The shadow of Casterly Rock spilled across the waters of the port below as the Sea Bitch pulled into the docks.
Theon craned up to look at the castle's craggy silhouette, gray against the morning sky.
It was magnificent, he supposed. It was his. An entire kingdom to rule came with the castle, if only he could wield the men to keep it.
Yet, when Theon saw the rocks beginning to glow a dusty red in the rising sun, he saw Robb. Saw the blood spilling from him within these stone halls where Theon was supposed to have been lord. And Robb, his king.
"Welcome home, my lord," a servant in Lannister red said from the docks with a quick bow. Theon's gaze snapped to the man, yanked from his thoughts. As his crew tossed lines and secured the ship, the servant gestured to a bag. "Shall I take your things up to the castle?"
An ironborn shoved a shoulder into the servant as he passed.
And Theon was so very tired.
His whistle pierced through the air. "Gather the captains!" he called, loudly enough that Yara, on Black Wind next to him in the harbor, paused in tying off the lines.
Theon turned to the Lannister servant on the dock, looking entirely out of his depth. "Get Lord Hornwood from the castle and all my uncle's captains."
With a bow, the servant hurried off.
Half an hour later, Rodrik's, Yara's, and Theon's captains all stood assembled before Theon. He walked past them on the dock, turned, and paced back across the dock again, still putting words to his unformed thoughts.
"This was a greenlander castle," Theon started. Chuckles and snorts of derision came from the ironborn assembled. Theon continued. "This is now my castle. And any who stay here with me, in my castle, will abide by my command."
The amused sounds fell away as the ironborn stared at Theon intently, waiting to see what he meant. He could feel Tyrion's eyes on his back from the ship, too.
"This is not like the rest of the greenlands!" Theon called out, even louder. "This is now ironborn territory! We do not reave our own land! We do not rape our own women! We do not murder our own people!"
An ironborn spat to the side. "There are still greenlanders living in your damned territory."
"No," Theon replied, his voice steadier than he expected. "There are subjects willing to follow me, their ironborn lord, or there are rebellions. Rebellions are put down. Ironborn subjects are protected."
Silence answered him from the men and Theon still didn't know how they were taking it.
He swung a hand toward his sister, assembled with the rest of them. "Yara sails back for Pyke in the week. If you can't follow my commands, you're free to leave with her! For anyone willing to follow me, we will remain at Casterly Rock, at this once greenlander fortress. And we will rule it."
Werhalt, one of Theon's captains, stepped forward with a grin. "It's an odd journey you've led us on so far, but I can't say it's been boring. I'd like to see where an ironborn West leads."
Others joined him. Others remained where they were.
Theon's six captains had swelled to ten, from his uncle's forces and from Yara's. The remaining twenty on the docks stood unmoved.
Theon gave a stiff nod. "That settles it, then."
"What do you plan to do for loot?" one of his new captains called.
Theon froze. Lords collected taxes, but how in a watery hell was he supposed to do that over territory he barely ruled? And how was he to divvy out what he collected? He had captains, not minor lords beneath him, and his captains ruled no territory of their own. If any of the minor Westerlands lords rose to challenge him, there wasn't much Theon could do. Not with a small fleet of ships, not so far from shore–
A throat cleared from behind him. Theon turned to Tyrion, who stood on the deck of the Sea Bitch with a look of perfect innocence. "You have berths filled with good timber," Tyrion said into the silence. "It'd sell for a large profit down at Highgarden."
"Highgarden!" another ironborn said, askance. "Those rich, poncy lords? They don't deal with us and we don't deal with them."
"Oh, but you forget," Tyrion added. "Lord Greyjoy, here, fought alongside those rich, poncy lords. They're more than happy to deal with him."
Theon was glad that Tyrion hadn't said he was one of the rich, poncy lords. He didn't think he would ever have recovered from the shame.
