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Warning: I have tried to be discreet about Jeyne's traumatic backstory, but the rape and sexual abuse is mentioned briefly.

Chapter Eight: No Such Thing as Ghosts

When she said she didn't believe in ghosts, Jeyne had told it true. She spent her whole childhood in Winterfell, a castle they all said was haunted. Once, when she was very young, Sansa told her a ghost had sprang out from behind a tomb in the crypts. For just a brief moment, her innate cynicism had been shaken. At least until Arya set her right: the 'ghost' was just Jon, who'd been covered in finely ground flour.

After that, she had walked the passages and galleries without once encountering anything that resembled the restless souls of the castle's many dead. And the gods knew many of those souls had reason to be restless. From Lord Rickard, burned alive, and the son slowly strangled to death trying to save him and the daughter raped and murdered … if anyone wanted a post-mortem shot at revenge, it would be them. But, in her experience, the dead stayed dead.

Then, she came south for a life at Court. There was no room at all for death at the royal courts. Just life. Endless life, eternal youth made splendid through the rich, colourful splendour of pomp and pageantry. In the midst of all that, death hadn't seemed possible. She had been so wrapped up in the colour and beauty, she hadn't even seen the axe falling.

When Lord Stark was dragged off to the cells, the Lannisters cut down every man, woman and child attached to his household. Even as it was happening, she couldn't quite believe it. Not until she saw a man in a red tunic emblazoned with a golden lion draw his sword and hack off Septa Mordane's head. Septa Mordane, who had never so much as trod on an insect in anger. She vaguely remembered running and pushing past fighting men. But the memory had grown nebulous with time and shock. Her next solid memory was being locked in a room with Sansa.

People came for Sansa and Jeyne had no idea what they were doing with her. But she always came back, but never with any information. Not long after that, they came for Sansa again and took her off to the Queen's apartments. When the chamber door opened again, not long after, she though it was only Sansa returning. But it wasn't. She didn't know who the men were, but she assumed they were looking for Sansa, unaware that she was already gone. She was about to explain until they cut her off.

"Lord Baelish wants a word with you."

Her fear had evaporated. She knew Lord Baelish, she'd seen him around court and Sansa had even spoken with him. A small man, who always smelled of mint. He was important, too. She knew that about him. He was on the Small Council and knew everything that was going on at court. If she could speak with Lord Baelish about her father, perhaps even Lord Stark too, she knew he could help her. Besides, she was sure she wouldn't be gone long. By the time she got back, Sansa would have returned to and she could tell her dearest friend that she too had pleaded for the lives of their fathers. That would have pleased Sansa as much as it pleased her.

She didn't question where the men were taking her. Not even when they left the castle and started travelling through the streets of the city itself. They brought her to the whorehouse in a closed litter, so she couldn't even see where she was going. Still she didn't question it. They showed her to an empty room with just a table and pallet bed and told her to wait there for Lord Baelish. Still she didn't question it. Only when the door closed and the bolt slid into place, did she realise she had been tricked.

Even as a prisoner, she still held out hope that Lord Baelish would help her. She told herself he didn't know she had been locked up, he didn't know how she was being treated and he would walk through that door at any minute. But the next man to walk through that door was a stranger to her. She had tried to ask him a question, but he merely covered her mouth with his hand, forced her back onto the bed and set the course for the next two years of her life. After he was gone, a woman came and cleaned the blood from her thighs and "washed her inside out". Jeyne thought the woman was trying to help but, in reality, she was merely being prepared for her next customer.

The rape broke her. The beatings compelled her to pretend she was enjoying herself. No, it wasn't the dead that Jayne feared. It wasn't the ghosts forcing themselves into her, whipping her and defiling her. It was the living she feared and the living monsters were real. Every day she prayed the Old gods and the Seven that Robb would win his war and destroy their enemies. It was the one thing she clung to, getting through each assault, giving her the strength to endure every humiliation. But Robb never came.

However, Margaery Tyrell did. It was Margaery who took her from the brothel, it was Margaery who organised her escape, it was Margaery who brought her far from the capital and now it was Margaery finding her a place in the Reach. Maybe Margaery only did all that because she thought she was saving Arya Stark. But what did that matter? Even when the truth came out, Margaery had sheltered her, fed her and gave her all the protection she needed. She had clothes, shelter, food and safety. She even had a future. Things she had not known since Lord Stark was alive.

