Chapter Thirteen

Margaery

12.06

A soft hiss rang in Maraery's ears as she clutched her chest in pain. Her head hurt terribly, as if someone were inside pressing hard against it; while her lungs throbbed almost unbearably. Margaery opened her eyes for the first time in weeks, immediately shutting them against the uncomfortably bright light. When she re-opened them, her memories started flooding back, and she waited impatiently for one that explained Jon and Daenerys' presence in her home.

"Margaery, dear," Olenna breathed, disbelief etched into every wrinkle of her face.

"Gods, I thought you'd never wake," Loras gasped. "You're awake," he enthusiastically leapt from his chair, and engulfed Margaery in an awkward hug, interrupting Jon's hold on her hand. "I missed you."

"Loras?" She asked unsurely. Seven hells, my throat feels rough as sandpaper. "Why can't I move my legs?"

"They're broken," a level voice informed her. Must be the queen. Why is she here?

"Pardon?"

"Don't you remember Marg?" Her grandmother asked worriedly. "Your fall?"

"You must," Loras told her earnestly.

The fall, how could I not remember? Gods, how long have I been asleep? Every one must think me a fool for falling off my horse, I've been riding since as soon as I could walk! How will I explain it? Oh, yes, I tumbled to my almost-death because I was daydreaming about His Grace . . . Wonderful, another negative thing for every one to tag to my name and my House. Wait! His Grace, Jon—

"You remember, don't you Margaery? You remember the fall?" Jon stared intensely into her eyes. Yes, I remember it. She heard the unsaid: and every thing before it.

"I remember," she confirmed. "I'm—so sorry."

"Oh Margaery," Olenna tossed her thoughts of propriety and good form out the window, and jumped to embrace her granddaughter as Loras had. "Don't apologise, every thing will be all right."

"We need to tell Father and Mother," Loras said.

"I'll go," Jon offered, rising noisily. "I'll probably find Garlan too," he muttered.

"I'll come with you," Daenerys said.

"Wait, Jon—Your Grace," a groan of pain cut Margaery's sentence short, sending her grandmother and brother into a brief panic, successfully giving the two royals the distraction they needed to escape.

"Loras, I'm fine," she snapped once they had left. "I just—"

"How can you be fine?" He demanded. "You've been unconscious for weeks, Margaery, your legs are broken, your ribs are bruised and we all thought you were going to die—"

"All right, Loras," Olenna interrupted. "We've all been extremely worried, some more than others."

"Grandmother," Margaery chastised weakly.

"You've been very unwell, Marg, what happened? Why did you throw yourself off the horse?"

"Throw herself?" Loras frowned. "She fell—"

"Don't be so idiotic, Loras, your sister's been riding horses for thirteen years. She did not fall."

"Well she certainly didn't throw herself—" Oh, won't they shut up already? My head kills and Jon left! What was he even doing here?

"I didn't throw myself," she said loudly, a flurry of aches erupting in her skull immediately after.

"Ha—"

"And I didn't fall, exactly. I was thinking about things and I guess I let my mind wander with me. It was an accident. Purely unintentional."

"What were you thinking about?"

Jon. "Everything," she told them. "Renly, Joffrey, Tommen, me. Us."

"The king," Olenna added softly.

"Him too," she maid admitted.

"Why were you thinking of Renly? May the Mother have mercy," Loras added.

"He was the starting point."

"Of what?"

"Of my demise. You know, I wasn't always like this. Scheming, manipulative, and power-hungry. I used to be sweet, and charming and charismatic."

"You still are," Loras argued.

"And every thing you did was for your House, your family."

"I did it for me too, Grandmother, I did it so I could be the queen. So I could rule, because I lusted for power."

"You would make an excellent ruler—"

"I know, I know, I've heard it all before," Margaery interjected tiredly. "But I'm not, not really? I'm good at using people, and making them like me, at reading their motives. But by the end of it, I was nowhere close to ruling and no better than Cersei," her voice was drenched in bitterness. "Mad, widowed, and foolishly chasing the Iron Throne."

"Oh, Marg."

"I didn't know you felt like this," Loras whispered. "You never came to me."

"Why would I? Everyone was happy, firmly in the present. I wasn't prepared to drag you back into the past with me."

"Why were you there, anyhow?"

"She's already said, Loras," Olenna told him. "It was His Grace. He left her and she sunk into a depression."