As it was, he wasn't looking forward to seeing his least favorite, ponciest lord down in Highgarden. The one Sansa had proposed to. Of course, Theon could sail further south, to Dorne and the lord who had proposed to her.
Of all the hells, Theon thought this might be the worst.
The ironborn watched him expectantly.
"Yes," Theon said, throwing his bag back onto the Sea Bitch. "We're doing that."
…
Sansa hadn't asked Bran and Jon to go all the way to the top of the tower for this meeting, and for that, Jon looked grateful.
"Alright, Sansa," Jon said, as they stood before the weirwood tree, its red leaves vivid behind him. "What's this about?"
"I think we should consider telling Mother and Uncle Brynden the… well, not the truth about you, but… a different lie." Sansa looked between them. Bran was thoughtful, but Jon's face was instantly stony. "The Tullys are our – the Starks – greatest allies, but they hate you, Jon. For no good reason."
Jon's face had not relaxed. "And what's the lie you want to tell them? To upset what they've believed to be the truth for my entire life? To start looking into my birth and considering that if my first history was a lie, then this one might be, as well?"
"That you were our late Uncle Brandon's bastard, not Ned's," Sansa answered. "That Father raised you as his own bastard to prevent any threat to his children's inheritance, should some upstart king decide to legitimize you. Say I met the woman down in King's Landing, if we need to."
Sansa didn't add that she thought Jon's complaints were a good thing. If the Tullys could begin to question his birth, could begin to think Jon more than he'd always been… it opened the door for things she liked.
"No," Jon replied. "That's a stupid explanation. There's no reason to– No. We're not revisiting something that shouldn't be revisited."
"Think about it, Jon," Bran spoke up. "Uncle Brynden and you are the only people who can truly lead our armies and he refuses to work with you. That's horrible for the North's strength in battle. It won't be long before we have problems from the Dreadfort or the Wildlings to our north and Stannis could decide to move on our southern border any day. We need two commanders who can coordinate."
"You need more than two," Jon quipped.
"Not to mention that Mother's quite a talented negotiator," Sansa added, ignoring him. "But we can't involve her in anything to do with you – not while being able to trust her decisions, at any rate."
"My answer's still 'no,'" Jon replied firmly.
"Is it?" Bran arched an eyebrow. "Thought I was your king. Thought you had agreed to follow my commands."
Jon closed his eyes, looking as if he were in deep pain. "Are you ordering this of me, my king?"
"No," Bran replied. He turned to his sister. "I'm ordering it of Sansa."
…
Sansa watched Brynden and her mother over the next few days, looking for a chance to get them alone. Finally, Catelyn left dinner laughing with Brynden at her side. Sansa followed, watching as they made their way to her parents' solar. She waited a minute after the door had closed – then knocked.
Catelyn opened the door, her face breaking into a smile at the sight of her daughter. "Sansa. What do you need?"
"A moment with the two of you, if I could," Sansa replied. She tried to sound like a meek little child, not sure how much innocence she would need to get through this conversation.
Catelyn wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled Sansa into the solar behind her.
"Sansa!" Brynden greeted happily as she joined them at the small table. "I was surprised when you rode to war with the rest of the men. And even claimed a Wildling prisoner, from the stories I've heard."
While Brynden chuckled, Catelyn sighed. But when Sansa looked with trepidation to her mother, Catelyn squeezed her shoulder.
"I've had to accept that I've long lost control of both my daughters," Catelyn said, with a twinkle of mirth in her eye. "At least Rickon still heeds me – most days, anyway. What brings you here, child?"
Sansa swallowed. "I saw the way you look at… at Jon. And it reminded me of something I learned in King's Landing."
Immediately, both her mother's and uncle's faces had gone stony.
"What, Sansa? Spit it out," Brynden said. Catelyn's lips were pressed too tightly together to speak.
