"A diplomatic envoy?" Cersei said through gritted teeth. Margaery placed her hands in her lap, settling back in her chair in preparation for her future Good-Mother's tantrum. The girl had learned early on that the Queen was a truly temperamental woman, more likely to shout and scream about something she did not want than to work for what she wanted. Margaery knew the value of kind words, but she wasn't about to interrupt the Queen to tell her that.
Unfortunately, since the war had descended on King's Landing- and indeed, on the Seven Kingdoms as a whole- Margaery had been expected to spend even more time with Cersei that she'd had to before. Her grandmother had wanted her to keep an eye on the woman from the time she'd appeared at court, but that was different than the way the court ladies were expected to huddle together, for safety or perhaps to keep them out of the way of the men, with their important important duties.
"The King is incredibly wise to think of it," she said mildly. "It could save countless lives."
"It's cowardly. My father could crush those savages. Every day that Robert twiddles his thumbs and hesitates, my son is in danger. He risks your future, as well," Cersei pointed out, voice bitingly cold. "I know how ambitious you Tyrells are. Wouldn't want to pass up being queen, would you?"
Margaery simply smiled, not bothering to respond to the woman. Cersei was simply lashing out, saying foolish things that Margaery would never voice in a thousand years. But no one would ever call Cersei subtle.
Still, Margaery couldn't help but worry. Cersei was right. Every day that Gendry was out in the field put his life in danger. She was fond of him, truly. Part of the attraction was his position, but Margaery also thought he was rather clever, and handsome. There was his odd fascination with Sansa's bastard sister, but the Prince was much too honorable to act on any attractions. Margaery was sure that she'd set him straight on their wedding night. No one could resist her when she put her mind- and her body- to the task of winning them over.
"I fear for Gendry's life for the same reason as you, Your Grace. Tremendous affection for him."
"I'm sure," Cersei replied shortly. Suddenly she turned to the maid hovering at the edge of the room. "More wine."
Margaery had to fight not to roll her eyes at the older woman.
"Do you fear for Sansa Stark?" Cersei asked. "Weren't the two of you rather close?"
She was cautious with her next few words, unsure what the Queen could be fishing for. She knew the question wasn't simply the Queen asking after her feelings. Maybe she was trying to catch her sympathizing with traitors.
"Sansa Dayne has made her decision. She remained loyal to her husband. As I will remain loyal to my betrothed and his family. To the Iron Throne."
"How patriotic."
She let out a small breath, sure she'd passed the hardest test the Queen would throw at her during their short midday meal. But then Cersei began again.
"Your family are filthy opportunists. You may think you've fooled us, but I will not let you hurt my children. Charm my husband and my son all you'd like, but I will watch you."
"Your Grace...I- I just remembered that my grandmother asked me to attend her today. I'm sorry to leave on this note, but I would request your leave?" Margaery asked, barely keeping her voice from shaking. The Queen had just threatened her, openly. And while Margaery would like to believe her position rather stable, she knew that there were no guarantees. It was much safer to avoid Cersei Lannister from then on. Or at least for the rest of the day.
The Queen waved her away, smirking, and Margaery left the room quickly, back ramrod straight. It was only when she'd made it several lengths down the corridor that she allowed herself to let out a heavy, frightened breath. Her grandmother needed to hear about this, soon.
Arya was taking the shortcut through the royal wing to the kitchen in search of something sweet when she saw Margaery Tyrell leaning rather heavily against the smooth stones of the wall. She could see no way to avoid the lad, so she took the initiative.
"My lady?" she said, announcing her presences along with posing a subtle question- what are you doing? it said.
Margaery looked up quickly, face smoothing. Arya hadn't exactly caught the previous expression, and she cursed her inattention.
Still, she admired the girl's ability to hide her emotions. She knew she had no such ability. In fact, Kira had remarked earlier that day that Arya looked rather scared, and when she'd tried to rid her face of the expression, the other girl said that now she just looked like she was in pain.
"Hello, Arya. How are you?" she asked politely.
"Fine, my lady. And you?"
"Absolutely fantastic," she answered easily, but their was a knowing look passed between the two of them. Both of them recognized that it wasn't true. "Though, I have just come from a meal with Queen Cersei. That was...not as fantastic."
Arya couldn't help the smile on her face, but the other girl shared her amusement. Treason was not so worrisome when it was shared.
"I'm sorry to hear that, My lady," she replied.
"Yes. Well, I really must speak to my grandmother. I'll leave you to get on your way,"
Arya nodded and Margaery swept off. She stared after her for a moment, but soon she was reminded of her grumbling stomach. She resumed her walk to the kitchens, and, fortunately enough, met no one else.
The cook reluctantly handed over a particularly stale berry tart when Arya asked, but he was quick to turn her away when she asked for something to share with her direwolf.
