The news of passing and some new arrivals.
Margaery
Margaery stitched the final threads of her wedding cloak, her fingers guiding the needle through the green velvet fabric. As she concentrated on the intricate pattern, a tapestry golden roses that would soon adorn her shoulders.
A discreet knock interrupted her focused solitude, and with a composed invitation, she bid the visitor to enter. Maester Wolkan, draped in his grey cloak and adorned with the chain of his order, shuffled into the room. The rhythmic clinking of his maester's chain accompanied his steps, a subtle reminder of the wisdom and knowledge he carried.
"A raven came for you, my Lady," he announced, presenting her with a scroll sealed in green wax.
Margaery's gaze fell upon the green wax, the distinct mark of House Tyrell. Accepting the missive with a gracious nod, she felt her heart quicken with anticipation.
"Thank you, Maester Wolkan. That will be all," she dismissed him, watching as the maester bowed and exited the room, leaving her alone with the words that awaited within the sealed scroll.
As she broke the seal, Lady Olenna's distinctive voice seemed to resonate in her mind. The inked words carried the wit and charm of her grandmother's character.
My dearest Margaery,
I look forward to seeing you bloom in winter roses. I have encountered a certain Samwell Tarly and am journeying with him to witness my granddaughter wed for the last time. He is a most companionable young gentleman, although he seems partial to pies.
Grandmother
A subtle smile tugged at the corners of Margaery's lips as she absorbed the news. Lady Olenna's presence at the upcoming nuptials, comforted her for the impending festivities. The mention of Samwell Tarly, accompanied by the humour about his fondness for pies, made her laugh, a subtle nod to his portly physique.
Margaery was beyond eager at this surprise news. She had hoped her grandmother would attend, but the difficulties for a woman her age, especially in such cold, harsh conditions, were a concern. However, Winterfell was built on hot springs, keeping the castle warm.
She wished to tell Sansa, to prepare for her arrival the Lady Olenna would have certain needs because of her age. Chambers on the ground floor being of utmost importance. However, Sansa was in a war meeting with Jon and a few members of the council, of which she hadn't been invited. Not because she was inadequate, but her knowledge of warfare was of little help to them. Instead, Sansa explained what was happening in a manner more appropriate for her understanding. After all, the men spoke with the uncouth languages of soldiers in these types of meetings. This gave Margaery time to put the finishing touches to her marriage cloak.
Another knock disturbed her excitement. "Come in." She called out, expecting Sansa to walk through the door, however Podrick Payne entered the room. Margaery set aside her cloak. "How can I help, Pod?"
"Their graces wish for you to join them in the war room." He said.
"Thank you, Podrick," Margaery said, placing the wedding cloak aside. Rising, she smoothed her skirts, and with a purposeful stride, she followed Podrick through the solemn corridors of Winterfell.
The austere walls of Winterfell, with their ancient stones, bore witness to the eons of stories etched into the North. Up the weathered stairs they ascended, navigating the castle that stood as a sentinel against the cold winds of winter. Margaery, carried the scroll that bore the joyful tidings from Lady Olenna, hoping to bear news of their political alignment with the south.
As they reached the war room, a stark contrast awaited them. The warmth of a crackling fire in the hearth embraced the chamber, and sunlight spilled through the windows, casting a golden glow upon the antique table at the room's centre. The banners of Stark and Targaryen, intertwined with tales of alliances and conflicts, hung proud alongside rich tapestries that adorned the walls.
In the war room, Margaery was confronted with the sombre faces of Jon and Sansa. The queen, clad in her practical grey woollen dress with a leather bodice, emanated both resilience and authority. Jon donned his usual black attire, adorned with a white direwolf emblem on his collar and cuffs, signifying his Northern heritage.
Dickon, Margaery's betrothed, sat in the room, appearing content, yet tapping his foot.
Margaery inclined her head to the King and Queen. "Your graces."
King Jon extended a hand, inviting her to take a seat next to Dickon, a gesture that bridged the gap between alliances. Once settled, Sansa assumed the lead in the meeting, her voice carrying the weight of authority. "We have spies in places which allow us to learn of events sooner than most." Margaery nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the strategic intelligence network they had cultivated.
Last night's despatch from the Reach took precedence in the discussions. Jon, with a sympathetic glance at Dickon, conveyed the unfortunate news. "I'm sorry, your father refused to bend the knee." The room held a collective breath as Dickon, taking a deep breath, added the grim conclusion. "I take it she burned him."