Her lie was stupid, Sansa suddenly realized. So stupid that she couldn't open her lips to say it. Robert had been on the throne, not Joffrey, when her father had first uttered his own lie. He'd have no reason to hide Brandon's bastard and claim it as his own. No reason whatsoever.
Seven hells above, Sansa was an idiot.
Pleading forgiveness from Bran and Jon for improvising, she forged ahead as best she could.
"Father didn't have a bastard," Sansa said slowly. Her mother gripped her dress so tightly that her knuckles were white.
"Sansa," Brynden said sharply. "What use is it, dredging up old wounds? Every man has his weaknesses and your father–"
"He didn't," Sansa insisted. "He…" She swallowed, searching for a better lie. "He said as much on accident to Jory, once. He mentioned sending Jon to the Wall, said that it had been for the best, to keep anyone from asking questions." A bout of cleverness hit and she added innocently, "Do you know what he was talking about?"
Catelyn frowned. "Why would you assume… that Jon's not…"
"One of the men was telling a crude story about multiple women," Sansa continued. "And when the man asked Father, he shook his head and answered him immediately, 'Only ever been with Cat.'"
Both Brynden and Catelyn stared at Sansa.
When her mother spoke, it was with barely restrained anger. "You would like me to believe that after decades of marriage, your father continued lying to my face every day, while telling some common soldiers the truth about his bastard son?"
Sansa blinked. "I–"
"You know," Brynden suddenly said to Sansa. "You know the truth. And you're trying to make up something else to cover for it."
"We all know the truth," Catelyn snapped.
"No," Brynden replied. His eyes on Sansa felt too shrewd. "Sansa knows something. Else she wouldn't be here, playing the fool. Or playing us for ones."
Slowly, Catelyn joined him in staring at her daughter. "Sansa?" she whispered.
Sansa swallowed. Slowly, she nodded. "Yes. I do know something. Jon is not Father's."
"And you know who's he is," Brynden replied.
"But he looks so much a Stark," Catelyn whispered. And suddenly, she was clutching at Brynden's arm, her face bloodless. "Oh gods," she breathed. "Oh gods, he's–"
"Don't," Sansa cut in suddenly, terrified. "All walls have ears."
Catelyn barely seemed to comprehend speech. She was still staring off into the distance in shock, even as Brynden frowned in confusion.
Sansa hadn't the faintest idea if this had been a success – or a disaster. "There's a reason Father hid the truth. Please help me guard it. And…" She sighed. "Don't blame Jon. None of this was his idea. He would rather have borne your scorn forever."
Catelyn was still clutching Brynden's arm, as his face was still lined with confusion.
"What?" he asked Catelyn. "What am I–"
"Lyanna," Catelyn barely dared breathe.
Instantly, Brynden was as pale as Catelyn. "Oh gods." He buried his face in his hands. "Seven hells, but he should have stayed at the Wall."
…
Sansa stood atop the ramparts, looking out over the snow-dusted valley, her hands laced tightly together before her as she waited for her reprimand.
Bran sat next to her, sipping his spiced cider and enjoying the view from his chair the servants had brought him to, furs piled high on his lap.
He took another long sip, seeming unbothered by the cold – or her report.
"Interesting," Bran finally said. "Jojen and I will keep an eye on them as much as we can, to see if we can spot them doing anything worrisome. Try to steer clear of Mother and Uncle Brynden for the next long while, will you? I'd like to keep their future free of splinters."
Sansa gave a tight nod. "If I haven't shattered their futures already."
Bran looked up at her with an impish mirth behind his eyes. "I knew this could happen, Sansa. Who's to say it was the worse of the options?"
They were alone up here, amid the high stone and the cold towers of Winterfell. But still, putting voice to the full option was beyond them. At least Sansa knew she and Bran were in agreement. She suspected that agreement might even go far enough to include a crown for a favorite brother of theirs.
Sansa smiled, feeling some of the dread leak from her. She ran her hands atop a patch of snow on the stone, glad that it was not yet full-winter.
