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Chapter Forty: The Gathering

Almost by habit, Sansa had returned to her old chambers in Maegor's Holdfast. She had been a prisoner, helpless and frightened, when she was last there; now everything had changed. Jon had offered her Myrcella's old chambers, but she had politely declined for reasons even she couldn't fathom. Because the best she could do to explain it, was that these rooms felt important. Like she had left something behind or forgotten something important. She found the chambers as small as she remembered, with the same view over the thoroughfare of the city and the red stone curtain walls. The remains of the mattress she destroyed still blackened the hearth and an old cloak had been left in the wardrobe. Other than that, there was nothing there for her. Still she remained there, drawing a line under her own past.

The morning before Jon's coronation she dressed in an old gown of green and blue. One that she had mended, stitched up the tears and dyed again to cover the bloodstains she hadn't quite managed to scrub out of the silk. She had grown since she last wore it and the bodices needed letting out and the hems taking down. A hairnet of silver thread and emeralds completed her ensemble, which she fixed in place just as Queen Margaery knocked on her door and stepped inside.

They greeted each other with a hug and a kiss on each cheek, then drew up chairs to the small table overlooking the window.

"You don't have to do this," said Margaery. "I don't think I could, if I were you."

Sansa was resolute. "I need to do this."

The Queen paused, folding Sansa's hands into her own for reassurance. "Then come up to the throne, with Jon and I. You won't have to go anywhere near those men."

"No, I want to look them in the eye."

Look them in the eye, she did. An hour later, in the throne room in front of curious spectators and under the sharp eye of Jon up on the iron throne. Sansa walked slowly down the line of ex-Kingsguard who had stripped and beaten her. They were laughing at the time, the sound of it played again in her mind. But what she remembered most was those who turned away in silent shame and proceeded to do nothing to help her.

"Boros Blount," she said, pointing to the kneeling man in chains. "He beat me the hardest."

Before the words were out of her mouth Ser Loras Tyrell and Sandor bore down on the man, hauling him to his feet. She knew Ser Ilyn Payne was waiting outside.

"I was Kingsguard!" Blount protested. "I served my King; I swore a vow- "

Jon was unmoved as he cut in: "There's something in the knight's vows about protecting the weak and performing no duty that brings dishonour to the knight's code, ser. Ser Loras, Sandor, take him away."

He did not go quietly. Dragging his heels and protesting loudly, but no one came to his aid. Without further ago, she moved past Ser Balon Swann, making a note to plead for his release since he had done nothing to her. But after Swann, a man who had haunted her nightmares.

"Ser Meryn Trant," she said, looking up at Jon. Her hand traced over the mended tear in front of her dress. "He stripped me right here and beat me. He was the worst of them all. Although there were others, they are not here."

Only Jaime Lannister was next, but like Balon Swann he never hurt her. She had been almost invisible to him. This time, it was Jon himself who swept down from the throne and marched the disgraced former knight out of the room, Dark Sister was drawn and in his hands already. Despite there being a court executioner, he couldn't quite bring himself to abandon the old ways. She noted it with a smile. It would seem gruesome to the southerners, but it ensured no northern king slipped into tyranny.

"The others are dead." It was Jaime Lannister who spoke, causing Sansa to backtrack after walking away.

"During the battle?" she asked.

"How else?" he returned, rhetorically. "I saw them die myself."

Sansa nodded, looking at him one final time before heading towards the steps of the throne, at the top of which Margaery waited. Before she reached the bottom step, however, a girl reached out and took hold of her arm, drawing her aside. Noting the silver hair and lilac eyes, Sansa felt a smile spread across her face as she realised who it must be.

"Forgive me, Princess Sansa," she whispered low, not wanting to disrupt the eerie quiet of the throne room. "Well done, I think you're so brave."

Blushing, Sansa downplayed what had happened. "They were chained up, nothing was going to happen. A pleasure to meet you, Lady Daenerys."

"Please, just Dany, and likewise. Come outside with me, let's see if the heads are up on the battlements yet."

