Tenth chapter already! Thanks for reviews, follows, favourites and everything else! I promise one of these days I'll list all your names so everyone knows how awesome you guys are! So for my tenth chapter, I have a little something special. A reunion for our lil' lovers. Fun Fact: I didn't realise until like after my fourth update in this fic that I might just be the only jon x margaery shipper in the world. One of my reviewers called it 'unique' so I guess that's a polite way of saying 'wtf is wrong with you mel, where in asoiaf or got did you find anything that puts these two together?!'.

Chapter Ten

Jon

Jon had finally arrived. His lips dry and chapped and his eyes narrowed against the salty air of the sea, now that Rhaegal had lowered closer to the ground. He wasn't sure how, exactly, he knew where he was, it was as if he could almost feel Margaery's presence in this bright, loud place. It shouldn't have been like this, I should be on a ship, with Margaery, coming to ask her father for her hand in marriage. During his flight Jon had found quite a lot of time to think things through, and came to the decision that he wasn't leaving Highgarden without Margaery. He didn't care whether it was as his friend or his wife. All he knew was that he couldn't leave her. Dany all but gave me her blessing anyways, with her on my side we can convince the small council and I can court Margaery. Because he would court her, he promised it would not be like her other marriages where she'd been forced into the vows not even truly knowing the person, or after only two weeks of laying eyes on their face; this time they would laugh together, walk together, talk together, and become one emotionally before doing so officially in some sept. Jon had even already accepted that they would wed in a sept; he knew those were the gods Margaery had been raised worshipping and he knew they were also the gods that the Targaryens had adopted when Aegon first conquered; it was expected of him to marry before the seven, and unforgivable for him not to do so. However, he did plan to visit Winterfell after the marriage and have the union blessed before his own old gods. I am getting ahead of myself. I do not even know if she loves me back, after all, she left me. Yet he couldn't stop himself from doing so as he neared Highgarden's green landscape, and flowery towers.

"Almost there, boy," he leaned forward to stroke his dragon, who let out a small breath of fire, causing Jon to laugh good-naturedly. "It will be nice for you to meet Margaery, she'll love you," Jon said, more to himself, thinking on how close she and Ghost had become before she left. He wondered what she would think when she saw him ride into her town on the back of a fire-breathing beast. That's if she's awake.

Around thirty minutes later, Jon's heart began to quicken, as he flew over Highgarden, admiring its symmetrical landscape. For a moment, all his other pre-conceived notions about southerners and the importance they placed on beauty fled him, all he could think of was how pretty the place was, how much he would've liked to bring the wildlings somewhere as beautiful as this, or the poor boys back on the Wall who'd only ever seen the shit-filled streets of Flea Bottom and tree-filled roads leading to Castle Black. He suddenly realised that everyone should have a chance at seeing places such as Highgarden. A thought entered his head as Rhaegal breathed a stream of fire, warming the air and scorching the tops of some trees. The people below screamed in fright, and Jon's reflection was ended as he realised he would now have to find somewhere to land his dragon, and get to Margaery as quickly as possible without being attacked by the people of Highgarden.

Spying a large open stretch of grass, with no people around, Jon—rather gracefully—landed. On his descent, however, he happened to fly past the castle which the Lord of Highgarden and his family resided; it took every ounce of his self-control not to fly straight inside the building and search for his girl.

"Stay here," Jon told Rhaegal as he climbed off and immediately began walking.

He must've walked for hours before he laid eyes on the castle again, and still a large labyrinth was still between the two, which Jon knew he had no hope of navigating by himself. With a feeling of irritation and exhaustion, he trudged towards a gaggle of girls all on their knees praying, knowing he'd have to enlist their help. Why are they praying here, he wondered, and not in their world-renowned sept.

"Oh, my, Jenna, isn't that the king?" One of the girls whispered fervently, eyeing Jon.

"Gods, Collin wasn't lying he really did fly here on the back of his dragon," Jenna answered, awe-struck.

"We must be hallucinating," another girl breathed.

"Good afternoon," Jon greeted them politely.

They all hastily rose to their feet, curtsying hurriedly. "Is it true? Are you King Jon?" Jenna asked.

