A/N: This chapter should have been up the 15th, but I've been completely out on it and lying on my side all the time with weird crap being dribbled into my ear. Inner-ear infections suck.
Sorry for the delay. Enjoy ;-)
Chapter Seven – I will Not Do It
Margaery
She would not do it. I will not do it, she repeated to herself as she stood beside her brother Loras in the great hall of Pinkmaiden, smiling at her other, eldest brother as he limped down the hall towards her.
"Willas!" she greeted him and hiked up her skirts a little as she hurried down the steps up to the dais where otherwise the high table of the castle would be, reserved for banquets and feasts and judicial counsel. She crossed the floor of the great hall, laden with heavy blue and pinkish mats, and embraced her brother in his sterling Highgarden finery – a sleeveless green coat with golden threading, embroidery and buttonage along the front, over a long and flowing white shirt with billowing sleeves tight at the wrist and simple loose britches. Common Highgarden fashion, tweaked to accommodate his disability, that she had seen a thousand times before, but after having spent more than a month away from home she could safely say that even such a little thing was a welcome sight. She kissed him on either bearded cheek, and she could not help but notice that while his beard was long her… that Robb Stark's beard was fuller. Northern heritage that, no doubt.
I will not say it. She linked her arm in her brother's – on his good side, of course – and walked slowly with him as he limped along good-naturedly by his gilded sandbeggar cane that held up his twisted and horribly mangled, both of them looking up at the end of the hall as Robb Stark rose from his seat. "Margy" he greeted her fondly, and she smiled at the childish sobriquet. "How are you? Your arm feels firmer than usual – have you been gaining muscles? Is exile from Highgarden agreeing with you?"
"I am quite well, brother dear" she assured him as they made their way down the hall. "I have taken up archery. I would not say that I am any sort of talent at it, but it is simply delightful. Such focus, such grace and force all made together…" she noticed that he was only half listening, staring at their host up ahead. I will not say it.
"Is that him?" he wondered, his smile never faltering but still changing in tone. She knew Willas. She knew his moods. "He looks… wounded". That he did, she had to admit. Though his eyes were blue again, fully winter blue and not opals shot through with sanguine red, he was pale all over, his chest bound still with linens beneath his billowing white shirt, and he was walking slowly to stand beside her brother, Robar Royce and Smalljon at the foot of the dais. "Your Grace!" Willas lifted his voice and called out. "Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden" he stopped before Robb Stark and urged Margaery away from him so that he could bow, graceful in his motions despite his crippled leg. "Son of Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Lord Marshal of the Reach, Defender of Marches and Warden of the South".
"Robb Stark" the Young Wolf answered before Smalljon had time to boom out the customary proclamation "the King in the North". Smalljon pouted, while Loras and Robar seemed thankful. They had sensitive ears that day, for both of them were pit-eyed and hungover. Which was Smalljon's fault, for ever since they had downed the Mountain a fortnight earlier they had been drinking all throughout the nights at the Umber heir's insistence. Smalljon said it was merely jovial celebration, for a good fight well fought, but Margaery had been there when he had held the Gloverblade, his ugly greatsword, broken before Robb.
"It's not that bad" Robb had offered, the scowl near-permanent on his face ever since the raven had come from Winterfell and Maester Luwin. "You can just reforge it. Just break it apart into smaller pieces, stack them into a billet and let the smiths have a go at it. No cause for worry".
"My da will murder me" the Smalljon had answered, an almost childish terror in his voice. "He will murder me. Truly. I'm not even jesting. He'll hang me by the ears from the heart tree in Last Hearth for a month to let the crows peck at my liver. And then he'll hand me off to the bloody Boltons!" He had looked up to his king with wide and frightened eyes. "And then he'll let my uncles have a try! And then my mother! My mother! She used to make necklaces out of people's ears – did you know that?!"
"Aye. Lord Karstark told me" Robb had answered levelly, and Smalljon had made a frustrated whimper before he marched off to find Loras, Robar and Bella and get handily and thoroughly drunk. Robb had shaken his head at his friend and bodyguard and herald – Margaery thought he should really find some sort of official title for the Umber man, but that would have to wait until after… No. I will not say it – and then turned to her. "He's only a little older than me. It's easy to forget that at times… with him being seven feet tall and all".
Margaery had wondered what the Smalljon's father must look like to be called the Greatjon. Was he an actual giant, like the ones Robb had told her about, reciting the stories of his childhood as he was walked the ramparts with her in an attempt to take his mind off the state of Winterfell. But she knew it haunted him. Followed him through all his waking hours. And even after he had received a raven from Last Hearth with a message that made him give a grim nod and then, a week or so later, a raven from Winterfell that made him sigh with relief, he was still as tense as a metal bowstring.
She had been there to support him then – and she wasn't even sure that she was doing it to advance her plans. It was merely a gesture of honest concern on her part. True, honest concern.
That was when she began to suspect. I will not say it, she repeated to herself for what felt like the thousandth time.
It was not fair. It wasn't how it was supposed to happen. She was supposed to be the manipulative one, the one pulling all the strings of his heart, the one that was in control. She was the granddaughter and greatest student of the Queen of Thorns, the one who ruled all the courts of the Reach with nothing but whispers and knowledge. Yet somehow, for some infuriating reason…
She had realised it two nights earlier. She had lain awake in the middle of the night, winter blue eyes passing before her sight every time she closed hers, and she had felt giddy and energetic. The same hollow and hurried energy that had driven her to wander the castle when Robb had been away to Riverrun managing his army. Though it was a little different this time. She snuck out from her bed, leaving Elinor softly snoring on the far side of it in hear heavy shift, and stood tall in the moonlight filtering in through the thick glass window. In that lunar penumbra all things took an azure cast to them. All things but the flowers in a vase by the window.
She had walked up to the roses, her sleeping gown falling softly around her feet over the mat covered stone floor. In the moonlight in the starry night – clear weather, for once, though the cold still reigned – they had seemed to shimmer in silver, white and grey. Softly she picked one up and smelled it, putting her nose to its centre bud hidden among the petals.
She did not know what was so special about them. Blue winter roses were just roses by any other name, and smelled just as sweet if more than a little stronger and more fragrant, and their blue colour was an afterthought. But as she breathed deeply of their scent she had uttered a happy sigh despite herself, and lowered the roses to find a smile she could not banish fixed on her lips.
It was then that she had known. She had promptly put the rose back down into its vase, climbed back into bed and put her face into her pillow. Then she had screamed in frustration. Repeatedly.
By the Seven that are One, she could not believe that she had been so foolish. The next day she had made to write to Grandmother, asking for advice, but tore up and crumpled the parchments every single time. That attitude was doing nothing but costing her ink. And so she stopped trying to do that and took another stance: I will not say it. Not to herself, not to anyone. She would not write it, she would not think it, she would not dream it. And then it would go away.
I will not say it. Not in a hundred years. Not even if the Father himself charges me to tell the truth.