"Jon? He wouldn't do that, if he did I'll throttle—"

"You're right, Loras, for once. He didn't. I left."

"Because of the rumours? Of the other ladies at court? I told you, Margaery, ignore them—"

"All of them?" The girl retorted. "They all hated me. How can I ignore the mother of dragons, hm? Or the princess? I had to leave. It was better for every one."

"Not for you, evidently."

"I had to leave," Margaery repeated.

"You love him," Olenna said, a slight accusatory tone to her voice.

"Grandmother, not now, I am tired."

"Answer me."

"Grandmother, she said she's tired."

"Marg?"

"Yes, I love him. I love him and I couldn't stay there because it would not have worked out prettily."

"You what?"

"Margaery?" Mace Tyrell exclaimed, tumbling into the room, ten Maesters at his heels, along with a red-faced Willas and Sansa.

"Don't worry," Olenna assured her love. "I'll fix it for you, Marg."

You always do, she let her eyelids flutter, and offered a watery smile towards her eldest brother and his companion.

III

Jon

Silently, the king of the seven kingdoms sharpened his sword, aching for either one of his animal companions to ease his stress. Days he had spent worrying and fretting over Margeary's almost lifeless body, he'd tried nearly every thing to wake her up, and had never even entertained the thought of burning her. How could he? Hurting Margaery would've never occurred to him. He wondered why it had to Dany.

"Are you just going to sit there and brood?" She demanded. "The friend who you abandoned the Iron Throne for has just woken up."

"I know," he answered. "I saw her."

"So why are you here, preparing for a sword-fight then?"

"How did you know to burn her?" He asked suddenly.

"Not now, Jon, let's just go," she replied curtly.

"Tell me," he instructed. "Please."

She hesitated, and her eyes stood still for a moment. "Fire is life, isn't it?" Daenerys told him. "That's what I've always been told and what I've seen. I never realised my hands were so hot, but then I touched you and I heard your skin sizzle. And then I thought maybe. . ."

"Maybe what? You'd burn her to life?"

"I didn't think about it," she protested. "Her skin looked so dead, I just wanted to feel it—"

"Why?" He persisted, gut instinct telling him that she was hiding something.

"Because she looked like Drogo," Daenerys snapped, tears glistening in her eyes furiously.

Her ex-husband, he mused, the one she hardly talks about but named Drogon for. The one whose child she bore. Jon placed a comforting arm across Daenerys' back, rubbing quiet circles. He doubted that the movement quelled any of the pain she must've felt, yet he also understood the power of company in hard times. Of a presence other than yours. Exhaling loudly, she spoke once more, "That's what he looked like before he died. Before that witch took him away from me," she added the last sentence with venom laced into her words.

"I know," Jon replied softly. "You told me."

"He was just breathing, and his eyes were shut like hers, and—" she broke off, upset. "There's a reason I haven't been to see her since I arrived."

"I never thought anything of it."

"Nor should you have. It happened long ago—I was barely four and ten when I wed him."

"When he died."

"Yes."

"It's okay to feel like this, you know. You can cry, you don't have to Daenerys Stormborn, fearless and foreboding all the time."

"Oh really?" She scoffed. "And what should I be?"

"Dany," Jon offered. "I like Dany."

Baffling Jon, his sentiment caused her to begin sobbing. He watched. And watched. Until eventually she stopped, and he felt comfortable enough to look her straight in the eye.

"There are things I haven't told you," she breathed. "Things about our family, about your uncle, that I haven't told you."

"Dany—" he began pleadingly. Now is not the time for a Targaryen history lesson. He didn't want to hear about his dead family, he had enough who were alive to worry about. Particularly the one stood in front of him, crying.

"No, I won't get into it now, only you should know it wasn't Tyrion who called me Dany first."

"Yes, I know it was your knight, Ser Jorah."

She shook her head sadly. "Nor him."

"Then who?"

"Another time," she promised. "I just thought you should know. It's been my nickname ever since I can remember."

"Truly?" I thought her brother was a cruel madman, I can't imagine him giving Dany an affectionate nickname. It must've been Drogon. That's why she's crying, it was a nickname shared between the two of them.

"Truly."

"We can leave," he suggested. "Leave and not see her."

"No," she returned quickly. "You can't leave without her. I know that now."

