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Chapter Thirty-Four: The Time of Wolves

Dawn was little more than a distant promise on the horizon when Sansa lifted her head and howled. The light of the full moon slanted through the treetops and the smell of people was overpowering. But they feared her more than she feared them, especially now her brothers and sister were so close by. The smell of their cook fires made her jaws slick with saliva, but she would not trouble them tonight. Her echo faded, for barely a second, before one of the others picked up the cry. Meanwhile, she prowled through the long, wet grass of the woods. Stopping to rub herself against a tree, she picked up the scent again. Her human scent. Ceasing immediately, he threw back her head and howled again and again. Her sister joined her voice to the din, the pair of them howling their frustration into the night. She awoke with a start, panting for breath as she sat up in bed.

A girl once more, Sansa struggled to get out of bed so she could strike a flint to light a candle. Arya was in the bed next to her, but did not awaken as Sansa succeeded with her candle. She crossed the room and opened a shutter, letting in the moonlight. Her free hand shook as she pulled the latch on the window. Once opened, she was greeted by the distant howling of the wolf pack. The breath hitched in her throat as she listened. Trying to see if she could actually catch sight of the wolves, she climbed onto a chest of drawers and looked down into the yards far below her. But all she could see was a line of men marching out of the castle gates. Bolton men. Behind her, bed linens rumpled and a sleep-drugged voice spoke softly.

"Did they wake you too?"

Closing the window, Sansa turned to where Arya had awoken and sat up in bed. Her grey eyes were black in the poor light of the candle. Softly, Sansa padded back to her side.

"I was dreaming," she said. "I dreamed I was out there with them. Then the howls woke me up."

"I dream of them, too," Arya replied, laying back down. "Maybe we both have the wolf blood after all?"

It was something their father always said of Arya, but never of her. It made her smile to thing on it. "Anything is possible."

Still tired, Sansa blew out her candle and returned to bed. But as she lay down, she looked to the window one more time, wondering where the pack was now. She remembered the smell of the pine trees and the cook fires. But then she remembered that Lady is dead.

As always, they convened in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, only two of which had been lit that morning. Outside, the day was crisp and clear, producing enough light in the rows of high windows to make the place seem almost cheerful. Still, Jon was on edge as he took his place at the head of the high table. As always, Robb took the seat to his right, with Lords Karstark, Umber, Glover and Lady Mormont in line beside him. To the left Jon's generals, Garlan Tyrell, Paxter Redwyne and Randyll Tarly made up the southern contingent. Meanwhile, they all welcomed Yohn Royce to the council, there to represent the Knights of the Vale. The ensemble was completed as Catelyn Stark and Olenna Tyrell took their places at opposite ends of the long trestle table.

With formalities concluded, Jon produced the letter from King's Landing that had arrived that morning. Face up on the table, the generals took their turn reading it, before sliding it on to the next person until it had circulated among them all. Jon watched, keeping his own counsel and trying to gage each person's reaction. Garlan suppressed a derisive snort, the northmen paled and passed it on tight-lipped and scowling. Olenna was the last to receive the news, squinting her aged eyes at the scrawl of writing, the royal seal weighing it down.

"It seems you are a bastard again," she said aloud. "How unfortunate."

A reassuring murmur of discontent rippled around the table, but Olenna remained firm in her own stance. Given how much the old matriarch's opinion mattered, Jon's nerves flickered. He watched in near apprehension as she climbed unsteadily to her feet. Yohn Royce rose to help her, but she shook him off as if he were an annoying gnat. The letter still in her hands, she approached one of the lit fires and fed the parchment to the flames. After watching it curl and blacken, she turned back to the council.

"That concludes the matter of my grandson-in-law's birth status. What's next?"

The murmurs of discontent were replaced by laughter and relief as she resumed her seat and looked the men in the eye. Even Jon allowed himself a smile as they moved swiftly onwards.

"Ah yes, grandmother, I believe we have a kingdom to take," Garlan began. "Well, we've been sat here in the charming confines of Harrenhal quite long enough, I think. Who is up for raiding some gold mines?"