The Starks had abandoned her, the Tyrells saved her and brought her back to life. The Starks, consumed with the murder of their lord, probably hadn't given her a second's thought. She had sworn no oaths to House Stark, she owed them nothing but the allegiance that came from being born on their lands, in the precincts of their castle. As arbitrary as it seemed, that birth allegiance still had a hold on her.

So first, she wanted to be sure of what she had seen. Baelish himself had told her that Robb was dead, House Stark all but obliterated. He deployed his weasel words on her, telling her that by taking Arya Stark's name, she would be helping House Stark live on. It made her feel ashamed to know in her heart that he hadn't needed to say all those things. She had jumped at the chance of imitating Arya just to get out of that brothel. She hadn't given a moment's thought to what type of man Ramsay Bolton was.

Now it hardly mattered. Because she had waited on the banks of the Tumblestone, looking up at that window until her neck ached, until she saw "Tristifer Rivers" again. When she did see him, she knew him right away. He had grown a beard, but it was sparse enough to see Robb Stark beneath it and he was no ghost. She thought he had noticed her, looking right through her without a trace of recognition.

"If there were any Starks left, would you kill them?" she asked Margaery. It was the same evening she had confirmed Robb's continued existence to herself, once she returned to Margaery's tent at the heart of the camp. It was warm in there, by the light of the brazier.

Margaery frowned, a shocked look on her face. "I'm not Cersei, sweetling. Of course I wouldn't kill them."

That was a good start.

"What will you do if you find Sansa?" was her next question.

"Bring her here and return her to Lord Brynden," replied Margaery. "As long as he agrees not to take up arms against House Tyrell, he can have Sansa back."

"And if he doesn't agree?"

"She will be taken to Highgarden, where she will be our hostage. The Lannisters will never get their hands on her again."

Theon was a hostage at Winterfell, she remembered. He led a good life, even if he wasn't a good person. Sansa would be like him – free to come and go as she pleased, being educated and dining with the Tyrells. Like Winterfell, only with better weather.

"The Tyrells are nothing like the Lannisters, are they?" she asked.

Margaery pulled a face. "I hope not. No. House Tyrell prefers to find a way to work with our enemies, rather than just bulling in there and killing everyone. Bloodshed begets more bloodshed. Revenge leads to more revenge. House Tyrell seeks to end all that. Sadly, that also means working with the Lannisters."

That gave Jeyne pause for thought. They may not wipe out House Stark, but they were still working with the Lannisters. And there must have been a reason why Robb lied about who he is to her. It wasn't her place to ruin his plans. But this was something huge that she knew and Margaery didn't, despite all that the Tyrells had done for her. Torn between the two houses, Jeyne ruminated herself into a state of near inertia.

"Did Sansa ever mention me?" she asked.

Margaery's hesitation gave the truth of her well-intended lie. "Yes. I think so. We talked about many things-"

"She never mentioned me, did she?" Jeyne interjected, bluntly.

To her credit, Margaery looked dismayed. "No. Not that I recall. But I am certain she's not forgotten you."

"It matters not."

But it did matter. She was Sansa's best friend but, in reality, just a servant. A servant whose job it was to provide friendship. Still she felt torn over what she should do next. But, like the dead who never troubled her, dead allegiances shouldn't either. Among the many other things the Tyrells had given her was a new name and a new identity. Unlike Jeyne, Esme Flowers wasn't even bound to House Stark by accident of birth.

"That man, Tristifer Rivers," she said. "I recognised him from Winterfell."

Margaery's eyes widened. "Oh yes, I was meant to ask about that. He said he was raised there as a squire to Lord Stark and a cupbearer for Lady Stark. Did you know him well?"

"Very well," Jeyne answered. She paused for a moment, steeling herself to say what needed to be said. "Just not by that-"

"My Lady!"

Jeyne found herself abruptly cut off by the appearance of two rain-soaked messengers in Tyrell livery. Breathless and red in the face from the cold, they stood dripping in the awnings they had shoved aside to enter the tent. Both she and the other woman rose to greet them, shocked and more than a little taken aback by the intrusion. Not so much as an announcement or a request for an audience.

