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Chapter Text

"Look at him," Joffrey repeats, more forcefully. "Look at him, and see what happens to traitors!"

Sansa looks up suddenly, seeing her father's head on top of the pike. His unseeing eyes are turned towards the sky, and his hair, now coarse, is falling down like strands of seaweed.

"I am no longer your betrothed," Sansa says boldly. "You have another now."

"Yes, I do," Joffrey agrees smugly. "And I am glad to be rid of you and your family of Northern savages. And I will be, once I kill your brother. I'll give you his head as a wedding present."

"I'd much prefer it if he gave me yours," Sansa says.

Joffrey opens his mouth to say something, but he is thwarted by the appearance of Margaery Tyrell, his new betrothed.

The Tyrell delegation arrived a few days ago, and they put their proposal on the table. Everyone, including Joffrey, saw the merits of such a proposal, and so Joffrey made a new betrothal to Margaery Tyrell. Sansa herself was pleased to be free of her betrothal.

Joffrey's new betrothal was not to last either.

Joffrey turned to look at Margaery, who had disarmed him with a soft smile. He moved towards her, and he turned his back to Sansa in the process. That was his last mistake.

He barely made three steps forward, before a hand shot out and grasped his in an iron grip, using the momentum to fling him off the bridge. It was over quickly, far too quickly for the Kingsguard to react. Sansa stood in the middle of the bridge, panting heavily. Margaery's smile turned into a concerned frown, the need for performance now removed. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her friend's wound gently, removing traces of blood in the process.

"That was brave of you," Margaery tells her. "Very brave."

"He killed my father, and he broke me," Sansa says. "I couldn't let him do the same to Robb, or to you."

"We must find new men to wed in the future," Margaery looked at Sansa, asking a silent question of her.

"Yes," Sansa answers quietly. "I will still follow the plan, just as we've agreed in our letters."

Margaery nods, and the two friends shake hands, sealing the pact.

"Now," Margaery adopts a business-like expression once again. "No one knows what happened here, except for us and Boros Blount. It's my word against his, and so the outcome is already decided. Joffrey Baratheon slipped and fell, and that's the truth. Or at least it will be recorded as the truth. I will make it so."

Sansa says nothing. She doesn't have to.

The two friends leave the bridge, acting as if nothing other than an unfortunate accident had occurred.

Cersei was fuming. There was no other way to describe it.

"Sister, please," Tyrion sighs, massaging his temple. "It was an accident. Joffrey tripped and fell to his death. Both Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell saw it happen."

"A likely story," Cersei snaps. "Both of them are lying! My son was murdered, and I intend to find out who did it!"

Tyrion rubbed his forehead. This would turn out to be a long day.

Sansa and Margaery were in the other corner, standing as close to each other as protocol would allow. Tyrion nods to himself. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth in Cersei's paranoia. The two women were close friends, that much was obvious. The rest of it, however, was pure paranoia.

Finally, as the day started to turn into the night, Cersei agreed to postpone the discussions until morning.

"My Lord, a moment of your time," Margaery says to Tyrion, smiling sweetly, knowing that Cersei was still in the room. "You'll be glad to know that Sansa and I have planned to marry her to my brother, Willas...I think that High-Garden would agree with her, and more importantly, get her out of this place."

The door slammed shut, as Cersei left, presumably to share this information with her father, just as Margaery and Sansa had intended. Tywin would try to put a stop to it, and play right into their hands in the process. And if Tyrion tried to refuse, Tywin would force him into it anyway.

Sansa and Tyrion would make a powerful duo, covering each other's flaws, Margaery reflects. As for herself, she had an equally good candidate in mind.

Margaery re-read the letter a servant had brought to her this morning.

'Lady Margaery,

When the snow falls and the cold winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

R.S'

Margaery smiles discretely to herself. This was a code phrase, signifying that the sender had agreed to the marriage between them. She tucks the letter into a secret drawer in her desk, which was inside a bigger secret drawer, just in case Cersei decided to go snooping around.

