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Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Winter of Discontent

Nature dictated that Margaery move slowly. A combination of atrocious weather and a rapidly advancing pregnancy was hard to ignore. However, if she had a talent at all, it was an uncanny ability to make the best of things and just keep on keeping on. As soon as they heard the news that Robb was back in Winterfell, they set off from Barrowton in slow, easy stages. They stopped overnight in inns and taverns in the small towns that dotted the northern landscape. But the region was sparsely populated, necessitating the occasional night under the stars. Regardless of where she slept, she woke each morning a little larger than the night before with an aching back and sore feet. Then she carried on. Her baby, come what may, would be born in Winterfell and nowhere else.

Between stops, while travelling the King's Road, she met her people. They were wary of their new southron Queen. Now a Stark but a Lannister in a previous existence, she didn't blame them for thinking her colours ran too easily. When she thought on it more, she could not recall a single Tyrell to venture this far north. The Manderlys were originally from the Reach, but that was centuries ago. The occasional one or two joined the watch, but that hardly counted. It was without a doubt, therefore, she concluded that she was the first Tyrell to occupy the high seats of Winterfell. When she fell asleep at night, she dreamed she could hear the old Winter Kings' mocking laugher rocking their frozen graves.

Being the first always stirred her competitive streak. It was never enough to just be first, she had to also be the best. With that in mind, she didn't hide from the wary eyes that watched her retinue pass. She rode out front, with the golden rose flying alongside the direwolf, where she could be seen and approached. If they saw people in need, they distributed alms and aid where they could. She asked after their businesses and livelihoods, which had all been adversely affected by the region's political unrest. All the while, she knew her limitations and made no false promises in light of the great wars yet to come.

"We really do need to get a move on," Olenna warned her, one evening. "You're eight months in and your time is fast approaching."

Most noblewomen at her stage were lying in state, waiting out the rest of their pregnancies in the closeted comfort of their own private chambers. Had she been living in ordinary times, she might even have done the same and been eternally grateful for it. But the times she found herself in were far from ordinary and there was a job to be done.

"All is well, grandmother," she assured her. "We're only ten miles from Winterfell and now we have House Cerwyn with us, they will be able to get us there faster. They know the roads here."

Lady Jonelle was already at Winterfell, having gone there to swear fealty to Robb. But her kinsman and heir, Francis Cerwyn, had readily come to their aid.

Olenna was still unconvinced. "Ten miles through blizzards and heavy snow, howling winds and along with poor roads fallen into neglect, my dear. It will feel like a hundred miles on any normal road."

"Do you want to go on ahead?" She was worried in case her elderly grandmother was finding it hard going for her own reasons.

"I'm tough as old boots, you know that. But if you want to birth this babe in Winterfell itself, you will take my advice."

That night, the Winter Kings laughed at her again. A southron flower trying to tough it out in the northern plains. Roses have no place among wolves.

"You heard what those people said about Lady Catelyn," said Margaery as their journey continued the next day. "Many say they had the impression she never particularly liked the North. Or that she was there and did her duty as any good lady would, all the while, never really adapting to them or trying to fit in. One said she treated them like foreigners. I don't want the same to be said of me, Grandmother."

Olenna laughed drily. "You'll never be one of them. I think the last Lady Stark knew that and chose to live with it. It will be twice as hard for you, my dear. You don't get much farther south than the Reach. It's another world to these people."

"But I can still try to adapt to their world," she insisted. "And by the old gods and the new, I will have my babe draw its first breath in the halls of Winterfell and nowhere else."

However, it was never going to be that simple. It began a few days later and three miles from Winterfell. The retinue had crested a hill and she caught her first glimpse of the castle that was to be her new home. It was small on the horizon but sprawling over another hilltop and looking down over a deep valley. The largest castle in all of Westeros, if she remembered her lessons right.