"We've prepared a feast in your honour" Robb's words shook her out of her deep thoughts as he spoke up to her brother. "To celebrate your Lady Sister's safe return to Highgarden, and to commemorate our victory over the Mountain that Rides. And mourn our fallen". Her brother did not even shift in his expression, meaning that he had heard about it all already. And why would he not? It had been a fortnight since the news came to the army at Pinkmaiden, and news travelled quickly in the Seven Kingdoms.
Or Five Kingdoms. Five Kingdoms, and the North, if Robb had his way. She was not quite sure what to think about that. She knew what Robb felt about the Targaryen kings. The last one had burned his grandfather alive and had his uncle strangled to death. The Last Dragon, Rhaegar Targaryen, had absconded with and abducted his aunt, and raped her over and over again if the words of the Bolton men were to be believed. Or that was what they said, according to Megga. But then again, Megga was half Meadows on her mother's side, half traitor, and if Margaery had learned anything from the story of Theon Greyjoy was that treachery was something that almost seemed to run in the blood.
Robb had spoken with his Manderly captains, having summoned most of the Northern host to Pinkmaiden, negotiated hard for almost a week, and then issued an edict: any man who brought Theon Greyjoy alive before him would be awarded a Lordship. Or, rather, be made the heir to Ser Bartimus of White Harbour and next in line for the newly reinstituted Lordship of Wolf's Den, an old and meaningless crumbling keep on the headwaters of the White Knife that served as a prison to House Manderly. Robb had sworn to grant it to that man or woman himself – after he had cut the head off of Theon Greyjoy.
He would avenge himself on that traitor. He had sworn that with a fire in his eyes that almost made Margaery balk. Almost. At this point there would be very little that could make her balk. I will not say it.
Her brother and Robb seemed to get along splendidly, which was a saving grace. Under the watchful eyes of Smalljon Umber and Owen Norrey, the former now slinging around a frankly ridiculously large warhammer in place of his broken greatsword, the two of them along with Margaery and Loras walked the grounds of Pinkmaiden as the servants set the great hall in order for the coming night's… feast. Not a soiree or a party or a gala or a ball, but a proper Northern feast. It would no doubt be a learning experience. "All the banners but for Vance, Tully and Bracken have come" Robb informed, walking slowly and breathing carefully against his bandages as he healed. "It stands to be the largest gathering at Pinkmaiden since I retook this place from the Lannisters".
"Ah, yes – I heard about that" Willas noted as he limped on by the King in the North's side, and she could tell that the Northerners were suspicious of how a man that was crippled and so cursed by the Gods could smile so easily. "That is the nature of war, I suppose. Places like this… they change hands. Resources of worth passed back and forth, with little consideration for those within their walls". He caught Robb's look and smiled. "I am not insulting you, your Grace. Or implicating anything. But in war innocents are always caught between armies, and flowers trampled underfoot. You've done the same with the Lannister colours".
"My quarrel is with the Lannisters, not with the smallfolk". There was no doubt or hesitation or regret in Robb's voice. "I've had my men pay for what they have taken from them. No Riverlander family should suffer unjustly in this war".
"And what about the Westerlands?" Willas wondered, to which Robb stared hard. "Oh, no, I am not privy to any special knowledge or wisdom. All I have is my mind and my brother's and Randyl Tarly's wealth of knowledge in matters of war. That is the next place to which you will go, isn't it?" Margaery rolled her eyes. She had informed Highgarden of that already. Why was it that men thought that they were the only ones who knew anything about tactics?
Their conversation faded away as from the godswood and the sept a couple of figures came walking – one a young, short and sandy-haired man in a long grey burlap robe and a chain around his neck, each link a different metal. The other… Margaery recognized that woman. It was the Widow in the Sept, the one she had taken to speaking to while Robb was away riding down the Mountain. Her veils were lifted and her hood down, though her dress was still as black as ever, and Margaery couldn't help but feel that she was very familiar for some reason. Something about her-
"Ah, this is my friend and personal Maester, Ebbert" Willas introduced the man, who bowed with his hands inside his sleeves and said, with a thick Northern accent "the King in the North". He turned then to the woman, who gave him a perfunctory smile that did not touch her eyes in the slightest, and seemed to adopt a pensive look. "Forgive me, my Lady, but I do not know-"
"Catelyn Stark, born of House Tully" Robb cut him short in his half-posed question, and Margaery felt her cheeks go red with a heavy blush. Oh, seven hells. "My mother". Of course she was! They had the same eyes and almost the same hair and everything. Ugh, she must have been completely blind not to notice that. Gods, she had told that woman almost everything-
"Robb" Catelyn greeted her son, and though they seemed kind enough to each other as she took him by the hand and asked him how he fared Margaery could tell there was a tenseness between them. Yet the Widow in the Sept had mentioned that she and her son had began to speak to each other again, after news came from her home about his brothers – and oh, by the Seven, how had she not seen it sooner? "Lady Margaery" Catelyn then turned and smiled to her, taking her hand.
"Lady Catelyn" Margaery answered back, gathering her wits back about herself as much as she possibly could. "It is good to see you outside of the sept. I was so glad to hear that you and Robb have made friends again". It was always good to see Robb, though. I will not say it. I will not.
"You-" Robb, seemingly startled, cleared his throat pointedly and glanced from her to his mother to back to her. "You know each other". Margaery answered him only with a smile. She supposed that they did – though why did that seem to aggravate him so?
"Gentlemen, your Grace" Catelyn linked her arm in Margaery's, and Margaery struggled to maintain her smile. "If the Lady Tyrell and I could have a word in private?" Margaery had half a mind to yank herself out of Catelyn's grip and run for the hills as fast as she possibly could in her gown. There was something cold in that woman, though she truly loved her children. Margaery was fearing that Catelyn would slit her throat and burry her under some bushes – or something. She did not rightly know.
But their talk was oddly pleasant. At first the Lady Catelyn commented on the weather, saying that it was unusually warm for the beginnings of a Riverlands winter, and Margaery had said that she had not known. They did not have harsh winters like that in the Reach.
"Then you should come to see the Northern winters" Catelyn patted her hand in a gesture of support, and Margaery wondered where she was going with this. "Sometimes the snow falls several feet thick, and that is on warm winters. But there are few things as beautiful as seeing the land covered in white. And all the sounds of the world quieted, stolen by the snow. Only the white, soft and all‑encompassing, until the wind chases it up and makes it swirl around in torrents and waves all about. On those times all the Northerners will stop and look. They call it the Gods dancing".
"That sounds fabulous" Margaery replied honestly. It truly did, in every sense of the word. All the snow she had seen had been a slush-like muddy mass by the roadside ditches, spotted with white in places. It was nothing like what Lady Catelyn described. "I'd love to see it, some time. Where are the best views? Do you think you and your family could open your house doors to me, Lady Catelyn?"
