A/N: I'm back! After a series of…well, intense life events and a LOT of life changes (lol), I've finally found my muse again and wanted to get back to publishing this fic. It's definitely, I assure you, NOT a dead fic, and we have 1 setup chapter left after this before the climax of Arc 4 occurs in two stunning battles with PLENTY of twists.

So for timeline references, here is the order of the POVs timewise.

1: The Golden Princess

2: Margaery XIV (Next Chapter)

3. Robb X, Aegon II

4. Siege of Casterly Rock (climax #1), Battle of King's Landing (climax #2)

Please let me know what you think, and as always, enjoy!

THE GOLDEN PRINCESS

"Make them fly! Make them fly!" a young boy's lone voice chanted across the din of the room. "Mother, I said to make them fly!"

Myrcella suppressed the urge to cry and merely grabbed the boy's hand for the thousandth time since she was shipped off to the Eyrie, brought to the Gates of the Moon, and repeated the words she was certain she had memorized in her sleep.

"My love, you must try them under the Seven before you make them fly," she said as sweetly as she could manage, hoping once more that he didn't notice her disgust.

"But Myrcie, that's boring!" Robert Arryn complained. "Mother, tell her that it's boring!"

Lysa Arryn's venomous glare pierced through Myrcella, but as the daughter of Cersei Lannister and sister of Joffrey Baratheon, she was used to such looks and merely ignored them. Everyone had told her that the Eyrie was the safest place for her, at least until Joff won the war, but she wondered if that were even truly the case, as she remembered the hesitance in her uncle Tyrion's voice at the last part, but how could she blame him?

With the forces of the North, Riverlands, the Reach, and Dorne arrayed against them, she knew that Joff would not last long on the Throne, even if he had the Stormlands, Vale, Crownlands, and Westerlands at his back. Not while half of those lands were divided and neutral, and the Stormlands swearing to her Uncle Stannis. Those awful rumors of the bastardy of her and her siblings didn't help either, and the event that the singers had finally settled on calling the Bloody Feast had destroyed a lot of goodwill to the Lannister cause, as Lord Baelish so helpfully reminded her.

"The rumors though", she thought with a shudder, "was she truly all Lannister? Were her parents really her Mother and her Uncle, and not her Father?" She missed her Father so. Good King Robert Baratheon, with a boisterous laugh and an excitement for life that no other member in her family had. Tears started filling her eyes as she thought of how he would call her Little Doe, or the joy that filled her when he hoisted her on his shoulders and ran around the Red Keep, to the disapproval of the Small Council and nearby courtiers. He was her father, even if the rumors turned out to be true, and even if she had to swear to the Seven that Jaime Lannister was her father in truth.

Lord Baelish had entered the room and had begun conversing with Nestor Royce, and she carefully eyed that, of her betrothed, breaking all decorum by throwing a gigantic tantrum on the ground now, and of the Lady Arryn, who calmed her son as if he were a child of three and not seven.

The thought of calming Sweetrobin down made her sigh, as everyone, save for Lord Baelish, Lady Arryn, and her left the room at the tantrum, and she reflected on her favorite historical figure and hero, Argella Durrandon. Argella Durrandon wouldn't have been trapped in the stupid Vale. Argella Durrandon wouldn't have had to deal with a whiny child, that only had the saving grace of being related to the current winners of the war. Argella Durrandon charmed Orys Baratheon, the way she failed to with Garlan Tyrell, and now, she was stuck with a stupid boy who would likely die—-

"Robin?!" Lady Arryn's voice rose in panic. "ROBIN!" She turned around and—-

Seven, he's having a seizure again, she thought, but something was off. He was seizing too long, flailing and flailing until he—-

"MY BOY!" Lady Arryn screamed hysterically. There was no rise and fall of her betrothed's breaths, he was—

He was—

Lord Baelish paled considerably, as Lady Arryn began to sob, with Robin's…body in her hands.

"Lysa, he's…." Lord Baelish began, almost placating.

"He's dead!" Lady Arryn sobbed hysterically. "He's dead, our boy is dead! I did it all for Robert, and for us, but he's dead! Jon thought Robert was his, but I was clever like you said, and his seed was old and weak! All my sweet little babies dead, and that old man just went on and on, so I had to find another!"