"Sers, what can we do for you?" Margaery sounded curt, looking from one to the other.

They both knelt. "My Lady, we bring you news of the death of Lord Tywin Lannister."

Jeyne looked to Margaery, gaging her reaction. A flicker of triumph, a smile she tried to hide. Her slender, elegant body briefly showed the blow of the impact. She recovered herself with ease and in the blink of an eye.

"Esme, I believe we have a purse of gold to reward our good messengers?"

"I believe we do, my lady." Esme ducked a curtsey and smiled a sweet smile. Despite the awfulness of the messenger's timing.

When Robb was a boy, the sound of the rain pattering against his shutters had always lulled him to sleep. The warmth of his room, from the fire and the hot pipes in the room, the cold never crept in. All these years later, that boy was gone and the man lay awake and restless as the rains continued to pour. One of the castle dogs, with whom he had struck up a friendship, curled up on his counterpane and was now chasing rabbits in his sleep.

These days, his own dreams weren't quite so sweet. When he slipped into a fitful sleep, he woke to find himself back at the Twins, being pulled under the waters of the Green Fork. Or he was running through the forests outside Hag's Mire, being chased by a man with a wolf's head stitched to his shoulders, where his human head had been cut away. If Robb looked over his shoulder, he could see the dead wolf's tongue lolling from between its huge, razor teeth. Its eyes glassy and unseeing. He would think he'd outrun the chimera, only to round a bend in the path and find the monstrosity there, waiting for him. He dreamed of returning to Winterfell, only to find Theon feasting on flesh at the high table, where once Eddard Stark had sat. Bran and Rickon hung from ropes suspended from the rafters.

These days, Robb preferred to stay awake.

However, just as he grew drowsy, his door opened and a long beam of light permeated the semi-darkness in his chambers. Arya, wrapped in a fur cloak, came padding softly across the rushes. Her face was solemn, her left arm held up a lantern that made the shadows lengthen. She looked like a long, skinny giant.

"Were you sleeping? I'm sorry," she said.

Robb pulled himself into a sitting position, inadvertently disturbing the dog who slid off the bed with a whimper.

"No, but it looks like you were."

She set down the lantern and scrambled up next to him. "The Tyrells are here. The Blackfish wants you in his solar."

"The Tyrells?" Robb repeated. "At this hour?"

Arya nodded. "I saw Margaery myself. She's with her brother."

A surprise, but a pleasant surprise. "I suppose I should dress."

However, he couldn't quite bring himself to leave the warmth of his bed. He lay there, working up the stamina needed to move.

"If you weren't sleeping, what were you doing?" Arya said, curiously. "You shouldn't just lie around in the dark. You'll grow sad again."

Robb raised a pale smile. "I wasn't sad, sister. Just trying not to dream."

Sat cross-legged on the bed, taking the dog's old place, she looked rather happy. "I like my dreams. In my dreams, I'm someone else. I dreamed of you, once. It was after the Hound brought me here and you were still on the run in the woods. Everyone tried to tell me you were dead. But I dreamed I saw you in the woods. You were asleep and you had a white horse tethered nearby. The wolves were going to eat you, but I stopped them. They ate your horse, instead."

Mildly perturbed by the accuracy of the dream, Robb was finally agitated into moving. He got out of bed and pulled on a clean shirt, while Arya handed him a pair of breeches.

"Did you ever dream of Grey Wind?"

Robb paused while pulling up his breeches. "All the time."

"They aren't normal dreams, are they?"

"I don't know."

He dressed hurriedly, pulling on his livery to keep the increasingly ridiculous pretence that he was just a cupbearer. As he went, he remembered the Battle of Whispering Wood. It had been Grey Wind who showed him that shortcut and the way to cut off the Lannister army. Those dreams were more than just dreams. They had stopped for him as soon as Grey Wind was killed.

"I needed that horse, though," he laughed, fastening the buttons of his tunic.

Arya gave him a funny look.

"The horse your packmates ate," he clarified. "I needed it."

She grinned and chucked at him the first item that came to her hand. An empty cup. "You need your life more, stupid!"