"I cook for the King of the Seven Kingdoms, not your bloody hound, girl," he hissed.
Arya scrunched up her nose at him. "She's not a hound. She's a direwolf!"
"Aye. You damn Northerners and your wild beasts. The maids won't shut up about those damn dragons attacking the countryside, but they ignore your giant beasts roaming the grounds."
With a huff and a roll of her eyes, Arya left the kitchen as abruptly as she'd come in. The cook was just a bitter old man. She doubted anyone else cared half as much as he did. Nymeria wasn't dangerous, not like a dragon. She was a good girl.
War was hard enough for the men who fought in it. But the people who suffered in silence were the smallfolk. It was their homes that were being ravaged by dragon fire, their livelihoods being ruined by the merciless looting of the Dothraki.
Gendry detested seeing his people's suffering, but, since the arrival of the bulk of the Lannister forces, since his grandfather's arrival, he hadn't been able to protect them as much as he would have liked.
Tywin had always been Gendry's least favorite Lannister- Uncle Tyrion was his favorite, Uncle Jaime his second favorite, and his mother third- but there was a mutual respect between the two of them. Gendry recognized his grandfather's wisdom, and Tywin acknowledged that Gendry wasn't as much of an idiot as his father or Joffrey. Still, the old man wasn't exactly kind. He spared no thought to the farms he razed, only thinking of ridding the Targaryen men of resources.
Gendry had never seen such carnage. He'd never realized just how sheltered his childhood had been, because war was frightening. He was not too proud to admit that. He imagined himself telling Arya that he was afraid of battle, watching her stare at him like he was mad, even while she wished she could take his place. She was filled with bravery. He needed that dearly now.
Robert had sent word of a diplomatic envoy to Tywin. The old man had been confused at first. There was nothing diplomatic about King Robert, but after a few moments of heated discussion with his war council, Tywin came to the understanding that it must be a plot that couldn't be explained by raven.
"I'm sure that eunuch whispered this plan into your father's ear, boy. He's not smart enough to think of it himself."
"Do you think it's smart, grandfather. Could killing their leader truly win us the war? What if he has a successor?"
"Exactly. We need to be assured that whatever Robert is planning to do won't risk our soldiers. We can't afford another loss."
"It's those damned dragons," Lord Buckler spoke up. His heavy face was scarlet with frustration. "Everytime we claw a victory from those horse-fuckers the dragons appear."
"Exactly. How do we know that killing their master won't put us at more risk from the dragons?"
"I don't know, grandfather," Gendry replied. He shook his head. How could they fight against beasts that were thought to have left their world altogether. They were the stuff of legends. His father expected them to fight the stuff of legends.
"No point killing ourselves over it. There is no easy solution. You're all dismissed," Tywin ordered. He sounded weary. He sounded irritated.
The lords stood in a great wave and filed out of the tent as fast as possible. They'd been stuffed inside the command tent for most of the day. Tywin had wanted any detail they could give him. And then he'd wanted ideas.
"Gendry, I'll speak to you tomorrow, at daybreak," the Lannister patriarch told his grandson sternly. Gendry nodded shortly, bowing respectfully, before he followed the rest of the men out.
He made his way wearily, towards the mess tent, hoping for a bit of supper before it got to cold. He'd been surprised to find that the stew they served in the camp, while sinister looking, was genuinely good. Better than a good deal of things he'd eaten at elegant feasts.
"Gendry!" Robb Stark called from a few lengths ahead of him. The man was gesturing with two hands each of which held a steaming bowl. He jogged towards him. Robb had been pointedly absent from the strategy meeting. Tywin had been mildly annoyed but had forgotten rather quickly about it. Still, Gendry wanted to ask after his absence.
"Seven bless you, Stark," Gendry exclaimed as he took the second bowl from Robb.
"I thought you might be in need of a hot meal after that ordeal."
Gendry grinned. "How would you know?"
The man's head ducked for a moment before he looked back up. "I received a raven from my mother, who received a raven from King's Landing. From my wife."
Gendry's brows raised. " Who was the raven from? And why didn't you receive this raven?"
"The raven was from Jeyne. And I don't know why she wrote my mother first. I'm not a father three times over."
Gendry grinned even bigger, clapping the eldest Stark on the back with all of his strength. A bit of stew from Robb's bowl sloshed out the side. "Congratulations, my friend!"
"Another girl," Robb explained further.
"Ah. Better luck next time," Gendry replied reflexively. He realized uncomfortably that he sounded like his father.
"I wish Arya had heard you say that," Robb japed. "She'd have your hide, Prince or not."
He shook his head regretfully. "Yes, I know." He sighed. "What is the babe's name? Has it been decided yet?"
"Jeyne had decided earlier, yes. She's calling her Eleyna, after her sister."
"Nice."
"We certainly have enough people to name children after," Robb said.
