[Look To The Stars] Chapter 66: When the Leash Snaps (Patreon)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM and George Lucas/Disney. I have no ownership.

A/N: Ahhhh this one took a while to get out, especially getting the dialogue right. Hope you enjoy!

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Year 299 AC/8 ABY

Kingswoods

Morghaes banked through the canopy and the world below revealed itself. Tyrell pavilions in disciplined rows along the Kingsroad, their green-and-gold canvas catching what light the forest canopy allowed, and picket lines to the east where horses stood in ordered clusters.

Daenerys watched as her nephew and Rhaegal banked twenty paces ahead, the green dragon's wings cutting the air in a rhythm that Morghaes matched without being told. Below, the Millennium Falcon sat in its own cleared ring, the ramp was down and figures moved at its base: Robb Stark in grey wool among the Tyrell green, the woman Han called his wife leaning on his arm, the Wookiee, the golden droid walking down stiffly beside Luke Skywalker.

The ground came up and Morghaes landed hard enough to send a tremor through the trampled grass. Asher was at her right shoulder before the dragon's wings folded, Beskha at her left, close enough to catch a fall, far enough to leave the dismount hers.

She grabbed the rigid line of Morghaes's neck to slide down. Before her boots could even seek the earth, Robb Stark materialized from the shadow of the freighter. The Tyrell guards were still exchanging uncertain glances, paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of the beasts and the ship before them. Robb ignored the spectacle entirely. He possessed that rare, dangerous ability to shrink a massive encampment into a single point of focus.

He halted near the dragon's flank, his posture relaxed but expectant, and extended his right hand.

She hesitantly placed her fingers in a palm hardened by sword hilts and winter winds but gentle still. Yet the moment their skin met, the heavy reality of the North dissolved into the searing memory of her dreams or a red haired boy. A sudden warmth rushed up her wrist to burn quietly in her cheeks, stripping away every excuse she had made to delay this reckoning until the war was won.

Her boots found the trampled grass. Robb stepped back, releasing her hand with a respectful incline of his head.

"My thanks," Daenerys said, keeping her voice low.

A reply formed on his lips, but a violent retch from behind them shattered the quiet. Beskha was leaning heavily against a supply crate, her skin the color of old parchment.

"If I ever set foot on that metal beast again," the sellsword groaned, "I will throw myself out the Moon Door."

Asher took a wide step away from her. "Save your complaints until we are out of sight. You are embarrassing us in front of the southerners."

Daenerys did not sigh. Queens did not sigh in front of foreign armies. She swept past Robb, leaving him to observe the bickering mercenaries, and turned her attention to the camp. The Tyrell host had frozen in place.

A girl separated herself from the Tyrell retinue, stepping out from beneath the golden rose banners that could only be Margaery Tyrell. Daenerys saw Ser Loras reflected perfectly in her soft brown eyes and tumbling hair. But compared to Loras' reckless arrogance of a swordsman, this girl moved with a quiet, terrifying grace. She wore a gown of rich summer velvet, looking completely unfazed by the dragon in front of her. A southern knight formally announced them, his voice thick with the careful pageantry of Highgarden. As the titles washed over the clearing, Daenerys watched Margaery dip into a perfect curtsy, realizing at once that this girl was as dangerous as any man with a sword.

Daenerys knew the courts of Essos well enough to spot a mock curtsy. Margaery Tyrell offered no such mockery. Her bow was an exact calculation, offering the respect owed to a rival without yielding an inch of ground.

"Lady Margaery Tyrell," Daenerys said, studying the thick brown curls that so perfectly mirrored the Knight of Flowers. She let the silence stretch just long enough to make the southern knights uncomfortable. "Renly's widow."

Margaery did not flinch. Her brown eyes remained perfectly serene. "I was," Margaery replied softly. "A brief chapter, Your Grace. We look to the future now, just as you do."

The Reach girl did not linger on the uncomfortable truth. She simply absorbed it and transitioned immediately into the ultimate southern host. Daenerys recognized the maneuver from her time in the Free Cities. The young widow was wrapping herself in the sacred armor of the guest right, using overwhelming generosity to suffocate any further interrogation.

