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Chapter Twenty: The Winter Queen
Caught in a moment between sleep and consciousness, Margaery remembered nothing. She stirred and sighed, stretched out her limbs as if clawing her way back to her senses. But it wasn't until Robb rolled over in his sleep that the night before came barrelling back into her memory. The wedding, the heart tree; the dull yet sweet ache of the consummation still warming her belly. It felt like turning the pages and reading the happy ending of her favourite story all over again.
Robb slept on, one fist curled tight around the edge of the quilt. His face half a blur in the poor light of dawn that only now crept through the shutters. So early, the on coming day was barely a rumour. Briefly, she willed him to wake but soon changed her mind. All too soon, morning would come and their brief time alone would be snatched away from them. Daylight would bring the war to their door and push them out the gates, back onto the tattered battlefields of the Riverlands. Only the gods knew when they would have their next night of peace.
For her, however, the night was done. Careful not to wake him, she kissed his furrowed brow and smoothed the wrinkles away, before getting out of bed and leaving him to his dreams. On the bedside table, amethysts shone hard, cold and black in their web of silver lacing. So long, Petyr Baelish, she thought as she picked up the hairnet, we'll hunt you through the seven hells one of these fine days.
The hairnet laced through her fingers until she found the empty eyelets where stones had been removed. One for Joffrey, one for Petyr. She could see Joff still. Purple in the face, frothing at the mouth; his eyes bulging from their sockets as the strangler did its work. She traced her finger around the empty eyelets, caressing them softly and the child tyrant died all over again in the depths of her imagination. The memory left her cold and alone.
How long had it been? It could be no more than six months, but felt like a lifetime. Half a year, in a world where it took twice that time to traverse one end of the land to the other, felt like no time at all. No respecter of time, circumstance had swept her away and off the edges of her own expectations. She was glad of the momentary loss of control: it had been a thrill.
Back then, she had told Loras she could dream of love all she liked, but would always wake up to reality. She remembered how he had looked at her, like she was some unfeeling creature going out of her way to blot the sun from her life. The truth was, back then, she didn't think she was missing out on much. Love was something other people did, usually before a great and terrible fall. Love made people soft; love made people complacent and careless when they most needed clear heads and stone hearts.
Now, she was standing in a cold stone room, looking back at her husband and realising Loras had been right all along and she was wrong. Her dreams and her reality had collided and the man she loved was there in their bed, his seed sticking in her belly. She prayed for it to quicken. Everything was in the balance; the scales might even be tipped slightly in their favour. But she knew she could not grow soft and comfortable. Nothing could be taken for granted in the wars to come. They had the army, they had the claim and they had right on their side. The best thing she could do now was get with child and birth a son. A new prince in the North. A promise for a future every man north of the Neck could rally behind, free from the taint of his father's mistakes. Should it happen soon, she knew, Cersei won't know what's hit her. Cersei, that great monopoliser of motherhood… Margaery's skin prickled with gooseflesh, her body stiffening for the fight ahead.
The rumple of bedsheets drew her from her musings, turning her back toward the bed where Robb now sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Her smile came easily as she climbed back up beside him, one hand reaching out to smooth down the back of his hair.
"Wife," he murmured.
"Husb-" her reply cut off as their lips met, one strong arm pulling her back under the covers. The warmth closed over her, soft and inviting.
Afterwards, when his seed was spent and they lay back against the bank of pillows, morning had broken. Freezing fog and snowdrifts from the North had come to greet them and bring them home. She felt like a character in a story. A winter queen, brittle and beautiful. No one had made her feel like that before. Only Robb.
Their father always said poison was a woman's weapon. Only now, Jon realised, that it hadn't been a derogatory statement. The way in which Sansa had dealt with Petyr Baelish, once he recovered from the shock of it, he realised had been neat and clean and efficient. He touched the corpse with the toe of his boot, where it lay naked in the snow. Not even the dignity of a loin cloth had been afforded the former Master of Coin and Lord of Harrenhal; both Jon and Ser Brynden were trying not to notice the bulging erection rigor mortis had bestowed upon the corpse in the hours since his death.
"A little less of that and he wouldn't have been in this fix in the first place," the Blackfish wryly remarked, his cold blue eyes directed pointedly at the opposite riverbank. "Well, let's get this over with."
Two soldiers dressed in Tully livery stepped forward and lifted the dead man, one under the shoulders and the other by the ankles, where they lifted him like a sack of turnips into a small wooden boat. Without fuss or preamble, Ser Brynden took up the longbow and touched an arrow to the flames of a nearby beacon. But after that, he paused as if racked with indecision.