"My son has already opened more than just his doors to you, Lady Margaery" Catelyn curved her lips upwards, but it was a smile as much as anything else she had ever given her. She knows. Seven hells. "The eastern shores of Long Lake are always fair, summer or winter. And the deep Wolfswood… sometimes you feel as if the land has never been touch by the hands of men. And the barrows in the Barrowlands, the barrows of the First Men, older than the hills and all the forests. To climb them is to walk on history, and feel the grass of time beneath your toes".
"It seems truly beautiful" Margaery scrambled for something to say, knowing that the long-term viability of her plans rested on a good relationship with Robb's family. For an instant she regretted not going to Joffery's court instead. King's Landing and the Lannisters were much more like Highgarden, much more like she was used to. They were of the South. But staying in the South would have meant that she would never have gotten to meet Robb. I will not say it. "The Reach is beautiful too. But I suppose we all find our homelands fair, Lady Catelyn".
"I know of the Reach" Catelyn said to her as they passed before a long row of lilies. "Minstrels fill your heads with songs of chivalry and courtly love. Fluff only, to make boys fight and girls swoon. Where all women grow up singers and spymasters, and all boys do naught but bang steel together until their minds are as fertile to reason as the sun-blasted wastelands of Deeper Dorne". Margaery made to stop and protest, but Catelyn held her still by her side as they walked. "I am not out to insult you, Lady Margaery. But the North is a very different place altogether. By far it's the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. It can fit the other six inside of it. My Ned used to say that the sun would never set on the North. Tell me, my Lady – what do you know of the North? Not the stuff of books and tales: what do you truly know of it?"
"I know" she thought about all the things that Robb had told her – little slivers of details about Winterfell and his family, about the beasts of the North and the hunts in the Wolfswood, about the northern massed ranks of pikes and swords that held the lines of their armies while the berserkers and the heavy cavalry that shattered the hearts and the flanks of their enemies, about… "I know it's cold. And damp. And that people up there live almost as they will. Almost without lords and rules and laws". She had come to know as much from the people she had come to know in the last two months. Everything else she was unsure of.
"Ned used to say that without the rain a man doesn't appreciate the roof over his head" Catelyn smiled, smiled truly and honestly, for the first time Margaery had ever seen it, but there was more sadness than there was happiness in her eyes. "And that without the cold he cannot know the fire in his heart. Home. To them… I was always an outsider there, but to them 'home' means something more than it does to us. They belong to the land. When they die their blood sinks down into the earth to feed their gods and join them, in the wind and in the waters and the trees. Family means everything to people of the Riverlands, valour and honour everything to the Reach – but my son" she drew in a shuddering breath. "My son, like all the best of them, of the North, will always do his duty first. His duty to the North, to the blood that has watered that cold earth. Ned always told me that. A few nights ago I cried hard when I realised what he meant. Even after he was taken from me, he still teaches me things…"
"I would have liked to meet Ned Stark" Margaery supplied carefully, recognising in Catelyn's words a woman devastated by grief and clinging to the few things she knew: family, duty, honour. The Tully House Words. "Robb speaks of him. Not often – I think it makes him sad, and angry – but he does. I wished that I could have known him". Would he have liked me? For his son? Would he have approved of me and Robb, together? I will not say it, but… there's no harm in thinking, is there?
"He was stern and distant to strangers. Sometimes I felt like even I didn't know him. But he was warm to his family" they came around a bend in the path and laid eyes on Willas and Robb again. "And he helped me raise one of the best boys who have ever walked this earth. He is my son, Lady Margaery. My firstborn. No matter our differences, I will always love him. So be true to him" Catelyn urged, and Margaery, by her side, could not help but nod. "And do not break his heart" the older woman added, her voice once again growing cold. "I know he seems strong, but he is still young, a boy in so many ways. But do not get yourself hurt, either. Flowers are fair, Lady Margaery" she separated from her and gave her a chilling smile "but they die in the cold, same as most things. Grow strong, Lady Rose. Winter is Coming".
Lady Catelyn moved away, and Margaery stood there a little while, staring at that stone-hearted woman's back. Perhaps she was gentle and kind towards her children and her own, but against her enemies… "Not all of us are flowers" Margaery whispered at her back, unheard by all but herself. "Some of us are she-wolves. Some of us are queens". She shook that from her mind and drew a smile back onto her face before she went to re-join her brothers and Robb by the edges of the gardens. Smoothly she sidled up to Loras, but when she heard the topic of their conversation she faltered.
"Who's this man that's so keen on having the Mountain's head for himself?" Robb asked, frowning all the while as he affixed Willas with a winter stare. "After what he's done, all throughout the years, a lot of men are keen on killing him".
"This man has more cause than most" Willas replied, and Robb cocked his head to the side as he crossed his arms before him and leant back against the pillar. "I know him well, and even I can say that he has the most cause of all. He is my best and closest friend in this world" Willas told him then, and Margaery scowled and glowered when she knew who her brother was talking about.
It was the Red Viper. The man that had made Willas Tyrell a cripple.
Oberyn Martell.
The Red Viper
"Seems your little plan is failing, Doran".
Oberyn wasn't smug about it. Or, well, he was trying very hard not to be smug about it. Oh, fine, so he was very smug about it. But it wasn't a happy smugness this time, like when he saw his plotting older brother fail in his plans at other times. It was a bitter, assured smugness, something that he had no name for. Maybe Ellaria does. She has always had a way with her words – and with her tongue. But other than that he had only one other thing to say to his brother.
"I told you so. I told you it would" Oberyn tutted as he shook his head, reaching for a silver tray of stuffed olives neck to the couch where he had made his seat, sitting in his brother's solar overlooking the water gardens in the peace of Dorne just three leagues, or ten and a half Northern miles, outside of Sunspear. He had slung his booted feet up onto the table in front of him, laid his body back, and relaxed in his brother's presence, wondering why he had been summoned. He had poems to write and sparring to do. "I told you. 'There are too many little parts in this plan, Doran' I said, and I am quoting myself perfectly. 'Little parts tend to get crushed under the wheel of circumstance'".
"Is that something the Maesters taught you, or that you learned in Essos?" Doran asked from his wheeled chair overlooking the water gardens and his children, who along with Oberyn's youngest Snakes and all the other children fostered there, moved about there, in between the pools and the fountains, happy and smiling and alive. Unlike Rhaenys and little Aegon. Unlike Elia.
"Circumstance, brother" he replied as he took an olive into his palm and flicked it into his mouth by the edge of his thumb, idly tasting for poisons on it before he chewed. It was a habit he had developed in his youth and still maintained, even though he knew that some poisons were scentless and killed if they as much as touched the skin. "My own sellsword company did not do so well. There were too many moving little parts. Just like this plan of yours. Have you finally realised the wisdom of that?"
