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Chapter Nine: A Conflict of Interest

Margaery had always been astute. Even as a young girl, she liked to sit and observe the people around her. It was a game that she played alone, within the confines of her own head. She would watch the people who came to Highgarden, from servants to lords, and try to figure out what their story was, how they came to be where they currently were and, more importantly, where they wanted to go. She tried to guess at their dreams, their motivations, their endgames. She liked to learn their foibles, their weaknesses and their strengths.

Over time, under the tutelage of her formidable grandmother, she learned to read people as if their souls were open books. By the time she was a maiden flowered, she had learned to turn the pages of these most private of books at her leisure, using the information gleaned to get them onside. Joffrey had been easy: a frightened boy who masked his insecurities with displays of naked cruelty – all she had to do was play along and pretend to be impressed. When she deployed her dark arts of manipulation, she always told herself it was in the best interests of her house and the realm as a whole. She liked to think that was true.

Then, she had left Riverrun having imparted some game-changing information, feeling ahead of herself and as if she was on the right course to some vague victory. She was sure of herself, confidently harnessing the storm gathering around her and preparing to send it in a direction of her own choosing. Then Jeyne spoke a few short sentences, and the storm seemed to slip her grasp.

Outwardly, she kept her composure. There was barely a tremble in her hands as she lifted the wineglass to her lips and downed the rest of the contents in one. The alcohol stiffened her nerves, a fortification against this most intriguing of shocks.

"Jeyne, it's been such a long time since you saw Robb Stark," she said, turning to find the girl still shivering by the brazier. "How can you be certain?"

Although Jeyne looked terrified, she remained steadfast in her assertions. "That was him. At first, I caught only a fleeting glimpse. So, I waited until I had gotten a better look to be absolutely certain. Otherwise, I wouldn't have said anything … I ought not to have said anything."

"You did the right thing," Margaery assured her. "Believe me, child, you did right by them and right by us."

Jeyne was scarce past girlhood. She had seen so much, lived through worse and had had her body and soul scourged in the process. Yet still, despite the defilement, she retained a guilelessness that clung to her still. She wanted to do right by House Stark and do right by House Tyrell, a conflict of interest that played out in the pained expression in her face. The problem with girls like Jeyne, Margaery thought, was that they never seemed to do right for themselves. Most ended up crushed under the system that sought only to exploit them.

"It was a secret and I gave it away," said Jeyne. "You won't kill him, will you?"

"Of course not!" Margaery replied. "I swear, you have my word, I will not harm anyone inside that castle and nor will Garlan."

Jeyne was still troubled. Her brow creased, wide deep-brown eyes brimming with tears she fought not to shed. "So, what will you do?"

That was a pertinent question and she answered honestly.

"For now, nothing. And don't tell anyone else what you told me; not even my brothers. Remember, Robb's new name is Tristifer Rivers and he's the bastard son of the Blackfish."

Jeyne relaxed. "I'll remember."

It was late and they both needed to sleep. But while Jeyne eventually dozed off, Margaery lay awake in bed looking up at the canopy that had been erected over her bunk. She would have no choice but to tell Garlan and Loras, eventually. She couldn't keep it to herself. However, that wasn't what troubled her. Nor could she have cared any less about her failure to see through the disguise. She wasn't to know any better. On the contrary, the deception amused her. It was cheeky and audacious, and she loved that.

The thing that kept her awake all night was him.

Robb Stark was spoken about at court as if he was a ten-foot-tall, one-man war machine. An unstoppable conqueror marching south, undefeatable in the field of battle and as cunning as he was swift. The smallfolk said he turned into a wolf by night, the same one that prowled at his side as he advanced south and cleaved through Lannister lands. Mere mention of his name brought out the cruellest in Joffrey, a sign that Robb Stark scared him witless. He was the storm that brought the winter.

Who was that she had found at Riverrun? Tristifer had a strong bearing, he drew the eye and commanded attention. She had noticed that the first time she met him, which was quite a feat for a humble, baseborn cupbearer. But in private, when he spoke candidly, she had seen the fragility behind the façade. She recalled the first private conversation they'd had, in which he'd accused Robb Stark of abandoning his people, leaving his siblings to die and obliterating his family legacy. All that time, she now realised, he had been talking about himself. She would have thought it was all part of the act, but for Ser Brynden being the complete opposite.

Knowing what she knew now, it made her heart ache. Instead of rolling over in bed and pulling the covers over her head she wanted to get up, get dressed and go running barefoot through the rain back to Riverrun to see him one more time – like the heroine in some terrible romance. Then what would she do? Stand on the riverbanks amidst the roiling tide of the Tumblestone, hoping to catch one more fleeting glimpse of the fallen King. To the seven hells with all that training and tutelage! This was a time for open-hearted dramatics.