"My Cat didn't get this. None of it."
For a brief and stupid moment, Jon thought he was referring to a once beloved pet. Then realised he was referring to Lady Stark.
"I'm sorry, Ser Brynden." There was little else he could say, without making himself a liar by gushing about what a wonderful woman his niece was and how she deserved a tomb of wrought gold. "Lady Catelyn was a very strong and able woman. I'll always remember that about her. She deserved a lot better than she got."
"Huh. I wonder what she'd have to say about you, should your roles be reversed." The look in Brynden's eye told Jon: I didn't ask for your platitudes, but thanks all the same.
"I'm not lying, Ser Brynden. I found her admirable, regardless of what she made of me."
Jon tried to inject a tone of finality in his statement and emphasised it by turning to the boat with the dead man slumped against the side. The deadweight made the vessel list to the right, one dead arm drooped over the side and the cold fingers dipped in the waters. He heard the arrow nocked, the twine creak as it was drawn back. Seconds later, a streak of flame flared and diffused in the freezing fog. It hit home with a whoosh of flame as the kindling took light.
"Will that do it?" Ser Brynden asked.
"Aye," said Jon, watching the fire build.
The boat picked up speed then hit a jutting rock.
"Oh, shit."
It jolted and listed again, before sinking slowly into the depths of the Tumblestone. Jon thought it mattered not a jot.
"The body was burning, that's the main thing," he assured the old knight.
Ser Brynden handed the longbow back to his squire. A real squire, and not Robb pretending to be a humble squire. Or cupbearer, or whatever he was masquerading as when the Tyrells first arrived at Riverrun. The thought of it still made Jon smile.
"From the Neck to the Blackwater Rush and beyond, this realm is littered with corpses," said Ser Brynden. "I don't see what difference one will make, should the wall fall down."
Jon shrugged, supposing he had a point. "I don't know about you, my lord, but I don't think becoming a meat puppet of the Great Other will bring about much improvement to Lord Baelish's temperament."
Sansa's warning returned to him once more: leave Petyr Baelish to his own devices and he'll end up the Great Other's second in command. Well, now even that slim hope had been denied him and Jon thought he could rest a little easier.
Together, the two of them made their way back into Riverrun. On the way, however, Jon addressed the elephant awaiting them in the room upon their return.
"I know she didn't like me and I don't blame her for it. But I didn't ask to be born and if I had, I wouldn't have chosen Lord Stark as a father just to spite her. Lady Stark and I, we were fighting on the same side, but she never could see that. I hoped I'd find you a little farther sighted than that."
Ser Brynden halted, turning to fix him with his wrinkled Tully eyes. Just like Catelyn; just like all the Tullys. After a moment, he gave a nod of his head, disturbing his iron grey hair.
"I know that, lad," he said, extending a hand toward him. The understanding met, Jon shook his hand. "If we linger out here any longer we'll freeze and if I'm going to freeze, I want a better reason for it than disposing of Petyr Baelish."
Jon laughed, touched his brow in a manner of salute. "Understood."
Back in the castle, the wedding breakfast to celebrate the newly weds was in full swing. Before joining them, Jon washed his hands and face, scrubbing away the last remnants of Petyr Baelish. Sansa, with Arya's full support, had wanted to send his head to Cersei with compliments of House Stark. While he couldn't deny the poetic justice it would have brought, common sense had had to prevail. Besides, last they heard Cersei was locked up. For her own good or the good of the people, Jon no longer cared.
He was starving and the smell of frying bacon drifted up from the Great Hall. Right now, it was a prospect far more enticing than talking politics. And Robb and Margaery were already there, waiting for him to join them. His new sister by law looked radiant, smiling brightly as she poured him a cup of small ale, handing to him as he took his place.
"Arya tells me you have Theon Greyjoy in the dungeons," said Jon, breaking the promise he made to himself about no politics. Truth was, he was just plain curious about this. "Why isn't he dead yet?"
Robb swallowed a mouthful of ale, then took a moment to measure a reply. "It was my inclination to kill him the minute I realised who he was. But what would that achieve?"
"Justice," Jon retorted. "I'd have thought that was obvious."
"Yes, but we also need Moat Cailin and Theon can deliver it," Robb continued, measured and calm. "I know you've always misliked him, Jon. I-"
"Robb, this about what he did to our family, not my boyhood grudges," he cut in. "Oh, leave it. Here's Sam and Gilly now."
