Author's Note: The muse is on a roll my friends, let's enjoy it while it lasts. Thanks for all the support over the last couple of chapters, and please feel free to reach out if you have questions. I can't promise I'll reply or that I'll even have an answer, but I'll do my best.
I hope you enjoy and review this update.
Garlan the Gallant died on the second day.
There were no heart wrenching final words, no final sign of forgiveness for getting him into this between the King and his goodbrother; Damon had simply gone to help him dismount half an hour before nightfall and found the Reachman's glassy brown eyes staring at him unseeing. They had stitched the trifecta of wounds up the night of that first reckless flight—they'd paused just long enough for the horses to get some rest, though none of the men even bothered to try—but Garlan had only been at the fringes of consciousness since. They had had to tie him to his mount again, this round taking the time to make them more secure, as he'd had no strength to keep himself in the saddle as he had the first night.
Damon and Tyrek, riding to the front and rear of the Reachman respectively, had checked on him periodically throughout the days steady ride. He had been alive within an hour of them stopping, but even then, the two of Lannister blood had shared a look.
They would both known it was coming.
The king stared down at the corpse of one of his few friends, torch in hand. They had laid Garlan on the hurriedly constructed pyre of scavenged wood, hands folded across his chest with both hands gripping his blade. Damon had closed the man's eyes shortly after doing one of the most unpleasant duties he had ever carried out; there was no guarantee the fire would take full hold once the king and company left, and he had no intention of facing down the reanimated corpse of his wife's brother in the future. Damon had driven Widow's Wail into his dead friend's temple, only the experiences of the horrific fight that eventually killed Garlan keeping the bile in his throat. He had placed Garlan's helm back on his head to hide the wound for his own sake, but Damon knew he would never forget the sight or forgive himself for inflicting it.
The king glanced down at the sheathed sword on his left hip. Leonette Fossoway's Wail, as I've made her a widow. Damon knew it wasn't his fault; Garlan had ridden to war with him willingly, and men died in war. But at the thought of telling Margaery what had happened…well, the king did not know what he'd say or what to do to ease her pain. As per usual. To her I'll be Damon the Damned.
Mance, not having fought Damon over constructing the pyre due to the garrons needing rest, was growing impatient now that the deed was done and the animals had had a sufficient breather. "We need to go."
Tyrek, on Damon's right, glared at the King-Beyond-the-Wall. "Give us a moment. We didn't get to care for our others, let us care for this one."
"If we dally much longer more of the enemy's scouts will come upon us, and you'll be just as dead as he is. I'd wager his main force is days or weeks behind, but there are bands of them much closer than any of us would like to admit." Mance tilted his head back, eyes hard as he glared down at the shorter Tyrek. "And most of those we lost were mine, anyway. If they could speak, they'd be telling us to move and move fast."
Rayder was not wrong. Of the fourteen men that had gone north, seven were returning. Howd Wanderer, Handsome Harle and Bedwyck had died in the ambush with Damon. Declan Lake, Borros Blount and Rattleshirt had all gone down in a simultaneous ambush at the garrons, along with four of the animals. The direwolves Grey Wind and Ghost had been ordered by Robb and Jon respectively to stay with the creatures; Harle Huntsman, the only human survivor of that ambush, had said they had alerted to the danger, but the attack had happened before the men with them could react. As it was, the wolves had been all that kept most of the horses both stationary and alive. Mance, having made a break for them the second the fighting began, had arrived in time to cut Harle free and led mounts and wolves both back to the King's party.
Their arrival had saved those that were left, though it had not been in time to buy Garlan more than a day and half of extra misery.
Tyrek opened his mouth to argue—his cousin was as loyal as a hound, and always willing to argue for Damon's sake—but the king spoke over him. "He's right." Damon glanced around at the others; Robb had his arm bound close to his chest, with Jon Snow next to him. The northern lord nodded at him once. The other two wildlings, Harle the Huntsman and Tormund Giantsbane, stood a touch apart from the Starks, though they had their heads bowed in respect. The free folk treasured warriors, and Garlan had been among the best.
Damon looked down one last time. His eyes fell on the golden rose brooch holding the Tyrell green cloak closed. The king headed the torch to Tyrek, then quickly unfastened the ornament and slipped it into the pocket of his own shadowskin. "For Margaery," he said quietly as he took the torch back from his cousin. Without any further words or gestures, Damon stuck the burning torch into the pyre, dropped its handle, and turned away.
