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Chapter Twenty-Four: Honest to a Fault

"We really shouldn't be doing this." Margaery returned his kiss all the same. Nor did she protest as Robb reached to unlace her gown, or pick it up again as it slid to the floor and pooled at their feet. He felt her arms reaching around his bare chest, her palms flat against his back, holding him close to her as they kissed again. "The maesters say it's not good for the baby."

Maesters! What did they know? Fusty old men gathered at the citadel, turning grey and gathering dust as they debated the things real people actually did. Robb could guarantee not one of them had ever been pregnant or given birth in their lives. He told as much to Margaery and the sound of her laughter made his heart lift.

As with everything these days, the triumph came shrouded in caution. He'd been in this place before: on the verge of a major triumph, newly wed and with a child on the way – only to lose it all on the turn of a hair. Inside his head, he had to pause his swirling thoughts and tell himself he now had something else to fight for. Something that would secure their future.

They made love on the only useable bed in Moat Cailin. Old and musty, stained from Ironborn abuse and damp to the touch. If one thing was bad for the baby, it was remaining in the ruins of Moat Cailin. One they were finished, he held her close, both as naked as their name days.

"I'll write to Lord Manderly, he'll let you stay in White Harbour until this campaign is done."

She had been dozing off, but snapped to attention quickly. "What for?"

"For the baby," he replied. "It'll be more comfortable than a battle camp."

Margaery hesitated, her expression troubled. "My place is with you, wherever that is. I'm not just being sentimental. How are your Lords to take a southern Queen seriously if she spends their darkest hour hiding behind castle walls?"

"They'll understand," he assured her. "There's no need to make things needlessly difficult for yourself just to prove a point."

"All the same, I'm staying with you."

Regardless of the assurances he gave her, a part of him was pleased. And when they rose again, to rejoin the others outside, he felt the campaign once more sliding into place. As Ser Loras placed a hand on his arm to get his attention and spoke low in his ear: "Lord Howland Reed to see you, your grace."

Margaery was the only other person who'd heard what was said. She turned to look at them both, frowning. "I was beginning to think he was invisible. You better receive him in the common hall."

They needed to advance, to meet the threat coming down from the Rills. He wanted to get his wife and his army out of these bogs. All the same, he was curious and allowed Ser Loras to lead him back into the ruins of the fortress. An empty, cavernous place that echoed every breeze that whistled through the stones and smelled like the swamp waters seeping into the roots of the turrets and towers.

When Loras held open the hall door for him, soon after Lord Reed's arrival had been announced, he could see the man alone in there with only a wooden casket for company. It was set up on a trellis table in the middle of the hall, shrouded in a direwolf banner. A shaft of pale light fell on it, dust motes swirling all around. The Crannogman himself stood with one hand resting on the snarling direwolf's maws.

As if reluctant to disturb the peace, Loras leaned in again: "Do you want me to stay?"

Robb shook his head, motioning for him to leave. When the doors closed after the knight, the sounds of the amassing army outside were suddenly drowned out. It was like being sealed inside a bubble.

"Your Grace," Lord Reed stepped away from the casket, turning to Robb and bending the knee. The show of fealty reduced him to the height of Robb's waist. He rose again, gesturing to the casket. "Hallis and Lady Maege… they made it as far as the Neck when the massacre happened. It wasn't safe to proceed any further, so this remained with me at Greywater Watch."

"Father." Robb had already guessed, and now approached the casket with slow, measured steps. His mother had been thrown in a river and lost, his father had been out in the ether for all he knew. Until now. "Thank you, Lord Reed. He will come back with us, to where he belongs."

"We did not think Lord Bolton would show such respect," said the Crannogman. "So, I thought it best to wait until order had been restored."

While Robb stopped short of saying order had been restored, he agreed with the first half of the Crannogman's statement. Cautiously, he lifted the lid of the casket and glimpsed the bones inside. Some small, even childish, part of him hoped he might recognise his father in those bones. But they were bones like any other set of bones. They could have been bones picked up by the roadside for all he knew, with only the word of Tyrion Lannister to authentic whose body this had once been. All the same, his grief returned like a ghost from the past. Pale, insubstantial, but undeniably there.

The direwolf banner slid to the floor as he raised the lid of the casket fully, but Howland stooped to retrieve it. Meanwhile, Robb studied the place where his father's head had been cut from his body. A clean cut, and not jagged or splintered. Then he remembered Sansa telling him Ice had been used to do the deed, but at least Ser Ilyn Payne had wielded her well. It was a small comfort found in an honourable man's ignominious death.

"There's already a place for him in Winterfell's crypts," he said, thinking aloud more than anything. "But I don't know about bringing him with us."