Her hair was already mussed up from where she'd lain in bed, but Robb managed to muss it up a little more. It made her laugh as she tried to swat his hands away. And even though she had grown bigger since their Winterfell days, he found he could still easily pick her up. He did so now, slinging her over his shoulder as he made his way out of his chambers. Only when they were through the door did he set her on her feet again.

"You like Lady Margaery, don't you?" Arya asked, suddenly turning serious again.

Robb drew a deep breath. "Don't you?"

"She's our enemy," she pointed out, sharply.

"There's only one thing you can do with an enemy-"

"Kill them," Arya cut in.

"I was thinking more diplomatically than that, sister."

"What then?"

"You can make peace with them," he tried to explain.

"And is that what you're going to do with the Tyrells?" she sounded less than convinced.

Robb merely shrugged. "We can't fight them, Arya. We have no army and they do."

Such trivialities never seemed to dent his sister's confidence, and Robb admired her for that. However, he sent her back to bed and made his way to Brynden's solar. He found the Tyrells waiting outside in the ante-chamber, suggesting his Uncle was taking his time getting ready to greet them. And Robb didn't blame him. It was some trick of theirs to turn up in the middle of the night.

Margaery turned to him, her hair wet from rain, and smiled. Her gown was wet, too. But her usual attire of silk skirts and intricate kirtles had gone, replaced with a more practical linen affair. It suited her well, he thought.

He nodded a greeting to Ser Garlan before allowing Lady Margaery to steer him away. They didn't leave the outer-chamber, they just repaired to an alcove that overlooked the sparring yard in the grounds below. Empty now, the rain still fell and filled the uneven ground with puddles that were slowly expanding across the forecourt.

"Forgive us for arriving so late," she said. "We understand it's most inconvenient. But we wanted to pass you this now, rather than waiting until morning."

The letter she now pushed into his hands was affixed with the royal seal. It was already broken, so she already knew its contents. Curious, he took a look for himself and felt the breath catch in his throat.

Tristifer's expression was hard to read by moonlight. Standing in the alcove, she could only see him in profile, where his pale skin reflected the paler light, shadows of rain running down the glass projected onto his cheek. She heard the breath catching in his throat, the choking noise made somewhere deep in his chest. He folded the letter and turned his gaze towards the window again, before changing his mind and giving the proclamation another read through.

"Tywin is dead," he stated, lifting his gaze to meet her own. "Murdered by his own son."

Margaery nodded. "Tywin sentenced Tyrion to death for the murder of the king. It seems someone set him free at the last minute."

Tristifer laughed bitterly. "Who would love that misshapen thing so much they'd risk their necks for him? I heard Oberyn Martell did it only because he would be fighting the Mountain."

"The only one I can think of is Ser Jaime," she answered. "Although, who knows, given the webs those courtiers weave it could have been anyone, for any number of reasons."

There were upholstered benches lining the alcove and Margaery took the liberty of making herself comfortable. It was clear Ser Brynden was in no hurry and she didn't blame him.

"Will this take the pressure off Lady Sansa?" he asked, taking the seat opposite her own. "With Lord Tyrion on the run, surely Cersei will be focussing on finding him rather than hunting my … cousin."

He sounded like he was about to say something else other than 'cousin', but at that moment Margaery paid it no heed. She was too busy trying to second guess Cersei's next move.

"She will still want your cousin," Margaery answered, honestly. "Only blood and heads will pay for the murder of her darling tyrant. Sansa will be hunted until her final days, it pains me to say."

Tristifer paled, drawing a deep steadying breath as he chewed anxiously at a fingernail. Rather than bringing him a little joy, it seemed the death of Tywin Lannister only made him more anxious. Perhaps it was knowing that there might be even more people out hunting for his cousin? That was the best she could guess, since it was Sansa's plight that seemed to distress him.

"You really care about her, don't you?" she asked.

Leaning across the small space that divided them, she took his hand in her own and held it tight for reassurance. He seemed taken aback by the gesture, but made no move to shrug her off. On the contrary, he held her hand back.

"Of course," he replied. "She's my family. We used to be such a big family."

Sick of the gap between them, Margaery got up and sat beside him. So close, their thighs touched. But she didn't care, because the look in his eyes made her want to kiss him.