A few minutes later, as he was saddling his black-haired garron, Damon saw it again. A direwolf in the night, at the edge of the of the ring of light from their torches and the pyre as the others made ready to leave, glowing eyes locked on him. While he had not been able to see much detail the first time and could see even less now, the king had no doubts it was the same animal.
The king slowly turned his head to seek out Grey Wind and Ghost. Both animals were alert, long muzzles pointing towards the intruder with their ears perked, but neither beast made a move. The direwolf seemed content to sit and watch the camp, the fires reflecting in its unblinking eyes.
"Robb," Damon said softly. The former King of the North, preparing to mount to Damon's left, looked up. Without taking his eyes off the third wolf, Damon nodded in its direction.
Robb turned that way and stiffened, staring disbelievingly for a moment. Then, with a strangled cry, Robb threw himself one armed into the saddle and kicked his horse towards the intruder. When the direwolf turned and trotted into the night—trotted, not ran—Damon realized he should follow.
He caught up to Robb, who had sped into a dangerous moonlit canter followed closely by Grey Wind and Ghost, two hills over. The King of the North was kneeling in front of a seated man while three direwolves sniffed and licked one another's faces. A second figure, this of a young woman who looked so exhausted in the moonlight that a gust of wind would send her sprawling, stood wearily behind as Robb embraced the seated figure and, in a rare show of emotion, sobbed.
It took the king a long moment to recognize the seated figure, last seen at Winterfell years and a lifetime ago.
"Hello, Damon Baratheon," Bran Stark said sagely, face expressionless. "I have been waiting for you."
"She's a simpleton, Margaery."
"No, Megga, she is lowborn. They are not taught these things from birth as you and I were." The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms pinned her cousin to the simple chair with a look.
Megga Tyrell shook her head in exasperation despite it. "I do not understand why you are even allowing her to stay, much less making her a handmaid. She was a whore."
Elinor piped in from the other side of the table, much to Margaery's surprise; she normally argued in favor of Bella. "And your husband's mistress."
Margaery turned the look on the milder of her cousins. "And now she is a handmaid to the queen. Quite the rags to riches story, don't you think? The smallfolk will love it."
"Surely that isn't your only reason, Marg." Megga had taken an instant dislike to the girl for reasons the queen couldn't quite place. "I understand the need to make the peasants favor the king, but is this truly the way?"
Margaery sighed, then set the report she had been reading to the side. "Bella is more than Damon's former paramour. She is his friend, Megga. The king does not have many of those. If I am ever to be one myself, Bella's friendship is a must." It did not hurt that the girl's advice had helped Margaery finally snare the king, either, or that the slip of a woman seemed to have avoided the hard exterior many whores had hoisted onto them by their profession.
If the king is even still alive. The thought sprang unbidden to her mind and would not be easily driven out. Margaery had had a sinking feeling in her gut for two days, and she had not been able to shake it no matter what she did. She'd lost two husbands already, even though neither had been as real of a marriage as her one to Damon already was; she hated the thought of losing a third.
Megga, oblivious, opened her mouth to continue the argument when a knock sounded at the door. Elinor opened it to revel the very subject of conversation, still clearly uncomfortable in the dress of Tyrell green Elinor had gifted and tailored to suit her. Bella curtsied, still stiff in the motion but improving. "The…uh…lady Val and Ser Jaime are here. Your Grace."
Margaery grinned smally as she and her cousins rose, though the pit in her stomach grew wider. If both were here…it did not bode well. "Excellent. Please see them in."
The sister to Mance Rayder's wife entered, tall and beautiful with piercing blue eyes and long blonde hair. Ser Jaime followed shortly thereafter in his Kingsguard armor, white cloak near a match to the white furs worn by the wildling woman. The three of them—Kingsguard, wildling Princess and Queen—had become a triumvirate, maintaining the very fragile peace between her husband's army and the Free Folk. Ser Jaime had firm control of the soldiers under his command. Val, while not actually a Princess and holding no true control over the many chieftains big and small despite her relationship with Mance, had some influence by virtue of her beauty and personality. While she could not command anyone and would get no deference due to Mance, she was adept at convincing the chieftains that, to stay safe behind the Wall, they needed to ensure their people were at least moderately behaving themselves.
Margaery was the link between the two.
While Ser Jaime could put aside his distaste for the wildlings to achieve Damon's wishes, he…well, Jaime Lannister was not the schemer his sister was. Truth be told he was sarcastic and had a biting wit even with his allies, which did not seem like something the wildling leaders would appreciate.