It felt like tempting fate, a notion he knew his father would have scoffed at. However, Lord Howland wasn't laughing. He stepped forward, into the slanting light falling from the high windows. Even at full height, he barely reached Robb's shoulder.

"He'll be quite safe here, your grace. We Crannogmen are holding the Neck, your armies are pushing North. The Boltons won't be able to touch Moat Cailin."

Robb closed the lid again and, with Howland's help, he replaced the direwolf banner that shrouded the casket. It was an old one, taken from his own battle camp by the looks of its tattered hems. But it was better than nothing.

"What is to be done about Stannis' men? They will flee south, soon enough."

"Stannis' men?" asked Robb, turning to his companion. He'd almost forgotten Stannis was even in the North.

"They were defeated in battle some time ago, Stannis himself killed in the action," Howland explained. "They were another invading army, trying to take your birth right."

Only briefly did Robb consider engaging them, but a heartbeat later and he changed his mind. "Let them pass, my lord. They came; they failed. I have no quarrel with them. But if his daughter should pass this way, she is the rightful heir to Storm's End. We would do well to keep her close."

"Alas," Howland replied, apologetically. "She was burned as a sacrifice to the god, R'hllor."

A frown creased his brow at the mention of the fire god. He'd heard of it, but only through Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion from the Brotherhood. He remembered the work they did with the poor, sick and needy and couldn't equate their faith with the burning of children. He misliked it. It made his stomach turn.

"A heinous act," he murmured, still looking at his father's casket. "I will not have that faith practised on my lands if it requires the sacrifice of children. My father would never have allowed it and nor would I."

It also left them with the open succession of Storm's End. The Baratheon's were gone, as good as extinct but for Robert's bastard, Gendry of King's Landing. A blacksmith and armourer by trade, the other lords would sneer at him for the rest of his days should they attempt to make him Lord of Storm's End. But Robb could not see what choice they had.

"You may not have a choice," said Howland.

"I know," he agreed. "There is the blacksmith, though. It's better than no one."

Howland looked politely puzzled. "Pardon, your grace?"

Realising he was not referring to the succession of Storm's End, Robb coloured. "Sorry, I think we're talking about two different things. Er, a choice in what my lord?"

"The Faith of the Fire God," he replied, plaintively. "Do not mistake me, your grace. House Reed, all the Crannogmen, are of the old ways, the old gods. We have no great love for the fire god, who would consume our sacred trees. But you know of the great war that's coming. Your brother knows, he's been trying to reach you."

"Oh, I know that. But I don't see what it has to do with R'hllor. Jon didn't mention that, but he reached me at Riverrun and, I'm afraid, you've just missed him. He and Sansa are to go on to Mereen. They're bringing back the Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons to burn off the dead. Something along those lines, anyway. I haven't even seen these dead men, yet … still don't know what to make of it, if truth be told."

Howland was quiet for a moment, weighing him up. "I meant Brandon. Brandon's been trying to reach you through the trees."

Robb was lost. "Brandon? Theon said he was alive, but not where he went. Do you know something? Do Meera or Jojen know anything?"

"Meera is with him still," Howland explained as if Robb should have known this all along. "They're North of the Wall, with the Three-Eyed Crow. They have their own role to play in the coming wars. And so does R'hllor, when ice meets fire."

Robb had almost forgotten they were meant to be talking about R'hllor, but the detail about Bran had blown him off course and he barely cared anymore. "What in seven hells is a three-eyed crow?"

"An able guardian," Howland answered. "He can reach us and he can reach you. Pay attention and you will find him again, when you venture North."

Jon's friend was the one who let Bran and his companions through the wall, he knew already. But the guardian was a new detail, even more puzzling than Bran's urgent need to go north had been in the first place. Meanwhile, the lands north of the wall were huge, expansive and mostly unmapped. He felt if he was to find Bran in that desolate wasteland, he would have to pay more attention than any person reasonably had.

"Thank you, my lord. I'll find my brother and your daughter if it's the last thing I do."

Robb had thought the meeting had come to an end, he was about to back away, when Howland stopped him again. "Forgive me, where did you say your other brother was going?"

"To Mereen," he answered. "It's where Daenerys Targaryen is, and her three dragons. We need her for the war in the North. If she helps us, we'll help her take the realm in return."

Howland slowly nodded, but Robb got the feeling it was more than a gesture of agreement. He seemed to want to say something more, but was struggling to form the words.

"Does he know her?"

"He's never met her, but she'll be hard to miss with those dragons flapping around her."

"No, I mean: does he know her? Did you father ever mention her?"