Had she been spending too much time with Sansa? Margaery had to wonder. But no, she had to kick away such silly romantic notions and play her game as she always had. There was far too much at stake now. Cersei had been convinced of Robb's death, Joffrey had openly gloried in it, up to and including re-enactments of it at his own wedding. The Lannisters genuinely had no idea that Stark was still alive. As for the Freys: unless they'd been fooled by their own deception, it was small wonder they were yet to show their faces in these parts. But that wouldn't last long. But the Freys were nothing to her, yet. She was still worried by the Lannisters, but a little less than she was before.

Jaime's had his sword hand cut off, Tywin is dead, Tyrion is wanted for murder and Cersei was growing madder by the day. Now, the sugared plum crowning that royal mess, was the continued existence of one of the Lannister's deadliest enemies. It had to stay a secret at all costs, Margaery understood that. Reveal it at just the right time and Casterly Rock would come crashing down and peace would slowly return to this shattered realm.

And so, the politics and the wistful musings vied in Margaery's head all night. From the sensible to the whimsical, there seemed to be time and space for it all. But she could plan for definite without speaking to the Tullys and Starks themselves, so she found herself straying down the path of wistfulness more and more. She was running through the rain toward the towering edifice of Riverrun, her bare feet splashing through the watery mud, toward a light in the turret window where she knew she would see him again. The Tumblestone swelled and roiled, bare trees lashing in the wind –

Oh, stop it! She chided herself, rolling her eyes. This isn't you… Anyway, wasn't it the man's job to go running through the rain? Margaery wasn't certain, but she always did like to get things done herself. So, she'd rather it was her, either way. Besides, it was her dream and no one else's. The rules be damned.

She recalled a conversation she had with Loras, not long before she wed Joffrey. "Aren't you even curious about loving someone?" Loras had asked her. As he asked, he had fixed in her in the most curious narrow-eyed look, a dark look as he recalled his beloved Renly.

She had answered him honestly: "Sometimes, I dream that I've run off into the sunset with some noble, dashing lord. But, in the end, I always wake up to reality."

After a brief and fitful nap, she did the same the next day. She awoke to reality. A pleasant reality, though. The rain had dried up, the sun had risen and burned away the river mists. The Tumblestone flowed and fed the fertile land with the promise of another bumper harvest before Summer's end. Margaery watched the world stirring back to life and, for the first time in a long time, things felt a little different.

"Robb! Wake up!"

The pillow was pulled from under his semi-conscious face before being used to smack him over the head. Robb groaned, suppressed a curse, then flung one hand out to try and grab his little sister. Arya was too fast for him. She vaulted up onto the bed and started jumping and down on it. Suddenly, it was as if he were on a rocking ship, being tossed cruelly around. Why was she so energetic all the time? Sometimes, Arya's mere existence exhausted him.

"All right, all right, I'm awake. This better be good, little sister."

She was panting with the effort, clutching something tight in her little hand which she thrust out into his face. "Uncle Brynden told me what this is. Wait until you hear, Robb."

Curious, he opened her fingers and beheld a very unassuming iron coin. It was old and worn smooth around the edges and it come from…

"Arya, where did you get this?" he choked, hauling himself into a sitting position. "Do you know who these people are? What they do?"

The light of the girl's enthusiasm dimmed considerably. "You already know?"

"The House of Black and White, sister, they're assassins and not ones you want to go messing with," he cautioned. "Tell me where you found it?"

"I didn't find it," she retorted, defensively. "Jaqen H'ghar gave it me. I saved him and two others from a fire and he said a debt must be paid. Three deaths for three lives. And he gave me this coin."

She'd snatched it back from him, but he'd seen it well enough.

"Who is Jaqen H'ghar?" he asked. "Never mind. He's probably got so many faces even he doesn't know who he is anymore."

With that, he climbed out of bed and reached for some clean breeches to wear. No doubt, the Tyrells would be gracing Riverrun with their presence that day and he wanted to be ready for them.

"So, I can't go then?" she asked, cross-legged on the bed now.

Robb was more than a little disconcerted. "Go where?"

"To Braavos! To the House of Black and White," she answered. "If I could learn to do what they do, I could help you. I could kill Cersei, Roose Bolton, Walder Frey-"

"Arya, that's enough," he cut in. "I'm not having you running off to Braavos to learn how to sneak around killing people. Things may be bad, but I defeat my enemies by facing them across a battlefield."

