Last part, I promise. And it's my favorite of the three. ;)
Lady Olenna Tyrell entered the great hall with no less force than if she'd been a wheel-house, crashing through the overlarge, golden doors. She took one look around at the stunned soldiers, watching her and her incoming retinue of Tyrell handmaidens, and pursed her wrinkled lips.
"Take me to my granddaughter."
Five men jumped to do her bidding. She pointed at the least-stupid-looking one of the bunch, leaving the hall on his arm.
It wasn't too long a walk to Margaery's rooms, with the Tyrell guards swarming at the doors marking it more clearly than banners. Tyrell men snapped to attention, two opening the doors without being asked.
"I told you I wasn't to be disturbed!" Margaery's voice rang out from inside.
Olenna entered anyway, watching as her granddaughter sat before a floor-length mirror, three handmaidens tittering and fussing over her hair as they pinned and twisted it every which way. Beyond her, a carved balcony overlooked the sea, glittering golden in the afternoon sun, a faint salty tang in the breeze that twisted the gauzy drapes.
"Is that any way to greet your grandmother?" Olenna said, one eyebrow imperiously raised.
Margaery jumped to her feet, heedless of her maids' squeaks of protest. "Grandmother!"
Olenna opened her arms and Margaery fell into them, pressing her face against Olenna's breast as if she were still a child.
"I hear you've managed to get yourself betrothed again," Olenna said.
Stepping away, Margaery fought to control her pleased smirk. "Leave us," she said, her voice as smooth as silk.
Scraping curtseys, the maids left, gently closing the door behind them.
"So," Olenna said, dropping into a chair cushioned thickly enough to make it as wide as a throne. "Is he as stupid as he is pretty?"
"Grandmother!" Margaery replied with exasperated fondness. She sank into the chair opposite. "King Robb and I are very much in love, and–"
Olenna gave her a look.
Margaery huffed a laugh. "I hope he's not stupid. For both our sakes. Else our conquest of the throne will be short-lived."
"Battle smarts are not the only kind there is," Olenna said. "And you've plenty of the other kind. You have him well-trained already, I suppose? I was quite surprised to hear he'd already declared his next crown; Starks are known for shirking royal obligations whenever possible." She smiled at her granddaughter. "Though perhaps I was more surprised than you deserved. You are truly a wonder, Granddaughter."
Margaery smiled, looking down to hide her pleased blush. "I do believe I have him very much in love with me."
Olenna raised an eyebrow. "Already?"
The younger girl stood and walked back to the mirror. She took a moment, smoothing her dress, twisting one curl around her finger to fall better against her chest. "It is easier than I expected it would be," she said with an air of forced casualness. "He's not exactly a brute."
Olenna knew her granddaughter well enough to catch what she'd been unwilling to say. "You like him."
A blush stained Margaery's cheeks, not even the distance across the room hiding it. "Well enough, I suppose."
Apparently, Olenna had hit too close to the mark; if it had been anything less, Margaery wouldn't have bothered denying it. Her grandmother studied her. "Is it a crime to like him?"
"It is if it prevents me from doing what needs to be done." When Margaery looked away from the mirror, her blush had gone, all girlish coquettishness locked firmly away. "And it won't. The Tyrells will have a Queen, Grandmother. You can count on that."
Olenna stood, slowly making her way to her granddaughter. "Sweet girl, I am sure they will. You were willing to take on that monster of a Lannister brat for our family. I am not asking after the Tyrells. I am asking after you."
Margaery looked down, the rare worryline creasing her perfect brows. "I… I do not know. I believe I will be fine bound to the North. I am growing allies already, and–"
A knock came at the door.
"Enter!" Margaery called, her voice clear and firm.
The soldier bowed. "Princess Sansa Stark, my lady."
Margaery gave a queenly nod, her quick, wry glance to her grandmother communicating clearly: Speaking of allies.