She was meant to be meeting Margaery, but she glanced up to the Queen who had seen her and nodded encouragingly. "Go!" she mouthed. Smiling, Sansa linked arms with Dany and the two of them stepped through a side door and into the castle grounds. Away from the prying eyes they picked up their pace and chattered out loud as they made their way across the grounds. Lady soon came bounding over from the direction of the kennels, coming up to check Dany out. A second later, the direwolf gave a whimper of approval and took her usual position at Sansa's side.

"She's beautiful," Dany remarked, giving the wolf's ears a scratch. "I've seen her around with Ghost. Anyway, I wanted to meet you before tonight's dinner. I've met Jon and the Queen, of course. But that's all. Who're the others?"

Sansa had been so focused on identifying her old bullies she had almost forgotten to be nervous about the evening's gathering in the Queen's ballroom. Willas Tyrell would be there, hoping to gain her hand in marriage. The thought of it made her heart beat flutter now the dark clouds had passed.

"Lord Tyrion is really funny and clever, nothing like the rest of his family," she explained. "Lady Shireen is only ten, but very kind and clever. My brother Robb hasn't got here yet, but the outrider's said he's only a mile away now. Robert Arryn is Lord of the Vale and my cousin, but I've never met him. Lord Edmure Tully, my uncle, is the new Lord of the Riverlands, he seems all right. I doubt the Martells will show up, although Jon definitely invited Prince Oberyn. I think that's everyone."

Dany still looked nervous. "Well, if your brother's only a mile away, I suppose we should go and meet him. It'll be one more person I know at the table, tonight."

Happily, Sansa agreed.

"Are you still nervous?" Margaery came up behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed the back of his neck. "You're all tense."

Jon turned himself around to face her. "It's just tonight, and the coronation tomorrow. I think anyone would be nervous."

He had been in the Queen's Ballroom all day, removing Cersei Lannister's devices and emblems and replacing them with his own. The workmen, hired locally, had been trampling in and out, fixing the new sigil on almost every surface. Jon looked at it again: a silver-white direwolf in profile against a field of dark grey. The reverse of the House Stark's in the north. Alongside it, Margaery's golden roses sat proudly.

Come the morning, the streets of King's Landing itself would be awash with the same devices. They would leave at dawn, borne in an open litter and taken to the Sept of Baelor where they would be crowned together in sight of the seven. They had already had their marriage blessed there, and Jon had allowed himself to anointed in chrisom oil to keep the High Septon happy. Before that, he wanted to gather the upper echelons of his own nobility together.

There were no lower tables. Their guests would all be seated at the same high trestle table and no one of them given preferential treatment. The places had already been set: Jon and Margaery together in the middle, followed by Daenerys to Jon's right. Followed by Robb, then Sansa, then Willas Tyrell. Shireen Baratheon was to sit beside him, followed by Robert Arryn. A shortage of females meant there was an empty space next to Lord Arryn, with Tyrion next to the empty slot, but that brought them full circle, with Margaery sat between Tyrion and Jon. It was the best they could do with uneven numbers.

The silverware glittered in the candlelight and the flower centrepieces gave the ballroom a sweet and scented smell. The wine and fruits had come from the Reach, but the meat had been hunted in the Kingswood and seasoned in the cellars. Meanwhile, Jon had been dressed with the help of new grooms, in grey satin breeches and a silk shirt. His jacket was samite, and felt heavy and cumbersome on him. Still, he endured it for the sake of his station ... and because Margaery seemed to like it.

She ran a hand down the front lapel, pinching the fabric between thumb and forefinger. After a second, she stood on tip toe and whispered in his ear: "I'm with child."

Jon's heart almost jumped out of his chest. "What?"

"The new Maester confirmed it this morning," she smiled, her golden-brown eyes twinkling. "He says it's going to be a boy, but gave me no logical reason as to why he'd think that other than what I suspect – that he thinks that's what I want to hear."