Nonetheless, there was a certain liveliness in her demeanor as she left her chambers that morning. If everything went well, she and Sansa would be controlling the Realm from behind the scenes before long.

Chapter Text

Tyrion had barely managed to convince Cersei it was an accident, when a servant came in to inform them that they were summoned to their father's chambers. The climb that was sure to follow filled him with dread. He could only hope Cersei would suffer during the climb as well.

And his hope became a reality, for Sansa and Margaery had joined them, taking a place on Tyrion's either side.

"I suppose my father summoned you too?" Tyrion inquires.

"Not quite, my lord," Margaery smiles demurely, and Sansa follows her lead. "We were invited, however, and we decided to come, just in case."

There was something they were leaving out, and Tyrion could see that immediately. The fact that the smile didn't reach their eyes only proved it further.

Once they finally arrived, Tyrion took time to observe the room. His father had kept it neat, as he expected, having removed all the things that served no actual purpose. Sansa and Margaery dipped into a curtsy, as was customary, but Cersei remained upright.

"Glad you could make it," Tywin says, looking up at his four guests. "Please, take a seat. There are things that need to be discussed."

Tyrion suspected that he was only being polite due to Margaery and Sansa being present.

"Cersei tells me you had planned to marry Sansa to your brother Willas," Tywin's gaze turns to Margaery first.

"That is correct, my Lord Hand," Margaery answers with an ever-present smile. "I figured that they would make a good couple. Willas is kind, as you know. He would treat her as she deserved."

"A fair reasoning," Tywin says. "But I have a different suggestion."

And there it was. Tyrion grimaces. Trust his father to ruin a good thing.

Margaery glances at Sansa, who nods.

"I am sorry, but I should get a say in this," Sansa speaks up stonily. "I doubt that any alternative would be as good as Willas."

Tyrion winces at her pre-emptive dismissal, having an inkling of who his father's candidate was. Of course, he was familiar with this kind of attitude, but that didn't change the fact that it hurt.

"You didn't even hear who my candidate is," Tywin says, clearly amused by her boldness. "I assure you, he is just as kind as Willas would be."

"I do not doubt that, my Lord," Sansa says. "I object to not being given a choice in the matter, however. Give me two months to get to know your candidate, and then I will make my decision one way or another."

"Fair," Tywin nods. "Very well. Two months it is. You will get to spend time with him, and at the end of that period, you will tell us your decision. You may leave."

Sansa exits, followed by Margaery shortly. Tyrion nods to himself. Smart girl, to avoid being involved in his father's machinations.

Tywin nods to him, motioning for him to follow them, which he is glad to do. He hurries after them, as much as he is able to, leaving his father alone with Cersei.

"You don't like me much, my Lady," Tyrion observes once he catches up to them.

"On the contrary, my Lord," Sansa smiles at him, and the smile is reflected in her eyes this time. "I like you quite a bit."

"It was us who orchestrated this," Margaery adds. "It was no coincidence that Cersei overheard our plans. From there, we let her do the work for us. Don't get me wrong, my brother is a nice man, but you're a better choice that him in this particular case."

Tyrion files that particular piece of information away, searing it into his brain. If this was true, than Sansa was more cunning than anyone would have expected her to be.

"Then why?" he asks.

"It is a matter of choice," Sansa explains. "Ever since I came to King's Landing, others were making choices for me. I suppose that I just want to be able to make my own choice for once."

Tyrion nods. This, he could understand.

Chapter Text

"It is time," Margaery says.

Sansa is silent, for the most part. There are no words left to say. Slowly, she rises up, looking both determined and happy. And indeed, the happiness she had spent her whole life searching for was within her reach. She realized far too late that the husband she needed had been right there all along.

And now she would rectify that mistake.

She exits the room, with Margaery following her. In the absence of her birth father, it was arranged for another man to give her away, and one that wouldn't make Cersei suspicious at that. She and her friend got into the wheelhouse that would take them to the Sept of Baelor.