A dangerous gleam came into Lord Bae– Littlefinger's eyes, and she felt herself paling. "Lysa, you don't know what you're saying…."

"He was brother, to our first babe, don't you remember?" Lysa pleaded, eyes filled with madness. "The babe you told me to forget. Tansy, pennyroyal, blood; I remember, Petyr, I remember!"

"Lysa!" Littlefinger shouted as loudly as he dared, before his voice fell to an almost-whisper. "You must be discreet. Lysa, please, nobody can know—"

"Discreet?" Lady Arryn screamed. "We were discreet in the Vale! We were discreet in King's Landing! No more! Our baby boy, our precious Sweetrobin is dead, Petyr, and I did it all for him, for us! You told me to put the tears in Jon's wine, and I did. I wrote Catelyn and told her the Lannisters had killed my lord husband, just as you said. That was so clever… you were always clever, I told Father that, I said Petyr's so clever, he'll rise high, he will, he will, and he's sweet and gentle and I have his little baby in my belly…"

He had finally approached her, as she held Robert and stood dangerously close to the Moon Door. Myrcella held her breath as best as she could and shrunk beneath their notice, with long hours of practice avoiding Joff. She could not say a word, she could not be noticed…

"But Cat has her four sons and two daughters, and Cat is dead!" Lady Arryn shouted now, uncaring to all the world to hear. "Cat was always better, she was always smarter, more beautiful, and she stole you from me, and now her ghost has stolen my son!"

"Sweet Lysa, don't do this, we can have another–"

"ANOTHER?!" Lady Arryn replied, an inarticulate scream of rage escaping her throat. "YOU—"

She grasped at Littlefinger in a fit of madness and attempted to hold onto him and her former betrothed in a macabre picture, but his expression changed from the placating one he had held to a cold, devoid, and emotionless look, and he pushed her and Robin out of the moon door.

"You're useless to me now," Littlefinger said coldly, and Myrcella visibly winced when she heard a faded "SPLAT" below. She tried so desperately to escape his cold gaze, his searching look, and she shuddered in fear as his cold eyes met her green eyes.

"Princess," he said, sickening-sweet, "You must tell no one of this, or it could mean both of our heads."

His hand touched her face, and he moved his fingers and pulled her face so that her face and his face were so close it could be touching, and she—

Princess, she thought desperately. I am a princess of House Baratheon and House Lannister, not a Waters. Ours is the Fury, Hear Me Roar—

"Harry the Heir and his upjumped Tyrell wife will assume Lordship soon enough, and I will be dead, and you, a hostage," he murmured in a whisper, as he moved his face to whisper in her ear. "We shall not speak of this and flee to Highgarden."

By the Seven, Robert was dead and Lady Arryn was dead and she wasn't safe and—

"The Queen of Thorns may have attempted to remove me from the Game," Lord Baelish cut off her hysteria and continued, "But the young Queen Margaery will have no such knowledge, and I can ingratiate myself with them by buying your safety, and she will be none the wiser, despite rumors of her…uncanny knowledge."

"But you needn't worry, Princess, with a Stark husband and a Stark babe in her belly," Littlefinger sneered quietly, as if the name "Stark" was a personal insult to him, " Queen Margaery will hardly do anything to harm you, and may, in fact, use you as a bargaining chip to keep the West in line. This is the best of all options, and I need you to cooperate. Do you understand, Princess Myrcella?"

Her face was pale, and she wanted more than anything to burst into tears at what she had just seen, but she couldn't, she couldn't—

Call for the guards, call for the Maesters, anyone, anything! She screamed at herself internally. But she knew that it was futile, and she saw him grab a cloak.

"If we are quick, the guards will not notice our departure," Littlefinger said, smirking as she put on the cloak. "Onward, Princess."

AEGON II

The march down the Roseroad was tauntingly easy, as all things in the war have been so far.

I am a King, Aegon thought to himself, but a King whose feats have been because of others around me. My only battle to claim was the fight against Stannis Baratheon, and even that was insultingly easy. But even then, a King should want his conquest to be easy, so why do I feel so bitter?

Aegon knew that the forces of the Golden Company, Dorne, alongside the half of the Reach forces had done the majority of the work in his campaign. Griff had pressured him into staying in Highgarden for the majority of the war effort, and he knew that war was raging, but he was told to wait.

