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Chapter Thirty-Three: Love's Young Dream

At first, it sounded like a rumble of thunder. Distant, reaching them only in waves. But, gradually, the sound grew louder and louder, until it was almost upon them. The pounding of countless horse's hooves as they charged toward the castle walls, ending a long and exhausting ride through the Mountains of the Moon.

Grabbing Margaery's hand, Jon ran through the great hall and out onto the stone steps leading into the yard. For all they knew, it was a Lannister army come to lay siege. But the banners told a different story.

"Aunt Lysa. I heard she'd gone mad."

Robb had materialised at Jon's shoulder. Both of them watched as the Knights of the Vale poured through the gates of Harrenhal. They hadn't an inch of space to house them, but as with the men of the Reach, they would worry about that later. In the meantime, the three of them watched, wondering what to make of it. Margaery had no such conflict as she suppressed a squeal of delight, before jumping up kissing Jon's cheek. Despite himself, he blushed deeply and grinned at her. She looked so beautiful that he blushed all the harder. When he turned back to the vast new army, he noticed Catelyn Stark at their head. But she gotten very plump. And her hair was a mess and she was grinning wolfishly at the man riding beside her.

"Oh, that must be Lysa Arryn," he said, as the penny dropped. "Is that Baelish? Apparently you shouldn't trust him as far as you can throw him."

The real Catelyn Stark appeared from within Harrenhal, teary eyed. She pushed past them and went straight to her sister, holding her arms open. Lysa dismounted, returning Catelyn's hug only briefly before turning to her new husband. Words were exchanged that Jon could not hear. Nor was he interested. They had the Vale and that was all that mattered.

After several minutes of clamour and confusion, another man appeared mounted on a small and scrawny Garron pony. In the saddle with him was a little girl. When they got closer to the steps, the little girl turned her face to display the unmistakable legacy of greyscale. She looked up at them with large, blue and guileless eyes.

Tyrion's chambers may have been drastically downgraded, but his terrace still offered a broad view of the city. Overlooking the curtain walls, he could see out over the still smouldering ruins along Blackwater Bay. His new position as Master of Coin had informed him that they hadn't so much as a half-penny to pay for the repairs and their debts already incurred were swelling faster than a busted nose. He pondered his situation as he decanted the last of a fine Arbour gold into a pewter cup. Barely enough there to half-fill it, he sighed in despair as the trickle gave way to periodic drips. It seemed like life's way of reminding him once more of their dire financial predicament.

A Lannister always pays his debts. An old adage he had heard every day of his life, that was now etched inside his skull. But these were Crown debts merely run up by Lannisters, so there was scant hope of Lord Tywin putting his hand in his pockets to alleviate the burden. Or, for that matter, so much as fishing around in the contents of his chamber pot for some of that gold he allegedly shits. Just like the days of old, back on Casterly Rock when Tyrion had been put in charge of the waterways and sewage works, he had the sinking feeling he had been given this job with the sole intention of giving his peers the chance to see him fail miserably. The only reason he succeeded on that occasion was to give himself the pleasure of proving them all wrong. He would do it again, he swore to himself, and this time the pleasure he took in proving them all wrong would be truly glorious.

Around him, the air grew a little sweeter. A small waft of perfume caught on the breeze, cutting through the hazy smoke that still permeated the place. But no sound of approaching footsteps was heard, which could only mean one thing.

"Lord Varys," he called out, unsure of how far away the Eunuch was. "If you've come here to tell me the Queen wishes to see me, I'll grow you a new pair of balls just so I can cut them off again."

He materialised through the gloom beyond the terrace door, hands hidden inside his dagged sleeves. As always, Tyrion's sarcastic threats left no trace in his expression beyond a sigh of feigned resignation.

"The things people say to me! Truly, there is no love for spiders in these parts," he said, helping himself to a seat beside Tyrion. "Alas no, her grace doesn't wish to speak with you. I, however, wish to speak with you about her grace … among other things."

Tyrion regarded him coolly for a moment. "That sounds more promising. Well, out with it."

"It appears she remains troubled by the Stark – Tyrell match, my lord. And I must admit, I've been giving it some thought myself- "

"You mean you've been obsessing over it morning, noon and night because not even your little birds have picked up the scent of the truth," Tyrion interjected, offering a more forthright interpretation of his meaning. "Between magicking money out of thin air, trying to please my father and feed an entire city, I have been considering the problem myself."

"And?"