Robb shrugged, wondering what all this was about. "No. Why would he?"

"Because she's Jon's aunt."

Momentarily floored, Robb's head spun for a second as he tried to work it out, propping himself against Ned Stark's casket for support. Daenerys had two siblings, both brothers. For Daenerys to be Jon's aunt, one of those brothers had to be Jon's father. The only likely contender was Rhaegar, the eldest. The same Rhaegar who took his aunt Lyanna. It was really quite simple, when looked at objectively. But in the context of the life he and his brother had lived, it was utterly fucking seismic.

"My Lord, I think you need to start from the beginning," said Robb, just about pulling himself together.

Not quite as sought after as his sister, Jon rode at the head of the procession to White Harbour while Sansa was hidden in a covered litter. Brienne was a solid, silent presence at his side and when she wasn't with him she was hovering close to the litter in case any passing Bolton man might be able to see through its sides. But her vigilance was far from unjustified.

Large bands of Bolton men patrolled the lands around White Harbour, with only the presence of so many Manderlys keeping them at bay. When they stopped overnight, they got so close Jon could hear what they were saying. Amidst the mundane chatter, they spoke of Stannis and the raids on his camp led by Roose Bolton's bastard. No matter how much he tried to tell himself it didn't concern him anymore, he hung on to every scrap of information he could get.

If it wasn't the Boltons, it was the Ryswell and Dustin men. Both had fought for Robb until Roose Bolton turned his coat and they were one of the few who wouldn't turn their cloaks back again.

"Don't they know Robb is alive?" Sansa asked, when he joined her and Lord Manderly in the litter.

"There's been no talk of him," Jon answered. "He is conspicuous by his absence in their talk. Ramsay seems to be missing Theon, though."

That was one name that had come up among the travelling foot soldiers. His sister and her companions were looking after him, and even if they did lose him to the Boltons during the journey, he wasn't sure how much he could bring himself to grieve.

"It must be difficult for you, my lord, to be working with the Ironborn after all they have done," said Sansa, turning to Lord Manderly.

"I'll work with them because my king commands it," he gruffly stated. "Just don't ask me to be pleased about it."

Nor would they. And when their mercifully short journey reached its end, Jon was taken straight to the ships the Manderlys had been secretly building. Finished now, they were great galleys fitted out with no expense spared. Twenty of them docked in the large harbour, side by side, the sails already swollen by the brisk sea breeze. Jon breathed a sigh of relief as he faced the final leg of their seemingly endless journey.

"When we can we sail?" he asked, following Lord Manderly down the dockyards.

"I'd set out at evenfall, if I were you," he answered. "Get clean away from Westeros under the cover of darkness. But listen, before you go, we get sailors from all over the known world docking in White Harbour and they bring all sorts of tales with them. I thought the dragons were just a tale at first, I thought the all-conquering princess the result of a sea-farers sinful dreams. But I know it to be true now, my lord. But all is not as it seems. Mereen is at war, with your dragon queen stuck in the middle with Yunkai and Astaphor rising against her. They say she has refugees camped at her gates and chaos breaking out in her streets. I wonder whether you'd be safer taking your chances with the Boltons than wading into that storm."

But the luxury of choice was not his. At evenfall, on the following day, he and the Ironborn, with Sansa and Brienne in their midst, boarded the fleet and set sail as advised. Before they boarded, however, the Manderly's had bequeathed them some parting gifts. Two large sails bearing the direwolf of house Stark. White on grey and white on black. Touched by the gesture, Jon watched from the prow of the ship as their hosts receded from view only to be swallowed by the darkening sea mists.

"Here we go, then."

Jon turned to find Sansa beside him, her eyes trained on the vanishing coast. Winterfell was only up the road from White Harbour and being carried so far away from it after getting so close felt like being pulled on ropes.

"I've already been to Braavos," he said, remembering old Aemon's death. "Quite looking forward to Pentos and Tyrosh though, aren't you?"

He tried to sound enthusiastic about their overnight stops in various Free Cities, but Sansa wasn't picking up on it.

"I'm rather looking forward to White Harbour," she replied. "Upon our return."

Jon laughed. "Yes, that too. That most of all."

He watched the other ships row into formation all around them, manned by Manderlys and Ironborn alike. Asha had their own ship soaring ahead of the others. Her and Theon climbed the rigging as swift and dextrous as cats. Even Theon, he thought to himself. But, now that they were on their way, it was Daenerys Targaryen who occupied his thoughts as they hugged the Westerosi coast. He wondered what sort of a person she was, what she was doing in Mereen instead of returning to Westeros. All the way to Braavos and beyond, he tried to second guess what they were sailing into.