"Perhaps – but as things are they need not change just yet" Doran offered and laboriously wheeled his chair around all on his own, having dismissed Areo Hotah and his other useless little guards from his presence as the two of them talked in private. Well, against Oberyn they would have been useless if he ever conceived of the notion to end his brother. Then again, they were not wholly useless against others. He was, after all, the deadliest man in Westeros. "Viserys Targaryen's death need not mean the end of it. I have contingencies".
"That boy in the second sons – Griff's ward?" Oberyn scoffed. "Please. I have seen – and had – whores in Lys with more Valyrian in them than that child. Perhaps if they wash the colour from his hair, but we would do better with almost any other puppet. And the Spider has already woven his net around the boy. He is beyond the reach of our touch". And he was not Aegon, no matter what they said. He would have known. He had seen the boy as a child, once, on a visit to Essos. He would have known Elia's son, his nephew, by sight.
"Which is why I will send Quentyn across the narrow sea to find the dragon's sister – now that she is no longer married to that Dothraki savage". How fortunate. This was his brother, as always. Plans within plans, schemes within schemes. Some failed, and then Oberyn had the rare luxury of being smug at his brother's cost. Most of his plans did not. "We made a pact. You signed it on my behalf. The Targaryen dragon returns – and the Lannister lion dies".
"Too many moving little parts, turning and spinning and making this impossible plan lurch forwards". Oberyn had never cared much for the plan to begin with, anyway. Too many meetings, too many hours wasted and actions planned only to be discarded.
He'd rather go whoring with Ellaria. Perhaps in Lys. Yes, Lys was always beautiful just at the cusp of winter. Winter never came properly there, just like with Dorne, but the cool winds from the North brought rains and new life to the flowers in the pleasure gardens. A hundred thousand colours in bloom, some without name in any human language. Between all the languages of mankind there were not enough words to describe them with. The girls would love Lys. And it was a long time since he had had a man, or woman for that matter, with silver-gold hair. Valyrians were always fiery, no matter their station or birth, if encouraged properly, with sweet kisses or hard touches or soft silk or with the sound of gold clinking against gold. Everyone had their price in Essos. It was a simpler place, that way. Not like Westeros.
"Your plan is slow. Too slow". Too safe. The gout had more than crippled his brother. It, and Elia's death, had stolen his spirit and his drive to action. Now he was slow and methodical instead of merely patient.
He wondered at times about what would happen to Doran if his plan ever succeeded? Would there be anything left of him, then? Would he be only a statue shell of a man, smiling sadly as he looked out over the Water Gardens from his prison-like chair? His plans and the children, most of them not his own, were all that he was now. And when the children grew up and his plans ended, what would be left of his brother?
"And it is safe – weighed against the other options, at least". Oh, Oberyn did not doubt that it was safe. He knew it was. And he hated it. A man was nothing if there was no danger in his life. "I have only so much family, brother. I will not see Martell blood spilled in vain just so we can have our vengeance. Now, no more of this" he held up his hand, putting an end to the matter, and Oberyn shrugged.
Doran, undeterred, went on. "You have received messages from Highgarden. I have read them". Without asking leave to do it first, of course. But he didn't fault him for that. Doran had always been a curious sort of person. "And my spies in Highgarden and the Riverlands have told me things. Now, with the Mountain in the hands of the Stark pup, you no doubt have a plan of your own. Speak it". The messages sent to him from Goldengrove, when Willas had gotten news of the Mountain's capture, had brought a new plan to his head, and though it wasn't an intricate one it was one he would enjoy carrying out.
"I travel to Riverrun, break him out" Oberyn answered with a cocky smirk. "Then I take a quick ship to King's Landing and ransom him to whomsoever rules the city when I get there. I offer him back to them if they agree to put him on trial for the murders and rapes that he has committed. He is a martial brute. He will demand trial by combat. I stand as champion against him. And I kill him. I make him confess what he did, and make him say, before the eyes of Gods and Men, who ordered him to do it. And then we will have justice".
Elia Martel, princess of Dorne. You raped her, Gregor Clegane. Your murdered her. You killed her children. I will kill you for it.
"You will do no such thing" Doran's voice came with a tone of sharpness, and Oberyn met his brother's gaze for a little while.
You think you can order me around, little man? Because you are my brother? I have killed many men who I thought of as brothers. I poisoned them in the night. I ran them through with my spear. I put my dagger through their throats. Sometimes all at once. You are nothing. Nothing but a little man who cannot stand on his little hurting feet.
But he lowered his gaze and obeyed. He had only so much family left. And Doran was his Prince, after all. As if that meant anything. "You will have your men comply with the Tyrell cripple's request" Doran went on, slandering that brave man Willas in the process. "Getting the Redwyne boys to Sunspear will be a small thing, with little risk for us. But we need something in return".
"Oh, enough of you and your silly trades, brother" Oberyn sighed. He truly, and deeply, wished that he was anywhere but in that room. He wished that he was laughing with his daughters. Or whoring in Lys. Or putting a spear through Tywin Lannister's heart. "He is my friend. I use all my friends, true, but I will not let others do the same".
"If the independent Northern kingdom survives the winter, and if they ally with the Tyrells with all their gold and grain and spears" Doran went on as if he hadn't even spoken his protest, which was incredibly aggravating. "If all that happens, then not only will we have our vengeance stolen from us, but a significant threat stands in the way of our Dragon's return. We need men in the court of Wolves, and knives in the court of Flowers. When the time comes we must be ready to strike hard. And decisively".
"And Myrcella Baratheon?" Oberyon wondered, thinking on the rest of the exchange. "What of her? If we end the Lannister line and bring back the Targaryen kings, marrying her to Trystane will not be…" he paused "the shrewdest of moves".
"We do not hurt little girls in Dorne" Doran answered quietly. "And she is blameless for her grandfather's sins. Her mother, for all her faults, is beautiful. My son will be glad to be promised to such a lovely young woman. A lovely young woman with claims on both the Stormlands and the Westerlands. When she is old enough she will spring forth grandchildren for me with the same claims".
"And of Robb Stark?" Oberyn asked finally. "Courts and girls aside, he will become a problem for us. For our plans". His plans too, now. He was Doran's first lance, after all. His best blade.
"He is young. He has not yet learnt that there are more than only two sides in this war" the First Prince of Dorne mused back, one hand to the cleft in his chin. "And I will use that against him. You worry about your training and your arts, Oberyn. I will make sure that the King in the North does not survive the winter".
Margaery
She had to admit that, as savage as they were, the Northerners certainly knew how to feast.
"–an old grey cloak that's so battlestained and worn" Rymund the Rhymer had swiftly won the favour of the North at Marq Piper's feast by singing many old songs from the North, and the one he sung now, The Old Wolf, was a favourite "and britches almost threadbare at the knees". He was a good enough singer, though Margaery had heard better. "A long black chain, each link by dragon forged; a scabbard that's been empty many a day-"
"But not for long!" Almost all of the northerners shouted in the audience participation part of the song, something that had made Margaery jump in her seat of honour the first time she had heard it.