Without another word, Arya slid down from off the bed and headed for the door. Robb flinched as it slammed shut behind her and he resigned himself to another day in which he could do no right.

He wasn't even right about the Tyrells. While down in the sparring yard, rebuilding his strength by sparring with as many opponents as he could handle, a messenger came from beyond the walls. The Tyrells were not coming on official business but, all the same, Lady Margaery requested a private audience. Not with Brynden, either. Just with him, Robb. That was curious.

Still breathless, dripping sweat and covered in dirt from being knocked to the ground, Robb nodded his assent. He didn't know if it was a good idea. Had he not been frazzled from the fight and seeing stars from being knocked over the head, he might have declined this strange offer. But he couldn't deny that he was intrigued.

"What do you suppose she wants?" he asked his uncle, later that day. They had met privately, in his solar, where they dined on a light meal of fish and vegetables from the late Lady Tully's old gardens. He had never known his grandmother, but he remembered his mother speaking of her often.

The Blackfish gave him a knowing smile, a glint in those old blue eyes. "I cannot imagine what the lovely Lady Margaery wants."

"You're imagining all the same though, are you not?" Robb laughed. "But honestly, uncle, my wife is barely in her grave and you're practically throwing me at Margaery Tyrell."

"I can think of much worse things to be thrown at," the Blackfish retorted. "Aim yourself right, my boy, and you're in for nice, soft landing."

"You're incorrigible," he mock-chided. "She's clever, she's beautiful, she's wealthy and has one of the largest armies in the realm. Somehow, I don't think a deposed, up-jumped Northern lord who barely survived a massacre is going to be a great match for her. Do you?"

The reality was grim. But the Blackfish looked undeterred.

"She believes you're a bastard and yet I've seen the way she looks at you," he said, lowering his voice. "As for you: you got where you did because you took risks. You may well want to consider taking another risk."

Robb frowned. "And tell her who I am?"

"No, not that," Brynden replied. "Not just yet. But I find it very telling of the type of person she is that she has grown so fond of a bastard. Not many of her station would, as well you know."

That had occurred to Robb, too. Some of those who didn't know him, to whom he was not familiar, had given him a taste of what it was like to be Jon. They didn't always say anything. It was in the way they looked at him. The shift in stance, the almost imperceptible wrinkle of the nose as if his bastard presence had somehow fouled the air around them. It took a while for him to notice that these reactions were brought about by the name "Rivers". Even the tradesmen who called to the castle, the smallfolk and others who had no business being snooty with anyone. He'd had a brief taste of what it was to be marked out for all the wrong reasons.

Besides, being Tristifer Rivers was a lot safer than being Robb Stark. Tristifer didn't have a price on his head, for one thing. Tristifer had the advantage of being alive, too.

"You didn't lose the war on the battlefield, Robb," the Blackfish continued. "You lost it in the bedchamber. Talisa was a nice girl, very beautiful and she would have been good for you, had you been a common soldier from a humble home. But you're not. You're Robb of House bloody Stark and you needed a bride to match your rank. I didn't lecture you at the time – your mother did that well enough on her own. And I'm not lecturing you now. But I think it apt to remind you."

Robb knew that, but he felt a little stung all the same. Having lost his appetite, he pushed the plate of unfinished fish away and reached for the mead instead.

"That's probably for the best, actually" said Brynden, gesturing to the abandoned plate.

Robb was puzzled, but could guess at what was going on. "Why? Normally, I get told off for not shovelling every morsel and more down my throat."

"Because I'm arranging a nice supper for you and your new lady friend, is why," the Blackfish replied, matter of fact. "You're going to have a bath and dress your best. There's going to be candles. Ladies like candles. Or, so I've been told."

The Blackfish was an old soldier, Robb made allowances for that. Subtlety was never his strong suit. But this, he thought, was going a little far. "Don't you think you're being a little obvious?"

Obvious or not, ser Brynden got his way. Robb spent the remainder of the afternoon soaking in a large stone bath, contemplating his fate. All the while, supper was being prepared for him and their guest. It would be served in a small and private room where they would not be disturbed.

Meanwhile, he found himself thinking of Jon again. He remembered the time they played Come into my Castle, and he had grown stroppy when Jon declared himself Lord of Winterfell. 'You'll never be lord of Winterfell,' he'd scolded, 'you're only a bastard'.