Once they got there, they were greeted by the unmistakable form of the Hound. It had been Sansa's suggestion that he should give her away, and Cersei ate it up and swallowed it for good measure. Sansa had rolled her eyes at how easy it was. For all Cersei boasted about being a capable player, she was really a simpleton. All one needed to do was butter her up and she would do what they wanted. Euron Greyjoy had proven that much, and now it was Sansa's turn to use this to her advantage.

The Hound grasped her arm and they advanced towards the raised dais, where High Septon was waiting with Tyrion. Sansa wore a white dress with a red lion emblems sewn into it. Of course, it was not exactly traditional, but neither of them intended it to be.

Once she got closer, the Hound let go of her hand and Tyrion took it instead, helping her climb up the rest of the way. Together, they stood before his Holiness, who began to recite the words. Once done, he produced a flowing pink ribbon and wrapped it around their hands, binding them symbolically, as they spoke the ceremonial words of their own.

Finally, Tyrion was given leave to kiss her. He bestowed a small, chaste kiss on her mouth, one that she barely felt. She couldn't help but smile at that, even as she deepened the kiss, much to his surprise. He was slightly breathless when they parted, she could tell.

"You mean it, my Lady?" he raised an eyebrow.

"A man I knew taught me that life is not a song," Sansa says, looking past him and at the Hound. "And he was right, if only partially. But he was also wrong. Life can be a song if we make it one. And I've learned from my mistakes."

She looks over at Margaery, who gives her a nod of approval.

And then she was officially married to one of the two brightest minds of this generation. Once Margaery was married to Robb, the world would be theirs for the taking, and they would create the new world order, one where the songs were real. One where they meant something.

Chapter Text

Robb awoke, drenched in sweat. The events of his death lingered in his brain. He could still feel the sharp sting of that blade in his chest, even though there was no wound, yet. Sitting idle was not an option, not anymore. He had to do this, for his family. All of his family. Which meant that some sacrifices had to be made.

He got up, got dressed, and put on his armor. One can never be sure these days. After that, he went to sup with his Lords, as usual. A brief look of disgust and trepidation crossed his face when he saw that his killer was among them. In hindsight, it was so obvious. Their two houses have been enemies for a long time, after all.

"My Lords," Robb spoke. "I've received an interesting letter, one that might just help us win this war! A letter from Margaery Tyrell, offering an alliance between her house and ours. I am sure you understand the significance."

Murmurs of surprise followed this declaration.

"Margaery Tyrell herself has requested that I meet her at Harrenhal, and to bring along someone I could trust," Robb continues. "She will be bringing her own grandmother, of course, so I must bring along someone with equal experience. And who better to fill that role than my great-uncle, Brynden Tully, also known as the Blackfish?"

As the man in question rises slowly, Robb catches the sour look on Roose Bolton's face. The traitor probably hoped he would have been chosen so he could carry out whatever plot he had in mind. The though of his plan being thwarted fills Robb with a vicious sort of satisfaction.

"Prepare yourself," Robb commands. "We ride tomorrow at dawn."

With that, he takes his leave. There were a few more things to do.

Margaery was beautiful, there was no denying it. There was beauty in her soul too, Robb could tell as much by the look in her eyes.

"Your Grace," Margaery curtsies.

"Don't call me that," Robb says vehemently.

"You're one of the five Kings vying for power," Margaery responds. "Well, four Kings now...King Joffrey fell off the bridge, unfortunately. No one knows how that happened. Nonetheless, his brother, Tommen would be crowned soon, no doubt so his bitch of a mother could seize power for herself. There was talk of having me marry Tommen instead, but I convinced grandmother to do otherwise. After all, the best King to follow is the one who didn't crown himself."

Robb is a bit taken aback by her statement.

"King Joffrey is dead?" he stammers.

This changed everything. Joffrey was the one who killed his father. Joffrey was the one he had a quarrel with. Robb wanted to be the one who would kill him, but it seemed that someone else had beaten him to it. And judging by the knowing look in Margaery's eyes, she knew exactly who had done it, and why, and was trying to protect that person, whoever they were. One of her relatives, perhaps? That was the only thing that made sense.