Jon's solemn acknowledgment echoed through the war room. "Aye, I'm sorry," he expressed with a heaviness that mirrored the gravity of the news. Margaery's breath caught in her throat, and a gasp escaped her mouth, as the weight of the revelation settled over her. In a moment of shock, she placed one hand over her mouth, her eyes reflecting the disbelief that lingered in the air.
Recovering, Margaery turned her attention to Dickon, placing a reassuring hand on his arm, a gesture of solidarity in the face of the grim tidings. His response held a blend of acceptance and the resilience befitting a son who had expected such an outcome. "He always was a stubborn old goat," Dickon conceded, a mixture of fondness and resignation in his tone. "I was expecting this news. Does Sam know?" he inquired..
Jon, the bearer of the unsettling news, shook his head. "It only happened yesterday," he said, emphasising the swift and recent nature of the tragic event.
Margaery, ever astute, couldn't help but harbour a seed of suspicion. The logistics of a raven's flight from the Reach to Winterfell raised an unspoken question, but she reserved her voice of concern for a more opportune moment. Her gaze shifted between Jon and Sansa, a subtle scrutiny veiled beneath a composed exterior.
Sansa, recognizing the delicate nature of the situation, addressed Dickon with a measured tone. "Sam should arrive within the next two days," she said. The question that followed held the weight of empathy, giving Dickon the agency to decide how the painful news would be conveyed. "Do you wish to break the news, or would you like Jon to do it?" Sansa inquired, offering a choice in the face of an impending and difficult conversation.
Dickon, his eyes rimmed with red from the weight of grief, turned to Jon with a silent plea. "You know my brother better than I. Would you mind..." His request hung in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of the bond shared between the two brothers.
Jon, with a sad smile, accepted the responsibility. "Of course, I'll tell him," he assured, the weight of the impending conversation reflected in the lines on his face.
Sansa, understood the delicate nature of the moment, extended a gesture of empathy. "You can use my solar if you wish to write to your mother and sister, Lord Tarly. It would afford you some privacy," she offered.
Grateful for the consideration, Dickon rose from his seat, expressing his gratitude to the rulers of Winterfell. "Thank you, your graces. If you don't mind."
Jon, with a wan smile, conveyed understanding. "Not at all."
As Dickon turned to leave the war room, he approached Margaery with a kiss on the back of her hand. "My Lady," he said with a nod.
Margaery inclined her head, with a respectful acknowledgment, "My Lord,"
The door closed behind Dickon, leaving Margaery alone with the rulers of Winterfell. She approached Sansa and handed over the scroll. The Queen's discerning eyes scanned the contents before passing it to the King. "Do you think we ought to delay the nuptials?"
Sansa nodded in agreement. "Mayhaps by a day or two. What do you say, Lady Margaery?" The decision, it seemed, rested not only on the rulers of Winterfell but also on the bride-to-be.
Margaery, though reluctant to entertain the idea of postponement, recognized the wisdom in the suggestion. A marriage celebration, once a cause for joy, now bore the weight of recent loss. "I think it wise to wait, your grace," she responded with a measured tone. "Dickon is not the only one who will grieve the death of his father, but his brother, too. We should at least allow Lord Samwell that dignity," she said.
While Margaery focussed on last-minute preparations for her wedding, Queen Sansa took charge, ensuring Lady Olenna's comfort and mobility within Winterfell.
Detailed instructions for a chair, designed to navigate the castle's terrain with ease, were provided to Maester Wolkan. The carpenters, set to work crafting the chair, while Sansa, upholstered it for maximum comfort. Ramps were laid across the courtyard, a thoughtful consideration to ensure the chair's smooth passage through the snow and mud. The preparations for Lady Olenna's arrival continued, while the ground floor guest chambers were made ready for the matriarch.
The day before Lady Olenna's arrival, wagonloads laden with provisions arrived. Margaery perused the goods. A treasure trove of Southron spices, cured meats, cheeses, and a variety of fruits and vegetables, some of which she hadn't encountered since she left the capital. Among the offerings were lemons, a thoughtful gift from Lady Olenna to Sansa, a nod to the Queen's partiality for lemon cakes.