Jon was barely listening, but caught the general gist of it. Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her lips firmly. "Don't worry about the child's gender. Just concentrate on staying strong and healthy."

Had he not been holding her so tight, he knew his hands would be shaking. Although he knew this moment would come, he had thought he would be happy. But all he saw now was a world of anxiety and worry stretching out before him. Something Margaery herself noted.

"Are you not happy?"

He forced himself to smile, nodding his head. "Of course, it's wonderful news. I just… I- "

"What?" she prompted when he trailed off. "Jon, what is it?"

His vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes. He tried to hide it, but Margaery had already noticed. Her excited smile was gone, replaced with a concerned frown as she tilted his chin up to stop him looking away. "I want you more than any baby."

Confused, her brow tightened again. "Soon, you'll have me and a baby." But then the penny dropped; her expression changed and she forced him to look her in the eye, both hands holding his face firmly. "I'm not going to die. We're young; we're healthy and strong. We'll have a nursery full of healthy boys and girls."

"My mother was sixteen," he pointed out, tremulous. "Go to a wood's witch, please, just this once. Wait until we're older- "

"That is madness!" she cut over him. "Elia Martell was as weak as a kitten, yet birthed two children and lived. She lived because she had the best care available. Your mother died because she gave birth alone, with little help and out in some tower in the middle of the Dornish mountains while everyone else was waging war."

He drew a deep breath to calm himself, trying to imagine the infant – their child – growing inside her at that moment. But he knew he would not rest easy until both she and the baby came through the ordeal in one piece.

Robb had chambers next to Sansa's, in Maegor's Holdfast. As soon as he got there, he almost fell in the bathtub and scrubbed himself until he was pink and raw. Even then, he languished in the warm, soothing waters until they cooled beyond his liking. When he could delay it no longer, he vacated the tub and dried himself off the softest towels he had ever encountered before dressing in the most presentably clothes he had. Having come straight from the battlefield in the Westerlands, it was the best he could do. Black breeches of wool, a doublet and clean shirt that was relatively unwrinkled.

In the meantime, Grey Wind had curled up on the bed and gone to sleep. His front paw twitched as though he dreamt of chasing rabbits. Outside, the sun was already setting which meant their gathering would begin soon. A note from Margaery informed him he was seated next to Jon's aunt, Daenerys. Curious, he sat down carefully beside the wolf and scratched his ears as he read the note again. Deciding to leave Grey Wind to rest, he combed his hair and stepped out into the outer-gallery again, trying to remember where Sansa was so she could get him safely to the Queen's ballroom.

"Robb!"

A familiar voice called out behind him. He turned to see Sansa rushing up to meet him with a silver haired girl in tow. First, however, he met her half way and swept her up in a hug and whirled her around.

"Jon tells me we've be careful around stairs with you," he teased.

She punched his arm, playfully. "Stop it! It was Jon who did all the hard work, I just gave Joffrey a push in the right direction."

"I thought I saw his petulant face glaring down at me from the crenels of the curtain walls," he retorted. "Death becomes him, I must say."

With that, the name Joffrey dropped from their discussion as he turned to the silver haired girl. He knew who she was, of course. The Targaryens had a reputation for standing out in a crowd with their unusual hair and eyes. But he could not deny that he found her really quite beautiful. Meanwhile, she had turned her lilac eyes to him, smiling as she extended a hand and introduced herself. Responding similarly, he asked Sansa to lead the rest of the way.

"We've been partnered for the night," she informed him. "I hope you don't mind."

"Why would I mind?" he laughed, offering her his arm. "I mean, everyone else is going to be there with their sweethearts, betrothed, wives and partners. You and I will be the only two sad sack singles there."

A small smile played at her lips. "I can live with that, Lord Stark."