Initially, she tried to dismiss the cramps as the false contractions she had been warned about by others. But where those had faded, these grew steadily stronger. Suddenly hot and flustered, she got out of the litter and began walking at its side. With her gaze fixed on Winterfell, she focused all her energy on getting closer and closer. She grew hotter still, to the point where she peeled off her cloak and draped it over the shoulder of a mystified guard.

"I think you need to keep that on," said Arya. She had ridden up from Barrowton and now brought her horse to a slow walk to match Margaery's.

Margaery's reply was final. "I'm fine."

If she walked, she knew she could ease the cramps. It was only her muscles seizing up from inactivity. But that didn't explain the blood. Droplets of it spattered into the snow, shining like rubies as it quickly froze in the death-like cold. Cold she no longer felt as her temperature defied nature.

"My Lady, you're bleeding," Arya sounded almost pleading.

Olenna banged her walking stick on the root of the litter, a signal for the bearers to stop. "Margaery, listen to me. You need to get back in the litter and lie down. It's happening. The baby is coming."

In response, Margaery picked up her pace. It was nothing. It would pass. If she just exercised and stretched her legs. She was certain of it. Even when Arya slid down from her saddle and tried to block her path, she sidestepped the girl and carried on undeterred.

"I'm fine," she repeated. "All is well."

But all was not well. Her cramps grew worse, eventually forcing her to stop and catch her breath. Water was leaking down her legs, the next undeniable signal that her time had come. Winterfell was still small on the horizon, shrouded in mist and hampered by falling snow.

"It is too early," she said. "The babe cannot come now."

"I know I only had one," Olenna replied, following her granddaughter from the safety of a litter. "I'm hardly an expert. But I've been around long enough to know babies generally come when they are ready."

"We can still make it to Winterfell," said Arya, optimistically. "But look, you need to get back on the litter. You'll never be able to walk it."

Breathless now, Margaery steadied herself against a nearby tree. As soon as she stopped, however, the pain lanced through her again and worse than ever. It was only going to get worse.

"Seven hells," she cried, her words choked and forced through gritted teeth. "Just get there. We need to get there."

She opened her eyes again, tears blurring her vision too much to get Winterfell in view.

Sansa watched the dragons circle overhead, trying to pick out which was which as Daenerys identified them for her. The huge black one was Drogon. Bronze and green was Rhaegal and the white one was Viserion. She committed them to memory, marking them out in her head. It was still a remarkable sight after a full two days in Meereen, much of which she'd slept through due to sheer exhaustion after months at sea.

"They're extraordinary," she remarked, still tracking Drogon's progress. "How large do they grow?"

"They never stop growing, so long as they have food and freedom," the Queen answered.

She looked at Sansa curiously. At first, she thought she just wanted her reaction to her miraculous 'babies'. But there was more to it than that.

"I had a certain image in my head of what people from Westeros look like," said Daenerys. "No offence, but you look nothing like how I imagined the Northern people."

Sansa couldn't help but laugh. "How do you imagine Northerners? Savages with clubs and bear skins?"

She didn't mean it to sound mocking, but a sadness came over the Queen. Her smile died, her lilac eyes turned downwards. "I knew a Northerner, once. I loved him dearly, but not the same way he did me. I miss him a lot."

"Who was it? Perhaps I know him."

"Ser Jorah. I don't think you do know him."

"Mormont?" she asked. "I don't know Ser Jorah, but I know the Mormonts. They are our dearest friends. Jon fought alongside Ser Jorah's father. But Ser Jorah was exiled for taking slaves. My father had no choice, and I hope he understands that."

It hardly mattered if he wasn't around anymore. But she could imagine the poisoned talk he could have been whispering in Daenerys' ear about them. Either way, their discussion was cut short as she noticed Tyrion and Ser Barristan making their way through the gardens. It seemed they were all congregating there while the relief of the city continued.