Wait, wait, wait, he remembered his Hand saying, wait until Margaery Tyrell delivers the Stark force to you. This is the fruits of years of planning, and you will not waste them to play at glory.

Thus, his position, at the back of the army, arrayed by King's Landing and waiting to siege it. Even Harry Strickland, captain-general of the Golden Company, had reminded him of his duty as King. Oh, he knew that he could force the issue, and ensure that he and Aemon were at the front of the armies, like the songs, but though he loathed to admit it, his Hand and Ser Strickland were right. He was their King, their symbol, and their best tie for an alliance, and he needed to swallow his pride and do what was best for the Realm.

"Brooding again, Aegon?" Prince Aemon asked, amused, as Ghost nudged Aegon's feet.

"You're one to talk," Aegon grumbled absentmindedly, and then he paled, realizing the insult he had just unintentionally hurled at his brother. "I mean—"

Aemon laughed. "You'd be right. Robb and Sansa have told me plenty of times that I need to stop brooding so much."

Aegon nodded. "Must be a trait our Father passed down to us."

A strange look crossed Aemon's face, as it always did when Aegon mentioned their shared father, but Aegon knew enough of his brother to let the comment slide.

"What will you do after the war has ended?" Aegon asked his brother curiously.

"I–" Aemon began, stammering, "I wish to return to White Harbour, and to officially marry my betrothed. I am still a bastard—"

Aegon scoffed. You've already been legitimized, Aemon. You're a bastard no longer.

"-but I would like to marry Fryd—" he said, pausing, "Erm, Wynafryd. Lady Manderly, I mean."

"You've been legitimized already, Aemon," Aegon responded with a smile, "and I fully intend to grant the lands of Summerhall to you. I would see it rebuilt, and have my brother and heir, at least until I have a child, at its head."

"Lord Wyman wishes to have Fryd inherit White Harbour," Aemon stated, "But I do not think he would be opposed to Summerhall. But would Lord Connington agree? He's suspicious of me enough as it is."

"I am marrying Sansa soon enough," Aegon reminded him, "and I know you. You do not seek the throne, else you would have gotten Robb and Margaery to crown you already. Griff's paranoia is just that, paranoia. I trust you. You are my brother. Aemon, Jon, whatever you wish to be called - you are my brother and I trust you and I love you."

A comfortable silence fell between them as they stared at the battlements of King's Landing, one that they were about to siege.

"I–" Aemon said awkwardly, pulling Aegon into a hug. "Thank you, Aegon."

Aemon cleared his throat and pulled the bag he had been carrying with him between them.

"I'm here for another reason", Aemon said gruffly. "I have a gift for you." And he opened the bag, and pulled out two….were those dragon eggs?!

He stared at his brother in shock.

"Aemon, are those what I—"

"Yes."

"But—" Aegon spluttered. "But how— where—- what—"

Aemon grinned. "I found these eggs at the heart of Winterfell. Margaery seems to think that either the Good Queen Alysanne or Prince Jacaerys Velaryon placed these eggs there, though I am unsure how—"

"Aemon," Aegon began, "If the histories are correct, Prince Jacaerys flew to Winterfell to ask Lord Cregan for support. Good Queen Alysanne visited Winterfell on her tour. Regardless of who put those eggs there, the eggs are important."

Aemon nodded.

"I'm giving one of them to you," Aemon stated. "Call it a feeling, but…I think we'll need this."

Aegon stared at both eggs. One dragon egg was a light grey that almost seemed white, and the other egg was a blue so dark it approached indigo. He hesitantly touched the eggs. Even though they looked like stone, he was pleasantly surprised when both eggs felt warm to the touch.

"Aemon, this is—" Aegon began, feeling as though his mouth was dry in shock and awe. "This is a great gift. I—"

"If you say thank you once again," Aemon threatened teasingly. "I'm taking these eggs back. These eggs are a gift, and—"

"You choose first." Aegon blurted out. "You retrieved them, after all."

Aemon handed the dark blue egg over to Aegon. "The grey one is mine, so that one is yours, then, brother."

"Your Graces," Griff stated, evidently arriving at some point during their conversation and stared blankly at the eggs, realizing their importance. "You both should go to your tents and get some sleep. The battle is tomorrow, after all."