Not that there was a shortage of those who wanted to see the little bastard dead, for one reason or another.

"I recognize that look in your eyes," Olenna Tyrell inserts herself into the conversation seamlessly. "You think there is no more reasons to fight, but you're wrong. Tywin Lannister will not stop until he sees you dead, if only to keep the rest of his family safe. The only option now is kill or be killed."

"Grandmother is right," Margaery says with a small sigh. "Of the five kings, you're the best option to sit the Iron Throne."

"Father had said that Stannis is the best option," Robb says hesitantly. "It was his attempt to install that man as the King that got him killed."

From the familiar way Margaery's eyes gleamed, he knew she had considered that too.

"Stannis is a decent man," Margaery says. "But he lacks the love of his subjects. He demands loyalty rather than earning love. That sort of a man is not someone I could stand behind, no matter what anyone else says. But perhaps there can be a compromise. He has a young daughter, and you have a brother her age. Offer him a betrothal."

And there it was. Robb swallows heavily. Margaery's suggestion was a prudent one, but...he wasn't sure he could saddle Rickon with such a responsibility. Not to mention that Stannis' daughter was ugly, and carried the scars from the disease that killed her in her childhood.

"I'll consider it," Robb finally says. "And I accept your offer."

"Wonderful," Margaery says, taking both of his hands with hers. "To our triple alliance!"

"Triple alliance?" Robb's eyebrows furrow.

"Oh, I didn't tell you?" Margaery tilts her head innocently. "Your sister had struck gold with her marriage, literally. She and the Imp got married yesterday."

Now that made Robb reel back in anger, letting go of her hands in the process.

"WHAT?" He bellows. "I'll flay him!"

"That's Bolton practice," Margaery points out. "I wouldn't advise emulating the man who killed you."

Robb takes a few deep breaths, calming down.

"You're right, that is a bad idea," Robb admits. "But still, their marriage can't be allowed to stand."

"Your sister clearly loves him," Margaery says, and her tone is a bit sharper. "She finally found a man who would treat her kindly after a lifetime of being used, and you mean to strip her of the happiness she finally has? I thought you were a better man than that, Your Grace."

Robb takes one step back, looking as if he had been slapped.

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"Of course, if we are to be wed, then there must be concessions from both sides," Margaery says. "First off, Cersei Lannister must die. Second, and this is my personal request, Tyrion Lannister, as well as Tommen and Myrcella Waters, must be spared. Third, you must enter the Game proper and seek to take the Iron Throne. Lastly, the Kingdom of the Reach shall follow the Kingdom of the North and separate from the Iron Throne."

"Done," Robb says. "On behalf of House Stark, I accept your terms. As for my own terms, first, I request that I should be allowed to behead Roose and Ramsay Bolton and their Frey allies myself. Second, Theon Greyjoy will remain the ward of the Throne once we take it. Third, Tywin Lannister must die."

Margaery looks at her grandmother, who gives her a brief nod.

"Done," Magaery says. "On behalf of House Tyrell, I accept your terms."

They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing finer details of their alliance. Finally, Margaery was allowed to retire. There was a big event tonight and tomorrow as well, and Margaery wanted to be well-rested for both. She entered her quarters for the duration of her stay here.

Finally, as the nightfall drew near, Margaery left her quarters, taking her place beside her grandmother.

"You must remain composed," Olenna Tyrell whispered into her ear. "What we're about to see isn't going to be pleasant, after all."

Several soldiers wearing Stark armor advanced forward, dragging Roose Bolton along with them. The former Lord remained stoic, and Margaery found out that she could admire that, even if the rest of his actions were despicable.

A block was placed down, and Roose Bolton was forced to kneel, with his head being placed into the gap. Robb Stark appeared then, clad in simple black attire and nothing else.