They were children, and children were cruel. He regretted it as soon as he said it. But you couldn't take back words, you couldn't make them unsaid, and he still remembered the hurt in Jon's face. He could see it now, all these years later, with leagues and years between them. Regardless of this little farce he was being put through with Lady Tyrell, in all likelihood Jon would be Lord of Winterfell and he would be the bastard Rivers, laying low like a hunted animal. The tables had turned on their lives, their roles and destinies playing tricks on them both. Robb no longer regretted what he had done, he just regretted that he now had to force his poor brother to shoulder the burden he left behind.

Hair washed, skin scrubbed pink, he got out of the bath and dried himself off by the fire in his chambers. Clean cotton breeches, newly tailored by the castle seamstress, lay folded on his bed alongside a silk shirt and silk doublet. All in the colours of House Stark – grey and white. He wondered if Margaery would notice, but even if she did he could say he got the clothes from his time serving Lady Stark.

When the appointed hour arrived, Lady Margaery wasn't a minute late. Robb was in place already, in a room close to the main keep where a table had been set. She was escorted in by one of Brynden's real servants, where she paused in the door and met his gaze with a smile that reached her honey-gold eyes. His heartbeat skipped, his breath catching in his throat.

"My lady, please be seated."

Having dismissed the servant, Robb drew out the chair himself. A gesture that seemed to make the colour rise in her face as she lifted her pale blue skirts clear of her ankles and approached him.

"Thank you, Tristifer," she said, taking in the table she added: "You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble. Although, those candles are lovely. Is that cinnamon?"

Robb hadn't a clue, so he just agreed. "Yes, I would imagine it is. My father uses them for all his guests."

That was a desperate attempt at normalising the situation. One she probably saw right through. But either she was too polite to say, or the mocking laughter she was holding in had been cut off by the arrival of their supper. She sat up and beamed at the servant, thanking him warmly as he placed a silver platter of fresh venison and roasted vegetables in front of her. After an exchange of pleasantries with the servant, while he decanted wine, Robb realised she really was very kind to everyone. Too kind, he thought, if even Brynden was pushing her too far.

"This looks excellent, I must say," she said, lifting her knife. "I must give the kitchen staff my compliments before I return. I hope Ser Brynden won't mind."

Robb shook his head. "He won't mind."

They were sitting facing each other, barely a few feet apart where he could see every intimate detail of her face and gown. The weave of the fabric, the cut of the cloth and the chain of golden roses that decorated the hems.

Once she had taken a few dainty mouthfuls, she paused to sip her wine and catch his eye. "Do you know, I honestly only came here to tell you something I thought you would find interesting."

Robb's curiosity was piqued. "Really? Do go on, my lady."

"I pray you indulge me, Tristifer, it's rather long winded," she replied, leaning back in her seat. "But, shortly after Robert's Rebellion, a girl was cast out of her home and exiled in the Free Cities. She was only a babe in arms, with no family and not a single penny to her name. Oh, she had a brother. But he was worse than useless. He beat her, they said. And one of her protectors – if any of the men looking after her can be dignified with such a name – even found the brother trying to deflower her. But that's better than King Robert, because he kept trying to kill her. So, anyway, she was forced to flee and stick with the mad brother for the sake of her life.

Eventually, even Robert gave up on her and just assumed she would die a natural death. Of starvation, perhaps. Or murdered by the brother. But she didn't die, as Robert hoped. She lived to be married off to a Dothraki horselord. Her brother sold her at the behest of a Magister living in Penthos, who probably secretly hoped she would die out in the Red Wastes. Instead, her brother died. Her husband died. Even the baby in her belly died. But she -the one everyone expected to die – she lived.

She didn't just live, either. Because the Magister gifted her three precious dragon eggs for her wedding. Now, hundreds of years after the last dragon died, three more live because of that poor, penniless girl that everyone thought would die. Now she's marching across Slaver's Bay, freeing the slaves and conquering cities."

Margaery picked up her knife and gestured at him with it. "Don't you think there's a lot you could learn from that, Tristifer?"

Robb had hung on every word, feeling more and more uncomfortable the longer it went on. Now he was choking down another mouthful of venison and even that seemed to stick in his throat. Why was she telling him this? Why was she holding forth about a girl who was meant to be dead? He felt like she was teasingly unmasking him without letting on. In the meantime, all he could think to do was play along.

"Yes, Daenerys Targaryen has had an interesting life, hasn't she?" he replied, at length. He tried, with all his heart, to sound light and casual. "So, it's true about the dragons then? We heard some rumours, of course, but didn't pay them much mind."

Margaery laughed. "Oh, yes. Joffrey was terrified when he found out and furious when his grandfather brushed them off."