Aegon nearly ignored his words as he clutched the egg to him. He had a tangible sign of his heritage! Given to him by his brother, no less! But in his joy, he knew that Griff was right. He needed some sleep if he ever wanted to win the war and hatch the dragons.

And we will make sure that they are used properly, Aegon thought to himself, because we will certainly need these when Winter comes to kill us all.

ROBB X

"Lord Tyrell," Robb greeted his good-father calmly.

"King Robb—" his good-father stammered, as he bent the knee awkwardly, "I mean, Your Grace–".

"Rise," Robb replied in amusement. I'm not his King, Aegon is, after all, so there is no need for ceremony.

Mace Tyrell rose, and ignoring all decorum, he pulled Robb into a bear hug.

"How are my children?" his good-father asked excitedly. "And how is dear Margaery's pregnancy? You must excuse me, Your Grace—"

"Robb, please, good-father."

"Robb, then!" He beamed. "I only heard the news recently, and I cannot imagine how you must feel! My first grandchild, future King–"

"-Prince of the North," Robb corrected absentmindedly. Then, Robb found himself grinning like a green boy, and not the King he was, at the excitement he felt at the news.

"Margaery is doing well, good-father," he began fondly. "The babe lies heavy in her stomach, the Maester says, and our heir appears to be a strong one. She has not grown ill and has handled the pregnancy quite well, and she is using it as an excuse to read as many books as she can, and fulfill her cravings for cheesecake."

Lord Tyrell smiled fondly, wiping his eyes when a lone tear fell down his face at the reminder of his only daughter, and Robb sighed.

"She has gotten more stubborn though in her pregnancy," Robb complained. "She wanted to join me in the West. Before we had left, she spent an entire night arguing with me that this campaign would only take two moons at the most and that she would be back in Highgarden by the time of the birth, but she has taken this pregnancy as a challenge, and as of my departure, refused to shirk or delegate any of her duties. Of course, with it being two moons since our departure, her plan would have failed, but she stubbornly argued anyways."

Mace laughed. "My daughter has always been like that. Our Little Queen, back in the day - constantly ordering her brothers to do whatever she wanted with a flash of her eyes, and manipulating myself, her grandmother, and my wife—"

A dark look crossed his good-father's face, but he reined it in. "But I digress! My daughter will take her stubbornness to the grave, and it will only be to your benefit—"

"-even if it is not seeming so at the moment," Robb finished with a laugh. "I was afraid you might say that."

Garlan Tyrell, alongside the main commanders of the North-Reach-Riverlands alliance, entered the tent, alongside a messenger carrying a missive. After about

"Your Grace," the messenger began, holding out the missive for Robb to grab.

He grabbed the missive and quickly scanned its contents.

"I have received word that Lord Redwyne's ships, with Theon Greyjoy at the head, have surrounded Lannisport," Robb announced to the council, as he relayed the missive's message. "The Lannisters are boxed in now, with my good-father's armies successfully sieging keeps south of Casterly Rock, and our armies successfully sieging westward from the Riverlands."

A bevy of cheers filled the council tent. Casterly Rock stood in the distance, an imposing keep, but Robb knew that if his plan worked, it wouldn't be so imposing anymore. The only paths to victory Tywin Lannister now had were either through holing in his keep and praying for relief that would never come, or facing Robb's armies in battle directly outside the keep.

"But, Your Grace," a lord he distantly identified as Lord Mallister, asked. "What stops Tywin Lannister from just holing himself in his keep? Casterly Rock has never been sieged! We cannot just storm the keep—"

"-And we shall not have to if my plan works," Robb responded with a smirk on his face. "Uncle Edmure, Garlan, how goes the second part of my plan?"

"Robb— I mean, Your Grace!" Edmure began, "The men have successfully begun their rotation, and the opposing armies in Casterly Rock are constantly kept off balance. As you have commanded, I have ensured that the battle horns and drums are sounded at all portions of the day and the night, and the rotation of half of our criers during the day and half of our criers during the night—"

"So the Lannister bastards are constantly expecting a skirmish!" Lord Umber crowed victoriously, as he realized the weight of Robb's plan, and Edmure grinned in turn.