Val, for her part, had had her doubts about the southerners, so much so that she had refused Margaery's overtures of friendship. It had been a hard lesson for the Tyrell Queen; their first interaction, much as Margaery's interactions with all the women of this warcamp, had not gone smoothly. While the Queen considered herself a quick study and possessing of higher-than-average intellect, she had only truly ever consorted with ladies and servants of ladies. Mannered and feminine, charmers and proper nobles. The women here were all warriors, even the noble ones like Maege Mormont and her daughters; there was no time for embroidery or tea and no inclination to imbibe in it anyway. While the type of political maneuvering and subterfuge Margaery was vested in was what truly ran the world, it did her no favors here in her husband's warcamp. It had taken her more than one mortifying failure at alliance building to understand that.
Including a failure with Val. Margaery had courted Val's potential influence, as tensions between the two sides, Free Folk and Southerner, had already become a boiling pot threatening to blow over only a couple of days after the departure of the Kings. Jaime had done an admirable job of keeping the Seven Kingdom contingent under control, but without Mance Rayder present the wildlings were restless and distrustful. Val had rebuffed her that morning—politely, especially for a wildling (and much more palatable than the contemptuous patronizing she'd found with the Mormonts) but still a rebuff, stating she had no control over the tribes and no interest in southern frivolities.
Late that night, though, Val had appeared at her chamber door. A wildling woman—a girl in truth, not even fourteen namedays old—had staggered into Rattleshirt's camp after dark, clothes torn and body bloodied and bruised. She had been exploring the no man's land between the camps despite warnings against it; the girl had yet to speak, but it did not take a genius to understand what had happened.
Her family had been thirsty for blood, but a particularly shrewd wildling leader—a woman named Karsi—had realized the precariousness of the peace and the disadvantage her people held. She had convinced those who knew to remain quiet for the time being, and gone to Val.
Val had, despite her apprehensions, had gone to Margaery.
While her usual methods of alliance building had failed, her ways of obtaining information had not, especially with such a high number of Tyrell forces and bannermen in the army. She had given Jaime a warning of her intent out of respect; he had weighed the implications, then bade her make sure justice was done and left her to do it. The four men responsible had disappeared from their camp that night, turned over to the girl's family for the promise of their silence.
While still apprehensive, Val had been won over. In the days since, the two beautiful women and the one-handed soldier had come together to quietly keep the peace.
Ser Jaime bowed slightly. Val did not, but Margaery was not overly concerned about that—none of the Free Folk stood on ceremony. "Megga, Elinor, Bella…if you would."
Her cousins immediately made to leave. When Bella remained, furrowing her brow in confusion at Margaery's words, Elinor gently took her wrist and led her from the room after them. The moment the door was closed Jaime began speaking. "Damon is a day's ride away." The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard turned towards Val, quirking an eyebrow. "Some of her people's…birds?...have seen them."
Val cocked a brow of her own at the king's uncle. "My people have seen them. Through the birds. We spoke of this on the way here."
The thought of just what that meant sent shivers down her spine. It sounded an awful lot like blasphemy, like a black magic that should not be openly spoken of. But she had heard, in her time in the camp, the events around the striking cloak Damon now wore. While stories were certainly embellished, it was not so long ago as to be completely dismissible. It was certainly something to ponder, though she did not allow herself to now. While she had been relieved to hear the king was returning, the filling in the pit of her stomach refused to go away. "What is the bad news?"
Jaime eyed her, his attempt to nettle Val clearly having been meant to offset a delivery of troublesome news. "You're certain there is some?" She held his gaze, saying nothing. Jaime nodded after only a second. "There are only seven men coming back. A boy and a girl as well, though who they are and where they came from is unknown to us for now."
Margaery immediately knew what that meant. The wildlings could not identify who was who beyond the Free Folk chieftains and the "southern king", but they could give descriptions. Even without them, she knew.
When she met the king's return at the wall the next night, haggard and filthy and his handsome face drawn into an uncomfortable grimace, she knew without his saying a word. She took the golden brooch of her brother from his hands, kissed the king's bearded cheek, and silently led him back to the wagon she had ridden from the tower. They said nothing, the king opening his mouth to speak five times to comfort her but managing not a word in any of them. She simply sat beside him, holding his hand with one of her own, her dead brother's brooch with the other.
That night, after hours of blessed distraction and with the king sleeping beside her, his brawny arm pulling her bare back to his bare torso, the queen of the Iron Throne silently let her tears fall.
A/N: *tease* Quoth the (three-eyed) raven, nevermore
In case some of you aren't the A Song of Ice and Fire nerd I am, Leonette Fossoway is Garlan Tyrell's wife. I hope you enjoyed!