Jon exhaled in relief. "Had this been two years ago, I seriously doubt I'd have done something like this. Abandon my duty for-for—"

"Love?"

"Right. But now, I can't imagine not have coming here when I did. I don't think I'd ever have forgiven myself if I hadn't been there when she opened her eyes."

"That's how you know it's real, I suppose," Dany said. "Come, let's go back. If I know Margaery Tyrell, she'll be wondering where and why you've gone."

"All right."

They exited the small stable, and journeyed back with Missandei mutely behind them. During the walk Jon reached over to wipe a stray tear from Daenerys' eye, and smiled softly at her. She returned it and too, reached over to rub his upper arm. He held onto her tightly, thanking the old gods for the millionth time for giving him Daenerys. She's family, he thought, she's mine and I'm hers. For years, all Jon had wanted was to belong, and he'd chased the dream by attempting to mirror Ned Stark's honourable ways. I needn't have done it, any of it. Because he had it now, he had a home in Daenerys, and she in him. And something in the back of his mind whispered that it was because he belonged and was accepted. Maybe this was it, the key to happiness, maybe it was becoming a Targaryen. He didn't allow the thought to linger, however, still uncomfortable at the prospect of renouncing his Northern roots. Another time, he promised.

III

Margaery

Graciously, Margaery allowed several men, both young and old to examine her. They poked and prodded and rubbed and squeezed and concluded that Margaery was still fragile and weak. Wow, really, she had thought sardonically. She was sentenced to a fortnight of bed rest, and after that a further week of muscle stimulation, to regain the strength in her legs. Three weeks of being molly-coddled, fantastic. As disgruntled as she was, nobody would've been able to tell from her demeanour. She flirted harmlessly with her younger Maesters, was exceptionally polite to the elder ones, and laughed breezily with her oldest brother, as if the action didn't set her throat on fire, or ignite vicious poundings in her head and chest. Anxiously, she waited for Jon to return. He must, Loras says he was the one who sent all the extra Maesters and flew here for me. Surely he won't just flee now that I've woken? Will he?

"All right Lady Margaery," the oldest healer said. "It seems everything is in order. You have the salve you need to apply to your ribs thrice a day and herbs for any pain relief."

"Thank you, kind sir," she returned sweetly.

"It was no bother," he told her, bowing.

"That will be all," Olenna dismissed him and his colleagues. "Finally," she said once they'd left.

"Grandmother," Willas sighed while Sansa stifled a snort.

"Just three more weeks, sweet sister, and you will be good as new," Loras enthused. "Three short weeks."

"Loras, don't overwhelm her," Lady Alerie intoned, her husband nodding along fervently.

"I'm not," he protested.

"Don't behave so rudely, Loras," Alerie admonished. "You're in the company of royalty."

Margaery chuckled quietly, amused at Loras' mutinous expression. He gripped her hand harder.

"This must all be terribly boring for you, Princess Sansa."

"Not at all," the princess in question responded cooly. "It's great to see you well again."

"If you're sure, princess."

"I am."

What have I done to displease her now? I've been in a coma for three weeks! She must just be putting on that cold facade she uses to defend herself.

"How fares your . . . His Grace?" Margaery asked awkwardly.

Raising an eyebrow, Sansa said, "Not too well since your accident."

"I heard he abandoned court and flew here to see me."

"Abandoned isn't the word I'd use. He was very concerned about you."

"His concern flatters me more than words can express," she is changed, I will have to investigate.

Sansa simply smiled.

"Where is His Grace?" Loras asked dryly. "Fled as soon as she woke up."

"Hush Loras," Olenna quipped.

"Princess Sansa?" Margaery said.

The young girl raised her head.

"Where is His Grace?"

"With the queen."

"We must thank Her Grace," Mace chimed in. "For waking you."

"I'm sure she isn't expecting a thank you," Sansa said, offering a rather warm smile towards Willas.

What is the meaning of that? Margaery glanced up her grandmother who winked at her.

"Nevertheless, I will give one personally. Without her, I might never have awoken."

"I doubt Jon would've allowed that to happen." Oh, she slipped up and called him Jon. She said it so easily, they must be much closer now. My my, what have I missed?

"He is rather enamoured with our Margaery," Mace agreed eagerly.

"Mace," Alerie hissed.