"A naval blockade, your grace," Ser Barristan looked weary, his age showing in the lines around his eyes and mouth. "No supplies can reach Mereen by sea, none of land. We're effectively cut off and food will soon be running low."

Daenerys tried not to look worried, she dissembled her true feelings and kept her face impassive. Inside, was another matter. Refugees were starving beyond the gates of the city already. Illness and contagion was running rampant through the poorer parts of the city and cartloads of the dead were being carried off before dawn on a daily basis. The only silver lining she could see was that the Sons of the Harpy had ceased their campaign. But, when one problem was solved, three others seemed to spring up in its place.

"If we ration, how long can stocks last?" she asked, biting her lip. Had she not been Queen, she didn't think she would really want to hear the answer.

Ser Barristan didn't try to couch the bad news. "A month or two. Maybe a little longer."

Having thought the answer would be days or weeks, at most, she was almost pleasantly surprised. But months was still not enough. Nor was she prone to despair. When she thought of everything she had been through to get to where she was now, despair seemed pointless. Despair was for when Drogo died and the khalasaar turned on her. Despair had been for the Red Wastes when those who followed her died starving in the sands and all she had were three vulnerable infant dragons. But despair was not what carried her through those months of scarcity and privation. It would not be what got her through this siege.

"There must be something I can do," she said, turning to the men in the room. Her latest acquisition, Tyrion Lannister, among them. While a small man who wouldn't put much of a dint in their grain stocks, left to his own devices she thought he might drink them dry within a day or two. "Have they sent envoys? Surely, they don't want to be left on their boats for months on end, just waiting for every man, woman and child in Mereen to starve to death. Hizdahr, can you not treat with them?"

She turned to her future husband and remembered his kiss. As cold and passionless as a dead fish. But he had brought the peace with the Sons of the Harpy that he'd promised. He had proved he was either their leader or high up on their chain of command. It didn't sit well with her, but she did what she had to do. Now, he stepped forward, feet avoiding the hems of his tokar.

"It would be wise if you made the first move, your grace," he said. "I would be honoured to treat with them myself. Might I suggest sending a hostage as a mark of your good will?"

She had to admit it made sense. Be the better leader, take the initiative and make the first move. Already she found herself looking around the faces that surrounded her. Missandei she needed. Ser Barristan and Strong Belwas she could not do without. Hizdahr, she would happily throw off the top of the Pyramid, but she did not think he would play along as a hostage. Her gaze fell on Tyrion, who looked like he might not even notice if he were suddenly bundled off to Yunkai. He drained a glass of wine before turning his mismatched eyes to her. No, she needed him. She didn't know what for yet, but she needed him.

But, as she might have guessed, Hizdahr had his own ideas. "Might I suggest Daario Naharis?"

Of course. She almost admired Hizdahr for his swift execution of the plan to rid himself of a potential rival. The man himself, who had been slipping into a slow lethargy, suddenly sprang up, worried at the thought of finding himself shunted deftly out of her life. His hand was already creeping toward the dagger at his belt, but she stopped him before he could go any further.

"Peace, Daario," she said. "I'll give the matter my full consideration. You will have my answer in the morning."

That evening, she retired to her chambers and watched as the sun set over the city. When she turned toward the bay beyond the city walls, she thought she might be able to see the ships blockading the bay, if she squinted. But the air was thick with smoke and gloom from the fading light. Her people always looked most vulnerable at night, when the darkness drew in and the shadows came alive with men in masks. But no more. She had done what she had to do and brought them a semblance of peace.

All the same, she knew she would miss Daario once he was gone from her life.

The skirmish had been brief. Not even a proper battle, with barely a third of Robb's forces deployed. But they had vastly outnumbered the Dustin and Ryswell men. Better yet, they still seemed to think they were taking on a host of dying Ironborn more used to fighting at sea. When a mixed host from the Vale, the Reach and the Riverlands, they attempted to flee only to retreat into Robb's own forces that managed to creep around to the opposite side of Barrowton. The fleeing army tried to make for the north, only to be cut off by the White Knife. With the Crannogmen holding the Neck, fleeing south was no an option and surrender came quickly.

One minute, Robb felt like he was on tenterhooks, waiting for the carnage to begin. Half a heartbeat later, he was kneeling in the grass and wiping the blood from his sword in triumph. It was almost frustrating, to be deprived of another major battle. But taking back the North was never going to be one major showdown between him and Roose Bolton. It was going to be piecemeal, one step at a time, slowly creeping forward to Winterfell.

"Lady Dustin has already fled, your grace."

Robb looked up, to where Garlan Tyrell had clapped him on the shoulder.