The first girl elbowed her. "Your Grace," she said. "Pardon my friend's lack of demure."

Jon sighed internally, hoping these girls wouldn't delay him too long, else he'd have the entire population of Highgarden on his tracks. "Yes. And your friend is pardoned."

The girls immediately blushed and curtsied again. "Might I ask why you're in Highgarden, Your Grace?"

"To visit Lady Margaery," he replied. "May I ask why you were all praying?"

"For Lady Margaery, of course," one girl said. "The city misses her greatly, she's the life and soul of Highgarden."

"Yes," another girl chimed in. "She used to come down and take tea with us, or bring us on her travels."

"And without her," Jenna added. "The entire family has gone recluse. Ser Loras hasn't left his chambers and Lady Olenna hasn't left Lady Margaery's bedside since the accident. We are all distraught."

For some reason, the fact that everyone in the garden city was grieving and sad pleased Jon. Re-ignited hope in him that Margaery was healing; they must be tying their hardest, if the entire city misses her so. It also reminded him that the Queen of Thorns would never let her darling granddaughter die.

"It pleases me to hear how much Lady Margaery is missed," Jon said. "The news, though, saddened me so, that I could not even wait on a ship to bring me here."

The girls all cooed in chorus. "Then we must not delay you," Jenna said. "We'll bring you to the castle at once, before everyone realises that you are truly here and harass you."

As they led him through the maze, Jon couldn't help but think, give a girl a tale of romance and they'll do anything for you.

III

Sansa

The farewell ceremony held as Sansa, Daenerys, and all their other companions left King's Landing was strange. The High Septon—who Daenerys newly appointed to replace the one who had imprisoned Margaery—blessed the ship and their journey, wishing them good luck and expressing sorrow that he could not do so for his king. Daenerys then told Sansa they'd be the last ones to board the vessel, to make sure everything went as planned. It was lucky that Daenerys had the sense to do so, for this was when things had become strange. All the citizens gathered to see them off almost simultaneously kneeled, while a row of young children towards the front of the crowd held huge candles above their heads, declaring that they would keep the city warm and ready for their king and his lady. Sansa had peered at the silver-haired queen out the corner of her eye, gauging the woman's reaction; startled to find that the she wore an amused smile, one that reached her eyes. Upon thinking over it, Sansa began to understand why Daenerys was pleased with the show the commoners put on and not shocked or pleasantly surprised: because she'd planned it. How could I have forgotten, she spent nearly all morning in the city, giving out food and coin, speaking well of Jon and Margaery, and expressing the king's plans to rejuvenate the city. She is so smart, much smarter than Cersei. Two days on the ship had proved that much to Sansa, along with the fact that when she wasn't 'hugging the ground with her eyes', Daenerys found her company 'tolerable' and though they hadn't become friends, they had become companions. Like kin, Queen Daenerys said, kin that you hate but love at the same time. Like my brother; the mad one I named Viserion for.

"Princess Sansa," Missandei announced, drawing the maid from her thoughts. "Queen Daenerys requests your presence."

"Thank you," answered Sansa, rising from her vanity table where she'd been writing a letter for Arya. It is sad that I will miss her homecoming. "Where will I find Her Grace?"

"In her chambers. I am to escort you," the young girl informed her.

Escorted by an eleven year old, how funny. Though Sansa knew that the queen's newly titled lady-in-waiting was not one to underestimate: the girl was on friendly terms with half the Unsullied soldiers who all saw her as a younger sister they needed to fiercely protect, and was one of the very few people whom the dragons didn't breath fire at on sight. And she is one of Queen Daenerys' best friends. You should never trifle with those who have powerful friends. Royal friends. Experience and Petyr Baelish had taught her that much.

Once they arrived, Missandei allowed Sansa to enter first before following. Daenerys was stood in the middle of her rather large room, silver hair tumbling freely down her back glinting in the light, wearing a white dress which clung to her figure; the complete contrast of Sansa who had arranged her hair in an elaborate style Margaery had taught her and wore a fitted but loose navy gown, which flared out from her waist impressively. Little sweetrobin told me I looked like the night sky in this.

"Your Grace," Sansa curtsied, trying carefully not to simper.