"And I'm sure you'll have enough children to recreate the Book of Lord, the rate your going."
"As long as we get through this," Robb replied. Both of their smiles faded quickly.
There was a chance they would not. Even Tywin Lannister wasn't entirely sure how they'd proceed through this war. It was so far and away from anything they'd faced in a very long time. They'd yet to see this man claiming to be Aegon Targaryen, had yet to see a soldier that wasn't Dothraki, but they'd seen enough of the dragons to last Gendry several lifetimes.
"Well, good thing you have something to look forward to. It will keep you motivated," Gendry said, knocking shoulders with his friend.
"So do you," Robb said. His mind flashed instantly to an image of Arya, hair a mess, eyes alight, wearing a dusty shirt and dirty breeches. Something to look forward to. "You're betrothed to the Rose of Highgarden."
Blinking, he tried to shove away any thoughts of Arya. That would be the last one he'd allow himself from now on. "Yes. Margaery is quite the motivation."
"No need to look so morose, Your Grace. I'm sure you'll live to see Margaery become your wife."
Gendry forced a laugh and took a spoonful of stew into his mouth so he could avoid having to reply.
They began to walk as they ate, neither filling the silence. Jon had told him once about a year ago, that marriage and children had calmed Robb down considerably. He explained that both he and Theon Greyjoy had been spirited boys, always chattering and getting themselves into trouble. Only in the past few years had Robb become the man Gendry knew.
Gendry liked this version of Robb. He preferred Jon, for the very fact that Jon was closer in temperament to Gendry, and because Jon wasn't- well, hadn't been- married. But Robb was a good sort. He liked that the eldest Stark could be silent for longer than a moment. Growing up in the Red Keep, among the perfumed lordlings of the Court, Gendry was used to chattering, simpering idiots being his only companions. It wasn't until he'd met his Uncle Stannis that he found someone like him, less fond of words, more fond of actions. And it wasn't until he met the Starks that he found someone like him who he actually liked.
Northerners knew the value of words. They weren't quick to waste them.
But eventually, Gendry knew, they'd be pulled into some sort of conversation. This took the form of settling a grievance between two Knights, which may have dissolved into an all out brawl if not for his Royal intervention.
"Sers, I think you should withdraw," he suggested. But the way he spoke made no room for argument. If there was one thing he'd learned from his father, besides how to alienate your wife or how to drink yourself stupid, it was how to make a command sound preferable to disobedience. "No room for squabbling with dragons about."
Both of the men hurried to obey, falling over themselves to bow deeply to their Crown Prince, and turning tail as quickly as possible, both heading in the opposite direction.
"Ridiculous. We're already fighting a war. Why do they want to create strife in camp?" Gendry remarked irritably.
"Tensions are high. We have no warning as to when an attack will come."
Unfortunately, and perhaps a little ironically- the Gods loved that, didn't they- that's when the trumpets blared in quick bursts of three, the signal for dragons.
"For Seven's sake!" Robb cursed. Gendry shared his rage and exasperation, but there was no time for anger. He bolted in the direction of his tent. He still wore his armor- he rarely took it off anymore- but he'd left his warhammer beside his cot, deciding a sword was adequate enough for War Council.
He had made it halfway when he saw the shadow begin to swallow up any light coming from the sliver of the moon. The torches flickered as wingbeats sent gusts of wind rocketing along the ground. The great beast was impossible to truly make out, but he'd seen them in all their terrible glory in the months past. He knew how they looked. He got a glimpse of someone on its back though, a new development, before the column of fire blinded him to anything else.
It wasn't aimed at him. Instead, the fire shot towards the center of camp. This was where the most important lords and commanders were tented. It erased all doubt from his mind that these beasts were being specifically controlled. A human had made that decision. A human with tactical knowledge, or at least some level of intelligence. It made perfect sense to target the leaders of their army.
There were several camps all throughout the Stormlands. But this was the largest, as well as the most important. They'd been specifically targeted.
Gendry realized all of this in a few moments. Then, he realized that he needed to save whoever was caught in those flames. He needed to find his grandfather, and he needed to find Robb. He raced towards the flames without another thought, and he saw as his soldiers began to do the same, eyes wide and reflecting the flames in the dark.
"We had 300,000 troops in those camps. We had 300,000 men when we started this fucking mess!" Robert bellowed. "They matched us. With their savages and their sellswords. And now-"
"Brother-"Renly tried to interrupt, but Robert spun on him, eyes burning.
"Shut your mouth, you damn idiot," he growled. "Ned, how many died?"
Eddard Stark looked like he'd aged about twenty years in the span of three days. Word of the attack had been delayed by the fact that most of the men who would have written to King's Landing, commanders and Lords, were dead. They'd been targeted by dragon fire. Ned had never even heard of such a thing, dragons being selective about who they slaughtered.
"We don't know yet, Your Grace. They're still recording the losses. They estimate about 90,000, though."