"You were Queen in the North," Bran said suddenly, his tone laced with a curiosity that felt good to hear in his voice again.
Her final secret. Not even Theon knew. It spoke volumes for how decimated their family had become. Looking out over the battlements, Sansa steeled herself. "Ask it."
"Do you miss it?" Bran asked honestly.
Sansa let out a long breath. Ever since she'd led the men north to Winterfell, she'd been unable to keep from making a mental tally, a list of pros and cons. But both sides were such a confusing mess and filled with emotions she'd rather not think about. "I don't know."
Bran gave a snort. "At least you're honest with me."
"Arya," Sansa automatically replied.
"Because you know Arya won't ask you anything you don't want to answer," Bran said with more wry humor. "But I meant you're not usually honest with yourself."
Her gaze dropped from the horizon to her hands atop the stone wall. "What do you see me hiding from, Bran? Tell me."
"Now that it's in your past, I can see Casterly Rock." He looked sideways up at her. "See that you were happy. You weren't happy last time. Not even with a crown on your head."
Sansa raised an eyebrow, unwilling to take those comments sitting down. "You think a Greyjoy would make a consolation prize for you stealing my crown? I'm ashamed of you, Bran."
He laughed. Gods, the sound was good to hear.
"I was past happiness, last time," Sansa admitted softly. "I was safe. The North was safe. It was all I ever needed."
Bran studied her, in that shrewd, raven-like way he'd had even as a child. "Is it still?"
He was right, yet again, of course. She hadn't been honest with herself. Hadn't let herself admit to any broadening of her desires before this discussion with him.
"No more Starks are suffering this time around," Sansa declared, instead of a straight answer. "I'd die to ensure it."
With a wicked smile, Bran said, "You know you're a Stark, right?"
Sansa stuffed a handful of snow down his shirt. Bran squealed.
…
Sansa slid into her seat for breakfast at the high table, glad to see Jon already there. Although, Dacey sat unexpectedly on his other side and Sansa kept quiet to catch the tail of their conversation.
"All I'm saying is that you should consider training with axes if you haven't already," Dacey said, with a cheeky grin.
"I've considered it," Jon replied. "Get me a Valyrian steel axe and I'll bring it into battle with me."
Dacey made a sound of disbelief. "You're already wielding Uncle Jeor's sword and you want me to find you more Valyrian steel? And here I thought the Starks knew how to show gratitude."
Jon looked instantly stricken. "He gave it to me as his steward at the Wall. I doubt he'd have–"
Dacey waved him away. "Oh, use it, for all I care. We've axes aplenty. Though perhaps if you find a Valyrian steel one, you'll send it my way, hmm?"
Jon chuckled. "I'll do that."
Margaery stepped foot into the hall, men sweeping bows before her in her brilliant, thin Southern dress, her curls falling elegantly across her shoulders. She gave them nods and smiles in reply, never deviating from her path to the high table.
"Dacey," Margaery greeted sweetly, with a perfect smile. "I'm so pleased to see how well your mother's recovering. She spoke so warmly of you and how glad she is that you're back. Though she did mention that she wished you'd visit."
Dacey chuckled. "I saw her just yesterday. Surely, she can't–"
Margaery shrugged elegantly. "She sounded distraught when I spoke to her this morning. I do hope you get the time to drop by."
Dacey frowned. She turned to Jon. "You'll excuse me."
"Course," Jon replied.
And Dacey was off, marching out the hall with determination in her step.
Sansa thought it worth noting that the captain of her guard hadn't asked her permission, just her bastard brother's.
"Thought she'd never leave," Margaery muttered, dropping into Dacey's vacant seat. She pushed away Dacey's half-eaten food and pulled a clean plate from further down the table before piling it full.
Jon raised an eyebrow at her, taking in the empty chairs around them. "And you needed her chair, did you?"
"No," Margaery replied. "I needed you alone." She pushed a paper down the table to Jon and Sansa. "These are my requirements."