"Lady Sansa." Daenerys, it seemed, would never refer to Sansa with the title Princess, unless they were in the 'right kind of company'. "You look well."

"As do you, Your Grace."

"The boys giving you any trouble?"

"No," Sansa shook her head, repressing a shudder at the crude remarks some of the lowborn sailors had made. "Dry Sand . . . Persuaded them to stop."

Daenerys grinned. "I see. So the little princess is well then?"

"Very much, so. And you?"

"Well I am not. Drogon has flown off again, and Viserion behind him. I have received no word from Jon, and too much word from Tyrion, who claims that court is too quiet without me, and that the City Watch are rebelling against my keeping the dragons at the Red Keep."

"Your Grace," Sansa stammered, unsure of what to say. "The dragons have left the Red Keep, anyway. And the City Watch are under your command."

"They're under Jon's."

"Same thing," Missandei smirked.

"If only," Daenerys said. "But alas, Jon seems to have grown into his role and no longer seeks my advice on ruling."

"Lord Tyrion will handle the City Watch accordingly," said Sansa. "And we will reach Jon in days at this pace."

"I know, I know," the queen muttered. "I still wish I could've just flown there."

"You were needed on the ship, my queen," Missandei said.

"Yes, it seems I'm always needed since Jon flew off," she mused. "Anyhow, I brought you here for a reason Sansa. It seems Petyr Baelish wishes to have an audience with you."

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath, her palms beginning to moisten. "Truly?"

"Truly. He attempted to send you a raven, but it was intercepted by Varys, who took the liberty of reading it—on my instructions."

"What did it say?" Sansa was not at all concerned that the letter had been read.

"It was very formal and straight to the point. He claims the child misses you, and that you might also miss the Eyrie. Do you?"

"No."

I'll never go back. In the Vale I was Alayne Stone. Tricked into thinking I was some protégé of Petyr's, smart and cunning like he, and all I was, was a pawn. To be used and sold to some lord for his gain. I had no voice there. Nothing. Here I have my name back, I have brothers, and Dry Sand and I will soon have Arya again. And maybe, if Queen Daenery's attitude towards me remains like this, I will have my confidence back, too. "Never."

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "Not even to see that small boy so enamoured with you?"

"Lord Robin can come to see me, at the Red Keep once I return. He might like the sun and the city. It was his lord father's wish to have him fostered somewhere away from the mountains where his health might improve," Sansa tacked on the last bit, remembering a conversation Petyr had had with her aunt moons ago.

"The boy is sickly, is he not? Would he survive the voyage?"

"He will have to. The Lord of the Vale will have to travel sometime, surely."

"So you do not wish to see them or the Eyrie."

"I do rather miss Robin, I would like to see him. But I do not wish to go to the Eyrie."

"By yourself, you mean?"

"Pardon?"

"This Petyr frightens you."

"I-I-"

"Oh don't return to the stuttering," Daenerys sighed. "It's fine if he does, you'll just have to make it much less obvious."

"He is—our relationship was not . . . I do not wish to go back."

"That's alright—you weren't going anyway. Too far away and I do not like that man. No you'll be going to Dorne, as planned, after our stint in Highgarden."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"But you might do well to remember that you are currently Lady of Winterfell, Sansa."

"Yes?"

"You are every bit as powerful as Petyr Baelish—and cousin to the king. He need not frighten you."

"I—" she's being nice to me! "Thank you, Queen Daenerys."

"Don't go getting too many ideas. My promise about stepping out of line still stands—firmly."

"Of course."

As she walked back to her room, Sansa thought on the queen's words, a reflective expression upon her face. Her life and identity had been upturned and ravaged so often the past few years, that even when she acknowledged that she could now be herself, sometimes it still didn't register in her mind that she was now Lady of Winterfell, until Rickon came of age. She had her own power, in the North at least. I have a home. Though, often when she closed her eyes and dreamt of returning to Winterfell, a part of her ached to stay in King's Landing, with the only family she's laid eyes on in years. Idly, she wondered whether they'd allow her to take Dry Sand to Winterfell when she inevitably returned.