"Maybe I was naïve for thinking this development would give you hope," she said, quietly. "Tywin's death restores none of your own family. But I thought, perhaps, it would seem like some kind of cosmic justice, at the best."

Tristifer's expression softened, a smile playing at his lips. Once more, Margaery was seized with the urge to kiss him. But Garlan was barely ten feet away and the Blackfish was due to arrive any second. There were rules to observe and courtesies. She began to think she was running to madness.

"I thank you for bringing us this news," said Tristifer. "We're not exactly grieving. And you can tell Cersei our halls are not decked in black velvet for her father. But, you're right, it doesn't bring back Lady Stark or the Queen we lost at the Twins."

"But it does mean that the Lannisters lose their most able commander," she pointed out.

That brought a smile to his face, which in turn made her happy.

"Jaime's lost his sword hand," she continued. "Kevan is growing old. Lancel's joining the Faith, from what I heard. The Lannisters are floundering, looking less and less promising by the day. At their head, a fat little boy of eight."

Tristifer's gaze dropped to where they almost touched. "And your future husband."

As much as she hated being reminded of that, she tried to mask her irritation. "He's manageable. He's not a tyrant, like his brother."

"Would he be quite so manageable if could see us sitting here like this, talking about him?"

Margaery noted the twinkle in Tristifer's eye. He was being mischievous, teasing her. And enjoying it.

She decided to play along. "He's happy so long as I don't make him eat beets. Beyond that, I don't think he even cares what I do. He's a child."

"All right then, his mother? And me a bastard, too."

Margaery laughed. "Oh, please! Cersei's been fucking Aurane Waters for weeks now."

"Seriously? Even her brother is a cuckold now."

Tristifer was wide-eyed, curious.

"Yes," she nodded. "And the gods know, she cuckolded King Robert for all those years." She paused to draw breath, letting the silence settle before adding: "But Tommen is a sweet child. He deserves none of what's about to happen to him."

"I met him once, when he came to Winterfell," said Tristifer, quietly. "I know, he was a good child. My cousin, Bran, beat him in the sparring yard once. It didn't seem to matter to him, he just enjoyed the experience."

Margaery sensed the mood changing again. He must have been happy there, regardless of what he said about Robb Stark. However, before she could say anymore, the Blackfish appeared accompanied by his guards. Tristifer glanced her over once more, a look she returned, before taking the letter she'd given him to his father. Margaery tried to pay attention to his reaction, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Like his son, Brynden Tully read the letter twice. Unlike his son, he seemed most gratified. "Pardon me while I shed no tears over that bastard's passing, my lady. And you can tell Cersei that, when you see her next."

Once the night's business had been concluded, and they had been warmed with some hot spiced wine, Margaery let Garlan lead her back to camp. Through the portcullis, back out into the rain, she found Jeyne waiting for her on the wooden bridge leading across the Tumblestone. She had her hood up, but the rain had long soaked through it.

"Jeyne, why aren't you in bed?" she asked. "You'll catch your death out here."

"I needed to talk to you."

After exchanging a look with Garlan, she hurried all three of them back to camp. It was late, she was exhausted and wanted only to try and get some sleep herself. The brazier was still burning though, and she was grateful for that. Once she had some more hot wine served up, she drew down the awnings so she could speak with Jeyne in private.

"Tristifer Rivers," she said. "I've seen him three times, most recently when you left Riverrun just now."

"Yes," Margaery replied. "He's a fine young man, don't you think? I was meant to ask if he knew you, but it went out of my head."

Jeyne was huddled close to the brazier, shivery and damp. But she stood straight and looked Margaery dead in the eye when she said: "That's Robb Stark."

Margaery froze, her throat suddenly constricted as she tried to swallow her wine. "What?" she choked.

"The man calling himself Tristifer Rivers," Jeyne repeated. "He's really Robb Stark. He didn't die at the Twins. And, like you said, there's no such thing as ghosts."

Thank you again for reading; reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute. If you don't, no worries.

I know I promised a Jon chapter this time around, but there just wasn't time for it and the chapter was getting longer and longer. It wouldn't fit, either. But, next time, I will open the chapter with a Jon PoV.