Sansa read through the list. It detailed a massive expansion to their glass house, along with fruits of every variety, delicacies imported from the south, perfumes, extravagant wines–
"Seven hells, Margaery," Sansa replied. "You can't expect–"
"I absolutely can," Margaery cut in. "It all depends on if you're hosting me for a few moons – or through the winter. If it's longer than the brief visit I'd planned, I'll go absolutely stark raving mad if I can't eat properly, amongst the rest. Oh, and you'll all have to learn how to play Bluffs. I can't remember a single Northerner playing a decent card game the entire trip. If I'm to stay, I'll be hosting proper card parties at least once a week."
"I know the game," Jon said, frowning down at her list. "Though I'm piss poor at it."
Margaery waved him away. "It's Sansa who will have to best me or lose her pocket money. Well? Willing to learn how to play yet another game from me?"
Sansa couldn't fight the smile threatening to break across her face. "Yes," she said, shocked at Margaery's calm acceptance of her secret, of the lifetime she'd lived before by a different Margaery's side. "I look forward to learning from you yet again."
Margaery gave a mischievous smile in reply.
Her friendship was worth a thousand glass houses.
…
In Sansa's brief absence, Robb's room had been taken over by cushions on the hard surfaces, light drapings of airy fabrics on the walls, and some floral scent that Sansa had never before smelled in the North. Grey Wind lay across the bed, looking entirely at home in all of it.
Despite the changes, Sansa couldn't help fighting back happy tears as she surveyed the lot.
This is how their rooms would have looked, Sansa saw when she looked all around her. Robb, happily married to a Southern queen. If Sansa didn't focus too closely, she could imagine it was true. The King in the North had stepped out for a moment, and his queen was simply–
Margaery flopped onto the other side of the bed, settling a bowl of grapes between them. "So," she started.
"Where are the cards?" Sansa said. "I don't know how to–"
"Hang cards," Margaery replied. "I'll have plenty time for that later. I still have questions, and now you've all the time in the world to answer them."
Sansa looked warily over at her. "Alright. What do you want to–"
"In your letter," Margaery asked, her eyes bright and intent. "You mentioned Jon dying and coming back from it. What in seven fucking hells–"
Sansa winced, settling on the bed next to her. "He did… the last time. I don't think… there were lots of things involved, magic that no one knows how to work, and…"
Margaery still stared at her, waiting as Sansa trailed off into nothing. Margaery spoke, "If you've been hiding the secret to immortality from me, and I find out later… I will kill you. And I will make sure it's permanent."
Margaery said the words with a teasing tone, but Sansa could hear the depths behind them. Robb. Her father. My father.
"Certain Red priests and priestesses can bring certain people back," Sansa chose to say. "I don't know who, or how, or why. I know which priest brought Jon back, but all the riches in Westeros wouldn't be enough to prize the information from me. I don't know if it will work in a different situation, even with the same people involved. I'm scared of even expecting to repeat it with Jon."
Reluctantly, Margaery gave a nod. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure," Sansa replied.
Margaery tilted her head. "You talked to Jon and Bran in the tower after I was gone. Yet Jon hasn't mentioned this death of his, nor looked more upset than his surly usual."
"I haven't reminded him and he doesn't seem to remember," Sansa cut in quickly. "Please don't remind him. He's handling it as well as can be with what I did tell him."
Margaery studied her. "Unlike Robb. It explains why you were always his not-quite-counselor."
Sansa sucked in a gasp. She hadn't seen that blow coming in a thousand years. "I didn't… tell him the same way. Not with as much truth, as much detail– It's not Robb's fault, it's…" But giving herself the blame hurt just as much, for all the truth and untruth in it.
But Margaery was still just studying her. "You talked at length of what was. Tell me, Sansa. What do you need?"
"What?" Sansa barely dared breathe, unsure if Margaery meant what Sansa hoped she did.