"For when the North rides south for freedom" Rymund grinned as he sang on and strummed on his lute "the one they'll raise to lead them will fly the Old Wolf banner of Winterfell!" And as the song rang clear and the tones died softly in the air he rose from his seat by one of the benches in the hall, bowing to the adulation of the North that sat to listen to him. Margaery and her ladies and even Robb Stark himself gave the minstrel a standing ovation, at which he bowed even deeper in thanks.
"I have never heard that song before, your Grace" Margaery confessed as they sat back down and the other musicians began to play idle festive tunes without song from their harps and lutes and flutes and harmonies and drums. "Was it written for your campaign?" She enjoyed the feast. The northerners had brought with them not only their customary energy and rowdiness to the festivities, making it a warm and happy occasion excepting the occasional brawl, but also their customs and their songs. Songs, so many of which were new to her.
"Nay, my Lady" Robb told her as he reached for his cup of wine, his cheeks already flush with the warmth of it. Margaery's were too, though of a different sort as the two of them sat next to each other at the high table of Pinkmaiden's great hall, their throne-like seats pushed so close together that their elbows on their armrests touched. Robb had withdrawn from that earlier in the evening, but their arms all by lay on top of each other now that he had fortified his courage with wine plundered from the Lannister stores. "It's a song of the Company of the Rose, founded by men and women who left the North to become sellswords in Essos after Torrhen knelt to Aegon".
"Hence britches threadbare at the knees" she nodded in understanding and giggled. Giggled, like she was some slip of a girl, and it wasn't even a mummer's farce like her grandmother had taught her. She wondered if it was his presence that made her blush and make her lose her composure, or was it the wine? Perhaps a little bit of both. "Is it about someone in particular, or…?" He was looking at her oddly.
"Hmm?" Robb flinched and pried his eyes from hers. "Oh, I don't know, Margaery. It might be about Torrhen's bastard brother Brandon, who negotiated and led his armies for him. I've nigh on three hundred men of the company in my army. There are another two thousand-or-so on Essos still, but I'd bleed my coffers dry if-" he shook his head and ran his hand through his hair, looking to her in apology. "Pardon me, my Lady. I promised that I would not think of war tonight. I'm in my cups, I ramble, and your eyes drive all sense out of my head".
"I drive all sense out of your head, Robb?" she wondered softly and reached for his hand, putting her fingers by his, running her soft skin over his calluses, marvelling at how they differed in size. "You flatter me, your Grace".
Luckily no one was in earshot, as her ladies were off down to one side and Ser Marq Piper was off carousing with Smalljon and the Umber men. Loras was busy by the Mormont table, where Lyra and Dacy Mormont were holding him down while their mother cackled in sadistic glee as she poured braggot down his gullet from a ridiculously huge drinking horn. And the other Lords – amongst them Rickard Karstark, Galbart Glover and Roose Bolton, whose pale eyes chilled Margaery to her very core – were off amongst their men or retired to their tents and quarters for the night. And the new Maester and her eldest brother were… somewhere. Truthfully she did not trust this Maester Ebbert. Something about him seemed off, untrustworthy.
"It's not flattery if it's the truth" Robb told her earnestly and took a deeper draught of the wine in his silver cup. "Gods strike me down, I am promised to another". Despite her best efforts not to Margaery settled back against her seat with a pout. That prayer she had sent silently to the Seven the night she had fled from Bitterbridge had been answered – but the Wolf of House Stark had too much honour. He couldn't as much as touch her without feeling ashamed. Much less kiss her neck or run his fingers down her spine or anything else of the thousand and one other things that she wanted him to do to her. "Rymund!" Robb shouted as he stood, trying to ease the tension between him and her no doubt. "Another song. Something new this time!"
"I've just the thing, your Grace! It's unfinished and unpolished, but it is new!" the minstrel shouted back as he put his lute to his thigh and strummed while the hall gradually quieted around him. "This one's called 'The Fairborn Banks of Mander'". And then he began to play, a quick and upbeat song to a mournful melody. "There was a rose, a pretty rose, that grew strong on summer sun" he raised his voice aloud as he began "by the far and fairborn banks of Mander‑lay".
"I think that this one was written for you" Robb leaned in and said to Margaery as the song went on, his breath hot and sweet against her ear. She shivered. "Are you cold?" She was, in truth, for the hall was drafty despite the best attempts at the masons and carpenters to repair the damages that the first Lannister burning had caused, and she had forsaken her coat to bare more of her skin to that honourable twit of a man.
"Her voice was sweet as heaven, held by bird in summer song – On the far and fairborn banks of Mander‑lay". Why had she even bothered to try and seduce him? He even- "Here" he offered as he lay his grey and white cloak about her shoulders. Well then, perhaps he isn't a twit.
"Thank you" she smiled at him and pulled the edges of the cloak, lined with silky fur that felt wonderful against her skin and that was padded with something that was almost the same, closer about her body. "It is… I do not think that I own anything so warm" she told him truly as the song went on. "But there came a sullen shadow and the lions roved all around" The song – it was about the war? "On the far and fairborn banks of Mander‑lay. And by her tears the waters rose and covered all the ground – of the far and fairborn banks of Mander‑lay".
"It is made from shadowcat pelt and snow shrike eiderdown. I will have one made for you" Robb told her earnestly. "One in your house colours. Green and gold. A rose forever after on your back". Even as he promised Rymund sang on. "The stags they locked their horns and brought shadows high in fright at the far and fairborn banks of Mander‑lay".
"But I like this one". She cuddled in deeper into its folds and hummed in satisfaction as all parts of her but her feet began to warm. She pulled up her legs and laid the hem of the cloak over them as well. "And the gardens all around her in the burning blazed so bright by the far and fairborn banks of Mander‑lay".
"Then you may keep it". He seemed to have mustered his courage, running his hands down the outside of the cloak where it covered her shoulders. "You should not be wearing black" he told her suddenly. "You should be wearing bright colours, colours of happiness and joy. Not black. Blessed are the Gods and the Children, how my colours suit you". "But then from high on North a wolf there came to pry – to the burned and forlorn banks of Mander‑lay. And the beast he growled and snarled, said no rose by him shall cry – on these drowned and fairborn banks of Mander‑lay".
"Would you like me to wear them?" she asked of him, and he nodded back, firmly. "All throughout the winter?" "He sunk his teeth in all the lions, drove the waters back to sea – and restored that broken forlorn Mander‑lay".
"All throughout the winter and until the end of my days" he answered and let his head fall back hard against the high and ornate oaken backrest of his seat with a thud. Oh. She hadn't realised that he meant it like that. Honestly she should have – what else did it look like? She sitting by his side, draped with his cloak like a bride in her husband's at their wedding. "He howled at all the heavens, made the stags by him to kneel – at his feet down by the banks of Mander‑lay".
"I…" she did not know what to respond to that. She knew what she should answer to it – that she'd be glad to, that she'd be his, that she'd be jubilant to join their families together – but those were the answers her grandmother's letters had instructed her to give. She had promised herself that she would be honest with him. "I think I'd like that". Still the answer was not any different.