And so it went on. Her father embarrassed himself by simpering to Sansa or bragging of Margaery's relationship with Jon, her mother continued to discreetly scold him, Willas kept his eyes firmly on either Margaery or Sansa, occasionally asking how Margaery felt, then drifting off into silence once more, Loras sat sulkily by her side, holding her hand tightly, while Olenna fussed with her hair and face, and muttered darkly about Garlan and his wife and child. Sansa sat prettily and watched. She must think so lowly of me now she is fully a princess and has my brother wrapped around her little finger. Jealousy bubbled inside of Margaery, that she fought tirelessly to tame. I am too smart for such things as jealousy, she assured herself, but whenever Willas' gaze drifted to the younger, prettier, more graceful maid, who would then return the stare with a rather familiar smirk or slight upturn of the lips, she saw red. It was not that she wanted Willas' attention, she just wished her romantic life were going so smoothly. Four days she's been here, and already Willas fancies himself in love with her, while I have spent months pining after Jon and he is not even here!

It was just after that thought that Jon re-entered the room, Daenerys in tow, along with Dry Sand who walked silently but with a sense of urgency to Sansa's side. When I was last awake, he was coldly detached and now he looks at her as if she is the Mother. Margaery groaned internally; she hated being out of the loop for so long.

"Your Grace," everyone chorused, twice. Blushing violently, Margaery only smiled demurely, unable to stand. Oh gods I'm a cripple!

"Sansa," Daenerys said—announced really. "I need your opinion on something, might I borrow you?"

"Of course," Sansa answered.

"And you too, Lady Alerie, if you please," she added.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Once the trio left and Jon remained stoic, Mace made his excuses and fled too, planting a quick but wet kiss on his daughter's cheek. He does love me, I know it, but gods he can sure make a fool of himself in front of socially higher company. Willas stayed a further ten minutes, moving closer to Margaery, whispering a few funny anecdotes to her that Sansa was an unsurprisingly large part of.

"I suppose this is our cue to leave," Olenna said wryly when Willas departed.

"It is your home, Lady Olenna," Jon said.

"Exactly," Loras growled.

"Loras," Margaery murmured. "Please."

He didn't leave at first, even after Olenna had. It took a few more pleading looks on Margaery's part for him to. When he did, she looked at Jon shyly, suddenly forgetting why she'd wanted to see him so badly earlier.

III

Jon

She looks beautiful. Jon didn't think he had used those words in a romantic sense in years, but he meant them when he laid eyes on Margaery for the second time since her awakening. He noticed that her smile was tired, though, and her eyes weary. He hadn't meant to dismiss her family so rudely, he'd initially planned to carefully and subtly make them leave, with Daenerys making it clear that that was his aim—but he'd come in and seen her chuckling softly at some interaction between her mother and Loras and lost his words. This has never happened to me! It was unsettling to be so at loss.

"He loves you."

"Yes, bless him," she smiled gently.

She looks so young. "I've missed you."

"I can tell," she teased weakly.

He chuckled in return. "I don't think I handled things very well."

"I disagree, I think you handled every thing very well."

"Leaving King's Landing in the lurch to sit by your bedside for two weeks?"

"It was a very sweet gesture."

"Let's hope every one else thinks so. Prince Doran especially."

"Oh yes," she exclaimed. "You were meant to visit Dorne."

"A while ago actually. I wrote a letter of apology, but he will possibly think it a slight against Dorne in favour of Highgarden."

"Most likely," she agreed grimly. "No more flights of fancy for you, I fear."

"I'm not very good at the king thing, I don't think," he said ruefully.

"I have to disagree with you again, Your Grace," she shook her head. "You're bound to make mistakes: but on the whole, ruling seems to come to you naturally."

It shouldn't be this easy, it should be awkward and tense and—

"Why did you do it?"

"What?"

"Fly here for me."

"I-I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Is that all?"

"You take me for a liar?"

"No, no," she rejoined hurriedly. "Only, you're known for being dedicated to your duty, it's strange that you abandoned it for . . . Me."

He sighed. He had dreaded this conversation, and had managed to avoid so far. Avoid it no longer.

"You know what it was like while I was on the Wall," he started. "I only went there because I felt I had no place at Winterfell with my uncle gone, and I wanted to prove that I could be honourable as him."