Margaery slowly turned a grape on its stem until it came loose. "I'm staying here for a reason. Dragons and dead are coming, if you're to be believed. So. What do you need to face them?"
"Dorne," Sansa replied evenly. "The Vale, the Reach, the Westerlands. We need it all, if we're to survive both ice and fire."
"The Vale seemed a lost cause, from what Robb tried before," Margaery replied. "And it seemed you had Dorne well in hand. Tell me about the Westerlands and the Lannisters."
Sansa tried not to make too much of Margaery's omission – if Margaery was unconcerned about the Reach, Sansa could only hope it was because Margaery already knew she could wield Loras's support.
"Tyrion is a shrewd player of the game," Sansa admitted. "But he's not needlessly cruel. I believe we can work with him."
"What of the Kingslayer?" Margaery asked. "You've been shockingly friendly towards him."
"He fought the dead with us, last time," Sansa replied. "Against Cersei's orders. Though he also strangled me and crippled Bran."
It was Margaery's turn to gasp. "He killed you in your last life? I'd thought…"
Sansa's smile lacked humor. "He strangled me in this lifetime. Down in the dungeons of Casterly Rock, while I pleaded for his life, he took the opportunity and threatened to snap my neck. At least he relented at my threat to Tyrion."
But Margaery had latched onto a different part of her explanation. "This was after you'd taken command, wasn't it?" And at Sansa's nod, Margaery added. "And this is why your mother does not share your confidences."
At Sansa's stunned look, Margaery shrugged. "Who else would you have plead with for his life? You sent her to the Tully camp, afterwards, and I didn't fail to miss her atop the tower when you told the rest of your family the truth. Tell me about Tywin Lannister."
Margaery's pace was overwhelming. Sansa suspected it was half a tactic, to keep her off her guard. "You know his reputation," Sansa replied.
"Of course," Margaery said. "But you're the one who wants to use one of his sons against him. Why else would you have bartered with Stannis for Tyrion's life?"
"Tyrion is my ex-husband, you know," Sansa said dryly.
Margaery shrugged. "And you had your ex-betrothed burned alive. Tywin tried to assassinate Tyrion. The theory fits."
"It's mutual," Sansa admitted. "Or, at least it was before. I don't know… much at all, really, of why they hated each other, save the obvious. Just that they did."
Margaery nodded, taking it all in stride. "So you sent Tyrion with Theon to strengthen their grasp on the Westerlands against Tywin's."
Sansa could only laugh. She'd never dreamed she was so transparent – and never dreamed she'd enjoy it so much.
She reclined back against a cushion next to Margaery, snagging one of her grapes. "You tell me how you'd handle the Greyjoys, then."
"Oh, I'd never dream of it," Margaery giggled. "But Tyrion isn't going to help Theon for long. Not unless he gets something out of it. If he's as shrewd as you say, I worry for Theon."
Sansa had thought quite the same. "We have Jaime. Tyrion won't risk a threat to his brother."
"There are things more deadly than threats," Margaery replied. "We still don't know where Tywin is."
"Harrenhal," Sansa said automatically.
Margaery raised an eyebrow. "When we have his beloved son? The one you used to stay his hand against an entire army? And he's been sitting in a ruined castle, content to do absolutely nothing about it for months?"
"No," Sansa slowly replied, disliking the feeling of dread in her stomach. "Underestimating Tywin is what… didn't go well for us the last time."
"No, it didn't," Margaery agreed. "So. What would you least like Tywin to do? And then assume he's preparing to do it."
Both girls sat in thought, taking the question seriously.
"Does he need more armies?" Margaery asked. "I'm not really sure how those work, but more seems better…"
Sansa shook her head. "No, he can buy those, and he still has a substantial portion of his own Lannister forces left. No, what he needs," Sansa realized, the moment she had to answer the question. "Is more allies."
"He has Baelish," Margaery answered. "If how they plotted with Bolton at Casterly is still true."