The subtle standoff broke only when Margaery's attention drifted past Daenerys, her practiced smile faltering slightly as she caught sight of Han Solo bracing his pregnant wife on the freighter's ramp. The princess was seven moons gone and visibly tired from the flight. Her free hand rested on the curve of her belly, and her face was pale, the pallor of a woman who had spent hours inside a metal vessel that was never designed for comfort.

"Your Grace," Margaery said, her tone smooth and final. "The princess clearly requires a proper bed, and that metal ship seems entirely unsuited for rest. If you will excuse me."

She did not wait for a royal dismissal. Margaery crossed the trampled grass toward Han and Leia, reaching for the tired woman with the gentle, commanding urgency of a seasoned healer. Daenerys watched the camp simply part for the Reach girl. Daenerys began to walk, her sellswords falling into step beside her.

"I could use a proper bed too," Asher murmured.

"Save your complaints until we are out sight," Beskha replied dryly.

A faint, genuine smile touched Daenerys's lips. "I will buy you both a castle of featherbeds once we finish this war," she said quietly, her gaze never leaving the strangers.

Margaery had slipped her arm beneath Leia's elbow, supporting the princess's weight so naturally that Han Solo actually stepped back. For the first time since Daenerys had met him, the cynical armor vanished from the spaceman's face. Stripped of his swagger, he looked like nothing more than a terrified husband desperate to keep his wife and unborn child safe.Margaery guided Leia toward a large pavilion twenty paces beyond the dragon ring. The golden droid followed them closely, its stiff metal legs picking through the mud with loud, anxious complaints.

Daenerys intercepted the strange family halfway across the clearing. She did not wait for an invitation but immediately offered her shoulder to support Leia's free side, matching Margaery's perfectly measured pace.

Han followed them to the entrance of the stablemaster's pavilion, but Daenerys turned to block his path.

"Stand guard outside," Margaery commanded quietly. "She needs rest, not your pacing."

Han looked ready to argue. He stared at his wife, then looked at the two young women confidently supporting his exhausted wife. The fight drained right out of him. The smuggler stepped back into the mud and let the tent flap fall closed.

In the sudden privacy of the pavilion, they guided Leia onto the thick featherbed. Margaery immediately dropped to the floor to tackle the right boot. Daenerys took the left.

Leia let out a shuddering breath. "You do not have to do this."

"Hush," Margaery soothed, her voice stripped of its usual political polish. "Let us serve you, Princess."

Daenerys unlaced the muddy leather in silence, finding a strange, grounded peace in the simple act of helping another woman.

Leia let out a soft, breathy laugh that was more exhaustion than humor. "Thank you, sweethearts," she murmured, her voice thick with fatigue. "Both of you."

Daenerys looked down at the muddy laces still resting in her hands. "I do not think anyone has ever called me that."

"Then they should have," Leia replied. Her dark eyes were entirely lucid, fixed firmly on the silver queen as if seeing through her. The same way her brother looked at her. "You do not have to wear your armor in here, Daenerys."

Daenerys stiffened, setting the boot down with deliberate care. "You do not know me, Princess."

"No. But I know the look." Leia rested a hand on her swollen belly. "I wore it for a long time too, after my planet… you are not as alone as you think you are."

Margaery abandoned the boots entirely. She crossed to the pitcher, poured a cup of water, and pressed it into Leia's hand. The gesture was a quiet attempt to fill the sudden, sharp silence in the tent.

"There is a fellowship in survival, Princess," Margaery murmured, turning to Daenerys with her political polish completely absent. "And there are kindnesses owed to those who share it. Even late ones."

Daenerys felt the old anger flare, a hot shield against the vulnerability in the room. "What does the rose of Highgarden know of survival? You sleep in silk and songs. Do not pretend you understand—"

"You are right," Margaery interrupted, her voice gentle. She did not rise to defend herself. "I will never pretend our upbringings were the same. I grew up in a family that loves me dearly, yet still treats me as a wager to be placed on a Cyvasse board. We share that much, I think. We were both married to bring power to our families." Margaery met the dragon princess' gaze without flinching. "You escaped your fate, Princess. I respect a woman who can carve out her own survival. We do not need to be allies, but I offer you my friendship regardless."

The ghosts of Braavos vanished. Margaery was still watching her, offering a blank slate in a world built entirely on grudges.

"What did my brother tell you about the magic in your blood?" Leia asked from the pillows.