Margaery nodded along; she'd heard the tale once before. "It wasn't miserable there, it wasn't all bad but it's hard and difficult to swear off your entire family. It still haunts me, some nights, Robb's death. I always imagine that I could've saved him had I run off. I was his brother and I abandoned him when he needed me most; when he went to war to avenge our—his father and it's not a nice feeling. To know your loved ones need you and then to turn your back and pretend you don't know or see. I could've gone to Winterfell earlier and rallied people to save Sansa, Joffrey terrorised her, to this day she can't look at Tyrion. And Arya—" he paused. Breathe, Jon, breathe. "On the run with The Hound? Alone and hungry and cold with no family and I was at the Wall, calling criminals my brothers—"

"Jon," Margaery cooed. "You can't blame yourself for that."

"Who else is to blame? I left them when they needed me. And I just couldn't do that with you. Not again, no more nights wondering what could've happened if I'd put family first."

"Lord Stark was a brilliant battle tactician, he would've lived if his foes had been as honourable as him or you. If you'd run off to save him you'd have been slaughtered along with him, with Ghost's head sown onto your neck. Trust me, I know."

"We'll never really know though, will we?"

"No," she sighed, " I guess not."

"At least I came this time. And brought Dany with me."

"Yes, you made the right choice. You usually do, Jon, you have to trust your instincts. And back then, they told you to stay at the Wall, and they were right. You couldn't have saved them all, you're just one man."

"I could've tried though."

"You did what you could. If you were fighting alongside Robb, or kidnapping Sansa back, who would've fought the wildlings? Who would've fought the Others? Who would rule us now?" He saw her gulp at this point. "You would never have met Ygritte."

Jon sucked in a harsh breath at the sound of her name. Weeks had passed since he'd thought about her, his immunity to her had faded and so hearing her name again caused his chest to burn with guilt and longing. I love Margaery now. And he did, but he loved Ygritte too, he always would, and nothing would erase her body being engulfed in flames from his mind.

"I might never have met you," he countered.

"That too," she grinned.

The two fell into easy chatter. Jon filled Margaery in on everything she'd missed, boasting playfully about riding Rhaegal non-stop and promising to let her meet him once she healed, and Margaery admitting to Jon why she'd fallen off her horse. The news shocked him, adding a few more pounds of guilt onto his heart, but Margaery managed to distract him from it for the meanwhile. His hands found hers almost without his knowledge, and she clasped his in return, beaming with unadulterated joy. Thoroughly engaged in telling Jon of Garlan's wife's sister's escapades which he wasn't too interested in, Margaery didn't notice the happiness radiating from him. This is the first time I have held her hand and felt her hold me back. For a couple of hours, they were happy.

And then her family returned, Garlan and his child with them this time. Jon reluctantly took a back seat while they fussed over her, and she chattered back to them. He wondered whether she was tired yet.

"How are you?" His eldest cousin unceremoniously appeared at his side, adorning a sympathetic smile.

"Hi Sansa," he returned. "How are you?"

"You're avoiding the question," she smirked. "You can talk to me, you know. I'm much older now and a lot less stupid," she nudged him.

"I know but you're still much younger than I, I wouldn't want to—"

"But I would want you to," she emphasised. "I'd like us to be family, like you and Arya were."

Her words evoked a strange feeling in the king, and he regarded her curiously, noting her earnest smile and kind eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Maybe I should leave her here to be fostered by Lady Olenna, sharpen her wits some . . . No, Dany will breathe fire and I'm not sure I'd feel safe around a someone tutored by both Olenna and Littlefinger.

"We are," he assured her finally. "We always will be," she beamed at him gratefully then set her gaze back on the rejoicing family, her cousin noticed how it seemed to be pointed particularly at the eldest Tyrell son.

Jon didn't know how to feel. He cared for Sansa, and had grown to like her some too, and he obviously loved her in that obligatory familial way, but he wasn't sure he did the way he loved Daenerys or Arya. Or whether he wanted to accept that he did. He had no clue what to make of her request. I know Tyrion would want me to befriend her, to spend more time with her, but do I want to? Can I? His ongoing inner conflict of which of his parent's House to fully embrace certainly didn't help the matter.

"Your Grace," Alerie's voice floated daintily across the room. "I do hope we aren't boring you or Princess Sansa."

"Of course not," he answered.

"His Grace just wonders where Queen Daenerys is."

"Her Grace was speaking with a few of the townsfolk when I last saw her," Garlan said. "My wife stayed with her."