The Ironborn had sailed out again, on a mission to secure food from neighbouring cities. They had already brought in cod to be salted and livestock to be slaughtered. Now they needed grain and she could only imagine how the Ironborn were going to set about securing it. Meanwhile, the Unsullied had been set to assisting, providing cover in case of attack.

"Do you mind if I speak with Lord Tyrion?" asked Sansa. "It's just, we were married once and we haven't had time to speak."

She saw that maddening glimmer of sympathy in the Queen's eyes. The one everyone used to look at her after her forced wedding. 'Someone like you with someone like him' they seemed to say.

"Of course."

She bobbed a curtsey before leaving the Queen's side, then turned to where Tyrion was slowly making his way across the lawns. She thought perhaps his back was troubling him again. Or his legs, that often ached when he had to walk for too long. All the same, he raised a smile at her approach.

"You do turn up in the strangest of places," she said, by way of greeting.

Upon their reunion, Ser Barristan sensed his presence becoming redundant and took his leave of them.

"I'm here and you're here," Tyrion replied. "Looks like we have that in common, my lady."

There was just a moment of silence before Sansa raised a smile and made a confession. "It's lovely to see you again. I believed you were dead."

He smiled back, his old smile she remembered, twisted by the scars on his face. "And that's something else we have in common. On both counts. Shall we?"

He gestured toward the pyramid, meaning to go inside where they could speak privily. "I think we shall, my lord."

It was all still so strange to her. The pyramids in which the wealthy lived, the colours and the smells. The people and customs made her feel like she was in another world and she felt like she could grow to love it. She could never have imagined herself coming to a place like this and it was much more exciting than reading about it in a storybook.

"Did you hear about Cersei?" asked Sansa as they entered the empty throne room of the Great Pyramid. "She armed the Faith Militant thinking to use them against the Tyrells, only to get arrested herself. Last we heard, she was being paraded naked through the streets of King's Landing."

Tyrion let out a bark of laughter as he summoned a servant for wine. "This definitely calls for a celebration. How very like Cersei to be stricken on her own staff. My father had the measure of her: not as clever as she thinks she is. Now I think she's half-mad to go with it." Once they had wine, they sat on a bench mid-way up the steps to Daenerys' throne. "But forget my sister. I think I want to hear about your brother. Last I heard, he was dead. Now he's married to Margaery Tyrell and taking back the North. That sounds like an interesting story."

It was a long story too, and by the time she had explained everything he was on his third glass of wine. However, his capacity for the drink was such that he was unaffected and still listening attentively as she made a confession of her own. "Petyr Baelish was in on the plot to frame you for Joffrey's murder."

"Really?" Tyrion laughed. "I'm shocked, my lady. Tell me something I don't know."

"I killed him."

Tyrion choked and spluttered. Whether on the wine he was mid-way through swallowing or his earlier sarcasm, Sansa couldn't tell. However, she couldn't sit by and watch him suffer so she reached out and rubbed his back. "You did ask me to tell you something you don't know, my lord. So there it is, I killed Petyr Baelish."

"You did what?" he said, once he had regained a little of his composure. "How? What did you do? I thought that gurning gutter-rat would outlive us all. Oh, just wait until I tell Varys."

"Petyr only framed you because your execution would leave me vulnerable," she explained. "He knew he could get me alone, bring me to the Vale and use me to secure the North for him. He wanted to kill Robert Arryn too, but he's my cousin. He sought to take advantage and that's the thing you taught me, isn't it? Not to let others push me around. So, I kept the hairnet used to smuggle in the poison and brought it with me after I fled and you were arrested. I used the poison on him."

"So, everyone knows it wasn't me?" said Tyrion, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sansa smiled. "You're in the clear. No one can speak ill of you … Although, Tywin-"

"Tywin be damned," Tyrion cut in. "A beaten dog bites back. He knew that as well as anyone."

They drank together in silence for a minute or two. Every so often, he turned to look at her but seemed lost for words. Until he hit upon the right note. "They underestimated us both. But here we are, on the right side of history. I think we can drink to that."

