa for the first time. The first step on the short road to his own destruction. "It happens in the battlefield."

They found the common hall empty. Trestle tables that were normally full of people now sat vacant, gathering dust that spiralled through the air, lit up by the large stained-glass windows that bore the leaping trout of House Tully. Inside, the Tully standard alternated with the direwolf of House Stark. If that annoyed Margaery, or bothered her in any way, she did not show it.

She surveyed the room curiously, her honey-brown eyes alight as if she had stepped into a world of wonder. As if she was seeing more than just ancient bricks and decaying mortar.

"Might as well take a seat," he said, selecting a table in the middle of the room. "There's wine at the side there. Would you like some?"

"I would, thank you," she answered. "Sorry if my talk of battle reopened old wounds."

"It didn't," Robb was quick to assure her as he poured them both wine. "It's just … you know … everything that's happened since."

He was glad he had his back to her as he the memories of the war, the ceaseless fighting and the massacre at the Twins all came rushing back to him. He remembered Talisa, hearing about her body being thrown in the river, and felt inexplicably ashamed that he was already sitting down to drink with another woman. Why? He had nothing to be ashamed of. He needed to get Margaery on side and he suspected she was doing the same with him.

Bringing the drinks to the table with him, he slid into a seat opposite his guest's. From there, they looked at each other from across the narrow divide of their trestle table. Briefly, just briefly, Robb wondered what Margaery would do if he revealed his true identity to her right now. He tried to imagine the look on her face. The shock, the horror perhaps. But his identity was a secret he held hard in his heart – the one thing not even the Lannisters, or their lapdogs, could take away from him.

"You fought at Robb Stark's side," she said. "I don't pretend to have known him, we never met. But I heard what Sansa had to say and Lady Stark told me about him when we mat at the Storm Lands. He sounded brave and noble. Men of that calibre are an increasingly rare species in this world."

Robb smiled crookedly. "Really? I always thought Robb Stark was a bit of an ass."

Her eyes narrowed. It seemed to him she misliked how he spoke of himself and he began to wonder what, exactly, Sansa and his mother had been telling her about him.

"An ass you were willing to die for," she pointed out, smartly.

He almost laughed. "I'm a hopeless romantic, my lady. A doomed cause gets me every time."

"I can well imagine it." Margaery smiled, her eyes meeting his. "Did you fight in the van?"

"I did."

"No wonder you're a useless cupbearer then," she laughed again. "Forgive me, Tristifer, I'm not mocking you. I admire you, actually. It's easy to sit around doing nothing, when you could be making use of yourself. Especially for people like us."

"People like us?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

She set down her cup and gestured to the room at large. "Us. I know you're baseborn. I know what a Rivers is. But we were both still born into wealth, taught to rely on others to tend our every need. Sometimes, you just have to take matters into your own hands and I bet Robb Stark knew that too."

Robb paused, catching himself in re-examination. "Recently, a septon told me thousands died for his vendetta and I thought he had a point."

"Maybe he did have a point," she replied, taking up her cup again. "But the murder of a Lord Paramount on trumped up charges of High Treason requires an answer in like kind. I daresay there were better ways of going about it, but Stark's honour ruled out more subtle methods."

Her expression closed, her gaze dropping to the contents of her cup. She looked a little sad, actually.

"Why are you here, Lady Margaery?" he asked.

He got her full attention again. "What do you mean?"

"Apologies if I'm being a little forward here," he explained. "But I'm curious. Not so long ago you married the King. The King who apparently needed a more careful food taster in his service. Word is you're supposed to be marrying King Tommen now. Yet, here you are, with us, sitting out a siege that promises to be long and dull. All for a castle that isn't even yours and won't ever be yours. Why?"

Even if they did surrender Riverrun, it would go to House Frey. This simply wasn't the Tyrell's fight. He knew the Freys weren't here because they were searching the Riverlands for him. He found himself wondering whether she already he'd survived the wedding. Now, Margaery looked at him as if weighing him up. He could hear the calculations going on in her head.

"I can't honestly say why Cersei sent us," she answered, and it sounded like the truth. "She hates me and wants to see my head on a spike. Extrapolating from that, I guess she wants me and as many Tyrells as possible out of the capital."

"You must be itching to get back."

She looked him dead in the eye. "No."

The finality of her tone took Robb aback. "Right. So a tent in the Riverlands is preferable to a room in a palace."

"When the palace is full of duplicitous vipers, then yes, it is," she answered, without missing a beat.

Robb stifled a laugh. Right now, he wouldn't have been surprised if she had poisoned Joffrey, going by how she spoke of the Lannisters. However, he let the matter drop and topped up their glasses as soon as Margaery had drained hers. When he handed her the goblet again, she closed her hand around his own, holding it in place.

"I know I've already said it, Tristifer, but my condolences on your losses over these last months. You may think Robb Stark an ass, but I…"

Robb abruptly withdrew his hand. He couldn't understand why she kept bringing him up in conversation, even wearing someone else's name it made him feel as if he was being thrown into the centre of a Mummer's stage. "Forget him. He was a fool and he betrayed his own people."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to prattle on about it," she replied, leaning back a little as if to put distance between them. Her face flushed red, embarrassment or shame. "I was just going to say, since it happened, I sometimes feel a burden of guilt for what happened."

"That's absurd," he cut in. "It was the Boltons and the Freys and the damn Lannisters – with Robb Stark himself handing them all the lash for his own back. This was never House Tyrell's fight. And now here you are, making it your fight."