"Excellent suggestion, my lord, but I propose we begin by sending more reinforcements to our allies in the Riverlands," Robb replied. "Tywin cannot ignore attacks on the Westerlands, meaning it would draw his forces away from King's Landing."

"Leaving the way open for us to advance south. Tywin doesn't have enough men to defend both places at once," Tarly opined.

"Now that he's secured King's Landing, Tywin won't want to leave the Red Keep," Yohn Royce stated. "Unless it's Casterly Rock that's coming under attack. In which case, I daresay it will be Kevan Lannister drafted in to defend the capital in his absence."

"Which will leave Storm's End undefended," said Robb, following the lord's lead. "And we just happen to have the heir to Storm's End in our custody."

"Are we forgetting the Martells and Dorne, gentlemen?" Olenna cut in. "They have Myrcella and I would know what their intentions are before we act."

"Surely we need not remind the Martells that Tywin gave the order for the deaths of Elia and her children," Jon retorted. "What cause have they to support the Lannisters?"

"They seem to have made peace with the Lannisters all the same, brother," replied Robb. "Until we know better, they are our enemy."

"That is as it must," Olenna concurred. "As such, we must also assume they are willing to join their forces to Tywin's, meaning there could be more men defending the Red Keep than we reckoned."

Jon held his peace, despite his misgivings over the Martells. Given the role his own mother played in the breakdown of Elia and Rhaegar's marriage, he didn't truly believe he could command their loyalty either. But their custody of Myrcella disturbed him. So much so, he could only think of his aunt as a possibly bridge to connect them.

"My aunt has travelled to Astapor," he explained. "The Martells have no reason to dislike Daenerys, so surely she could be the link that connects us?"

"I would imagine her dragons will be as welcome in Dorne now as her ancestors' were at the time of the conquest," Tarly interjected. "And Astapor is a long way from Dorne, your grace. With or without the Dornishmen, we outnumber them. They simply stand no chance against our united forces. Your grace, I say we cease wasting time and begin our advance as soon as we're ready. Once this is all done, we can all be home in time for supper."

Jon realised the lord of Hornhill was talking directly to him, addressing him as a king. Despite his distrust of titles, it still made his heartbeat palpitate. Also, with one of the finest military track records of them all, Tarly's advice was not to be set aside lightly.

"I am prepared to march my men south to form a blockade between King's Landing and their westward retreat," Tarly continued. "It will cut off their approach to Casterly Rock. Meanwhile, the King in the North and his troops will be free to ravage the Westerlands and the Rock itself."

The corner of Robb's moth curled upwards. "I can ride out on the morrow, my lord. So long as my generals agree."

Keen to get moving, the northern lords agreed. But Olenna raised her hand.

"Not so fast. Before we part for the war, I suggest we all send one final message to the Lannisters," she said. Once she had everyone's attention, she continued: "in five night's time, we meet at the Isle of Faces. When our business there is concluded, then we part and we meet again as conquerors."

Several hours later, when the meeting was concluded, Jon repaired to his private chambers exhausted. Walking down the gallery, a small boy dressed in rags with dirty matted hair approached from the other end. Assuming it was a lost serving boy, Jon stepped aside to let him pass. But when he crossed, so did the boy. Their gaze met, the boy picked up speed and darted past him, shoving a note in his pocket as he went. Jon whipped around.

"Hey! Wait!"

The boy glanced over his scrawny shoulder for only a moment before rounding a corner and vanishing from sight. Deciding that giving chase wasn't worth the effort, he reached into his pocket and glanced at the note. Surely the child was illiterate, the hand was that of an adult. "The Lannisters have the Boltons, Ramsay to wed Cersei, Joffrey to wed a Frey. March on the Twins," it said. Jon looked back down the gallery, at the spot where the boy had vanished.

Before wasting too much time, he set off at a run and spun around the corner. The connecting gallery was empty. Cursing, he set off again. But the hall at the end of that gallery was empty as well. There were a hundred and one directions the child could have gone in. He tried calling out, but all he got by way of an answer was his own echo.