Daenerys turned slowly. "He told me it requires training."

"Typical Luke." Leia let out a breathy laugh. "He gives you a warning and waits for you to figure out the rest. Though, I cannot entirely blame Luke, he has been busy with the Stark children. I suppose I can give you some advice, even with my limited knowledge."

"But how? Can you also—"

A faint rustle came from the corner of the tent. Daenerys and Margaery turned to watch as the pair of boots slid across the layered carpets and came to rest neatly beside a campaign chest. The movement was silent, deliberate, as if guided by an invisible hand.

Margaery’s breath hitched, a tiny, sharp sound. Her gaze darted from the boots to Leia’s still form, then back to Daenerys.

“I do not know her truth the way Luke would pretend not to know it,” Leia murmured. “But I can feel enough. There is no knife in what Margaery offers you. And I feel you treating your grief like a weapon you can hide in a sheath.” She finally opened her eyes, fixing Daenerys with a look that was both weary and piercing. “The Force does not let you hide things, Daenerys. It amplifies whatever you refuse to speak aloud. My family tore a galaxy apart learning that lesson. Do not repeat it. Find someone to talk to.”

The revelation shifted the very air in the tent. Margaery blinked, her careful composure cracking for a fraction of a second before reforming. Outside, Morghaes let out a low rumble. The sound echoed inside Daenerys's mind, a heavy, warm weight resting against her thoughts.

Leia drifted into sleep, leaving the warning ringing in the quiet tent.

Daenerys finally looked at the cup in Margaery's extended hand. Her armor was designed to deflect treason, not an earnest olive branch. She took the cup, her queen-mask loosening just enough to let the girl beneath breathe.

"I am a poor investment for friendship, Lady Margaery," Daenerys warned quietly.

"I am a widow of Highgarden," Margaery replied. "I am accustomed to risk."

A genuine, albeit fragile, smile touched the dragon princess's mouth. "Dany. When there are no lords around."

"Dany," Margaery agreed.

Leia stirred beneath her furs, her voice quiet but clear in the dim light. “Shouldn’t you be going to see him?”

Margaery’s lips curved. It was a small, private smile, the kind a woman wears when she holds a card no one else has seen. She traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip.

“Let him wait,” she said. “He is not the only alliance in this camp that needs tending.”

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The practice ring was nothing more than a rope tied around a patch of ruined grass. Luke had asked for the space, and the Tyrells had provided it with suspicious speed. Jon knew that Olenna is just piling up the political bill at this point.

Jon parried Robb’s overhead strike, the dull thunk of blunted steel vibrating up his arm. He could feel the grit of dirt under his boots, the prickle of sweat at his hairline.

His eyes, though, were on the other side of the field.

Luke moved like water flowing around a stone. Oberyn Martell’s spear thrusts were quick, vicious, but Luke’s blunted blade was a humming circle, deflecting each one with minimal effort. The Dornish prince’s frustration was a visible thing, tightening his jaw, making his movements a fraction too sharp.

“He’s toying with him,” Robb muttered, resetting his stance. His breath came in short bursts.

Jon didn’t answer. He watched Luke’s footwork, the way he used the whole ring, never letting Oberyn pin him down. It was a lesson in patience. A lesson Jon was failing to apply to his own bout.

Robb lunged again, a feint low that went high. Jon blocked it, but his mind was elsewhere. He saw the exact moment Oberyn overextended, a flash of red silk and bronze. Luke’s blade didn’t so much strike as guide. The spear spun from Oberyn’s grip, thudding into the dirt a yard away.

Silence fell over the watchers. Then Oberyn laughed, a rich, rolling sound that broke the tension. He clapped Luke on the shoulder, his earlier irritation melting into grudging respect. “A fine dance, Master Skywalker. You’ll have to teach me that last step.”

Luke gave a small, polite nod, his expression unreadable. He watched Oberyn retrieve his spear and walk back to the ropes, where Sarella handed him a waterskin. Then Luke turned.

His gaze found Jon and Robb.

Jon felt the weight of it settle on him, heavier than any sword. He straightened, bringing his guard up properly for the first time in minutes. Robb did the same, his competitive edge sharpening under that calm, assessing stare.