"He touched his snout onto her petals but forgot about her thorns - and his blood fell on the banks of Mander‑lay". At her answer a shudder went through him, and he raised his hand to his left eye, taking deep breaths that made his chest heave under his tunic and his muscles stretch against the fabric. "By all rights I should forsake honour" he all but growled at himself. "Every bone in my body tells me to do that. But I cannot". She knew. It wasn't the way his father had raised him, no matter how much he told himself that he should act otherwise. "And the Wolf that Kissed the Rose came away with bloodied nose – By the far and now so blackened Mander‑lay".
"He pranced and danced about her, that wolf from high on North – on the to him still so fairborn Mander‑lay". She heard herself laughing, but it was not a happy laugh. It was a sad thing, hurt and scorned. "Roslin Frey is a lucky woman". More than that, she was a dead woman if Margaery ever saw her. She'd put a sword through – well, perhaps not her heart, but at least all of her favourite things before she had her hair shorn from her head. She may not be a murderess, but she was vindictive. "He begged of her to be with him until he was no more – To be his by the fairborn banks of Mander‑lay".
"Lucky is her father – to extort a promise of marriage from me when I could do nothing but answer aye" he growled out through clenched teeth, and she trembled to see the Wolf angered even as she felt the very same stirring in her heart. "All I've ever seen is a portrait of the damned woman". "She told him then a no and brought tears to winter eyes – that fell on the bloodied banks of Mander‑lay".
"I see" Margaery let her head fall back to rest against his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin and his muscles there. "Is she prettier than me?" It was a petty question, she knew it and so did he, but this Roslin had robbed her of her Robb before she even knew she wanted him. And all other things she had wanted in life she had gotten. She acted like a spoiled brat, perhaps, but she needed to know never the less. "She told him she'd wizen in this land of war and spite – that lay by the once so fairborn Mander‑lay".
"Comely enough, but next to you, my Lady?" Robb chuckled humourlessly, almost painfully. "She honestly looks like utter shite". She smiled at that, thinking that he had spent too much time around Smalljon in recent days. "And the Wolf, won wan and weary, picked the rose up of the mud – of the black and bloodied banks of Mander‑lay".
"And in his jaws so tenderly he brought her with him home". She turned her smile to him. "Good". And, for an instant, the world was theirs and only theirs as they found eternity in each other's eyes. But the song was ending. "Far from the fairborn banks of Mander‑lay". And as the tones rang out into silence and the bard stood to take the cheers of his audience Robb rose from his seat too.
"Well done, Master Rymund" he told the minstrel, and the Riverland man bowed skilfully. "A song of your own invention, I take it?" And when the man answered in the affirmative Robb nodded back at him. "For that performance you may ask a boon of me, and if it is in my power to do so I will see it done". Renly had said so too, to a woman that wanted to join his Rainbow guard. It was odd – she hadn't even thought about her dead husband in days.
"Your Grace" Rymund did not even need to think on it. It must have been his wish and dream for a long time. "The life of a wandering songster is wondrous and wonderful, but one day the wandering will shall wane. I shall not always wander, and I will want the same as any man – a wife, a family, food in my belly and a warm place in the world to call my own".
"And let your talent be lost to the world?" Robb thought on it before he made a decision in the matter. "Once the war is over you shall have some land in the Whispering Woods, and you shall have lumber to build an Inn on it with. Tend to that tavern, sing to travellers, and spread your songs like that. Swear yourself to my brother, the lord of that region, and live merrily until the end of your days. That is my command". As the minstrel doubled over in thanks, oozing words of gratitude, Robb still remained standing. "It is late, and I've a war to wage. I will take my leave of you, my good people. Until morning".
"Robb!" Margaery reached for his hand when he turned to leave under the farewells of his people, taking his fingers in hers, holding him back, silently asking him to stay with her. "Where are you going?"
"The godswood" he told her as he gently, but firmly, pulled his hand out of her grasp and out of her reach. "I need to be alone with my thoughts and the Gods. Goodnight, lady Margaery. Gods ward and warm your sleep".
"It's not your gods I want warming my bed, you stubborn mule of a man" she muttered at his back as he left the hall with only a single pair of guards following him. She sighed and looked around the great hall, looking for familiar faces, wondering what she was supposed to do. The day after the next she would return to Highgarden and be out of her... out of Robb's life. And Willas hadn't done a single thing to help her plans bear fruit. She was watching her plans, Grandmother's plans, fail before her, and she did not know what she could do to prevent it.
Damn it all, she felt so helpless. And heartbroken. Pathetic.
"Blessed be the Father" Loras exclaimed as he climbed, in a rambling stupor, up to the seats of honour to lean against the side of her chair, Elinor by his side in concern. "These damn Northerners must be invulnerable to drunkenness. Hellish she-beasts, the Mormont women. I think" he added with a pale face and a weak voice "I think one of them groped me. Groped me!" He shuddered, and despite the violation Margaery could not help but smile at her brother's predicament. It was good to see him living again, even if the sorrow and the black rage was never far from his mind. She opened her mouth to tell him that - and nothing but gasp and a shudder came out. "Margaery" he grew serious and concerned "what's wrong?"
"I-" Oh, fire-blasted seven hells, she had imbibed too much wine, and now it had Robbed her of her ability to speak. "I-" her shoulders shook, her breathing turned ragged, and she could feel the now so foreign sensation in her eyes come to her, like it done when she found out that she was nothing but a pawn in the political games of her family all those years ago. "I need some air. Excuse me" she rose from her seat and hurried away from them, away from her escort and out into the darkened hallways of Pinkmaiden Castle.
In the gloom she hurried away from the raucous laughter and ruckus of the great hall, fleeing them all and the broken, burning, aching thing in her chest. Out into the darkness she went, with only the torches as her guide and companions, and as she came onto the gallery overlooking the gardens after hurrying up several flights of stone stairs, the gallery just above the fencing hall, she stopped and stared out into the moonlight, gripping the stone railings so hard that her knuckles turned white. There was a hard breeze that night, brisk and cold and smelling like a promise of frost, yet somehow nothing but her cheeks were touched by the wind-
His cloak. She was still wearing his cloak. His heavy cloak, as comforting and warm as a mother's love. His cloak that smelled of him. His cloak that but for a single grey wolf upon the back was all white. Snowy white. Bridal white. Her eyes stung, and for the first time in years she felt tears run down her cheeks.
"My Lady!" From down the gallery, past the moonlit railing colonnade, Elinor came hurrying towards her with Loras in tow. "You ran away from the festivities-" Margaery turned her back to both of them, so that they would not see her face, and retreated further down the gallery, but her knees were trembling and her shoulders shaking. She hadn't the strength to remain standing. She almost passed an alcove in the wall facing the gallery but stopped and sat herself down in it. Her escort – her brother and her cousin – came to her, and stopped still when they saw her tears.