Even Varys looked troubled. The normally placid Master of Whispers was frowning, with his hands even higher up those dagged sleeves. He paced the chamber slowly, deep in thought, while Tyrion struggled to balance the books. After all these years of wondering, he finally worked out Petyr Baelish's secret: usury. He was hoarding bread grain in the good times and flogging it for quadruple the price during the hard times. It was his hoarding that had created the hard times to begin with, meaning Baelish was profiting from his own hoarding.

"What a slimy bastard he is," Tyrion observed. But Varys kept on pacing. "Are you even listening? I'm sitting here have a good old go at Petyr Baelish and all you can do is look troubled and wear a hole in my nice Lysene rug."

Still, Varys reactions were slow. "Forgive me my lord, what were you saying again?"

"I was talking about Petyr - …. Oh, never mind." Tyrion dropped the pen on the ledger, sending fat black drops of ink scattering over the virgin page. He then sat back in his seat, looking up at the other man and trying to work out what was on his mind. "You look scared for the first time since I've known you."

"Do I?" he answered with a question. "Let me tell you something I know, my lord."

"Please do," replied Tyrion. "Anything to get me away from Baelish's cooked books."

Varys ceased his pacing and turned to face him. "What if I was to tell you that Tysha was not a whore?"

The sound of that name was like a kick in the gut. Tyrion felt his mouth run dry and his heartbeat stutter as those old memories burst to the forefront of his mind. Secondly, came anger. Anger that he had told none of this to Varys and here the Eunuch was repeating his own secrets back to him as though his heart were an open book.

"How did you know about Tysha?" he demanded, all wit gone from him now. "The same way you know about everything else, I suppose. By magic. By listening to the wind and pressing an ear to the vibrations of the ground. You just know!"

For all his angry bleating, however, Varys did not waver. His fear had been replaced by an unflinching set in his jaw. "I know you think it funny that your sister is to wed the monstrous Ramsay Bolton- "

"Oh, please!" Tyrion waved a hand dismissively. "If you think that marriage will actually happen, you're a bigger fool than Moonboy!"

"Listen!" Varys retorted, a rare flash of anger in his tone as he sat in the chair opposite Tyrion's. "Ramsay Bolton is a known sadist who takes pleasure in hunting maids with his starving dogs. Robb Stark only tolerated him because he needed the Bolton men. If things were different, Stark would be actively working to rid the North of every remaining Bolton on his lands."

"I have heard these stories before," Tyrion pointed out. "Whatever Ramsay has done he would not dare harm Cersei. For one thing, her affinity with boars matches Ramsay's way with dogs, just ask King Robert. Oh no, wait …. He's cold in his grave with a tusk still lodged somewhere in his lower intestine."

Varys ignored his dismissal of the match. "But how do you think Ramsay will get along with Joffrey?"

Tyrion managed to laugh. "They're two peas in a pod, to be sure." But then it occurred to him. The realisation dropped to the pit of his stomach like a lead weight. "Of course they'll get on well. The two of them trying to out sadist each other. They'll be like brothers. Like father and son. Then Joffrey will grow so fond of him he will insist on having him as a step-father. As sickening as the thought of two Joffreys is, I don't see how this affects me and Tysha."

"Because I want you to go, Lord Tyrion. As well as hating you, your family has lied to you and betrayed you even when you were in love," said Varys. "Now, we are threatened by vast armies in the north, more coming when Daenerys Targaryen lands on Dragonstone. The Vale have joined the Starks. Your father barely has enough men to defend Casterly Rock as it is. If you do not abandon them, you will die with them."

Tyrion paused before replying, taking a moment to compose himself. "And coming up with some lie about my former wife is supposed to make me abandon my family."

"It's not a lie," Varys insisted. "They spit on you, they humiliate you in public and they leave you to mop up the mess they make. Look at what you did at Blackwater. This city owes its existence to you. And look at the thanks you get."