Sansa refilled their glasses. "I think so, too."

"And here's something else to celebrate, my lady," Tyrion continued. "I free you from whatever vows you swore to me on the day we were wed. I free you to take another husband and find love where you can. All I ask in return is that you do the same for me."

"Gladly," she replied as their glasses clinked together. "And I pray you find a woman worthy of you."

Their marriage had never been consummated, rendering it null and void anyway. And she heard, once, there had been another woman in his life. Not Shae, the whore. Someone else, long ago, back at Casterly Rock. Maybe she was looking for him and he for her? Sansa did not feel at liberty to ask. But, whatever the case, she really did hope they would one day find each other again.

"Your Grace."

At the sound of her address, Daenerys turned to find Jon Stark approaching her. They were still in the gardens, although Tyrion and Sansa had slinked off together. But the day was a fine one and she felt younger and freer than she had in long, long time. He inclined his head in a show of deference, but she soon waved the gesture away.

As he stood at full height, she wondered what to make of him. His father had been her family's enemy, fighting against her brother at the Trident. But he was not Eddard Stark and it had been him, Jon, she had seen first smashing through Yunkai's siege lines. For that alone, she would always be grateful to him and to Asha Greyjoy.

"Lord Stark," she returned the greeting and offered him a place under the shade. "Would you like some cakes? They're from the first batch."

He seemed solemn, even shy. She hadn't expected that in a Northman any more than she had expected Sansa's beauty and refinement in a Northern woman. Viserys always talked about them as if they were savages. Meanwhile, Jon was unbuckling his sword belt.

"This is a gift for you," he said, sitting beside her.

A canvass had been set up in the manner of a shelter and it was under that they both settled. He took one of the sweet cakes she offered while she studied the sword. It was beautiful, crafted from Valyrian steel and embossed with the sigil of her House. That was strange, she thought to herself. House Targaryen only had two such swords and both were long lost to time. In wonderment, she turned it over in her hands and drew the blade a little further from its scabbard.

"It's beautiful and I cannot thank you enough," she said, letting the steel catch the light. "Is it a replica? How did you come by it?"

What he said next knocked her for six.

"It's Dark Sister." He was between mouthfuls and she was patient enough to give him a few seconds to swallow his food. But only just. "Bloodraven brought it to the Wall with him, where Aemon Targaryen was tasked with looking after it during a long ranging. Bloodraven never came back and the sword was hidden in the Maester's chambers. When Aemon found out I was coming here to meet you, he told me to bring the sword."

"Wait," Dany cut in. "Is Aemon still alive?"

Her heart soon sank at the look on his face. But, just for a second, she let herself believe she had another relative out there. Someone else she could call family. For not even Viserys mentioned a kinsman at the Wall.

"I'm sorry," said Jon, gently. "He was approaching a hundred and died in Braavos, on his way back to Oldtown."

"And he sent you here with this?" she inspected the sword again. "How I grieve for a man I never met. I can never thank him."

Jon sat up, looking her in the eye. It was such an intense look, anyone lesser would have wilted beneath it. But she liked it. Hardly anyone looked her in the eye. She liked him.

"I was coming to you anyway," he explained. "You know my brother, the King in the North, isn't dead as reported. His offer to you is that he will bend the knee and help you take back the Seven Kingdoms for House Targaryen. So will the Reach, the home of the new Queen in the North. The Riverlands will also fight for you and so will the Vale. That is why I have come: to bring you home."

For a long moment, Daenerys was speechless. Her jaw was slack, her mouth hanging open until she realised how silly she must have looked.

"There must be a catch," she said with a dry mouth. "This is too good to be true."

"All we ask in return," Jon replied. "Is that you return immediately, bring your dragons and fight the war in the far north. Only once you have helped us defeat the evil that lives beyond the wall will we come together and acknowledge you as our Queen."