"I thought she might. No doubt, she's running to Roose Bolton and taken most of her army with her."

That was why there were so few to meet them that day. A token force had been sent, knowing they'd be overcome with ease, but could hold out just long enough for Barbrey and the bulk of her fighting men to flee for Winterfell. Once there, they would join up with the Boltons, adding to the vast host they already commanded.

"Take Barrow Hall, all the same," said Robb, climbing back to his feet. "I'll not have Margaery stay another night in those ruins."

Ser Garlan looked relieved as he issued the command to advance. Robb came up behind them, mounted on a destrier. By sheer force of habit, he looked behind him, expecting to see Jon there. When only Ser Loras appeared, Robb felt his heart drop like a stone as he remembered his brother had been gone for weeks already. Brother… cousin .., whatever Jon was meant to be to him, now.

Just as in the days since his conversation with Howland Reed, Robb had to push all that to the back of his mind as they advanced on Barrowton. The town itself offered no resistance, opening its gates to them as the armies rode inside.

"Lady Barbrey is a strange one," Willis Manderly informed him as they entered the town. "She refuses to host Ramsay in her halls and barred the gates to him, yet she's fled at the first sight of us. If she bent the knee here and now, this could have been avoided and she'd never have to look at Ramsay again."

Some of the men they had killed in that afternoon's skirmish had fought by Robb's side in previous campaigns. Only very few, but enough for him to notice and feel the guilt squirming through his guts. Barbrey Dustin had never forgiven Ned Stark, an antipathy she had passed from father to son.

They found Barrow Hall as good as undefended, the entire forces fled to join up with the Boltons farther north. House Slate, whose halls were barely a few miles from Barrow Hall, kept its gates shut as they took the main keep. An uphill struggle, the soldiers were footsore by the time they reached the top. And from that keep, Robb surveyed the many banners flying from the towers. Bolton, Cerywn, Manderly … and Baratheon.

"A soft spot for Stannis, it seems," Robb laughed to himself. "Maybe she fled in heartbreak of hearing of his death."

Whatever else Barbrey Dustin was, she was also gone from her halls and they took up residence with ease. Margaery could lie in a warm dry bed, sleeping off her pregnancy fatigue. A luxury they both relished that night, although sleep eluded them both. He lay in Margaery's arms, frowning into the darkness and the dying firelight.

"I know you're awake," said Margaery, eventually.

He had his back to her and she kissed the spot on his shoulders, scarred by the Freys crossbow quarrel. She was awfully territorial about that scar.

Just for a moment, he considered shrugging her off with some excuse. But if he didn't speak soon, he knew he would lose his mind. So, he sat up in bed and turned to face her. "What would you do if you found out people had lied to you from birth? About everything?"

Margaery didn't reply right away. Her brow creased, her expression darkening as she also sat up. "I can't even guess at how I'd react. Why? What's happened?"

Telling her what Howland Reed had told him was out of the question. Only Jon could be the next person to know and his alluding to some great secret was only sowing confusion and, worse, misunderstanding in case she thought it was him who'd been lied to. He skirted around the most sensitive of details as best he could.

"Let's say, you aren't really Mace Tyrell's daughter, but you grew up thinking you were and loving him as your father for your whole life. Would you want to know the truth?"

"Yes. Absolutely yes. People deserve the truth, no matter how painful it might be," she answered, looking even more concerned. As he feared, the misunderstanding occurred. "Has someone said Lord Stark was not your father?"

"Not me, no," he set her right. He drew a deep breath and exhaled a sigh of defeat. "It's nothing. I'm being a lackwit again, ignore me."

"No, you've been quiet and out of sorts for days now," she replied, brushing a lock of hair back from his brow. "Ever since we left Moat Cailin. I thought it was the battle to come, but now this."

"I thought my father was an honest man. You might have called him 'honest to a fault'."

"That's the reputation he had," Margaery assured him. "Even my grandmother says the same."

"Then, like everyone else, your grandmother was mistaken," he said, sharply. "I should say no more, my love. We both should get some sleep."

He blew out the one remaining candle, leaving them both in darkness as he laid his head back on the pillow. Close by, Margaery was still sitting up, pondering and waiting to see if he changed his mind. Only when the silence thickened did she lay back down, leaving him to his tumultuous thoughts. He recognised his father as well as he recognised those dry old bones, now. But Margaery was right about one thing: Jon had to be told.

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

As I've said before, I really don't want to get bogged down in Jon's parentage. So this is how I'm skating over it: having most of those conversations happen off page. Sorry if that's not what you were expecting.

Anyway, this story will be back next week.