The gods knew Tyrion didn't owe his family the steam off his piss. He was no fool himself. But he also recognised a man with an agenda when he saw one, and he was looking at one that very moment. Beneath all that, however, Tysha had risen from the dead and now her shade overcast him. He remembered the cottage they shared and the feel of her flesh against his own. It been love and that love lingering on in him. Like spilled seed in a wench's belly, it had its own consequences. It was the one time in his life that he had known true happiness.

"If this is a lie, my lord, it is the cruellest of lies- "

"Ask Jaime," Varys interjected.

He resolved that he would and gave a small nod. But he knew that Jaime would never have lied to him. Never Jaime, the one person who always defended him. Despite his reservations, he was curious and wanted to know more. The only way to coax it out of Varys was by pressing for more.

"And if I did leave, where would I go? Off into the sunset searching for my long lost love?"

"No, my lord. You would come with me."

"Come with you where?" he asked, growing impatient.

"To Pentos," Varys answered. Sensing there was more to come, Tyrion held his peace and gestured for him to continue. "I might just have the key to breaking the Stark/Tyrell alliance. But, even if I do, you and your family will be doomed. So come with me and once this is done, you can have Casterly Rock."

Silence fell between them, darkness settling beyond his open window. If he looked over Varys' head, he could see the shadows lengthening on the far wall of his chambers. "Surely you can understand if I'm reticent to make any decision based on what you've given me so far."

"Fine. I can give you Aegon, the eldest son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Elia."

Tyrion was almost disappointed. "You mean to tell me you have another Targaryen hidden away in the Free Cities? In light of what's been happening around here, that's not very original Varys. Especially for you. You disappoint me!"

Varys' face remained serious, not a flicker of emotion crossed his expression. "I oversaw the swapping of the baby myself. That poor infant slain by the Mountain was actually a Tanner's Son from Pisswater Bend. The real Aegon was smuggled away, raised far from here and biding his time until opportunity was ripe for invasion."

Tyrion remained cagey. "You, in person, took Aegon from the arms of Elia Martell and instead gave her the Tanner's son. And the Tanner just let you?"

"The Tanner had sons already and little money to feed them. I bought him, but the maids in Elia's chambers performed the swap and secreted Aegon to me, waiting outside the city," Varys explained. "It was a matter of hours before your father's men scaled the walls of Maegor's Holdfast."

So you yourself didn't see or do anything, he thought to himself. However, questions buzzed around his head like so many summer flies. So many he didn't know which one to swat at first. As was his wont, he began formulating his own opinion by venting his frustration at the situation. "Why are there suddenly Targaryens appearing on every street corner? I was just getting used to one, when another appeared with three dragons in tow and then, out of the blue, you drop another one on me. When Targaryen's start appearing in Winterfell and in Flea Bottom you know things are getting out of hand. But tell me, Lord Varys, what makes your changeling so fit to be King? How come only you know about him?"

"I must admit, I had no idea about Ned Stark's nephew," Varys admitted, to Tyrion's surprise. Normally the man knew everything before it even happened. "I also confess I was thrown, at first. But Aegon, as the elder brother, is the greater claimant. Many of the great houses, especially those of the Reach, are likely to switch sides as soon as they know who he is. I mean, they flocked to the Stark quick enough." Varys paused for breath. "And in answer to who knows: myself, Ilyrio Mopatis, Septa Lemore, Jon Connington … as for others, not even the Martells have been trusted with this."

"Why ever not? Surely Oberyn Martell would want to support his own nephew. Especially seeing as he still harbours a deep hatred toward my family for Elia's sake," Tyrion answered. "And what makes you think I can help him? I have no army. Not a single man here will follow me to this boy's side."

It occurred to Tyrion then that Varys was leaving. The nervous pacing, the worried looks. He was fleeing the capital soon and would only return with this pretender at his back. The rats had already abandoned the Lannister's sinking ship and now, even the spiders were following suit.

"You have no army, but you've more brains in your head than many armies combined," Varys replied. "We need you on our side, Lord Tyrion. When your family falls, which it will, you will need us as much as we need you."