And nothing, he thought to himself. Still, he winged an impromptu theory: "There are actually two things we don't know about Jon Stark. The first is we don't know why the Tyrells are allied to him and his family. The second is that we don't know the identity of his mother. You yourself are adamant that the dates for Ashara Dayne don't add up- "

"I know they don't add up, my lord. Ashara birthed a still born girl," Varys interjected. "The heartache of that tragic event and the death of her beloved brother drove the poor girl to suicide."

Tyrion forgot what he was saying for a moment and turned to look properly at Varys. "Your little birds fly all the way to Starfall?"

Varys' expression remained blank, to Tyrion's consternation.

"The lady was here at King's Landing right up until hours before the sacking of the city," he replied. "The poor infant was born not far from here. To hide her shame Ashara disguised herself and birthed the infant alone in Flea Bottom."

Tyrion winced. "Rather her than me. Anyway, with that in mind, we know that doesn't answer the mystery of Jon Stark's appeal to great southern houses. Now, Cersei has suddenly remembered Catelyn Stark telling her who the boy's mother was. A serving wench by the name of Wylla. But Cersei being Cersei, she's convinced Catelyn Stark was lying because it doesn't fit her own theory. The first rule of Cersei is that Cersei is never wrong."

"She is on this occasion, my lord," observed Varys. "But I suppose the opportunity to besmirch Eddard Stark to his own daughter was too good to miss."

Tyrion raised a brow. "The second rule of Cersei is that Cersei only believes what she wants to believe, when it suits her. So, come on Varys, tell me. I know you have a theory about this. I can almost hear it percolating through that labyrinthine brain of yours."

Varys made no immediate reply. He had his concealed hands resting on his belly, his gaze directed out over the bay. Lost in his thoughts, he wasn't really looking at anything. Meanwhile, Tyrion waited, growing more curious and impatient by the minute. Varys brow creased, as if he were about to say something, but then fell silent again as if it was preposterous. Resisting the urge to kick him, Tyrion merely sighed and drank what was left of his wine.

"If you're not going to tell me, I may as well continue getting drunk- "

"Lyanna Stark," Varys cut over him.

Tyrion froze with the cup halfway to his mouth. "Who? Oh, Ned Stark's little sister."

The Eunuch nodded, then watched Tyrion expectantly.

"You expect me to fill in the rather large blank, do you?" he replied. "Well, all I know is she was abducted by Rhaegar Targaryen, which resulted in Robert Baratheon taking charge of the uprising which has led us all here today." He gestured around the terrace, indicating the whole capital city.

"I knew Rhaegar as well as I knew his father, Lord Tyrion. I thought him overreaching, but never would he have abducted a girl, never mind rape her into the bargain," Varys returned. "So think on that some more."

"But that is your opinion," Tyrion replied. "When I was a boy I thought Cersei was cold, but I would never have imagined her growing up to be a sadistic bitch. Yet, that's what she is. People surprise us, often in unpleasant ways."

However, he held his tongue when Varys' expression hardened. "I know, my lord, I was there. The rape story was put about by Lord Rickard Stark to preserve his daughter's honour. Why do you think Aerys really killed the brother? It wasn't because Brandon was demanding Lyanna's return or that Rhaegar show himself. It was because of the allegations that were being made. Meanwhile, the lady and her prince were locked away in the Tower of Joy doing what love's young dream does best."

Tyrion paused as his own mind opened to the possibilities. He had never really given it much consideration before; thought it a matter of little importance. But he knew Eddard Stark, had worked with him when he served as Robert's Hand. The only thing that puzzled him about Ned Stark was how he managed to forget his insufferable honour long enough to get a wench with child. It only makes sense if he didn't and it was all just a lie to conceal a deadly secret. Tyrion could feel the pieces of the puzzle slotting into place.

"How long have you known?" he asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

"I don't," Varys admitted. "I merely suspect. But I suspect strongly. Ever since I found out about the match, it's been troubling me. I met with Sansa Stark to see if she knew anything about the boy. I am satisfied she does not. Then there's the Tyrells, who never really gave up their allegiance to the Targaryens. So why on earth else are they marrying their only daughter to a second born bastard with an unknown mother? This is the only thing that makes sense."

"He is a bastard," Tyrion countered. "A legitimised Stark, yes. But not a Targaryen."

"His brother is King in the North," Varys stated. "He can issue the decree of legitimisation, if a second is even needed."

"Robb Stark is styling himself King in the North, yes," Tyrion retorted, growing ill-tempered. "I can call myself king of the high seas all I like, it won't actually give me royal authority over the waves, my lord. Joffrey has revoked Robert's legitimisation of Jon Stark so that should suffice."

But even as he spat the words out, he knew there would be half a hundred ways around any legality they put in place. He himself could reel them off, if he had a mind to and Varys didn't even bother to point out he was talking nonsense. It was just that obvious. Quickly, Tyrion calmed himself down and drew a deep breath. This was the reality; this was what they had to prepare for.