"We've had a very small portion of our forces, maybe 5-10 men out of the 50 men assigned for the task to fake infiltrations and invasions. There have been a few losses, but the Lannisters are beginning to become paranoid. I've also heard that some of Lord Greyjoy and Lord Redwyne's forces have joined in on these efforts with small, coordinated land raids, so the Lannisters are feeling the pressure, Your Grace," Edmure finished.

Grey Wind has also helped there, as he found a local pack of wolves to collaborate in sending out threatening howls. With the Lannister army kept off balance, and Tywin Lannister kept sleep deprived, and paranoid, that will ensure that his judgment is impaired, that ensures that the second part of mine and Margaery's plan works.

"Garlan, what progress have you made?" Robb asked

"I wasn't sure why this was needed, but I had the scribes write up everything you told me to give them, and I have a copy here" Garlan replied with a hint of confusion. "I will read it aloud for the entire council to hear."

"Tywin Lannister," Garlan read, not knowing that he was reading a finished product originally authored by his sister.

"You may call yourself the Great Lion of Lannister, but the Seven Kingdoms know the truth, that you as weak, nay, weaker, than your father before you, and the architect of your house's destruction. The Gods see you, and judge you weak, faithless, and a failure above all else, and I, a Greenseer, have seen your failures and weaknesses.

Where do we start? Your own weakness and elimination of the Reynes, Tarbecks, and many other innocents because you failed to keep the peace in your father's lands? Your fear of a girl of four and a babe on his mother's teat so present that it led you to order their deaths, which succeeded, but still failed in the most important way possible? Your hypocrisy, at shaming your deceased son and others for indulging in pleasures of the flesh, while doing so yourself? At least your father understood the use of whores when he endowed Ellyn Tarbeck with pretty jewels.

Your children are failures to their house, as they engaged in incestuous relations and produced heirs that are all Lannister. But the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it? Rumor has it that King Aerys lusted over your Lady Wife, and that all of your "so-called" children are inbred spawn of the Mad King, which eventually cost your lady wife her life. That would be fitting, wouldn't it? Your children may not be yours, and even if they are yours, the product of your seed has spawned incestuous abominations.

Even if they are, your treatment of your children is deplorable at best. Does the name Tysha ring any bells? Your son married a lowborn woman, as was his right, in love marriage, and you responded by sending your soldiers to brutally rape her instead.

In your rush to win the war, you have broken guest right by ordering the Peakes to enact the Bloody Feast, and have committed the ultimate sin in the eyes of the Seven. Every Kingdom stands against you, and even your lords have joined our cause. Your days are over, and you will soon die, forgotten, on a legacy of ashes.

Come face me in open battle, unless you're as much of a coward as your Lord Father and your line before you. I will be waiting."

Gasps of shock and disbelief filled the council, as the letter, so filled with vitriol and hate, filled the room. He remembered Margaery's words.

"Spead this letter?" Robb asked. "Why? Half of this is entirely untrue at best and baseless slander at worst."

Margaery smirked. "It doesn't matter how real it was, though I tried to pack in as much as I remembered of Tywin's history. If our plan works, he will be sleep deprived, he will be paranoid, and he will be well aware that his legacy is crumbling before his eyes. I am counting on Tywin Lannister's anger and pride to push him into exiting the keep and engaging your forces in open battle—"

"-where we would slaughter his forces entirely!" Robb finished, beaming. "Though, is this a good idea for me to spread?"

"Ironically, you are probably the only person who could get away with this," his wife explained. "You're a greenseer, and that generally engenders trust in your visions, and the knowledge that we-should-not-know. Like it or not, Robb, this is a taunt. A taunt to get him into battle, to get angry, and to make stupid mistakes."

"Your Grace!" Lord Glover exclaimed in shock. "Did you really see all of this in your green dreams?"

Robb nodded solemnly, causing another wave of hushed whispers to fall upon the council.

"Regardless of the truth and lies within the letter", Garlan explained, "These missives have been sent by ravens to all the lords of the Westerlands, and within Casterly Rock itself by nightfall. Even if this doesn't work, it should be enough to create anger and sloppiness in the enemy army."

"Tywin Lannister will foolishly charge out of his keep to assuage his wounded pride, and we will be there to end this war for good." Robb finished firmly. "Get your bearings and enter your positions, for there is a battle to be had soon enough."

Ending A/N: Next time, Margaery gets some character development, and we get a dive into magic, as well as a glimpse of the next arc!