The Starks and Tyrells would need him too, he thought. Unsure what to believe, Tyrion knew for a fact he would not breathe a word of this to Cersei, nor anyone else in his family. Curiosity burned in him all the same. "You know I cannot commit yet. Still, I think it's time I had a chat with Jaime," he remarked, getting to his stunted legs. "To reminisce about old times and old loves."

Varys raised a smile. "A trip down memory lane always does one wonders, I find. But don't leave it too long."

"We will speak again, Lord Varys." But even as he walked away, he had his doubts. How many Westerosi houses were sworn to "Aegon"? How well did he know the realm and its people? What did he know of kingship and duty? More importantly, what proof did they have besides the word of a Eunuch famed for harbouring the darkest secrets of the land and disseminating lies at will. All Tyrion knew was that Varys wasn't lying about the boy's existence, whoever he was. Not even he could get away with that.

The prow of the small row boat cut through the waters of the God's Eye, silent and graceful. Even after weeks of looking out of his chamber windows, he had not realised how far away the Isle of Faces was and the journey took longer than he expected. By the time they made it, sunset was trailing a golden blaze across the sky, lighting up the waters of the vast lake in the colours of fire and gold. Directly ahead of him, the Isle loomed over them, offering shelter beneath the ruby red boughs of the weirwood trees. From every direction on that island, the carved faces looked back at him, bearing witness to his arrival.

Ancient stone steps, laid down by the First Men when they signed their peace accord with the Children of the Forest, twisted away into the darkness of the woods. But tonight, torches burned at the side lines, lighting the way inside. Jon drew a deep breath as he watched the faces carved into the weirwood trunks came alive in the uneven light of the flames. Was it the flame, or had the old gods really come to bear witness?

Before they left their boat, however, he and Robb cleansed themselves in the sacred waters of the God's Eye. It was so cold it brought him out in gooseflesh and made the breath catch in his throat. But he did not hurry. He cupped the water in his hands, splashing it over his face before ducking himself completely beneath the surface. Only when they felt completely clean did they wade ashore and retrieve their new clothes from the row boat. Jon had chosen Stark colours. A grey velvet jacket lined with white, grey breeches made from soft northern wool.

Once dried and dressed, it was twilight and the next guests arrived. The first sign of them being the small lantern light bobbing over the waters. It was Lady Stark paired with Lord Karstark. Arya and Sansa wore matching gowns of grey and silver silk; around their bare shoulders they wore stoles of snowy white ermine. Jon greeted both of them with a kiss.

"You have the cloak?" he asked Sansa, glancing down at her gown.

She beamed, tears already standing in her eyes, and nodded. "It's still in the boat. I've been working on it all week."

Jon cupped her face in his hands, dabbing at a stray tear with the pad of his thumb. "Thank you, Sansa."

Next to arrive were the first of the Tyrells. Ladies Olenna and Alerie, with Garlan and Loras in the same vessel. Then some of the north men, Umber and Glover, followed my Lady Maege Mormont. After the arrival of the Redwynes and Fossoways, it was time to move on. The southerners looked up at the foreboding godswood, shying from the watching faces, until Catelyn offered words of encouragement. Only in the last few years had she herself begun to feel at ease in the presence of the old gods.

Before they rounded the bend that would hide the shores of the lake, Jon looked back over his shoulder. A small orange ball of flame bobbed on the waters. The final boat, the one that could only be carrying Lord Mace and Lady Margaery. His heartbeat fluttered, nerves belatedly kicking in. He became so distracted that their guests had almost all gone ahead of him.

"Hey!" a little girl's voice called out, her hand punching him in the ribs.

"Ouch!" he gasped, tugging on Arya's small braid.

"It's bad luck if the bride catches you up," she warned, smacking his hand away. "So hurry!"

He made it to the weirwood in good time. It was a huge tree, as ancient as the land in which it dipped its roots. The face wept sap that glittered like rubies in the light of the torches. Jon paused before the tree, while the guests formed a wide circle around the edge of the clearing. Silence settled, before the most senior of them stepped out of the circle and took up a guard's position at the top of the stone steps.