"Make sure it is known in every brothel, tavern and winesink that Jon Snow is a bastard born of rape," Tyrion intoned, flatly. "Make it known that he is riding south with an army of avenging northmen, to destroy our city and raze our homes to the ground. Mobilise the people against him, just as they did for Stannis."

As he issued the instructions, he remembered the starving people whose fury against the royal family grew by the hour. It made him feel like a set of bellows with a puncture, all the air leaking out of him in one long continuous stream.

"There's more, my lord- "

"Oh, no! Please, gods, no!" he whined.

Varys showed no mercy. "Daenerys Targaryen, who may very well be our northern upstart's aunt, has hatched three dragons and is currently marching on Astapor to raise an army. I hear curious tales from within her camp- "

"Silence!" Tyrion snapped over him. "Did you say 'hatched three dragons' without a trace of sarcasm in your tone?"

Varys tried to look apologetic. "I did my lord, because it is true. They are babies, but fire breathing babies all the same. I was just going to say, I hear curious tales of her camp. Apparently, she has with her Lady Alysane Mormont and a deserter from the Night's Watch. Oh, and one Barristan Selmy. Apparently, he was in disguise as an old man with a white beard. Not much of a disguise if you ask me … but no one ever does."

Tyrion's face contorted, making the wounds from Blackwater ache all over again. Still, he tried to compose his reeling mind so he could take it all in.

"Lady Alysane will be there because of her uncle," he explained. "Jeor Mormont was recently killed in action north of the wall, so that explains the Black Brother also being there. But by gods, I could kill Cersei for letting Ser Barristan Selmy go like that! So, what else is there? She's not gathering all those people around her for nothing."

"Quite," answered Varys. "She is currently on her way to Astapor, for what I cannot guess. But it's surely no coincidence that Astapor is the home of the Unsullied. We must be open to the idea that she already knows of her nephew's existence. In which case, the worst could very well happen."

Tyrion heaved a great sigh, shoulders slumped. "Is there any good news?"

"I have an informant working inside Robb Stark's camp," he replied. "One that is slowly gaining the trust of one of Robb Stark's most important bannermen."

Suddenly, through the grey clouds of his world, a chink of sunlight shot through. He could almost feel a trace of warmth on his skin. "Who?"

"A former Maester by the name of Qyburn," Varys explained. "Apparently, the High Lord in question has been humiliated by Robb Stark on a number of occasions and is growing tired of having dirt kicked in his face. Another Lord who is smarting from not being included in the Stark's glorious revolution is Lord Walder Frey."

Tyrion frowned. "I didn't know you could just stop being a Maester."

"I don't think he had much choice," Varys confessed. "Not the most of salubrious of informants, I admit. But when are they ever?"

"And Lord Walder Frey is notorious for harbouring grudges against every man, woman and child in the seven kingdoms," Tyrion continued, ignoring the other man's interjection. "As for what I've heard about Ramsay Bolton, that hardly bears repeating. But, it's what we have so we'll have to work with it, I suppose."

Suddenly, he felt exhausted by it all. Tyrion once more found himself jumping through hoops to protect a family – his family – the head of which openly admitted he was tempted to leave him in the woods to die. As time wore on, he asked himself more and more, why he even bothered. But, for better or worse, his fortunes were hitched onto the house he was born into. As such, he soon found himself back in the chamber of the small council, discussing these not so small matters with the sister who, barely a few months past, had tried to kill him in the heat of a battle.

Cersei's face was drawn, tight lipped and furious as he spelled it all out. Night had fallen, he was tired. The rest of the council were tired. Hope was a scarce commodity and, making matters worse, Joffrey was prowling the length of the chamber like a caged lion. The only thing keeping both he and the Queen in check was the brooding presence of Lord Tywin himself. His green, gold-flecked eyes remained fixed on Tyrion as he repeated all that had passed between him and Varys. Occasionally, a floorboard creaked under Joffrey's pacing, causing the old Patriarch to glance up irritably, before returning to Tyrion again. Behind his head, a candelabra was lit, the yellow light shining against his long receded hairline, a halo of effect of more gold. So much gold, but all of it an illusion.

Finally, the man himself spoke. "This is all rumour and hearsay."

Tyrion was about to protest, but Cersei leaned forwards in her seat and looked down the table at her father through narrowed eyes. "Is that all you have to say?"

The floorboards creaked in the silence that swelled, Tywin whipped around to Joffrey. "Will you sit down!"