III

Jon

Being king, Jon had assumed he would never be told to wait. Especially when he'd literally flown across miles of water. To see her, and now they tell me I must wait. Wait! I have waited days. It took every ounce of control in the northman's body to remain seated and still while he watched servants scutter to and fro, heads bowed; and heard harsh whispers that held Margaery's name.

For the half an hour it had taken him and those girls to navigate the labyrinth entrance to the magnificent castle, Jon had managed to distract himself from the real reason he's rushed so gallantly to Highgarden, and immersed himself in the chuckle-worthy tales of his companions, marvelling proudly at how intensely Margaery seemed to have impacted theirs and many other's lives with her mere presence. He was not a fool, he knew a good portion of it must have been fake on Margaery's part, yet it didn't stop him from loving the maid even more. Where is Mace?

Yet, when he'd finally arrived at the castle and been dutifully led to Lord Willas—as Mace was said to busy with the Maesters—and poured out his heart, his wish to see Margaery at once, and his offer of the Maesters he'd had Daenerys collect from the Citadel, the man had told Jon with no lack of apathy to wait in the drawing room, while he informed his father and grandmother of the king's impromptu visit. Jon had expected to be led immediately to Margaery's room, he'd expected people to fall over themselves to show him to her. He'd been gobsmacked when the crippled man hobbled from the room despondently, with a low and meaningless Your Grace falling from his lips as the large doors shut.

It has been twenty minutes. Twenty fuck—

"Your Grace," Mace Tyrell entered the large room. "I apologise for having you wait this long, I was otherwise occupied."

"I didn't ask to see you," Jon answered, surprising even himself with his sharp tone. "My lord," he added, hoping it would excuse his previous rudeness.

However, the round man did not seem to notice what had happened, and only attempted once more, to hide the weariness and grief he had been wearing since his daughter's fall. "I am told you flew here."

"Yes."

"On the back of one of Her Grace's dragons."

"Rhaegal is as much mine as—" Jon paused, counted to ten, breathed, and opened his eyes. "Mace," he began. "I need to see Margaery."

The man regarded his king, and berated himself. Mace prided himself on being a man with connections and friends in the right places—therefore he ensured that he was always polite and simpering to anyone of higher station than himself. He had allowed the discouraging news from the Maester to dull his senses. He had the king in his home, before him, ruffled and impatient to see his daughter—his single, maiden daughter.

"Then you shall," Mace said. "Follow me, Your Grace."

Finally.

III

Olenna Tyrell

On the back of Her Grace's dragon . . . Olenna still couldn't believe her Margaery had bewitched the king so much, that the man could not even wait for a ship to bring him to her, but instead flew for what must've been days on end, uncomfortably on the back of a scaly dragon, and had insisted on seeing Margaery at once. My Marg truly is something else. With some renewed hope, Olenna cradled her granddaughter's head in her lap. She'd happily come to the conclusion that if the king was so invested in Margaery's health, then Mace would surely have to employ all the Maesters in the Reach to fix her, and even hoped that Jon himself had some way to help heal her too.

"Willas," the old lady said. "Where is your father? How long has he kept His Grace?"

"I don't know, grandmother," the man replied sullenly, staring intently at his sister. "What is his rush to see her, anyhow? Ten minutes, an hour, a day, she is the same. Always."

"You must not speak so disrespectfully of our king," Olenna chided. "Or his wishes. Unlike yourself and your family, others like to be with their loved ones during hard times and not hide away."

"Grandmother," Willas said sharply.

"What? Am I wrong? Even Loras hasn't shown his pitiful face in days—"

"Because he can't bear to leave his room and not see her gallavanting about wit—"

"And Garlan has immersed himself in that goddamned wife and child of his and refuses to acknowledge—"

"What is he supposed to do, grandmother? Ignore his family?"

"And do not get me started on that mother of yours—"

"Grandmother!" Willas snapped. "Not everyone is as strong as you. Do you not understand how difficult it is to come here and watch her, watch her, she who is usually so full of life, lie here, not moving, not—"

"Straight through here, Your Grace," the two heard Mace say.

"Rise," Olenna snapped, before doing so herself.