The audience forming along the outskirts of the field was witnessing an impossible tapestry in skill. Samwell Tarly huddled in his maester robes next to the pristine white cloak of Barristan Selmy. The golden son of Highgarden stood mere yards from where Oberyn Martell and his Sand Snake daughter now stood. A few hard faced Northern lordlings muttered among themselves and anchoring the entire perimeter, Chewbacca watched with his bowcaster slung across his back, a quiet reminder to every knight present of just how vast their universe had suddenly become.

“Focus on your fight,” Luke said. His voice carried clearly across the ring. It wasn’t a request.

Jon and Robb faced each other again and ten paces in, blunted training swords held at guard, both of them sweating through the third bout of the evening.

Robb's long-sword was cocked at his shoulder, two hands on the grip, his stance built for the second strike rather than the first. Jon held the his blade lighter than he liked, the balance too far forward. He had taken three of Robb's strikes on the cross and given two back, and the points each had scored were the sort a master filed with a small nod and a smaller frown.

Luke spoke without raising his voice.

"Drop them."

Robb's eyes went to Luke. Jon's went to Robb, then to Luke. Robb's blade paused at the top of its arc.

"Master."

"You heard me. Set them down."

Jon planted his sword's tip in the grass. Robb hesitated half a beat longer, then drove his own point into the earth beside it.

"Take up your blades."

Robb opened his mouth. "We just—"

"Your other blades," Luke said.

A breath of quiet moved around the rail.

Jon and Robb met each other's gaze. Robb's face asked the question Jon's was already asking. They turned together to Luke.

"Master," Robb said, "…are you sure. Are we ready yet to…"

"No one padawan is ever truly ready to wield a lightsabre," Luke's voice carried no heat. "But they must always be ready when the situation calls for it. And the both of you need to learn."

Jon's hand went to his belt. The hilt found his palm with the small recognition that always came of it. Robb's came up from the small of his back, where he had taken to wearing it.

Two snap-hisses, one after the other, and the ring filled with the sound of two columns of light standing where the swords had been.

Green and blue, six paces apart.

Along the rail, the murmur traveled the way crowd noise travels when men remember they are seeing something they had only heard in tales. Sam pulled his sleeves further over his hands. Smalljon muttered something to Harrion that was half a curse and half a boast.

"Control," Luke said. "And the form."

Robb launched himself forward. He used the heavy, falling strikes of Djem So, but the mechanics belonged entirely to the North. The blue blade came down with the savage, unpolished weight of the North. Jon raised his green lightsaber and caught the blow, gritting his teeth as the kinetic shock jarred his elbow.

Beneath the hum of the plasma, Jon felt the current rising in his brother. It was entirely feral. Robb's Jedi training was merely a thin leash barely restraining the snarling wolf underneath. Jon gave ground, turning his blade to deflect the next swing. Robb simply pressed harder. The third strike was heavier than the second, and the fourth heavier still. Jon tried to retreat behind the quiet wall of Soresu. Yet every time the blades locked, he felt the crushing, familiar will of an older brother determined to break his guard.

Jon let his defensive wall splinter.

Instead of desperately patching it, he surrendered to the deep, biting cold pooling beneath his ribs. This was the edge of Vaapad, the precipice Luke had constantly pulled him away from during their trials. Tonight, Jon stepped off the ledge entirely. The temperature in the ring plummeted, a jagged chill rolling off his shoulders that felt exactly like the deepest levels of the Winterfell crypts.

When the blue blade crashed down again, Jon was not there to catch it.

He slipped inside the heavy swing, his footwork suddenly fluid and venomous. The green blade whipped around Robb's guard, stopping a fraction of an inch from his collar. It was a killing angle, executed in the blink of an eye.

Robb felt the heat of the plasma. The heavy, feral presence pressing against Jon's mind paused. Then Robb bared his teeth in a wild grin, looking exactly like the boy of twelve who had just been bested in the mud.

"Again," Robb challenged.

The training ended right there. Robb abandoned the clean lines of Djem So, letting his direwolf dictate the rhythm. He swung the blue blade with a terrifying, unpolished fury, twisting the Jedi form into a blunt instrument of Northern rage. The strikes came so fast and so hard that Jon knew instantly that holding his ground would mean being broken in two.