A burst of irritation that soon dissolved back into glacial passivity. Joffrey looked scandalised, but didn't dare argue with his grandfather. Like a whipped bitch, he pulled out the vacant seat at his mother's right hand side and glowered at Tyrion as if it were all his fault. Varys, opposite the King, focused on his own hands rather than look anyone in the eye. Beside him was Pycelle, half asleep. Baelish, they knew, had betrayed them.

Tywin's eyes narrowed. "You may be preoccupied with why the Tyrells are in an alliance with House Stark. To me, it hardly matters. What matters is that they are, and nothing is going to change that. That is the reality we must deal with, regardless of how the situation came to pass."

Tyrion could see his point, but still felt the need to justify his interest in it. "Father, I merely thought that if we could understand why, then we could find some way to undo it."

"Of course," Tywin stated, waving a dismissive hand. "But, Daenerys Targaryen's dragons are too small to do anything. She has no ships to bring her army, if she ever gets one, to Westeros. In the meantime, we gather all the troops we can and strike back against the army gathering in the Riverlands. You say Ramsay Bolton is considering changing sides?"

He looked to Varys, who confirmed it.

"Very well, he has no female relations. What about Walder Frey? Surely one of his numerous wives has left him a daughter or two," Tywin added.

Cersei, catching the whiff of a dynastic match, glowered again. "What do Frey's daughters have to do with anything?"

Sensing dissent, a muscle in Tywin's clenched jaw pulsed. "We need allies." He enunciated each word methodically. "If you hadn't lost Sansa Stark, we might use her to control her brothers. But no, you couldn't keep a twelve-year-old girl in your care even when she was in the same room as you. But then, if your son had not ordered Eddard Stark's execution, we wouldn't even be in this mess in the first place." Tywin paused, disdain etched in his face, before continuing. "Alas, here we are and we must shift as best we can. We will initiate a formal alliance with House Frey and King Joffrey will wed a suitable daughter of that House. Cersei, you are still of child bearing age. In order to secure an alliance with House Bolton, you will wed Lord Ramsay."

Even Tyrion's jaw hit his chest. Quickly, he gathered himself and turned to see what Cersei was doing. He wouldn't be surprised if she already had a knife in her hands, ready to lunge the length of the table. However, she was composed and only her knuckles turning white where her hands gripped the armrest gave away her incandescent fury.

"You needn't think I'm marrying some ugly little ferret from the Riverlands!" Joffrey was on his feet again, looking daggers at his grandfather.

Cersei's gaze flickered up to her son and she smiled sweetly. A smile Tyrion trusted as much as if it was on the face a puff adder.

"Indeed not, father. Nor am I marrying some northern savage whose hobbies include skinning his enemies and fucking aurochs'."

Her tone was icily polite as she rejected her father's plans. Still smiling, she gathered up her skirts and prepared to make her departure. Only her father's stony voice halted her in her tracks.

"Your duty is to this family and to this realm," said Tywin, utterly unmoved by their protests. He fixed both Cersei and Joffrey in the stare that used to turn Tyrion's bowels to water as a child. "You got us into this mess, now you can dig us out of it again. Both of you."

Tyrion was watching Cersei's reaction too carefully to notice the king's. She was standing tall with her head held high, but met with her father's unmoving insistence, she wavered just a fraction. Her eyes flashed a wildfire green and her smile turned rictus. Inside, Tyrion knew she had already killed their father a hundred times. But Joffrey was nowhere near as composed as his mother. He lunged forward, rounding on Tywin like a child possessed.

"How dare you!" he raged, spittle flying from his plump lips into Tywin's eye. "How dare you tell me what to do; I am the King!"

Tyrion stifled a laugh, but the noise still drew the king's attention. "And you, you little monster, don't think I don't know what your game is. This is what you wanted. You planned this all along. Mother, you know it don't you?" he paused, looking to his mother. "Tell them, mother, this isn't happening. I'm the King and only I can say who marries who and who dies. Tell them, mother!"

Tywin watched the scene unfold with a haughty indifference. Not once did his expression change. But once Joffrey fell silent, he merely continued: "If you are to be king then behave like one and do what is best for your realm. Marry the Frey girl and I will hear no more ravings from you. Cersei, the same. You will marry Bolton and in return for his loyalty, you will both have the north and Winterfell."

Tyrion didn't dare look at anyone, but it suddenly felt as if all his name days had come at once. Cersei would be gone. Joffrey cut down to size. Maybe, they would even be in with a chance of defending themselves against the wars to come. Now all he had to do was make sure Bolton and Frey agreed to the proposals.