Daenerys' heart was beating so fast she thought he could probably hear it. And she was all in a whirl. Was that it? Was that all he wanted? Her head was spinning. She could fight any war with her three dragons deployed at once. They made her unassailable or as good as. She supposed she ought to ask exactly what the threat beyond the wall was, but right now she couldn't see past the offer he had made.

Just then, Quaithe popped back into her head. She predicted the arrival of the Westerosi. Just as she had predicted the offer they made: 'everything you ever wanted is closer to hand than you think…'

"I can't just up and leave Meereen," she stammered. "I just need a little longer to set up a viable regency, that's all. Then, I swear it, I will come with you."

"After months on the high seas, my sister and I are keen to remain for a month or so," he replied. "After that, we must return."

"That's enough!" she retorted. "That's plenty, that's all I need."

Her blood was pumping now, she felt like she could move a mountain if she so desired. And she thought she might do just that.

"Sansa's a young girl, but she has an older head on her shoulders," he said. "She can help you handle any negotiations, so long as she is safe."

She wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him. But paused as the momentousness of what was happening sank in. She was going home. She was doing what Viserys only ever talked about. And while he talked of armies and conquest, she was going through diplomacy. She would fight the war in the far north and earn the fealty of her future subjects. This was right. She knew it in her heart, it was the right thing to do. She would not conquer. She would prove herself.

Robb sat back as Lord Glover got to his feet, first. The mood in the Great Hall of Winterfell was simmering and he didn't look as if he was about to help matters. Drawn to full height, he looked Robb in the eye.

"You were the King in the North," Glover pointed out. "Then you were the King Who Lost the North. After that, the King Who Won the North Back. Now you summon us here, after we fought and died in your campaigns, to tell us you're about to become the King Who Gave the North Away on a Whim to Some Foreign Dragon Queen Across the Narrow Fucking Sea."

His outburst was met with a rapturous applause and cries of approval from the others. Inwardly, Robb shrank away. Outwardly, he sat straight in his father's old seat on the high table and looked his mutinous lords in the faces. "The wars to come are not a whim. We need the Dragon Queen's help-"

"Says who?"

To Robb's dismay, it was Greatjon Umber. Although, he knew he could hardly expect anything less of the man who was the first to name him king, all those years ago. Now that Robb had seemingly cast off the crown he had bestowed, he was on his feet and looking daggers into the crowd.

"What does this Targaryen girl know of the North? What does she know of white walkers, the wall and the wildlings? If we can't defeat what's out there, no one can. Especially not some girl who's never even set foot on Northern soil."

"And how many of us fought and died in the rebellion against the Mad King?" another called out. "Lord Glover, what say you of the Targaryens?"

Glover was on his feet again, just as unimpressed as he was before. "My kinsman was the last known survivor of Brandon Stark's companions; all the rest were burned alive. Only for Ethan to die in Dorne freeing Lyanna Stark from a prison in the Dornish Mountains. Don't ask me what I think of the Targaryens, my lord. Our history speaks for itself."

"House Mormont knows no King or Queen but the King in the North whose name is Stark." Lyanna Mormont repeated the same sentiments she had expressed to Stannis Baratheon. "Let the Targaryen Queen come with all the dragons in Old Valyria, I say the North must never surrender."

Another act of defiance met with another roar of approval. Only Walda got to her feet next, trembling visibly under the gaze of lords she knew wanted her dead.

"I agree with his grace," she said.

"Who the fuck asked you," someone cut her off. "Sit down and shut up, you're lucky you have your life."

"Lady Bolton has a right to speak on behalf of her son," Robb called over the laughter.

To Walda's credit, she did not falter. "I believe a terrible war is coming from the North and we must all work together to fight it. If that means we need dragons, then so be it."

"Coward!" a cry went up from the rear of the hall.