Olenna was startled, to say the least, when she laid eyes on her king for the first time in weeks. She hadn't known what to expect, but what she saw certainly wasn't it. His Grace wore an expression of impatience and frustration, and an outfit that looked worn and ruffled. He barely even nodded at the nobility in the room before striding closer towards the laying girl. Olenna was shocked to see how wide his eyes became. He is enchanted with her. Gods . . .

"Why isn't she breathing," the king rasped. "She isn't dea—"

"No," Willas said immediately. "Your Grace."

"My lord," Jon said. Then, seemingly remembering his good form, "My lady, it is pleasure to see once again. You must visit me at King's Landing once Lady Margaery is well."

"It is an immense pleasure to see you," the withered woman replied. "My dear Marg would be over the moon if she knew you went through such trials to visit her bedside."

"I needed to make sure she was . . . That everything is . . . That every measure is being taken to ensure her recovery."

"I am glad that someone, at least, shares my concerns."

"Mother," Mace hissed. "Forgive her, Your Grace, she forgets herself in these distraught times."

"Forgiven," Jon waved an uninterested hand, and inched closer towards Margaery. "May I . . ."

"Of course, Your Grace," Mace gestured for Jon to make his way towards the bed.

The room held its breath as the king of five months and a few days cautiously stepped towards the sleeping bed, all impatience and frenzy fleeing him in the pivotal moment. His breath balled itself up and hid in his throat, as he admired Margaery's chestnut curls, feathered out against her pillow; her milky skin that seemed to glow even in her bedridden state; her plump, pink lips, that he ached to see curl up into her customary grin. Gingerly, Jon placed his fingertips against her cheek and sighed. It was still warm.

Olenna watched the ordeal, engrossed, as she silently thanked the gods for taking the Lannister's off the throne, for killing Renly Baratheon, for making her Margaery wait until her feelings could fester truly, and for Jon Snow. I always wanted her to marry someone powerful, with whom her life could be comfortable, yet I always wanted her to be happy and in love, now, thank the gods, she has both.

"What do the Maesters say, my lord?" Asked Jon, without ever taking his eyes off Margaery.

"Nothing encouraging, Your Grace," answered Mace somewhat tiredly.

"Tell me," Jon ordered.

"They say that though her legs are healing, the damage done to her head may take longer to rectify, and the longer it takes, the less chance she has of waking up."

Jon inhaled sharply, as did Willas. "And what of her ribs?"

"Your Grace?"

"I was told she'd broken two of her ribs."

"Only fractured, my king," Willas supplied.

"I see. So they are healed, then?"

"Mostly. Once she wakes, they say they will apply a cream which will give her chest strength."

"So her head. . . " Jon's voice trailed off.

"Your Grace," Olenna spoke up, determined that this man would wed her granddaughter. "I have suggested Maesters from across The Reach be brought in to aid her head injury. The Maester here is sorrowful excuse for a healer and has grown lazy with nothing else to heal except my grandsons sword cuts."

"I agree," Jon said. "Queen Daenerys sails here with ten Maesters, five fresh from the Citadel and five old with experience."

Willas stared at the man awe-struck, while Mace sputtered. "You are a wise and kind man, Your Grace," Olenna smiled.

"I take care of my own," Jon said, running his fingers through Margaery's hair. "Hopefully, she will have woken by time Daenerys arrives."

"Hopefully," Willas echoed, rising to his hobbled feet. "If you'll excuse me, Your Grace, but I must go and check on my brother and his wife. News of your presence may not have reached them."

The king seemed as if he couldn't care less who Willas went to check on. "Aye," he murmured.

"I will go to, as well, Your Grace, tell my wife and Loras that you are here."

Jon did not even bother replying.

Once the two men left, Olenna sat back down by Margaery's head. In King's Landing, the woman had suspected the king held feelings for her granddaughter, but certainly not to the extent being displayed to her. I didn't know. How could I, when Marg refused to speak of him unless to state firmly that she had no intentions of wedding him? She cannot refuse now, he flew here for her. Lifeless and unmoving and he still adores her. Olenna's insides warmed. I suppose it was all worth it . . . Renly, Cersei, Tywin and Joffrey, all worth it for this. For a man who treasures her above all else.