Sansa Stark entered the room, her red hair pulled simply back in the Northern style, her dress a plain grey, if finely tailored – hand-stitched by the princess herself, if rumor served. Margaery's letters had spoken of an audacious fifteen-year-old and Olenna had sorely looked forward to meeting the girl. Perhaps not all the Northerners would be useless dullards. Not when they let a slip of a girl offer council in war meetings.
"Sansa!" Margaery said, rushing forward to embrace her. Sansa returned the embrace just as warmly. "I'm so glad you're here! Allow me to introduce you to my grandmother. Grandmother, Princess Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance." Sansa offered a curtsey so perfect the Tyrell's septa would have cried. But she cast a wry glance towards Margaery. "What happened to the 'Rose in the North?' I'd been quite hoping yours would be the title to stick."
Margaery wrinkled her nose playfully back. "Maybe it would have, if you'd managed to hide your fangs. Grandmother, Sansa is the one who told me all those horrid things about Joffrey," she said, turning to include her.
Things we mostly already knew, Olenna thought behind her empty smile. Just not how readily a different, malleable King was available.
Margaery hooked her arm through Sansa's, pulling her close against her side. "And who found a secret passage into Casterly Rock. She's the reason you're here in comfort, Grandmother, and not in some gods-forsaken scrap of horse-smelling tent."
Sansa immediately tried to pull away. "I didn't–! That was Theon, he–"
Margaery gave her a level stare, never loosening her grip. "I'm sorry, I quite forgot Lord Theon of Casterly Rock was such an ingenious spymaster," Margaery replied dryly. "Do give him my compliments when you see him next, will you?"
Interesting, Olenna thought, watching the girls. Sansa must be quite good indeed, to have learned that – and Margaery was revealing more of her own thorny bite than she usually dared – especially with anyone outside the family. Most shockingly of all, Sansa didn't even seem surprised by Margaery's thorns.
The Northern girl stilled. She turned to Olenna, opting to ignore the compliments. "Lady Olenna. It is wonderful that you've chosen to join us at such a joyous occasion."
Behind Sansa's head, Margaery rolled her eyes.
"I am delighted to be here, indeed," Olenna replied, never ceasing her study of the girl. "These old bones cannot handle the rigors of a war camp. Without your help in taking this castle, I wouldn't have been able to see my grandchildren again for some time."
Sansa smiled politely; neither confirming or denying.
Margaery poured wine for herself and her grandmother; Sansa shook her head at the offered goblet.
"Was there something you came all this way for, dear girl?" Olenna asked, accepting the goblet from Margaery. "It can't just have been to meet an old woman."
Something about Sansa's smile still didn't reach her eyes. "Robb tasked me with overseeing his part of the ceremonies. I wanted to make sure there wasn't anything you wanted that hadn't been included, my lady."
Her back to Sansa as she set down her own goblet, Margaery raised a disbelieving eyebrow where only her grandmother could see. "No, my lady," she replied, her voice betraying nothing. When Margaery turned around to Sansa, it was with the broadest smile. "Everything here is as pleasing as could possibly be. I must say, when I imagined my wedding so many times as a girl, none of my imaginations could compare: marrying such a man as your brother, in such a beautiful place as this." She gestured expansively to the red rock castle, with the view of the bay far beneath.
Olenna hid her smile in her goblet. Marrying a king at Casterly Rock, Margaery had meant – despite her pretty words. Olenna was sure that most of her granddaughter's imagined weddings had been at the Great Sept, with fewer battles between her marriage and her groom's crown. But, with Renly dead and the Lannister boy so volatile and with a daily weakening claim, this had been the best they could do.
Sansa studied the Tyrell women, the calculation visible behind her innocent eyes. "I am glad, then," she said. "Do let me know if you change your mind."
With polite farewells all around, Sansa left the room.
"So," Olenna said, with another sip of wine. "That was Sansa Stark, was it? I was promised an impertinent thing and she barely speaks."