Jon risked a look over his shoulder, to where Rickard Karstark was doing the honours. But he could see and hear almost nothing. Turning back to the tree, he looked up to its uppermost branches, losing himself in silent prayer.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Karstark's voice cut through the silent serenity of the ancient forest. "Who comes here? Who comes here before the Old Gods this night?"

A second passed in which Jon's heart failed to beat until a man's voice answered: "Lady Margaery of House Tyrell comes here to be wed. A woman flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to seek the blessings of the gods. Who claims her?"

Jon's nerves twisted as he turned from the tree to face his bride. Margaery was a vision in white samite, gems glittering from the bodice of her gown. An old cloak of pale green and gold was draped around her delicate shoulders. The sight of her made the breath catch in his chest.

He stepped forward and made his declaration, oblivious now to the eyes watching his every move. "Me. Jon of House Targaryen and House Stark. I claim her. Who gives her?"

Mace Tyrell led his daughter closer to the weirwood, pausing before the pool. "I am Lord Mace, of House Tyrell, her father." He paused, raising her hand in his own. With his free hand, he gestured toward Jon. "Do you take this man?"

Margaery turned her face from her father to Jon, smiling as she made her vow. "I take this man."

She let go of her father's hand and placed it, instead, in Jon's. Together, they stood before the weirwood, letting the weeping eyes of sap witness their submission. Kneeling now, Jon arose after a minute of silent prayer. At this silent signal, Sansa stepped out of the shadows of the circle and into the light of the torches. Draped across the raised forearms, she bore a new cloak of dark grey samite, trimmed with white satin and ermine. The body of the piece was dominated a three-headed dragon forming a circle with a white, snarling direwolf, their conjoined bodies circling a rose of blue silk.

Jon carefully removed the Tyrell cloak from Margaery's shoulders. Clearly the garment was old, worn by countless generations of Tyrell brides. Swapping it with the new one offered by Sansa, he draped it over her shoulders. Offering his hand, he helped Margaery rise to her feet, where they took a moment to look deep into each other's eyes. Slowly, they leaned into each other's embrace, sealing their union with a lingering kiss.

The woods around them felt alive in that moment. Wind sighed through the treetops, sending down ruby leaves, fluttering into their clearing. The smell of the damp earth and the waters of the lakes and pools seemed sharper, cleaner. When they parted again, they opened their eyes to find the guests gathering closer. Robb, the King in the North already crowned, stepped closer.

"There is but one more matter for which we beseech the blessings of the gods, my lords," he said. In his hands, he now bore a crown wrought in silver and gold, a crude affair but more than adequate until a real coronation could take place.

All around the newlyweds, the guests knelt. Swords were drawn and held out in a show of fealty as the oath was made.

"We would name you Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen, first of his name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Lord of Westeros and Protector of the Realm," Robb called out for all to hear, even the ancient gods and spirits that inhabited these woods. "We would name you Queen Margaery, of Houses Tyrell and Targaryen."

Robb's declaration was met with a chorus of "long live the king!" followed by "long live the queen!" They repeated time and again, swords held up in a pledge of loyalty. The noise sent birds flapping in sudden flight from the hidden treetops. Meanwhile, Jon linked his arm through Margaery's, together they walked forwards and prepared to lead their people out of the godswood. But not before they pledged to meet the challenge and take the throne. As he did so, Jon remembered Lady Olenna's words of several days before, that they would part ways on the Isle of Faces and meet again as conquerors in the Red Keep. Now, he knew that parting of the ways had come at last. From far away, a wolf pack howled in the gathering night. This was their time, he knew. A time for wolves and dragons and roses.

Pausing at the opening of the forest clearing, he held Margaery tight and spoke for them both. "We so swear, to protect the realm and restore correct governance to the people across our lands. We thank you, my lords, for your loyalty and fealty. Now we march forwards to victory!"

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

Next time, there's some Riverlands/Bolton/Frey loose ends to tie up. But, after that, it pretty much is onward to victory. Thanks again!