Aggression met aggression as Vaapad answered. The freezing current in his chest flooded his limbs, turning his green blade into a blur of venomous counters. He was moving faster than conscious thought, taking Robb's relentless pressure and reflecting it back with absolute malice. A strange, cruel smile stretched across Jon's face. He knew it was wrong, but the dark power felt too intoxicating to drop.

Then Luke was standing between them.

The humming blades locked in place a hairsbreadth from the Jedi's outstretched palms, caught in an invisible, unyielding grip.

"Enough."

He spoke softly, but the word hit like a bolder on their shoulders. The cold receded from Jon's skin, clinging stubbornly to his ribs before finally fading. Robb exhaled a ragged breath, and far down the picket line, Grey Wind let out a miserable whine.

Along the rope rail, the mood instantly soured. A Tyrell knight yelled for the bout to continue, his voice thick with tourney bloodlust. Others joined in, banging gauntlets against the wooden posts. They had come for a spectacle, and they felt entirely entitled to see the final blow land.

Sarella watched the shouting men with quiet disgust. Sam flinched at the noise. Barristan Selmy remained perfectly still, still digesting what he just witnessed.

In response, Luke did not raise his voice. He simply turned his head.

The Jedi Master turned his attention to the screaming Tyrell line. He offered no grand display of power. He simply leveled a single, searing look at the crowd. The effect was immediate. The knights closest to the rope suddenly found themselves unable to meet his eyes. They stepped back, dropping their gaze to the trampled earth. The jeers choked off. The banging stopped and the silence rushed back into the clearing, absolute and deeply uncomfortable.

"Turn them off," Luke ordered.

The humming died. The sudden silence left the practice ring feeling hollow and vast. Neither boy moved to sit. They stood chest-heaving, staring at the trampled mud.

"That was not a spar," Luke said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of an anvil. "That was a tavern brawl with weapons that can melt blast doors. You forgot it was practice the second your pride took a bruise."

He stepped closer to Robb. "You let the direwolf dictate your rhythm. Aggression is not strength, Robb. It is a loss of control. You wielded that blade like a club simply because you were afraid of losing to your brother."

Luke turned his attention to Jon, and the disappointment grew noticeably colder. "And you opened a door to the dark because your ego could not accept a retreat. Vaapad is not a trick to win a training bout. It is a razor that cuts the hand holding it. If I had not stepped in, one of you would be missing a head, and the other would carry that guilt forever. You are padawans. Act like it. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Master," Robb muttered.

"Yes, Master," Jon echoed, the shame burning hot in his throat.

The crowd melted away quickly, lacking the stomach to linger after the Jedi's reprimand. Only a few knights remained by the time Robb pushed himself up from the trampled grass. He brushed the mud from his knees and offered a hand. Jon took it. The pull was strong, followed by a firm, grounding grip on Jon's shoulder. There was no noble swagger left in his brother. It was merely the quiet relief of an older brother who realized how close they had come to a tragedy.

"I am buying the ale tonight," Robb said quietly.

Jon nodded. "Sure, but you do know it is free, right?"

Robb snorted. "Nothing is free in this camp."

They headed for the perimeter gate and a figure stepped out from the shadow of the wooden post, startling Jon completely. He had not seen Margaery arrive at the practice ring. She stood perfectly composed in the lantern light, the hem of her riding dress dusted with the day's mud.

"My lords," Margaery greeted softly. Her eyes shifted entirely to Jon. "May I walk you to your pavilion?"

The lingering, miserable tension of the spar finally broke. Robb let out a sudden, breathy laugh, the ghost of his usual grin returning. He clapped Jon on the back once more.

"Sam," Robb called out loudly, turning his back on them immediately. "Time to work on your footwork drills. Right now."

Sam took a half step back into the yard he had just escaped. "I believe the Archmaester wants to see me—"

"The mystic Maester can wait," Robb caught Sam's sleeve before Sam's shoulder finished its retreat. "Master Luke, may I borrow Sam for the forms?"

Luke's mouth moved at the corner. "Take him."

Robb shoved Sam back toward the sparring ring, shooting Jon a smug, sideways grin that Margaery saw perfectly. Jon chose not to acknowledge it.

Margaery fell into step beside him. The walk back to his pavilion was blessedly quiet. Jon exchanged brief nods with the picket captains they passed, but Margaery did not bother with her usual courtly pleasantries. When they reached his tent, Jon held the heavy canvas flap open. She stepped inside.