He waved them over before helping himself to bacon and sausage from a nearby platter. Fresh bread and butter was close at hand, which he also availed himself off. Burying the dead was hungry work, he found.
"We march out today," said Robb, as if Jon might have forgotten.
"I know, I'm looking forward to it, aren't you?" he replied. "You know, I almost deserted the Night's Watch when I heard you'd marched south for father. Then, later, when I heard you'd been declared King in the North, I actually did try to run for it. Didn't I, Sam?"
Sam brightened at the memory. "Honour brought you back, though. That's what Old Mormont said."
Robb looked almost abashed. "And I thank you for it. It's the thought that counts."
Jon wondered for a moment. Had he abandoned the Night's Watch to join Robb, he'd be lying dead at the Twins right now. Had Sansa fled King's Landing with the Hound, she too would be lying dead at the Twins. Or worse, a prisoner forced to marry one of Frey's hideous sons and bearing their offspring. Sometimes, fate really does know what's best. Now was their moment to shine.
"I'm thinking, I should go and scout out the Northern clans, see if we can't bring them over to our side," he said, after sating some hunger. "I advised the same to Stannis, but those clans would never desert the Starks. I could do it myself, if it's too dangerous for you to re-enter the North."
"I think it's an excellent idea," Robb concurred. However, there was something in his rigid demeanour and the look he exchanged with his wife, that suggested there was a 'but' coming. "But, I think you should go on to Mereen."
Silence followed in which Jon's head reeled; a silence broken by his fork clattering against his plate.
"You recalled me so we could take back the North together," he said, quietly. "Now you're sending me to other side of the world."
"Hardly," said Robb exasperated. "Look, all this business with the undead armies… you said it yourself, this is the greater threat."
The look Robb and Margaery shared. Jon found himself wondering if this was her doing. Was she sending him away, just like the last Lady Stark always tried to do? The feeling shifted uncomfortably in his belly.
"Furthermore, I think Sansa should go with you."
Jon was aghast. After everything they went through, he was dispensing with Sansa too. It made sense, in one respect. Keep the heirs safe and away from the danger of war. They had already lost their brothers, so their sisters rose in dynastic value. All the same, it made Jon uncomfortable.
"I wonder what Sansa has to say to that?"
"Let's ask her," said Margaery. "But we need Daenerys, Jon. We need those dragons."
Before they could use any more of his own arguments against him, he called their sister over. Sansa was dining with Arya and Jeyne Poole, it was a rare sight to see the three of them getting on so well. A contrast offset by the disagreements brewing between Jon and Robb. Sansa looked up and waved at them, thinking his call was only a morning greeting. But she turned serious when he beckoned her over and she set down the honey comb she was using to cover her heel of bread.
Robb and Margaery moved up a little to make room for her, while explaining the situation. Sandor Clegane had followed her over and Jon wondered whether he would be joining them too. The brother of the man who dashed Daenerys' nephews brains out against a wall in Maegor's Holdfast. Jon was sure she'd love that.
"You know how to handle royalty," Robb was saying to their sister. "You're a different person to that child I remember. You know what you're doing."
She flushed at the high praise. "I'd be glad to do it. But, what about Arya?"
"A Stark in Winterfell," said Robb. "If we take the castle back and settle the North, I'll not be staying. I will go straight North again and reinforce the Night's Watch until Jon returns with Daenerys Targaryen. One of us must remain in Winterfell and Arya's our best bet since Bran and Rickon are probably dead. Jon, you would be wasted sitting in a castle while everyone else is fighting or negotiating."
That was dead right, Jon thought to himself. "I know. I just thought I would be with you when we liberated the castle. That's all."
The look of sadness in Robb's eyes was genuine. At least, Jon could see that. "We'll be with each other when we defeat the armies of the dead and the Great Other."
Silence fell again, with Sansa taking Gilly's baby and bouncing him on her knee. But it was clear she was deep in thought and not brooding on her own budding maternal instincts. Still with the baby in her arms, she looked from Jon to Robb again. "You're using Theon, aren't you, to negotiate with the Ironborn?"
"Aye," said Robb,
Jon still bridled at the thought of Theon living.
"Well then, we go as far as Moat Cailin with you," Sansa continued. "The two of you together can secure the North, ready for the invasion once Theon delivers you Cailin. You say you're going to use Theon to sue for peace with the Iron Islands, I say you go further: if Asha Greyjoy wants her brother in one piece, she must bring her ships to our cause. I suggest she brings Jon and I to Mereen, with the rest of her fleet, so we can return with Daenerys and whatever armies she's rallied around her."