"90,000."
"Yes, Your Grace. Among them...Tywin and Kevan Lannister, Lord Harwood Fell-"
"Enough," Robert barked. "What word do you have of my son?"
"Gendry was unharmed, Your Grace,"
"And your boy...the oldest. Does he live?"
Ned stared at his old friend for a moment, feeling as if he'd suddenly recognized him. Robert and he hadn't been true friends since he'd returned North all those years ago. But still...
"He was wounded. He'll live, I've been assured, but they took him to Riverrun to ensure that. Gendry wrote himself. He says that he wishes to withdraw our forces. We must retreat to the Riverlands. I agree. Traveling inland might not defend against Dragon, but we could relieve the pressure from their forces."
Robert took a seat, the wood groaning with the sudden weight. His mouth disappeared with his beard and his brow was heavily lined with worry. "Give the order, Ned. And bring my boy back. I need him here. Jaime Lannister can take his father's place at the head of my Army, and Renly can take Gendry's."
"Brother-" Renly began again, but Robert glared at him.
"No argument!"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Make the arrangements, Ned."
"Of course, Robert."
Ned rose, exiting the Council chambers as quickly as possible. He needed to write to Catelyn. He needed to reassure Jeyne, and he needed to make sure Arya knew nothing of the attack until he told her. He was ashamed to admit that he'd been giving her only measures of the truth. He knew that if he had any hope of keeping her here, of keeping her out of harm's way, he must keep her from hearing all that was happening.
He knew Arya well. He knew how much the girl cared for others. If she knew what those soldiers were facing, what was being done the smallfolk, no one could stop her from running off to fight for them. His Arya would fight for the entire world if she could.
And for all that he'd resisted it, the court had changed him. Ned wasn't the simple, honorable Northern man he'd been when he'd arrived. He'd learned that to survive at court was to play politics. He'd been calculating in his mentioning of his sister Lyanna. It pained him to use her memory to keep Arya safe. But it was what she would have wanted. Lyanna would understand more than anyone else why Arya must be shielded. Ned would do his duty. To all of them. To his wife, to his good-daughter, to Arya Snow.
Ned wrote to Catelyn. He requested information about Robb's state. He asked if Robb knew anymore than Gendry was able to tell. He went to Jeyne and explained what had happened. The girl was exhausted and worried sick, clutching her new baby girl for dear life, but Ned eased her mind.
"Robb will be fine. And his mother won't let him return to the fight after this. You have nothing to worry about, dear girl." He emphasised this with a smile, placing his head on his new granddaughters soft, downy head. So beautiful. Sor vulnerable. His job to protect her from all of the world's evils.
"Thank you," she said, eyes wet with tears. Ned knew she believed him. He understood that women were emotional after bringing babes into the world. It made him comfortable enough to leave her with her maid and her child.
Next he must speak with Arya.
Sansa woke to blood on her sheets.
Ned Dayne woke to his wife's screams and her desperate cries for help. His hands were on her shoulders in seconds, asking her what was wrong, what she needed.
Thankfully, the maids heard her screams and came rushing in. it gave him the jolt he needed to think through the instant panic.
"Sansa. Sansa my dear, you must tell me what's wrong!" But she needn't explain, because then he saw the blood.
"Call the Maester!" Ned shouted, even as he redoubled his efforts to catch his wife's attention. "Sansa! Sansa look at me!" but she was crying hysterically, calling out for her mother, for the Mother, he wasn't sure which. Ned would have liked some divine intervention himself. He was choked with fear. For his wife, for the babe that she bore for him.
Maester Clayse burst into the room moments later, rushing to the bed, looking both confused and terrified. Both his Lord and Lady appeared to be in hysterics and there was blood on their sheets. Lady Dayne was clutching her stomach and wailing, and Lord Dayne was shaking her as if to wake her.
Sansa stopped screaming when Maester Clayse began examining her and Ned stopped shaking her. Her tears remained, but they were the silent type. Ned paced while the older man did his work. It was obvious rather quickly what had happened. Still, the Maester did his work. He called the maids in to clean their Lady of her blood and when she'd been put into a new nightdress- Sansa still hadn't spoken- he tried to explain.
"My Lady-" he began, voice weak. There was no good news he could deliver that night, no cure or treatment. "My lady...you've lost the child. I'm terribly sorry."
Sansa's shoulders sunk, her head falling into her hands, and Ned rushed forward, enveloping her in his arms.
"I- I want my mo-" she began, but her voice broke and she couldn't continue. Her voice was robbed of her and she didn't know if she wanted it back.
Ned was horrified to realize that what she wanted- what she needed in her hour of need, was what he couldn't give her. Sansa wanted her mother. She wanted her mother and Ned had made them both traitors to the Iron Throne. He'd chosen the wrong side.
Sansa just wanted her mother.