A single lantern burned on the folding table, casting long shadows over Sam's supply ledgers and the morning march orders. Jon let the flap fall closed, sealing them in.

When he turned around, the perfect Tyrell widow was gone. Her shoulders had dropped a fraction, and her brown eyes were no longer arranged for anyone watching from outside.

"Now you want to talk," Jon said.

"I had duties." Margaery glanced once toward the practice ring beyond the canvas. "And then I had the chance to watch you nearly take your brother's head off."

Jon crossed to the table and set the hilt of his lightsaber beside the supply ledgers. The metal clicked softly against the wood.

"I lost the edge of it."

"No," she said. "You found an edge. That is what frightened me."

He looked at her then.

Margaery did not retreat from it. She stood with the lantern at her side and the tent flap behind her, close enough to leave if she chose and far enough in that leaving would mean something.

"Is that what I am being asked to stand beside tomorrow?" she asked. "The king who stops himself, or the one Master Luke must stop?"

The answer should have come easily. Jon had answered harder questions in front of harder men.

It did not.

"Both," he said at last. "For now."

Margaery's hands folded at her waist. "Good. I dislike being courted with lies."

"I am not courting you."

"No," she said. "You are much worse at it."

The corner of his mouth moved despite himself. “I am not used to courting beautiful women.”

He heard the intake of her breath, a soft sound against the tent’s muffled backdrop.

Margaery’s voice, when it came, was low and threaded with something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “At least you think I am beautiful.”

Then Margaery looked toward the canvas wall, toward the practice ring beyond it, where Sam's distant protest rose and was cut off by Robb's laugh.

"What did you feel when I walked in?" Margaery asked. She kept her gaze fixed on the canvas wall. "Princess Leia explained how it works. You feel things before people say them."

Jon felt a sudden, crushing exhaustion. He leaned back against the support pole. "It is just noise, mostly. Anger, fear, excitement. Sometimes grief, if it is loud enough."

She finally turned to look at him. "And right now?"

"And right now?"

Jon took a deep breath.

"You are afraid and excited," he said. "And angry that I know it."

Margaery's mouth changed, almost a smile and then not one. "At least you are learning."

"Could you go deeper?" she asked. "If you wanted to."

"Yes."

"But you do not."

"No, I would never. Not with you, Margaery."

"Because Master Luke forbade it?"

"Because my father taught me not to steal," Jon said.

"It is a relief that Lord Stark lives up to his epithet of the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms."

Margaery fell quiet for a long moment.

"You know everything I feel, Daemon. Yet I have only felt what you felt once."

His eyes snapped back to hers.

"In the rose maze," she whispered, her voice stripped of all Highgarden polish. "I saw your face without the armor. And I..."

Jon did not let her finish.

He crossed the space between them before his mind could formulate a tactical objection. The dark, magical current hummed at the base of his skull, instinctively reaching for her, but Jon violently shoved it down. He did not want to read her mind. He wanted to feel her with his own hands. The ambient noise of the camp faded into the hiss of the lantern.

He kissed her.

Highgarden had been a desperate, hidden thing in the dying light. This was deliberate. His right hand found the warm curve of her jaw, his left settling firmly at her waist. Margaery let out a soft, startled breath before her hand tangled in the thick wool of his cloak, her grip twisting the fabric tight. For a long, suspended minute, there was no game of thrones. There was only the heat of her mouth and the frantic pulse beneath his thumb.

When she finally pulled back, it was only by half an inch. She tried to pull the Tyrell mask back into place, but her ragged breathing betrayed her completely.

Jon let the current fade entirely. The tent reasserted itself around them, bringing back the smell of lamp oil and the chill of the night wind. Margaery stepped back just far enough to break the contact. Her hands lingered on the heavy wool of his cloak.

"I cared for Renly," she whispered, her eyes searching his face. "But never loved him and he never loved me back. He loved my brother Loras."

She took a shaky breath, forcing the Tyrell poise back into her spine. "We were a political fiction. I would have kept that lie for the rest of my life because my house trained me to do exactly that. I am telling you now because I do not want to lie to you."

Jon did not speak. He just watched her steady herself.

"At dawn, I will walk at your right side," Margaery said, her voice finding its familiar steel. "My hand on your arm. I do not want a grand speech from you. I do not want you looking to my grandmother for permission. When the lords ask why the Tyrell widow is claiming the Northern king, I will handle them."