"That northern ass!" Loras bristled and seized the hilt of his sword with one hand, ready to pull it free and make to start carving his way through anyone who would oppose him. "I will decapitate the man who makes my sister cry!"
"The Gods make me cry, Loras" Margaery wiped at her cheeks and let out a shuddering breath while Elinor came around to take her by the shoulders and comfort her. She took her hand, and though it was soft and warm – soft! Soft! All too soft! – it was far from the touch that would have soothed her and made her tears dry up.
"Is he lacking in honour, my Lady?" Elinor asked in a probing voice, and Margaery shook her head. "What is it then? Surely if he is a good and honest man, and I've seen the way he looks at you-"
"He has all too much honour, my sweet" Margaery shook her head wryly. "I know how he looks at me. All but undresses me with his eyes. But he never does more than look" she let her head fall onto Elinor's shoulders, and that other maid held her close. "It is pathetic" Margaery whispered against the fabric of Elinor's dress. "Crying like this, over a man. Like I was a girl of thirteen once again. What sorcerous webs has he spun around my heart?" A sob went through her again, and so she whispered as her family stood to comfort. "Your Gods curse you, Robb Stark" she breathed out so quietly that not even Elinor could hear her. "And curse my heart". I will not say it. I will not say that my heart is breaking.
I will not say that I am in love.
Robb
From the bushes amongst the trees down below that Essosi-style gallery Robb Stark listened to Summer-Sun Flower-Maid weep, and his heart bled. He sighed loudly at it all. It was all so stupid.
My honour is not foolish, Grey Wind. Robb turned and began to silently pad away from the interior of the castle and the Gods' Wood that lay within its stone walls. It had a Heart's Tree, a real one, a slender thing that was still young and uncarved and off to one corner, hidden where no one could see it, but the Gods lived there still. They could not see there – they had no carved eyes to see with – but they could still hear. They had few leaves to speak with, but they could still speak. And the Gods would say that Robb was being stupid. Like an arrogant pup not yet grown to his teeth.
All honour was foolish. He could still smell Summer-Sun's tears on the wind. He did not like it. He bared his teeth. He did not like it one bit. She might be doing this to work against me, Grey Wind. She might be out to seduce me for the sake of her family and my crown. The one who birthed Thunder‑Voice- Thunder Voice? The big one. The one who had that long steel claw that smelled of human bone. Smalljon? Yes, Thunder-Voice. The one who birthed him was of the Cold Lands, wasn't she? She had come to steal from Old-Thunder's flocks, kill his pack, but he changed her mind. Humans change.
How do I know that she truly loves me? I thought that I could move past that, move past my fears, but I cannot. What if she has been lying to me, scheming against me? All humans scheme. Even you.
Wait-. Do not be stupid. When Winter comes we look after our own packs first. We feed our own packs first. What-. We kill those who threaten our pack, not others. Make her of your pack, put your scent on her, and she will go on to scheme for you instead.
You… you are talking to me. Really talking. You've never done that before. Our link grows stronger. You use it more, even though the Green in your blood is scentless and weak. And the Old Powers are returning. Summer-Sun is part of it. I know not how, but she is. There is something of the Bringer of Springs in her. The Eater of Infants. Of course she will scheme. Your feelings for her do not matter in that.
But what about love? What about what she feels about me? It does not matter. Never have. Never will. Her feelings for you do not matter. Only humans think that the feelings of others matter to them. It matters if they are reciprocated. Does it truly? You can never know for sure. Unless you go inside of her thoughts, that is, and that would kill any love she would feel for you. If you had enough Green in you to even do that. Which you have not. Think about your own heart. What is in your heart except for blood? Find out. And act accordingly.
Gods damn me… I am in love with her.
Of course you are. She hangs on you like a fawn by a doe. And you think her good to mate with. Good to bring your pups into the world. Around you she all but coos like a bitch in heat. I have smelled both of you when you touch each other. Humans are disgusting – and smelly. She is less smelly than most. Her saving grace. And her honeycake treats are delicious. I quite like her. So do you.
I am a fool for it. Of course you are. All humans are fools. And dumb. Honour is foolishness. You should forsake it. Like you were told to do. You know- you know of the vision I had? Of what the Gods told me? I know what you heard. I know what you saw. And so do you. Do not ask me about it. Why?
Because you know what you saw, yet you do not see. All humans are fools. They are easily scared, like horses. And like horses they think that they are safe when they are not. They cut down the Heart's Trees. They kill the Children. They hunt all prey to death. But prey repopulate. Trees regrow. And the Children return. Magic returns. All of it. What? I don't-. Of course you do not understand. You are human. You are a fool.
Now get back into your own head.
Robb panted and struggled for breath as he was thrust back into his own body and into the muted silence of the godswood as heard by his human ears. That… that had never happened before. Whatever sorcery that allowed him to enter, at least in part, Grey Wind's mind, was getting stronger, more pronounced. Like a distant screech, a ringing in his ear, a spectre of a sound in his head, he heard the cry of clade of young dragons on the wind, growing ever larger.
The world was changing around him. Someone was rewriting the rules of existence in Westeros – and he did not like it one bit.
"Your Grace!" Robb looked up from where he was sitting, on the ground under a sentinel with his back propped up against one of its roots, to see Willas Tyrell come hobbling down the path towards him. "Fancy meeting you here. All alone on a fine night as this – I'd say that you were a man after my own temperament if I thought that that were a good thing". Robb doubted him. He was most likely scheming, along with Margaery. He wasn't so naïve as to think that the heir to Highgarden had travelled all the way to the Riverlands, especially being a cripple and all, out of mere brotherly concern. Willas was there, but for what? His friend, who had an interest in the Mountain? His sister and her family, guided by some unseen puppeteer? Or something darker and more nefarious still?
"Willas" Robb climbed to his feet, trying very hard not to look at the Tyrell heir's leg. It was a hard thing to do, as it drew the eye, all twisted and turned in on itself, noticeable even past the airy legs of his britches. He didn't even seem to have his knee in the right place. Bollocks to not staring, it gave him the shivers, and that in turn made him feel like the worst of men. "Didn't see you at the feast".
"Oh, I left after my Lady sister had you toast to Lord Blackwood's memory the seventh time, your Grace" Willas gestured to one of the benches – benches? In a godswood? Bloody southrons and their tender arses – and Robb nodded, remaining standing as Willas seated himself with great effort, swinging his twisted stem of a leg out before him by his hands. "I fear that travelling all this way has sapped my strength for drinking and carousing, and as for dancing" he gestured to himself with a smile. "I doubt I'd be any use to anyone on the dancefloor. My sister had you drink a lot, on reflection. If I did not know any better, I'd say that she is trying her hardest to seduce you".