Sansa drew ahead of them as she led the way to the Queen's ballroom. By the time they made it, it seemed everyone else had already turned up with the exception of Lord Arryn and Prince Oberyn. Two people, he knew, Jon wasn't exactly holding his breath to wait for. He greeted Lady Shireen and kissed her hand, nodded to Lord Tyrion whom he had not seen in over two years and showed Dany to her seat. After hugging Jon and kissing the Queen, he returned to his own seat by Dany's side. Meanwhile, Sansa had been received by an older man with a leg brace. Although he walked with difficulty, Robb noticed that Sansa blushed and beamed as she accepted his arm. Noticing Robb, Willas Tyrell introduced himself properly before pulling out Sansa's seat.

Once they were settled, the first course of their meal was brought out. Leek and potato soup, served with fresh baked bread. Capons roasted in butter with parsnips and fine red wine from the Arbour. He was grateful for sating his hunger before they got down to business.

"A pity Lord Arryn did not see fit to join us," Margaery remarked, finishing her soup. "Has Lysa retreated back to the Vale?"

Jon frowned, leaning over Dany to nudge him. "Robb, didn't Lysa go north with your mother and Arya?"

Robb shrugged. "I know not, brother. We went straight to the Westerlands. Uncle Edmure, do you know what became of your sisters?"

Edmure was chatting up a serving girl, who blushed deeply before retreating to the side of the room. Forced to join in, Edmure turned in his seat and tried to look as if he knew what they were talking about. He began with a sheepish shrug. "Even if Lysa was bodily in this very room; I still wouldn't know where she really is."

Laughter rippled around the table, but it caused Robb to worry. A worry cut off as Dany reached for a bottle of wine and pointed it at him. "A top up?" she asked.

He gave her what he hoped was a winning smile. "Don't mind if I do."

As dinner progressed they began to relax. Wine flowed (watered down with fruit juice in Lady Shireen's case) and the conversation was easy going, considering some at the table had been mortal enemies just weeks ago. Even Jon let himself relax as he finished his capon and washed it down with some wine. Sated, he put an arm around Margaery and kissed her cheek.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he whispered in her ear. "You know I'm awful at feelings."

She turned to him, smiling knowingly as she dabbed at her mouth with a silk napkin. "I had noticed, my love!"

In the hours since she told him about the pregnancy, he had come to realise how badly he wanted it. Now a frenetic excitement mingled uncomfortably with his fears of the dreaded childbed fever and he barely knew which way to turn. But when he looked at Margaery, she seemed happy and confident, without even a trace of worry in her expression. It was a positive and confident bearing he tried to emulate.

In the meantime, before everyone got too drunk and relaxed, he had to swing proceedings around to business.

"It's time," he said to Margaery.

"You're among friends, so you'll be fine."

Once more, he wished he shared her confidence. Nevertheless, he tapped his knife against an empty wineglass, signalling for silence. After a second, the chatter died away and the company all turned to look at him.

"My lords and ladies," he began. "Despite two notable absences, we between us here tonight rule almost the entire length and breadth of Westeros. As you all know, my cousin is the King in the North. His uncle, Lord Edmure Tully, has recently inherited the Riverlands. Lord Tyrion has been granted Casterly Rock and the Westerlands. My aunt, Daenerys, rules Dragonstone. Ser Willas Tyrell has also joined us from the Reach. Last but not least, Lady Shireen and her councillors have recently retaken the Stormlands for House Baratheon. It seems most of us here are all new to our positions and struggling to adapt to all these great changes in our lives.

As if that wasn't enough, not so very long ago we were all fighting on different sides, against each other and for different kings. Our fathers were often enemies; our houses divided by historic enmity. But they were our fathers and history need not keep repeating like a dodgy bowl of brown from the denizens of Flea Bottom. As such, it is my first proposal as King, to have these meetings regularly, every five years, in which we all come together to discuss our problems and plan the future of our realm. We can keep our seven kingdoms together and united, even if Dorne and the North assert their independence."

The proposal was met with agreement, then passed unanimously with a show of hands. Their kingdom was huge, their seats scattered and thousands of leagues apart. Had they been more unified before, these disputes and all the others before it may not have happened. When Jon fell silent, satisfied with the outcome, Tyrion was the first to air a grievance.