"Thank you, Ser Garlan," Jon said, getting to his feet. "I think I'll go find her."

"Oh no, you don't have to leave," Olenna said quickly. "Stay: you're part of the family now," she implored, causing Loras to cough loudly and his father to then shoot him a very hard look.

I'd have thought he'd cease his insolent behaviour once Margaery woke up. Someone had best instruct him to stop, if it continues I'm going to have to say something else everyone'll think me soft.

"You deserve to be with her as much as us," Willas said. "You've waited just as anxiously for her recovery as we have."

Jon watched Sansa watch Willas with an undeniable glimmer in her eyes. He seriously longed to know what had transpired between the two in four short days, she cannot be in love, she can't even be in like, she's barely six and ten, and still traumatised from Joffrey! Slightly annoyed, he debated on whether to add Willas to the list of Margaery's brothers he'd have to say something to. It would be for Sansa's own good.

"Too much of us aren't ideal. I wouldn't want Marg . . . Lady Margaery to gain a migraine."

"His Grace is right," Loras said, yet he didn't seem to be directing the snub at Jon this time; but instead his elder brother. "You can go back to your wife, too."

"Oh shut it, Loras," Garlan said dismissively. "Margaery wants to see her little nephew, don't you Marg?"

"Definitely," her voice sounded much weaker to Jon's ears than it had been half an hour ago. "But I'd like you to stay as well, Your Grace."

"I'll have to reject your offer this once," he replied. "I have to make sure Queen Daenerys isn't bored and check up on her soldiers."

"Yes, I should see to Dry Sand as well," Sansa chimed in.

"If you're sure," Mace said. "Your Grace, Princess."

"We are."

III

Margaery

As Jon and Sansa left the room, Margaery tried extremely hard not be jealous of her good friend and the queen. Even Sansa means more to him than I. Her emotions and thoughts sickened her. She had wanted Sansa and Jon to be closer, she'd wanted him to have as big a family as her own, yet seeing them together or him and the dragon queen left her angry and sad and longing for the times when he sought her out simply for a walk around the gardens. I will never mean anything to him. Not what Queen Daenerys does.

III

Daenerys

Her eyes were glassy and dead when Sansa and Jon approached her, sat lonely facing the sea. "Hello."

"My queen?" Sansa inquired unsurely.

"Please. Daenerys," she sighed. If I hear those two words again today, I'll snap.

"Dany? Is everything all right?"

"It's fine; I'm reflecting," she elaborated.

"On what . . . Daenerys?" Seven hells, is my name really that hard to say? I truly must've frightened the poor girl. Shame nipped at her chest momentarily.

"Things you wouldn't understand, Sansa," she replied. "Don't take offence, Jon wouldn't either."

"None was taken."

"Come inside," Jon implored. "It's cold."

"It's rather warm actually."

"She's right, Jon. You're going to have to be more convincing."

"See, women know best," Daenerys joked weakly. "We always do and always have."

"And always will," Sansa added.

"Except when we don't." Like when I let that witch kill my husband! My sun-and-stars . . .

"Come inside, Dany," Jon said softly, reaching for her hand. "Please."

The queen peered up at her nephew, she saw her own grief reflected in his eyes. Gods, don't tell me I've made him sad too. She wondered whether he only grieved her own sadness or if something else was playing on his mind. Probably his little sweetheart.

It was Sansa who made her resign to get up and follow them back to the castle. The girl wore an expression of kindness and some undertones of worry. Maybe she wasn't so horrible and dull after all. Stupid and naive she certainly is not. I was stupid and naive to make an enemy of her.

"Fine. Let's go."

III

Arya

16.06

The Red Keep was unsuccessful in impressing the young princess. It's tall, foreboding walls, immense and intricately designed gardens, bountiful selection of servants at her beck and call only bored Arya Stark. She longed for the wild, for the sweaty and condensed roads of Braavos, and quietly, for her own castle back in the North. But she'd already come to the conclusion that she longed for Jon and the rest of her family more than all those other things; so she remained in King's Landing under the watchful eyes of Tyrion, Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah, and only complained in the mornings. In the afternoons she ran amuck with Ghost—who'd failed to leave her side since she'd arrived—spying on inconsequential people, spying on consequential people, chasing each other in the gardens, attempting to glance at the Queen's two dragons, and immersing herself in Valyrian now since Dothraki came too easily had become somewhat boring. She spent some time with Rickon and Osha, a lot of time actually, but on Jon's orders Rickon spent most of his days in various lessons being prepped to become the Lord of Winterfell, whereas Arya constantly avoided hers, citing that she undertook lessons in languages and that was enough.