"And if I make it my fight, and I win, who's to say how I'll use that victory?" she asked, her gaze sharpening again. "I have no love for House Lannister, Tristifer. But I have no knowledge of battlefields or sword craft, like you and Garlan. I fight my battles in a different way."

Intrigued, he felt himself calming again. But, before he could ask for clarification, the doors at the back of the hall swung open again, sending broad daylight flooding back into the common hall. The Blackfish, armoured now, strode down the aisle and stood Robb up by the arm. He gestured for him to follow.

"Sandor Clegane was caught by the Tyrells trying to get back here," he whispered in Robb's ear, once they were out of earshot of Margaery. "He knows you're in here."

"Shit!" Robb cursed. He looked through the open door of the closet they'd hidden in, where Margaery was now gazing out of the window. She was breathtakingly beautiful. "Was Sansa with him?"

"No," Blackfish replied. "But they say they're letting him go again, so long as he doesn't return."

Robb frowned. "Do the Tyrells know he's wanted for desertion?"

He was answered with a shrug. "They don't seem to care."

Curious, he thought to himself. Well, so long as the Hound had the nous to play dumb whenever his name was mentioned, he didn't see what real harm could be done. Besides, he was easily denied. He was easily believed to be a liar.

"I angered him." Margaery felt unreasonably despondent as she and Garlan walked the banks of the Tumblestone that evening. At her side, Jeyne trotted along at a distance, quite happily so. She occasionally stopped to pick a flower, adding to quite a bouquet she gathered in her arms. "I thought speaking well of Robb Stark would show I'm not hostile. That we can be friends. But he had nothing but insults for the man and he ended up snapping at me."

Garlan didn't seem unduly bothered by the turn of events. She, however, felt differently. Tristifer was a good man, brave and strong. He had risen well in the world, despite the odds being stacked against him. And she admired that. Making him angry made her feel awful.

"Don't take it to heart, Margaery," he advised. "Strange lad, though. He's a skilled soldier and he didn't learn those tricks pouring wine for people."

"I like him, Garlan." Her confession was frank and to the point. "I like him and I think we can trust him. What if he knew of our plans?"

"No," he cut her off. "It's too risky, especially when father and grandmother are still stuck in King's Landing with our supplies and most of our army."

Margaery sighed heavily. He was right and it was too soon. Besides, House Tully might even be disinclined to help them. Their loyalty to the North was abundantly clear, even though House Stark had been all but obliterated. She realised then that the Blackfish must be holding out for Sansa – his new Queen in the North. If she could deliver Sansa she would deliver the allegiance of Brynden Tully, she could feel it.

"What about the Hound?" she asked. "He said he was looking for Sansa, so she's clearly not in the castle."

Garlan looked thoughtful for a moment. "That's another matter, sister. I think we should let him go and have our men follow him at a distance. The best hunters and trackers we have."

"I'm inclined to agree," she replied. "Because if she hasn't come here, to her uncle, it could be that she's gone to her aunt at the Eyrie. It stands to reason – the last person she has left."

They reached the end of the footpath and all joined up, Jeyne included, to turn around and start making their way back toward Riverrun. Out of habit, she looked up at what she thought was Tristifer's turret window, overlooking the join in the rivers. When she saw him there, sitting in the open window and pointing to someone in the yard, the semi-unexpected sight of him made her heart hammer in her chest.

Even though she still smarted acutely from angering him earlier that day, she raised a wide smile on her face and pointed him out to Jeyne.

"Jeyne, that's him," she said, playfully. "The one I was telling you about. Don't you think he's handsome?"

"Oh!" Curiosity piqued, Jeyne immediately pulled up and followed the direction of Margaery's pointing finger. When she returned to camp that afternoon, she'd told Jeyne about walking in on him while in a state of undress. While they watched, the object of their curiosity lost interest in whatever was going on in the yard and withdrew from sight, closing the shutters after him. Once more blocked out of his world, she felt her throat constrict at the exclusion.

Still grinning, she looked to consult with Jeyne, only to find the girl open mouthed and staring fixedly at the blank window. Even though Tristifer had vanished from sight, she walked forwards as if to get a better look, dropping the flowers she'd collected absentmindedly on the ground as she left. She didn't even seem to notice.

"Is everything all right?" Garlan whispered in her ear. "The girl looks spooked."

Margaery shared his concerns. "I don't know. I mean, she was fine a minute ago." She paused when Jeyne turned back to face her, looking pale. "Child, what's wrong?"

With the hems of her skirts hitched above her ankles, Jeyne made her way back to them. Every two seconds, however, she looked back over her shoulder, back at whatever she had seen.

"N-nothing, my lady. I thought I saw … I … nothing. It was nothing."

Margaery noted the stammer's return and opted to drop the matter before the child could become even more anxious. Instead, she and Garlan helped collect up the fallen flowers before taking her by the hand and leading her back to camp. As they returned, she did not speak another word.

It was late that night, when most others were fast asleep, that Jeyne shook Margaery awake.

"My Lady," she said, gently nudging Margaery gently back into wakefulness.

"Yes," she slurred back, still drugged with sleep. "Has something happened?"

"My Lady," Jeyne repeated, eyes wide in the light of the brazier burning nearby. She looked fearful again but Margaery simply suspected another nightmare – which she often had. "Do you believe in ghosts, my lady?"

Margaery smiled, hoping it was reassuring despite her drowsiness. "No, child. I don't."

Jeyne shook her head. "No. Neither do I."

Thank you again for reading, reviews would be great if you have a minute.

Apologies for a slower chapter too. Jon's PoV starts in the next chapter, so that should liven things up a bit now. Daenerys will be following closely.