Lady Olenna had even thought to include the finest wines. Arbor Gold, with its renowned quality, and Dornish Red, famed for its bold flavour, were among the finest vintages procured for the occasion.
The sun was high in the sky when word reached them by raven, bearing news from Lord Cerwyn. The party, which included Lady Olenna and Samwell Tarly, had departed at the break of dawn. Lord Cerwyn's message contained an additional warning carrying a fresh revelation — the news of Lord Tarly's demise had spread, traversing the expanse of Westeros like wildfire.
Jon and Sansa acknowledged the despicable act of burning Lord Tarly. Yet Margaery senses a hidden satisfaction that Daenerys Targaryen's actions would not be well received across the realm. Their greatest concern was whether the Dragon Queen's actions would reflect upon Jon, considering his family ties with the tyrant.
The sound of a horn cut through the crisp northern air as the convoy, bearing Lady Olenna and Samwell Tarly, made its way along the Kingsroad toward Winterfell. The call to attention echoed through the castle, prompting the key players to assemble in the courtyard to extend their welcome to the arriving guests.
In the centre of the courtyard, the King and Queen, Jon and Sansa, stood with regal poise. To their right, Margaery and Dickon Tarly awaited their esteemed guests. On the opposite side, flanking Sansa, were Ser Davos, the Blackfish, Lady Brienne, and Jaime Lannister, the latter somewhat concealed behind Sansa's sworn shield. Pod, with the chair specially prepared for Lady Olenna, stood poised for her comfort.
As the gates of Winterfell swung open, two carriages entered, followed by four wagons laden with what Margaery suspected to be additional provisions of food and wine. The previous day's delivery, coupled with the fresh supplies, hinted at the magnitude of Lady Olenna's thoughtful preparations.
The carriage came to a halt, and Pod opened the door with practiced courtesy. Lady Olenna, was assisted into the specially prepared chair and furs placed over her lap. The practicality of Winterfell's preparations ensured her comfort against the northern chill. Once ready, Pod pushed the chair toward the awaiting royal couple.
With a characteristic smirk that hinted at a lifetime of political acumen, Lady Olenna met the eyes of Jon and Sansa. The King, displaying a chivalrous gesture, nodded his head and took Lady Olenna's hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. "Lady Olenna," he greeted with a respectful acknowledgment.
Sansa echoed the sentiment, repeating, "Lady Olenna."
A touch of humour laced Lady Olenna's reply as she spoke to the rulers of Winterfell. "Forgive me, your graces if I don't curtsey. The knees aren't so good these days."
Jon smiled, "You are forgiven, Lady Tyrell."
Lady Olenna, always sharp-witted and perceptive, turned her attention to Sansa with an affectionate glint in her eyes. "Let me look at you, child. Although, I suppose you are a woman now," she mused, taking Sansa's hands in hers. "My, my. Look how you've grown. Can I ask, are you Queen because you married a King, or is he King because he married a Queen?"
Sansa, amused by the clever inquiry, shared a chuckle with Jon. "A bit of both," she said, casting a glance towards her husband.
Lady Olenna, undeterred and ever inquisitive, redirected her focus to Jon. "They say you are Rhaegar's boy."
"Aye, it is true," Jon said, acknowledging his Targaryen lineage.
Lady Olenna, beckoned Jon closer with a gesture of her finger. A hushed tension settled over the yard as she focused her attention on the King in the North. The audacity of addressing Jon Snow in such a manner was unprecedented, but there was a certain appreciation in his eyes for Lady Olenna's straightforward approach.
Jon stepped forward as she commanded, allowing Lady Olenna to take hold of his chin and scrutinise his features. A hush fell over the assembled onlookers as the Tyrell matriarch examined him with a discerning gaze. "The gods were shining down on you when they gave you the Stark colouring, although not the eyes," she remarked with a hint of disapproval. "You look just like your sire, although I'd go as far to say as even fairer, despite the northern look about you."
With a release of his chin, Jon stood there, the weight of her words lingering in the air. The unconventional scrutiny from Lady Olenna seemed to have left an impression, albeit one that Jon met with a muted acceptance.
Podrick turned the wheelchair towards Margaery. She rushed to the Queen of Thorns, stooped and embraced her grandmother. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she expressed her heartfelt joy at Lady Olenna's presence.
"Grandmother, I am so happy you are here."