"What shall we do today, Ghost?" Arya asked lightly, over some toast.

"How about you ask Lord Tyrion if anything around the castle needs doing? I hear there are some gifts Princess Sansa had prepared to be sent to the silent sisters?" Barristan suggested.

"Or you could go to some of your brother's lessons with the Maester," Osha said.

"Or simply not gallivant around the city like a wayward child," Tyrion said dryly.

"Firstly, I was speaking to none of you," she began. "Secondly, a visit to the silent sisters might actually bore me to death, I'm not going to sit learning how to count all day and I do not gallivant."

"I'm not criticising," Tyrion held his hands up, mocking surrender. "The princess does as the princess wants."

She groaned.

"I was," Osha said haughtily. "Princess or not, you have a duty."

Duty. How I hate that word. Duty is what got my father killed, she almost snapped. Duty is what nearly got Jon killed, if word around court was anything to go by. Duty is what Sansa does, not me. "I'm not a proper princess," she protested. "That's Sansa. And Jon has his aunt to do the royal thing as well. I can do as I like."

"The words of a child," Osha said. If they had come from Tyrion or Barristan, or Jorah who sat silently by her side, she may have argued back, but from Osha she didn't mind. Osha didn't understand the ramifications of insulting royalty as well as the others, and even if she did, which Arya suspected, she didn't care and wouldn't stop despite anyone telling her to.

"Good morning my lords and ladies and knights and princess" Varys' voice slid smoothly into the wide room.

The occupants of the table muttered half-hearted replies. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" Tyrion asked.

"Oh, how you flatter me, my lord hand," the eunuch answered, smiling dryly. "You owe the pleasure to a letter from His Grace."

"I assume it was addressed to me," Tyrion said. "Which begs the question of why you have it," he took the roll of parchment from the Spider's smooth hands.

"I serve the realm in any possible way I can," he responded. "Bringing a simple lost letter to the Hand was no bother."

"I don't doubt it," the Imp muttered, as he unrolled the parchment.

Arya watched the Lannister's eyes skim across each line, his face positively unreadable. She wondered what Jon had written, and then wondered whether Tyrion would let her read it. He has to, Jon's my brother. She ignored the part of her brain correcting her purposeful mistake. Her eyes drifted to the form of Varys. After day in King's Landing Arya had decided she didn't like the tittering man much, and after paying attention to some of the whispers about him, even decided not to use any of her free time sniffing around his business. Really and truly, Arya didn't like many of Jon's lords, Tyrion and Smalljon Umber being the only ones she could tolerate. And even Tyrion, not that much.

"Was there any word from Her Grace," Arya noticed how Jorah's lips pursed at the title.

"Just a quick note commenting on her impatience to get to Dorne," Tyrion replied, folding up the letter neatly and sliding it over to Arya.

She pocketed it quickly. "Dorne? So that means I won't be seeing him for ages yet," she moaned.

"It seems so," Osha said.

"And Lady Margaery?" Varys questioned.

"Seems Queen Daenerys has woken the girl."

What?

"How?" Jorah demanded.

"She went to see one of the dragons, burnt her hands, touched the sleeping maid, and bam, she awoke."

"That's. . ." Arya began.

"Southerners," Osha shook head. "None of your fancy Maesters ever thought to try that earlier?"

"Seems not," Jorah grumbled.

Osha scoffed then pushed her chair back, creating a loud screeching noise. "Really?" Tyrion said.

"Where's Rickon?" She asked.

"In his lessons, Osha."

"Is he—"

"No, it's not his sword-at-arms. Arithmetic, so you won't be interested."

"Hmph. What ever. I'm going for a walk, care you to come Arya?"

"No thanks," a walk with Osha means a lecture on propriety, a rant about the South, complaints of missing Rickon and aching limbs.

"Very well," the woman said.

"You know, I think I do have something for you to do," Jorah piped in. "Follow me to the gardens."

Sighing, Arya rose, gesturing for Ghost to follow her, knowing the exiled knight only wanted to see the letter.