Sansa realized with a sinking feeling exactly who would ally with him. "The Vale," she said with a sigh. "Baelish has incredible influence there. I don't want to face the Lannister troops, the Golden Army, and the knights of the Vale. Not with just the North's and Blackfish's 12,000."
Margaery rolled her eyes. "There's no need to hint. You really think I won't be able to get Loras's support by lifting my little finger? I'm fairly sure the same is true of you and Dorne. The North will be far from alone."
Sansa couldn't help but smile. "And Theon and his one ship might come galloping to my aid."
"Then we're saved already!" Margaery laughed.
"Though Stannis won't likely sit idly by through a civil war all around him," Sansa mused. "Though which side…"
Margaery raised an eyebrow. "Is that a serious question? The grandfather of King Joffrey, whom Stannis burnt alive and dangled his corpse over the wall of the Red Keep?"
Sansa shook her head. "Stannis may harbor a grudge against Tywin, but if he lets Tywin swear fealty, then he'll side with him against us. We're still in rebellion while Joffrey and Tommen are dead. There's no rebellion for Tywin, not anymore."
"I think you're underestimating the grudges on both sides," Margaery replied. "Tywin won't side with the man who ended his royal lineage. Stannis won't side with the man who led the usurpation of his throne."
"At least we should be far safer against assassination here," Sansa said, not sure what she thought yet.
"We still have Tywin's son." Margaery leaned forward. "He clearly cares a great deal about him. Tell me – if you were Tywin, how would you free him?"
"I'd capture something we want back just as badly," Sansa replied. "Force a trade."
Margaery tipped her head, studying her. "Should you recall Arya from Dorne?"
It was a terrifying thought. Arya, a captive that Tywin could achieve more easily than any who were currently at Winterfell. "No," Sansa said. "Strengthening the alliance there is worth the risk. He won't think Arya is worth much to us, not on her own. And I trust the Martells… some."
"The ones that have Princess Myrcella," Margaery pressed.
Sansa well-knew Margaery's dislike of the Dornish. Irritated, she said, "Fine, then, what would you do about Tywin?"
"I'd marry his grandson," Margaery said lightly, popping a grape into her mouth. "But apparently I've already tried that twice."
And suddenly, they both dissolved into giggles. It had beenso long since Sansa had had a proper friend that she'd forgotten what it felt like.
"We could force a match on Jaime," Sansa finally said, once they'd regained their wits. She was reluctant to do that, be it to Brienne or otherwise, but perfectly willing to if it solved a war. "But I can't see as it solves anything."
Margaery shook her head, agreeing. "He's sworn the Kingsguard vows. Easy enough for Tywin to declare the match a fraud and the children bastards or not his own. Tell me more about the Lannisters."
The girls talked long into the night, no closer to a good solution.
…
Tywin Lannister sat at the foot of the long stone table, trying not to sweat in the suffocating Essosi heat through sheer willpower alone. He watched, annoyed, as Queen Daenerys spoke to her advisors at the other end of the table again for the thousandth time. Grey Worm sat at her right hand, Barristan Selmy at her left. Next to him was the exiled Jorah Mormont, who was still careful not to look towards the foot of the table.
A satisfied smile curled Tywin's lips. At any time, Tywin could reveal Jorah's betrayal of the queen they both now served, how Jorah had been the instrument for Robert's attempted assassination of her so long ago.
Tywin didn't plan on saying a word about it. Unless, that is, Jorah forced his hand. But he was enjoying the way Jorah's guilt seemed to stoke hotter and higher the longer he was around.
Next to Grey Worm sat Missandei, Daenerys's interpreter, who seemed to have risen to the role of small council member through sheer physical proximity.
And down at Tywin's end of the table sat the final two members of the council, and the ones he was most familiar with: Petyr Baelish and Varys.