Sighing wearily, Margaery dropped back into her chair opposite her grandmother. "If Varys is to be believed, Sansa knows things he doesn't and the ones he does, she knows twice as fast. I've been studying her for quite some time and still don't know how she does it. She receives few letters, has little contact with strangers, no objects are passed to her–"
"It doesn't matter how she knows things, just that she knows them." Olenna watched her granddaughter. "If Varys is impressed, you'd better be careful."
"Of course I'm careful," Margaery snapped. "She's my dearest friend, or couldn't you tell?"
"I meant when she's not looking." Olenna took another sip of wine. "Walls have ears, child. And the Red Wolf doesn't seem to need walls."
...
Weeks passed and preparations for the wedding continued. The Tyrells insisted on as grand an affair as possible. As the troops still needed rest, Robb obliged them. Sansa was kept busy overseeing the demands of their allies; Theon, overseeing the distribution of his newly claimed castle's supplies.
Through being forced to work alongside each other, Umber's dislike of Theon had given way to a barely civil mistrust. Therefore, it came as a surprise when Theon saw the man running through Casterly's halls, shouting his name.
"Greyjoy!" Umber said, between strides. "Bloody boy, where are you?" A soldier pointed Theon's way; Umber skidded to a stop before the still confused Theon. "Take a look out a bloody window, boy! There's a fleet at our walls."
Theon frowned. "The Tyrell's Redwyne fleet is early. Supposed to arrive next week–"
"LOOK, BOY!" Umber said, bodily dragging Theon to the window. "It's not the bloody Redwynes!"
Theon looked. There was a fleet bearing down on their harbor, alright. And the more he studied their flags, the more blood drained from his face. Theon took off at a run.
"That's more bloody like it," Umber muttered, following behind.
Even from a distance, these were not the Tyrell's ships; no red-sailed galleas led the way with its gold-painted oars.
Black sails flew on these ships.
Even as Theon ran down the many levels of Casterly, the ships drew closer. Out of breath, he stopped only at the docks beneath the castle where Robb and his lords waited. The black-sailed fleet had drawn even closer.
"At least forty ships," Bolton said, taking his turn with the far-eye. "This is no welcome party."
Theon couldn't help but agree. And if he were going to attack with a fleet, he'd wait till precisely this moment – when everyone was celebrating and unprepared, their own defensive fleet a week away. The 80,000 men on Casterly's hills could do little against a bombardment from the sea.
Robb paced away from Oberyn and Loras, coming casually to approach Theon. "Is this Sansa's doing?" he hissed, fury in his eyes. "If you tell me there's another alliance she didn't bother to inform me of–"
"It's not one of Sansa's," Theon whispered back.
Belatedly, Robb seemed to realize that Sansa's friendly betrayal would have been the better option. He swore.
Theon felt the same. Robb started to turn away but Theon's quiet words instantly drew him back. "It's worse, Robb." Robb waited for Theon to explain. Theon swallowed. "It's the Greyjoy fleet."
They knew, but it carried more weight coming from a Greyjoy, himself. Robb stepped closer, his eyes narrowed. "And do you know why they're here? To rescue their ward? To claim the castle I offered them?"
"I don't know." Theon hated the broken tone in his own voice. His people shouldn't be a cause for alarm, shouldn't send panic through the veins of everyone he cared about – through his own.
Sansa tumbled down to the docks in a flurry of skirts, Margaery at her side, still in a muslin slip with pins in it. At her back, the Hound followed more slowly. But Bolton instantly stepped forward, towards both of the ladies.
"This is no place for ladies," he said smoothly. "Allow my men to escort you back to safety."
Bolton tried to lay a hand on Sansa's arm. Before his hand fell, before Theon could tear his eyes from the ships to stop him, the Hound took a single step forward. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
Bolton withdrew his hand. His smile never reached the ice in his eyes. Smoothly, he pivoted. "Your grace, I don't believe your sister to be safe here. With the fleet approaching–"
Robb turned away from the harbor only long enough to look at Sansa – her face remained blank, no hints, no foreknowledge – and then gave a nod.
"Come on, little wolf," the Hound said, reaching for Sansa himself. "Don't cause a scene."