Just for a moment, Robb forgot the situation and focused on these dragons. If that were true, they could all be in much more trouble than they realised. But that was a battle for another day.

"Tywin didn't take them seriously?" asked Robb.

"They're only babies," Margaery replied. "But she's already conquered Astapor, Yunkai and Mereen with the help of those babies."

"And babies don't stay babies forever," Robb opined.

Whether he was being unmasked or not, this was an interesting development. He had images in his head of Roose Bolton being forced to kneel before a silver haired girl mounted on a huge dragon, before being engulfed in flames. After all, it made sense to him that the Targaryen girl would not stop at Mereen. Those dragons would grow and fly her across the Narrow Sea. Now he thought, Roose had betrayed him only to have to answer to a girl on a dragon. It almost made Robb laugh. Still, he remained outwardly serious.

"My Lady, why are you telling me this?" He wanted to steer her back on course, getting a straight answer from her.

Margaery looked at him as she took a leisurely sip of wine. "I'm not being very subtle am I, Lord Stark."

Was there any use in even denying it? Robb thought not. People were going to find out eventually, anyway - at least, that's what he told himself. He smiled sheepishly, hiding his blushes behind his glass as he downed the contents. Even though he had all but second guessed where she was going, he still felt like'd been sprung into a trap.

"Forgive my forwardness, my lord, but I must say the grey and white suits you far better than the blue and red," she continued, smiling.

"How did you find out?" he asked.

"I've promised the girl who told me that I would protect her," she replied. "She did not mean to betray you-"

"Arya," he cut in, thinking of no one else. "I know she was angry with me-"

"It was not Arya," Margaery said, firmly. "Her name is Jeyne Poole and she was being sold to Ramsay Bolton in place of Arya."

Robb sighed heavily. "Vayon's daughter."

"She's been tortured and raped," Margaery explained. "She thought she would be left to die until we saved her. Please seek no reprisals against her, it was not her fault."

"No!" he retorted. "No, of course not. We all just thought she was dead, like everyone who else who went south. Where is she now? Tell her she is in no trouble, that we just want her back safe and sound."

"She's with me," Margaery assured him. "And I promised to look for a place in my mother's retinue for her. We didn't think you would be able to take her."

Robb was relieved. He was relieved that this Mummer's farce of him pretending to be a bastard was over. While worried about what would happen next.

"Tell Jeyne she can choose to go with your mother or stay with us. Her fate is her own to decide," he said. "But what will you tell Cersei about me?"

"Nothing at all, and you have my word on that," she promised him. "I swear it and I'll swear it on the Seven-Pointed Star, if need be."

Robb's brow creased, his gaze sharpening as he tried to weigh up the woman opposite him. Whatever game she was playing, it was against the Lannisters despite all outward appearances. "Who have you told?"

"No one," she answered. "Not even my brothers, but you must understand I cannot keep this from them. Not forever."

"Why haven't you told them?" he asked, more to the point.

"Because I don't want them to know," she answered, her voice low. "This is between you and me."

She made it sound intimate, like a secret whispered under the bedsheets. A feeling heightened when she reached across the table and found his hands with her own. Despite his wariness, he opened his palms and let her hold him.

"I wasn't just telling you about Daenerys Targaryen because she's supposed to be dead a hundred times over," she said. A small draught made the candleflame flicker. It was cinnamon, he realised, sharp and sweet. "She had nothing. Now she's Queen of Mereen. Don't write yourself off, my lord. You're alive. You're young. You fight like a demon. Anything could happen."

"Anything?" he repeated, slowly nudging the candle aside.

"Anything. A small word, with such a large meaning."

Their hands were still joined across the table, but their eyes were fixed on each other. She was a puzzle he couldn't figure out. Their hands unclasped and the moment slipped by, almost unacknowledged. His skin still felt warm from where she had touched it. For a moment there, he considered kissing her. Anything could happen, but not that. Not just yet.

"We live but once and we're dead forever," she said, drawing back her chair. "And, Seven save me, I've wanted to do this since the moment I first met you."

They both stood up, rising to the challenge issued by their mutual conflict of interest.

"What?" he asked. "This?"

He met her half way around the table, only stopping when their bodies met and pressed against each other. He hesitated briefly, before she went the final furlong and kissed him.

Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute. Although it's fine if you don't.

Apologies yet again for not including Jon, but he really is coming up next chapter. Now that I've reached a nice crossroads with Robb and Marge, I'll probably open the next chapter with Jon. It would have made little sense to wedge him at the end of this chapter. Thanks for understanding.