Between them all swelled and ebbed the same fruitless discussion that they'd been having since before he arrived: the invasion of Westeros. It had gone from theory to fact overnight, yet despite the fact that a girl with the same number of dragons that Aegon the Conqueror had wielded had just been handed command of one of the strongest armies in Westeros, all Tywin had heard since he'd joined was how each option for invasion was an impossibility.
Suddenly, he was done putting up with it.
"Do you want the throne or not?" Tywin announced loudly, cutting through the discussion.
Slowly, the faces at the table each turned to stare at him. At the far end, Daenerys looked annoyed at the interruption.
But Tywin didn't ask rhetorical questions. He waited calmly for an answer.
"You know that I do," Daenerys finally said, her voice tight.
Tywin stood, pointing down at the map before them across the table. "Then pick your port, Your Grace. It does not matter which and we must attack one of them. White Harbor–"
"Is out of the question," Grey Worm cut in, with a fierce glare up at Tywin. "Queen Daenerys is the rightful queen of all seven kingdoms, not just the one that has your son."
Tywin gave a curt smile that didn't reach his eyes. "As we are to the east of Westeros, our options are limited." Tywin stabbed down at the map at each as he spoke. "White Harbor, in the North." Grey Worm made a disapproving noise. "Gull Town, in the Vale." Varys winced. "Dragonstone." Barristan Selmy looked skeptical. "King's Landing." Baelish frowned. "And Storm's End."
The discussion sprang up again, each of the lords clamoring for and against the various ports they favored or disapproved of. At the far end, Daenerys looked as weary as Tywin felt.
Tywin slammed his hand down on the table. "We have no fleet!" Silence fell again as they turned to look at him. "Once we have a fleet, we can pick any godsdamned port we like. Between your dragons and our armies, the port will be ours. If we do not have a fleet, it does not matter which port we pick, because nothing will be able to get there."
"You have ships," Daenerys said.
"I do," Tywin replied. "Fewer than we need to ferry your Unsullied. Stannis has the Royal Fleet. How would you suppose we cross the sea, fending him off all the way, when the bulk of both yours and my armies are infantry and cavalry?"
"And dragons," Grey Worm added.
Tywin looked at him with distaste, about to reply, when Barristan Selmy cut in.
"Attacking with dragons when we can't support them is a good way to get them killed," Barristan said. "They're powerful, yes. But not even dragons are invincible."
"Where would you suppose we get a fleet?" Daenerys countered to Tywin with a fire in her eyes. Sarcastically, she added, "Do you think Stannis would lend us his?"
"No," Tywin replied. "But Balon Greyjoy might."
A hungry glow came over her at his words, try as she might to hide the sudden hope. "Out of the goodness of Balon Greyjoy's rebellious heart? I believe all men have a price for their assistance, Lord Tywin."
Tywin looked steadily back at her. "I believe he'd settle for being given rule of the North."
Barristan looked outraged. "A Greyjoy? Rule the North? It hasn't been done in a thousand years, in ten thousand– Every commoner with a stick to his name will join the Starks the moment you declare it."
But Daenerys was ignoring him as Tywin held her rapt attention across the long table.
Tywin spoke. "The smallfolk do not love you, Your Grace. The lords great and small of Westeros have not been praying for your return." He leaned forward on the table. "They will not love you. That is not what Targaryens do. Show them how your ancestors forged the Iron Throne. Show them why. Reclaim your birthright through fire and blood. And every lord, every peasant, every feckless rebel, will go about every day for the rest of their lives in fear… of you."
"You have a kind heart," Jorah interjected to Daenerys. "Khaleesi, this cannot be how you want to begin your rule–"
"Show them your kind heart after you have burnt their castles to the ground," Tywin said. "Then they will love you, and know what your mercy means. Fear must come first," Tywin continued. "Or else a kind heart will be seen as a weak one. Every petty, backstabbing lord in Westeros will not come to heel until they are made to. You have the dragons and the armies. Make them."