Margaery nodded, smiling. "It makes sense, Robb. It's a good idea."
"Didn't we make the mistake of trusting the Greyjoys once before?" asked Jon, wondering whether they'd all lost their wits.
"But Theon will be our prisoner now," Sansa pointed out. "If Asha wants him back, she must cooperate and bring us her fleet. To sweeten the deal, we could even support her claim to the Seastone Chair. I mean, it's not like Theon can take it now, is it? Arya said he's been gelded and Balon died ages ago."
"If we support her claim to the Seastone Chair," said Margaery. "Then Asha must also agree to use the Iron fleet in the oncoming wars in the far north. And she must agree to cease and desist raiding the western shores."
"Agreed," said Robb.
"What about Daenerys?" asked Jon, still sceptical. "We're asking a lot of her, too. To just drop everything she's gained in Essos to come and relieve us. How do we know she even wants to come back to Westeros?"
"Oh, she's working toward a full-scale invasion," said Margaery, insistently. "If we send her the iron fleet, perhaps a few ships from White Harbour too, and I know the Redwynes will also help…"
Her offers ended there, leaving it to Robb to make his own.
"And tell her," he began, before faltering again. "Tell her, if she helps us, if she does this for us, I will give up my titles and bend the knee to her. I will swear fealty to her as my Queen"
"The Reach will follow suit," said Margaery.
"And the Vale," Sansa added. "I will speak with Lord Robert and finalise it. But he will bend the knee, even if I have to bend it for him."
"The Riverlands will not defy her, not when all their neighbours swear fealty," said Robb. "But my uncle Edmure is still a prisoner, he is the rightful lord and the decision is his to make."
"The Stormlands might hold out," said Margaery. "But if we defeat Stannis in the North, if we get Lady Shireen safely in our custody, they too will submit."
And, just like that, they stitched up the fate of the realm between them. Despite himself, he felt a flicker of curiosity about this Queen across the narrow sea. But always, the ominous shadow of Theon Greyjoy's treachery seemed to hover over them.
"You won't forgive him, will you?" said Jon, fixing Robb with a pointed look. "Not after everything he's done. Not after what he did to Bran and Rickon."
"Didn't Arya tell you?" he asked. "Theon says they're alive-"
"Yes, but that's only because he's trying to save his own skin, Robb," Jon cut in, frustrated. "Surely, you can see that? Gods, Sansa, talk sense into our brother."
"Robb knows that," Sansa assured him. "But Robb, even if Theon did not kill our brothers, he forced them out into hostile lands in the oncoming winter. He may as well have killed them with his own hand. Even if Asha does cooperate, it will make me sick to see Theon walk away with her, as if nothing happened."
Jon agreed with her, but kept his thoughts to himself. Meanwhile, Sansa handed little Sam back to Gilly, while big Sam stared at Jon with his jaw flapping.
"What is it, Sam?" asked Jon.
The other man had gone red in the face, his pale brown eyes wide and shining. Still, he made no sound but his jaw kept flapping. A thin trickle of sweat crawled down his temple. Everyone was looking at him now. Jon, Robb, Margaery, Sansa… all watching and waiting.
"Sam?" asked Jon, thinking something was seriously amiss. "Sam, what's wrong?"
"Your brothers," he choked, fighting for breath. "I'm so sorry, Jon. I should have told you. I should have told you as soon as I-"
"What!" Jon snapped. "If you know something tell me now."
"I saw them, Jon. They are still alive. They're both still alive. Bran's in the North and Rickon was taken to Skagos."
From there, the floodgates opened and the whole story spilled out. Gilly backed him up, confirming everything. They hadn't seen Rickon, Osha had already taken him to Skagos while Bran was heading into the northern wastes in search of something called a three-eyed crow.
Robb was askance. "Is he seriously only mentioning this now?"
"But I promised!" Sam whimpered.
Jon's knuckles whitened where he gripped a serrated-edged breadknife. Just for a second, he wanted to stick it right into his old friend's heart. But they were brothers; they'd pulled one another through the darkest days of their lives. It was that, and that alone, that stayed Jon's hand. Not that he would have killed the man, though. But a good smack in the mouth was tempting.
All the same, banishment sufficed. The time was coming anyway. They couldn't bring Gilly and the baby into a battle camp. "Go to Oldtown as planned, Sam. They're waiting for you. Come back with a chain and the knowledge of how to tame dragons and destroy the already dead."