Lysa had arrived with barrels of fresh fish from the Riverlands and sea fish from Saltpans. Along the road, they had hunted game and boar, resulting in a rich and varied table for the welcome feast. Fruits and bread, along with cheese and desserts came from the reserves brought by the Tyrells. Good food washed down with good wine. Somehow, between them, they had managed to feed almost every soldier in their vast army. Musicians played and mummers acted out their farcical plays. People danced and made love beneath the stars. Sansa even managed to coax a fully armoured Sandor Clegane into dancing a few clumsy steps with her, resulting in a crushed foot that saw her sitting out the rest of the night. Her damaged foot elevated on a cushioned stool at a lower table. Arya looked at her with an expression that said: "I told you so."

From the top table, Jon and Margaery could oversee just about all of it. All were present, except the Boltons. Ramsay had not been seen since his public altercation with Robb and even the odour of the manservant, Reek, had finally cleared from their halls. To Jon, it seemed they had endured their first ever desertion and he disliked Robb's cavalier attitude to it. But still, he was determined not to let it spoil his and Margaery's night.

To their left, Catelyn was deep in conversation with Ser Davos Seaworth who had arrived with little Shireen Baratheon, along with the Knights of the Vale. Stannis really was dead, it seemed. The little girl now sat at Margaery's side, in a place of honour. A kind and gentle girl, both Jon and Margaery had taken an instant shine to her. But what they would do with her, they were yet to discuss.

It was hot in the hall, and the noise of all the people inside in the thick of celebrations meant that Jon could not hear himself think. Then Loras Tyrell entered the hall, mounted on a white palfrey horse and wearing his cloak of many flowers. Suddenly, all eyes were on him and the women positively swooned as he rode a circuit of the hall. Sansa was damp in the eye as she watched, flushed a deep red. But it was the final straw for Jon. He got up and held out a hand to Margaery.

"Care to join me on the lake shore?" he asked.

She beamed and nodded. "I thought you would never ask."

Joining hands, they made their way through the hall, dodging and weaving their way through the dancing couples. Out into the night air, beneath the glittering stars, they breathed freely and relished the cool air on their flushed skin. The first outhouse they tried and found unlocked, they pushed their way in only to find a naked Lysa Arryn making very loud love to an equally naked Lord Baelish. So loud, they didn't even notice Jon and Margaery barging in. Gasping in horror, they backed out immediately and dissolved into laughter.

However, once bitten twice shy. They decided against risking any more unwanted sights and headed for the curtain walls, where the gates led out onto the shore of the God's Eye. Away from the castle, the noise died down and they could speak normally to each other. No more shouting themselves hoarse. For several minutes, they were content to walk in peace along the black surface of the vast lake. The full moon rippled on the surface, while unseen fish nipped at the surface, catching flies that dared to land there. Eventually, they found a spot close to the water's edge and Jon lay down his cloak to sit on.

Once settled, they shuffled close to each other and gazed out over the lake. Under the stars at Harrenhal, it occurred to him then that he might be falling in love with Margaery. The possibility made him smile and take her hand in his own.

"We were supposed to be planning the war," he said, apologetically.

Her honey-brown eyes reflected the starlight as she turned to him, the moon limning her hair in a veil of silver. He tilted his head as he studied the way she looked, then reached out one hand to touch a stray curl of moonlit silver. In response, her hand cupped his cheek.

"We know what will happen," she replied. "We will sweep south and take back the realm. In honour of your father and uncle, for your brother and sister. There's only so much you can plan."

"Earlier, we were talking about my aunt going to Astapor," he said, turning back to the lake. "Sam says she's getting an army there. But then they need ships to bring them to Westeros."

Margaery nodded. "I remember."

"I will speak with Lord Glover, who has Asha Greyjoy a captive in his dungeons. I'm going to propose that she sail the Iron Fleet to Slaver's Bay to pick them up and bring them to Dragonstone. In return, she gets her freedom and the Iron Islands once her father is dead."

"You cannot send her alone," Margaery replied. "Send the Manderlys, Mallisters or Redwynes with her."

"Of course; I'll probably send them all with her. Please, don't think I trust her," he agreed. "But it could work. Then we can have Daenerys launch her invasion when we're ready to attack from the north."

A smile curled at the corner of her mouth. "If you can pull this off, you will be King before you know it."

He caressed her cheek again, taking a deep breath as he drank in the starlight in her eyes. Her face then vanished as he closed his eyes, leaning in close. Her lips still tasted of sweet Summer Isle wine, her mouth warm as they kissed each other deeply, still reclined beneath the night sky. Suddenly afraid that he had taken liberties, he pulled away feeling embarrassed. But then Margaery responded wordlessly, pulling him back towards her as she kissed him. This time, he did not let go.

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