"In the name of the King on the Iron Throne, I, Robb Stark, sentence you to die." Robb speaks. "If you have any last words, my Lord, now is the time to say them."

Roose Bolton didn't utter a word, not even as his head was finally separated from his body by a single swing.

"I am sorry that you had to witness that, my Lady," Robb says.

"It was my choice to be there, my King," Margaery responds. "What kind of a future wife would I be if I didn't support my future husband?"

The two of them were presently alone, their hands intertwined with one another.

"A poor one," Robb says with a smile, which Margaery returns.

"The stars are very beautiful," Margaery whispers, resting her head on top of his shoulder.

"Not as beautiful as you," Robb says sincerely, tucking one of her brown hairs behind her ear. "Your character means that you belong in the North, my Queen. I am only sorry I never realized that during our last lives."

"So am I, my King," Margaery answers. "So am I...but if we are to do this, we must move past regrets."

"True," Robb agrees. "True."

Chapter Text

Shireen stares at the letter, which has a few words written on it.

'History lies. Don't trust the Red Woman. The Prince Who Was Promised is not who she thinks he is. You must visit the Citadel in Oldtown. The truth is to be found there, hidden in plain sight.

Yours truly,

A Friend'

Shireen stares at the letter, trying to figure out the meaning. She knew who the Red Woman might be, or at least she thought she did. A woman clad in red had arrived a week ago, and her parents seemed quite taken with her. The letter said she needed to visit the Citadel, and she wasn't averse to the idea, though she wasn't sure Father would let her.

She put the letter down onto the table and moved over to the window. The fresh breeze came up to her, invigorating her. Down below, another fire was burning, and screams were heard. The smell of charred flesh finally reached her, and the smell made her feel sick. Reluctantly, she moved away from the window. She wasn't sure she liked this new custom, and if the letter spoke true, this Red Woman might be the one behind the burnings.

Shireen made up her mind then and there. She would convince Father to visit the Citadel, no matter what it took.

The rest of the week passed uneventfully, and then visitors arrived. They were a short man with a lion sigil sewed onto his clothes, and a taller woman with a wolf sigil sewed onto hers. They seemed as if they were in love with one another, but Shireen wasn't sure.

"Are you a Stark?" Shireen asks. "And are you two in love?"

"Shireen," Father says warningly.

Both the man and a woman smile at that, but it is the woman who answers.

"I am a Stark, Sansa Stark," she says. "This is my husband, Tyrion."

"She wanted to meet you," Tyrion says, turning his mismatched eyes to stare at her.

Particularly at her left cheek. People staring at her left cheek made her uncomfortable, but she was used to it.

Sansa must have noticed her discomfort, for she gave her husband a warning look.

"M'apologies," Tyrion says, clearly getting the message. "I just thought I might have a way to cure your affliction. Or rather, my wife does."

"Samwell is a learned man," Sansa says. "He also happens to be an expert on greyscale. If he cannot to it, no one can. One word from my friend will be enough to get him to come here and help you."

"Greyscale," Shireen repeats. "Is that what my scars are?"

"Yes," Sansa answers gently. "Very few people survive the process once it sets in. You're one of the lucky ones. But Samwell is a friend of a friend. He can remove it completely, so that others would no longer feel compelled to avoid you, and you'll be able to have friends. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Yes," Shireen says with a beaming smile. "Yes, I would like that very much."

Then her smile dims a bit.

"But surely there is something you must want in return," she adds. "No one would do such a thing without asking something in return."

"Nice people do, and I am one of them," Sansa says, and then kneels beside her. "But there is something you can do for me if you really want to."

Shireen looks at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue.

"There has been a king hidden in plain sight for all of this time," Sansa lowers her voice slightly. "He was conceived shortly after a tournament at Harrenhal. I believe that the High Septon at the time kept the journal that should have information about his parents. I want you to go to the Citadel and get that journal for me. In return, I'll send a letter to my friend and she'll order Samwell to come here and cure you."

Shireen nods eagerly, and Sansa smiles at her.