Anger subsided and only sadness was left. A farewell more bitter than he could have anticipated.
Noon came and with it the tolling of the bells. The armies and trains formed up slowly, but stretched as far as Robb's eye could see. Both sides of the Tumblestone, all through the fields and cresting the distant southern hills, their war machine stretched out. He dug his spurs into his horse's flanks and rode the head of his vast forces.
Margaery was there already, flanked by Arya and Sansa. The day was cold, with snowfalls drifting intermittently from the North. Winter really had come, after all. Their House words were a promise, a threat and a statement of fact all rolled into one.
At the head of the procession riding out of Riverrun, Robb drew his horse to a halt beneath the direwolf banners now fluttering in the brisk wind. Jon was there already, waiting for him to catch up. The brothers smiled at each other, greeting each other with a nod.
"Already," said Jon. "This is it."
"It is, isn't it?" he agreed, smiling palely. "Now it begins."
The chains of the drawbridge creaked and groaned as they lowered, allowing the castle occupants to leave. Robb remembered Harwin bringing him back here, hidden in a cart of grain and so weak with fever he was likely to die. It felt like a lifetime ago. It almost made him nostalgic.
He didn't know how long he would be King in the North for. Not long. But that didn't matter. Nor did he know how his lords would react, knowing he had only reassumed the title so he could give it up again, to make a proud Valyrian Princess feel like she was accomplishing something. Margaery's tenacity made him smile as he found her among his sisters.
"Ride on." Jon leaned over and gently smacked the rump of Robb's horse, spurring it on through the gates.
Everyone else followed, their pace sedate. Robb's heart hammered in his chest, history weighed heavily on one shoulder, expectation on the other. He didn't know what lay beyond those curtain walls, but he was ready for it. Side by side, he and Jon rode under the portcullis and over the moat, out into the wide open Riverlands. Then, he paused and looked back over his shoulder, finding his two sisters.
"Come on, girls," he said. "Let's go home."
There was no argument from them. With one final glance at the turrets and barbican of Riverrun, he kicked his horse into a gallop. After him came the others: Jon, Arya, Sansa, Margaery… everyone. The bitter wind whipped colour into their cheeks, the horse's breath fogging in the cold air. They sped through the gates and out onto the roads beyond, faster and faster as the horses built speed, fanning out and following the Stark banners. Chasing destiny, with the direwolf of the North in proud flight once more.
The chamber door clicked shut, drowning out the noise of the city beyond the pyramid. Yet, Daenerys knew she was not alone. The shadows moved, swaying with the flicker of candlelight. The room seemed to breathe, to exhale the stored-up tension of a hot summer's day. Body as taught as a bowstring, she paused, poised for flight. Grey Worm and Ser Barristan were just a call away, but her tongue remained still, the breath caught in her throat.
Mute, she stood by the wall with her back pressed flat against the dark panelling. Waiting, waiting, until the dull glimmer of red lacquer caught her eye. The breath she didn't even realise she had been holding was released in a rush of air. Daenerys didn't know if she should be relieved or even more afraid as Quaithe stepped closer to her. That woman was shadow made flesh but, behind that mask, her eyes shone like starlight.
"Why have you come?" she asked, not expecting a straight answer.
"Soon comes the pale mare. After her the lion, the kraken and a little bird with a sapphire maid. With them, comes the white wolf. You must be ready for them, Daenerys Targaryen. Everything you ever wanted … it's closer than you think."
"You've come here to tease me with prophecies and visions," Daenerys replied, voice low but stronger than she felt. Her hand came to rest on the door knob, although she knew Quaithe had no need of doors and her men would not be able to see her. "You mock me."
"I tell you what I see," said Quaithe. "You must be ready for them."
Daenerys blinked and the shadowbinder was gone, the flickering of the candles marking her silent passage. She breathed freely, letting the warmth of the fire touch her cold limbs. Lions, krakens, little birds and white wolves – it meant little and less to her, with Mereen in open revolt. Ser Jorah would have known what it meant. Ser Jorah would have known what to do. But Ser Jorah was gone and her children languished underground, shackled and bound. She closed her eyes and felt ready only for bed and sweet oblivion only sleep could bring.
Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.
Apologies again for not updating this story before Christmas, as I said I would. Like I said in the last chapter of Before the Dawn, I felt rather burned out and with the festive season eating away at my time, there just wasn't a chance of doing this chapter any form of justice. Anyway, things are back to normal now. Thank you for being patient.