"Your Grace, if I may," he began. "I still have the pickled head of Gregor Clegane sitting on the shelf above my fireplace. As you can imagine, it's a touch on the disconcerting side. In short, your grace, what in seven hells do you want me to do with it?"

Suddenly it seemed as if everyone had lost their appetites.

"Throw it up on the battlements with everyone else!" Edmure snorted in disgust. "Gods be good; I cannot imagine having that thing staring at me from within a jar of vinegar on a daily basis."

"I think the people of King's Landing have suffered enough without having both Joffrey and the Mountain's dead heads glaring at them from the battlements," Robb jested. "It's almost fortunate that there wasn't enough of Tywin Lannister left to join them- "he cut himself off, flushed deep red and remembered Tyrion was still in the room. "Forgive me, my Lord Lannister- "

"Oh don't!" Tyrion cut in. "Had I been of your strength and stature, I'd have done the deed myself a long time ago."

Jon was taken aback by the bitterness in Lannister's tone, but like everyone else he overlooked it. Clearly, something had happened.

"Your Grace," Lady Shireen piped up from down the table. "I hear my fool, Patches, is in the dungeons here. Can I have him back? He's my best friend."

Before Jon could answer, Tyrion dropped his fork with a loud clatter. "That thing belongs to you?"

Shireen laughed. "I think he's funny and he always sings for me- "

"That's most of his problem," Tyrion retorted. "He never stops singing. But if you're looking for him, he's been locked in a black cell. Cersei sent him there. What wits he had left may well have left him now."

Seeing the look of horror on the little girl's face, Jon quickly ended the matter. "I'll have him sent for now, don't worry. If he's harmed, we'll have him nursed back to health."

True to his word, Jon excused himself from the table. Ser Loras was outside, guarding the door. Once his one and only Kingsguard had been despatched, he returned and got their attention again.

"Lord Tyrion, about Gregor Clegane's head," he began. "I want you to deliver it to Prince Doran and Prince Oberyn in Dorne."

"Yes," Margaery agreed. "And see if that doesn't induce them to talk a little more about our new friend, the so-called Aegon."

"I've been hearing about this pretender," Willas put in, breaking off the conversation he had been having with Sansa. "Not having been involved in the war, I've been based in Highgarden and asking around my contacts who have business in Dorne. The only additional information I have is that he has the Golden Company at his back."

"Which in itself could be significant," Tyrion replied. "They were founded to place a Blackfyre on the throne, if I remember rightly."

"Yes, but there's none of those left, surely?" Daenerys said. "It wouldn't explain where this 'Aegon' came from."

Jon sighed heavily. "Yet another Blackfyre rebellion. Just what we need. How many would this be now? The fifth? The sixth?"

"It won't get that far, brother," Robb spoke up. "But keep your armies about you until the threat is known and, preferably, neutralised."

Jon drew a deep breath and sighed again. Already, the games were beginning. "Lord Tyrion, you heard all this from Varys, isn't that right?" When Tyrion nodded, he continued: "Then find out where he is and go to him. He'll take you back into the fold."

"If need be, we can put out the story that we've given Casterly Rock to Tommen," Margaery added. "It would seem you had solid reason to turn your cloak on us, which in turn may make Varys more inclined to tell you all he knows if he thinks you're on his side."

Tyrion considered it for a moment. "That cover would need to be good to fool Varys. The Eunuch has spies everywhere and I'd wager he still has plenty in this court."

"Well then, let's give Tommen Casterly Rock for real," Jon suggested. "At our coronation tomorrow, we'll amend the titles and deeds and do it then. When you return, we can just change it back to your name again. Tommen won't mind, so long as he understands he's only Lord of Casterly Rock to help you until you return."

Tyrion swirled the contents of his glass before downing the remainder in one. "Done," he replied, firmly. "I always wanted to get one over on that cockless wonder."

Thanks again for reading; reviews would be welcome if you have a minute.

Next time: definitely the coronation and a catch up beyond the wall. Thanks again!