Lady Olenna, ever the master of wit and sharp observations, redirected her attention to Dickon Tarly. "Is this your betrothed?" she inquired, her discerning gaze fixed upon him.
Margaery affirmed the question with a nod. "Lord Tarly, this is my grandmother, Lady Olenna."
Dickon, displaying the courtesy befitting a lord, bowed and took Lady Olenna's hand, placing a gentle kiss on the back of it. The formality of the gesture, however, did not deter Lady Olenna from her unfiltered commentary. "Well, I suppose he's a bit of an improvement. At least you won't need to keep your eyes closed in the marriage bed."
Margaery's eyes widened in shock, her face pink with embarrassment, laughter rippled through the courtyard. "Grandmother!" she protested.
Lady Olenna, her keen gaze sweeping across the greeting party, focused on Brienne with an initial gleam of recognition. "My dear, what a sight for sore eyes," she acknowledged, her discerning eyes assessing the sworn shield. With a playful curiosity, she urged Brienne to reveal the identity of the figure standing behind her. "Is that who I think it is, lurking in the background? Come on, man, show your face."
Jaime Lannister stepped forward, offering a respectful nod. "Lady Olenna," he greeted.
"So it is true? I heard you'd left your sister to join the northern forces. Of course, I didn't believe it, until I saw the Lannister troops at Castle Cerwyn," Lady Olenna remarked, her words laced with a mixture of skepticism and intrigue. Her shrewdness extended to the core as she delved into the motivations behind Jaime's unexpected presence. "But I still never expected to see you here in the flesh. I suppose your sister's vile act caused the discord?"
"She could have stopped Tommen, but she didn't."
"About time." Lady Olenna said.
Eager to escape the cold, Lady Olenna accepted Podrick's offer to be taken inside. "I'll join you shortly, grandmother," Margaery called out as her attention shifted to those who had accompanied Lady Olenna. A woman with a toddler in her arms, and a man who was nothing like her betrothed. Where Dickon was tall, handsome and muscular, with a short blond curls; Samwell Tarly, was short and fat. They were opposites.
Jon, catching sight of familiar faces, couldn't contain his joy. "Sam!" he cried, rushing over to embrace his friend. "Good to see you."
Sam reciprocated the sentiment, his own face lighting up. "And you too. Should I say your grace?" he inquired, acknowledging the formalities of Jon's current station.
Jon and Sansa shared a glance, a silent agreement passing between them. "Aye, only in public," Jon confirmed, his hand finding its place around Sansa's waist. "This is my wife, Sansa."
Sam, bowed and took Sansa's hand and kissed it. "Your grace."
Sansa smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sam. I've heard much about you." Her attention then turned to the woman and child at Sam's side. "This must be Gilly and Little Sam," she acknowledged with a smile.
Gilly, showing the respect she had learned, curtseyed. "Your graces."
Sam, his emotions clear, shifted his attention to Dickon, and the air between the two men crackled with unspoken bonds. "Brother," Sam said with tears in his eyes. The two men embraced, both with tears in their eyes.
After the emotional reunion between Sam and Dickon, the atmosphere softened as the men parted. Dickon, mirroring Jon's gesture with Sansa, placed his hand around Margaery's waist. The touch elicited a shiver from Margaery from a man she found both handsome and gentle, and whose kisses had left an impression on her.
"I'd like to introduce you to my betrothed. I'm sure you remember Lady Margaery," Dickon said, presenting Margaery with a warmth that spoke of his fondness for her.
Sam, taking Margaery's hand, kissed the back of it with a smile that held a tinge of sadness. "How could I forget?"
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sam," Margaery greeted him with a genuine smile.
"Right, I think we all should head inside." Jon called out. "It is snowing."
As the snow fell, Jon's call rang out, prompting the group to disband and head inside the welcoming walls of Winterfell. Margaery, still near the King and Queen, overheard snippets of their conversation.
"A raven came just before Lady Olenna arrived. From Bran," Sansa shared with Jon.
Curiosity etched Jon's features as he inquired, "What does it say?"
Sansa relayed the message, her words carrying a note of anticipation. "Tormund left a moon ago. He should be here any day now."
Jon's face lit up with joy at the news. "Have you ever tried sour goats milk? Because we're getting you very drunk tomorrow night," he declared, sharing a laugh with Dickon as they went their separate ways to seek refuge from the falling snow.