Your Gods curse you, Robb Stark. "You do know" he answered the man back, cutting the idle bullshite short. "She is trying to do it". Gods know, she has all but succeeded. "And you're here to… it's not to tell her off, that's for sure. You'd have done so already. I may be young in years, but I've fought enough battles to know an ambush when I see one. I tend to turn ambushes around on my enemies, Tyrell. Traps work both ways".
"Well then, allow me to speak to you in all due candour, your Grace" Willas inclined his head, his smile fading as he looked up at Robb. "I have heard about the actions of Joffery… he's a bastard, but I'm unsure whether or not he's a Hill or a Waters… Anyway, I've heard of him. He is a screeching lunatic, ruled by his mother the same way a handler rules a rabid hound. That is to say, not at all. A mad dog. And a true king knows restraint. He rules by the grace of his subjects. From what I have heard of Loras's and Margaery's reports back to Highgarden she believes you to be such a king. Which itself is doubly impressive, considering your legacy".
"Reports back to Highgarden?" Robb wondered, thinking of all the ravens that had flown from Pinkmaiden to the Reach and back. "And why is it doubly so?"
"Oh, my grandmother rules the courts of Highgarden in all but name. She was all but jumping with glee when she heard that her daughter had set her mind to win the heart of Robb Stark, the Young Wolf". So it's the grandmother, is it? Good to know. "She was the one that drove my sister to these plans properly, as far as I know. And as for you, your Grace" he paused and averted his eyes from Robb's thoughtful expression, looking up at the starry night overhead instead. "They say that the Starks of old were wild men" he began, a distant edge to his tone.
"They say that the winds of the North lived in their blood. Dark eyed, sullen, quick to anger, given to flaring emotions, great passions and a hypnotic charisma. Without as much the North would never have bent their knees to them. 'The Targaryens of Ice', one of my books call them. Your late father, Lord Eddard, was not like that by all accounts. I suspect that seeing almost all of your family die around you will turn any man quiet and stern in the very best of developments. Like Aegon, the third of his name. And so do you seem, too. But it is still there. I can sense it, somehow. The 'Wolfsblood', one of my books call it. The wild blood. The hungry blood. Such a heritage would turn any man into a savage even if they had just a hint of it in them. Your grandfather had it. Your uncle had it. And by the last hours of his life, your late Lord father had it. I wonder if you have it strongly, your grace. And still you show restraint. Which makes you, as I said before, doubly impressive".
"I don't know about 'Wolfsblood'" Robb, having ignored almost all of what Willas had just told him, answered in a distant voice. She had pursued him first. Her intentions… it was only later that it had become a scheme, or so Willas thought. No more doubts. The first days she must have been true to him. She must have. He had laid his colours around her shoulders.
Would you like me to wear them? All throughout the winter?
All throughout the winter and until the end of my days.
I think I'd like that.
Forsake honour.
"Forgive me, Willas" Robb bent his head towards the Tyrell man, who looked back at him in mild surprise as he turned on his heel and headed for the castle interior, hurry in his step. "I've someone to speak to". As he went, he glanced back to see Willas smiling. And why wouldn't that broken rose smile?
Robb was about to see all his chickens come home to roost.
Margaery was still sitting in the gallery overlooking the gardens, though now her brother had gone elsewhere and left her with only Elinor by her side. She was still wearing his cloak around her, and damn it all if it wasn't a good and welcome sight to his eyes. He called out her name, and she stood and looked up at him, pain in her eyes, and made to turn away and hurry back to her room before he caught up with her. He caught her by the wrist and turned him around to face him. "Margaery, please, listen to me-"
"Why? So you can go on and on about your precious honour, like you always do?" She had been crying. Gods damn him, he had made her cry. "I am no glutton for punishment. I do not like pain or rejection. Please, your Grace, just let me go to my chambers and leave me to my dreams-"
"Hush, Margaery, please" Robb asked her and took both of her hands in his. Small, warm, dainty and graceful, and her skin was so soft and gentle to the touch. "I have caused you hurt, and I am sorry for that. But I need to know something". He brought her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles, eyeing her eyes all the while. "Is this a ploy? Are you… have you done and said all those things just to twist me around your littlest finger? Have you done this all to trick me into loving you?"
"No… and yes" she told him in a whisper, and it was as if he had been hit with a warhammer over the back of his head. On the outside he stood as tall and steady as ever, but on the inside he went empty and as still as the waters in the ponds in the godswood of Karhold. "At first, and not all of it, and-" she breathed in hard and yanked one hand out of his grip, going to her cheek to wipe away the last of her tears. Even after crying she managed to look beautiful.
"It was supposed to be a scheme" she said at last in a weak voice. "It was supposed to be, but then you went and ruined it with your muscles and your valour and your eyes and-" she breathed in hard to collect herself. "I will not say it" she whispered to herself. What is she going on about now? Well, no matter. I know what I need to know.
"They'll curse me for an oathbreaker, you know" he told her, and she fell silent as her handmaiden – Elinor, was it? A cousin or second cousin to Margaery or something – backed away into the shadows to let them have their solace in togetherness. "When I break my word to House Frey. There might be a way around it, but I wouldn't put too much stock in that. And" he laid her hand to her cheek, wet and cold against the warmth of his palm "I will not do it. I will not lay with you dishonestly. I will not make you the king's whore. But you have my word" he laid his other arm around her waist and pulled her close to him "as the King in the North. I will make you my wife. If you will have me".
She looked at him then, the starlight reflected in her eyes as the winds of winter breezed about them. "I will" she said at last, a quiver on her voice as her smile beamed at him in the moonlit night, and then, in a whisper almost marvelling at herself: "I am in love".
"So am I" he answered back before he kissed her.
END
A/N: Finally! Amirite? Oh, those two crazy kids. No, they are not getting married yet. Yet.
When will they ever learn that this is the World of Ice and Fire (and some other stuff), and that in that world there are no happy endings? Ah, I'm just kidding… or am I?
Also, you thought the title of the story was just some poetic extravagance, didn't you? Well, it wasn't. All chapter titles are based on words spoken or thought in the chapter, as you might have noticed, as is the story title in and of itself. As I am an amateur musician I wrote "the Fairborn Banks of Mander" myself. Not that it was hard. Didn't need a lot of creativity. And it's not meant to be good. It is, for Rymund, a work in progress.
Not that he'll ever get to finish it.
The first song, the Old Wolf, is a lyrical rewrite of an Irish revolt song called "The Broad Black Brimmer". If you didn't like the songs and the singing – it's background stuff. No need to get worked up over it. And Tolkien wrote songs for Lord of the Rings, as did Mr Martin for ASoIaF. Mine are considerably worse, but there you go.
Lastly, I'd say it's pretty obvious who Oberyn Martell was based on: Hello. My name is Oberyn Martell. You killed my sister. Prepare to die. I am the biggest Oberyn fanboy on this side of the Baltic sea, so I'm just going to stand by that needless little cutaway in the middle of the chapter. Okay? Okay.
I hope that you have enjoyed this chapter. The best is yet to come.
Ta.