"But I can help!" Sansa said frantically. "I can–"
"Can you?" Robb cut in.
Sansa remained silent. When the Hound reached for her a second time, she didn't stop him.
Margaery stepped forward. "Your grace, I–"
"You especially, my love," Robb replied, his eyes back on the sea. "I can't be worrying about your safety right now."
Margaery said nothing more, simply followed Sansa and the Hound back to the upper levels.
"They've stopped," Loras said, looking through his own far-eye out to sea. "All but one, that is."
Theon gestured to Bolton for his far-eye, who handed it over. The sight of so many of his ships, of home, hit him all at once. He struggled to keep his composure, glad for the far-eye against his face. The fleet had indeed stopped, the ship in front continuing onwards. Like most, it flew the black sails of the Iron Fleet, yet this one also bore a silver scythe.
Clamor continued on the docks as the ship drew closer. Stark, Tyrell, Tully, and Martell soldiers swarmed the docks, preparing for battle even against the single ship. Theon ignored all of them, his eyes riveted to the ship.
Oberyn fell back next to him. "A Greyjoy ship; a Greyjoy castle. Coincidence?"
Theon glanced sharply at him. "Are you accusing me of something?"
"To the contrary. Perhaps the Greyjoys simply expect what's yours is theirs?"
Theon scowled. He hoped not. But he didn't like depending on hope.
The ship drew closer. The grunts and calls of men at oar grew louder with each crashing wave. The massive ship drew up next to the dock itself, a gangplank lowering. Ironborn walked down it, an average-looking man leading the way.
The man stopped at the edge of the dock, his ironborn at his back, the arrayed Stark allies and troops before him. The man peered at the gathered men. "Where is Theon?"
Theon couldn't breathe. He'd asked for this, bloody told Robb to give him Casterly Rock and now his family might strip his foolish pride from him with a single word. For all that he was Balon's heir, the Iron Fleet was not his to command. Robb knew full well that to the rest of the Iron Islands, a treaty with Theon meant less than the parchment on which it was written.
Oberyn's steady hand on his back pushed Theon forward. The Stark soldiers parted around him. Theon found his feet, walking with leaden steps to the front of the group. The man seemed familiar, but...
As Theon stepped forward, the man leading the ironborn broke into a grin. "You're looking well, nephew. Conquering castles, I hear."
Theon couldn't believe his eyes. He barely managed to say the words. "Uncle Rodrik?"
Rodrik's grin widened. "The last time I saw you, you were barely tall enough to swing an axe. Now look at you."
Theon swallowed against the rising emotion in his chest. "Why are you here, Uncle?"
Rodrik frowned. "Isn't it obvious?" Theon's lack of reply was all that was needed. "My nephew's king is being married in my nephew's own halls. Of course his family should attend." Rodrik's frown deepened. "I thought the only reason I had not received an invitation was that I should have already known to be here. If that's incorrect–"
"It's not." Surging forward, Theon offered a hand. He hoped no one could hear the desperation in his voice. "Welcome to Casterly Rock, Uncle. My halls are yours."
Rodrik clasped it.
Next to Theon, Robb stepped forward, offering his own hand. Rodrik took it. "Welcome to our feast, Lord Harlaw," Robb said. "And well met."
"Well met, indeed, your grace," Rodrik said.
Theon couldn't help peering over Rodrik's shoulders. "My father, is he…?"
Rodrik's expression went carefully neutral. "Don't wish for miracles, boy."
It was good advice; shoving the disappointment down, Theon focused on the positive – his uncle, his family, was here. For him.
He'd already gotten miracles aplenty.
...
With the wedding only days away, word from the Vale finally arrived. They were almost here. And they were coming with troops.
While the rest of the lords rejoiced, Sansa could only worry. Her betrothal to Robin Arryn had been postponed till the arrival of those very troops.
The day before the wedding, she addressed those fears to her brother, only getting as far as: "Robb, I–" before he cut her off with a gentle wave of his hand.