"I also agree with His Grace," another tremulous voice made itself heard. It was Alys Karstark, to Robb's dismay. The only people backing him up were the same people who feared he would strip them of what was left of their lands and titles.

It was a fact not lost on the others.

"Oh look, another turncoat grovelling favour from the King About to Give Away the North."

Alys trembled but stood her ground. "That's not true, my lords! The king killed my father, his own kinsman. Yes, House Karstark wronged House Stark, but House Stark wronged us back and now I think we're even. But I agree with our King. If, as they say, there is a great and terrible war coming, I want us to be fighting side by side by anyone and everyone willing to fight back. North or south, Westerosi or foreign."

Robb never expected his bannermen to be happy about his decision. But neither had he expected it to be like this. He called for a break in proceedings and went out onto the battlements just to breathe the open air again.

The snow was falling in blizzards, banking up high against the castle walls. But the repairs were speeding along nonetheless. The Great Hall was fixed and the guest halls were at full capacity, filled with his now mutinous lords. Only Margaery was missing, leaving a gaping hole in his life. He needed her now, although they would all be outraged he now had a very southern Queen. He sighed heavily, regretting the day he ever let himself be named King in the North.

"I thought I would find you here."

A familiar voice halted his mood's downward spiral. He whipped around to find Brynden emerging on to the battlements. Greeting each other with a tight embrace, relief washed over him. Even that didn't last long.

"I came as soon as I could," said Brynden, now looking out over the grounds. "Edmure's broken ranks. He will not send men to fight in the North, he says he's sworn no oath to Daenerys Targaryen and will not bend the knee. He's pulled up the drawbridge and dropped the portcullis."

Robb sighed heavily and cursed under his breath. "Edmure be thrice damned. Doesn't he remember who got him out of the Twins? I got him back in Riverrun and now he does this."

"He's a damn fool and I told him as much."

He had to remind himself that he still had the Vale. Surely they had no reason to defy him. Then he remembered his cousin and realised anything could happen. Especially now Sansa was far away, out of Sweet Robin's sphere of influence. He was about to launch into a recounting of what happened in the hall when the horns blasted across the grounds. They exchanged a worried look as the horns sounded again, followed by shouts and the sound of the portcullis being hastily winched up.

Gathering his tattered wits, Robb rushed for the steps and out into the yard. As he arrived, a litter came crashing through the gates carried by ten men. A scream emanated from inside, high, shrill and wavering. It was animal in its nature. Before he could draw level with it, Arya tumbled out of the back looking pale and stricken. After her, Margaery all but fell out. Her skirts were soaked in blood, she was sweating profusely and promptly fell to her knees. Blood dripped into the thick snow between her legs.

"Seven hells," he cursed, rushing to her side. "Margaery, you can't stay there. You need to get inside, now."

With a strength that took him at unawares, she wrenched herself away from him. "You're not laughing now, you Winter Kings!"

Her bizarre statement was followed by an almighty heave as she bore down on herself. Arya dropped to her own knees, shouting at Robb to move. By comparison, Olenna was positively serene as she regarded the scene playing out before her. She turned to Robb with a resigned expression on her face.

"She absolutely insisted, you know. The baby just had to be born at Winterfell. Well, here we are. Are you all done yet, dear?"

Part of her sentence was drowned out as Margaery hoisted herself up with Arya's help and went in for the kill with one last heave. Mid-push, she gasped a rush of air as the tension broke and Arya caught the birthing babe with a cry of relief and joy. Gasping for breath, Margaery fell back and Robb caught her just in time. They lay together in the snow as in infant wail pierced the air around them.

The horror of the moment subsided as Arya held the wet, wriggling creature up for them to see. Its cord still attached, the babe kicked its legs, revealing its maleness to the overwhelming relief of both parents. From the shaky grasp of his aunt's hands, the future Lord Cregan Stark wailed his displeasure against the cold.

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

Apologies for being a day late on this. Life's pretty busy right now. But, back on course for next week.