"I'm not betrothing you to Robin, Sansa," Robb said, with a smile at her immediate sigh of relief. "The agreement was for aid in taking Casterly Rock. If they'd like to negotiate a different arrangement, they're welcome to it. And I'd never dream of having such an important political discussion without you present."
She fell against him in a tight embrace as Robb chuckled in surprise. He murmured into her hair, "I'd trade any of my lords for your counsel. You know that, right?"
She pulled away. "Then when I say you shouldn't march for the Iron Throne–"
"All but that," he said, the usual harshness back in his tone. "I've no choice in the matter, Sansa. What does a King in the North matter to the Tyrells? To Dorne? No, Sansa. My hands are tied, whether or not you see the bindings."
"You can still–"
"Enough."
A soldier knocked on the door.
"Enter!" Robb called sharply.
The study doors were flung wide as the lords of the Vale streamed through. Sansa recognized Lord Royce, Ser Corbray…
Her blood ran cold.
Petyr Baelish strode through their ranks, stopping in front of Robb's desk to sweep his deepest bow. "The Vale stands at your leisure, your grace."
Robb's face had gone as ashen as Sansa's. No doubt, he remembered Sansa's words from their talk deep in the woods, that Baelish would kill Catelyn's family to get to her. "Thank you, Lord Baelish. Odd that you would be here with the Vale's troops, and my cousin, the Lord of the Vale, would not."
Baelish smiled. "Lord Robin is… delicate. Your aunt appointed me Lord Protector, in his stead. We come with two thousand of her troops, with more to come should you begin your march."
Lord Royce shifted. At Baelish's back, Bronn the sellsword eyed Royce casually, assessing the threat.
"Thank you," Robb replied, voice tight with the barest civility. "We welcome you to our festivities."
"You are… too kind," Baelish replied. His gaze flicked away from Robb, landing on Sansa.
She smiled the sweetest smile she could manage, sure that ice still leaked through the edges.
Baelish bent towards her, taking her limp hand and pressing his lips to the back of it. "It's been too long, Red Wolf."
"Indeed it has, Lord Baelish," Sansa replied. Even with an army at his back, Sansa refused to be afraid of him. She could handle him. She had allies of her own, including her brother, the King in the North, alive and furious. Sansa's smile widened. Baelish would die; she'd make sure of it.
He stood casually at her side as Robb continued discussions with Lord Royce. Robb glanced her way frequently, reassuring her that he was watching and wouldn't let Baelish do anything to her – even if Baelish's new armies and alliance with their aunt kept the Starks from taking his head.
"Are we friends, Sansa?" Baelish whispered to her. "One would hope you wouldn't keep such secrets from your friends."
"Secrets, Lord Baelish?"
But it was far too late to play dumb with him. The gleam in Baelish's eye pierced straight through her newfound confidence. "What secrets have you today, Lady Winafrid? News of battles and troops hundreds of miles away? Or perhaps word of important prisoners captured, and foolish decisions made by allies?"
Sansa lost the ability to breathe. He'd read her letters to Theon. He must have kept copies, must have figured out how to decipher them–
Baelish leaned closer. "I've seen secret battle plans pass into the capital from the field many times. I've even seen them pass out of the capital and into the field." He smiled, far too close for comfort. "But never, in all my time, have I seen reports on the outcomes of battles before they've occurred. You'll have to tell me how you managed that."
He knew. The two words consumed her. He knew, he knew, he knew–
"Lord Baelish." Robb's strong voice cut across the room. "We've troop arrangements to discuss."
Baelish didn't move from the nearly-faint Sansa's side. "I'm sure Lord Royce is perfectly capable–"
"I didn't ask Lord Royce. I asked you." Robb's eyes were flinty, unyielding. Sansa was reminded gratefully of her father.
Baelish smiled at Sansa. "Another time."
"Now, Lord Baelish," Robb said.
The moment Baelish turned his back, Sansa fled the room.
The wedding was tomorrow.
And Sansa was terrified.