"I understand."

"That is my choice, Jon. Not a treaty brokered by a council."

"I know."

A true, brilliant smile broke across her face. "Try to look like you won the prize in the morning, Your Grace."

Then she slipped through the flap. Jon stood in the empty tent, the cold rushing in to replace her warmth, listening to the muffled sound of his brother laughing in the dark.

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Kings Landing, The Crownlands

The throne room had a rhythm and Tyrion had learned it. Three taps of Joffrey's heel against the foot of the Iron Throne, a pause, three more. The boy was getting more impatient. Cersei stood at the throne's left with her goblet, knuckles paler than the wine. Pycelle's voice shook on the third sentence, steadied by the fourth, and shook again on the seventh. He had been reading raven after raven of this shape for a week now and had not yet learned how to do it without flinching.

"...Lord Tywin reports the host has left Harrenhal, regrouping after the engagement on the Green Fork, and that Lord Jaime Lannister, having been unhorsed in the rout, is held by the Stark host as a prisoner of war. Lord Tywin commands that the Crownlands levies be raised in full from every holdfast and farmstead between Stokeworth and the Kingswood, every man of fighting age to muster at the Red Keep, and that the city watch be doubled at the Mud Gate and the Iron Gate against the southern host now marching north under banner of Tyrell and —"

"Stop."

Cersei did not shout. The word just slammed into the room like a closed iron door. She gripped her golden goblet so hard the wine spilled over the rim, dripping down her rings to stain the floor like fresh blood.

"My brother is a prisoner."

Pycelle swallowed heavily. "That is what the raven reports, Your Grace."

"Read what my father is offering for his return."

Pycelle’s watery eyes dropped to the parchment. They did not come back up. "Lord Tywin offers no terms in this raven, Your Grace. He considers the matter best addressed after the relief column reaches the city."

Cersei hurled the goblet. It struck the marble pillar beside Pycelle's head, shattering the quiet of the hall in a violent spray of red.

"After," Cersei repeated, her voice shaking with a raw, terrifying fury. "The heir to Casterly Rock is rotting in a Northern cage, and the Hand of the King wants to count farm boys. He leaves his own blood in the mud."

The captains at the wall did not turn their heads. The Kingsguard did not shift their plate. But Tyrion saw the three lords nearest the throne realize their hands were hanging at their sides, instinctively reaching for swords they were not permitted to carry.

"After the relief column reaches us, Your Grace," Pycelle said again, addressing the boy on the throne with the careful tone a maester used when he had decided which version of a sentence the king ought to have heard.

Joffrey's heel had stopped tapping. The boy had been listening to the reading with the bored attention of a spoilt brat he was. He had heard prisoner. He had heard Crownlands levies. He had not heard the host arrives in three days.

"My grandfather has not been defeated."

He said it as a question first and a denial second, in the same breath. Pycelle hesitated. Cersei stayed silent. The answer fell to Tyrion the way most answers in this room had fallen to Tyrion since the boy had taken the throne.

"Your grandfather has lost an engagement, Your Grace. The host remains in tact. A withdrawal at this scale is consistent with regrouping for a counter-strike. Your uncle's captivity is a piece on the board, not a finished move. The Crownlands levies will reinforce both the relief and the city's defense."

Tyrion pitched his voice to project the exact kind of absolute Lannister certainty that his father wore like armor. Every word he spoke was technically true. Every word was utterly useless. The Westerlands would need a full moon to muster. Scouring the Crownlands would yield nothing but terrified boys holding sharpened farm tools. The relief column was a phantom. Tyrion buried the grim reality behind a wall of confident strategy, and the boy on the Iron Throne eagerly swallowed the lie.

"And the southern host. How far are they now?"

"Several days, Your Grace. The exact distance is being verified."

Joffrey’s fingers drummed on the gilded arm of the Iron Throne, the sound a dry, rapid tattoo against the metal. He leaned forward, his crown of golden curls catching the torchlight.

“Very well. Your explanation is… acceptable, Lord Uncle.” The word ‘uncle’ dripped with the condescension of a child mimicking a king. “But this city will not fall to a bastard and peasant panic. Double the watch on the gates. Triple it on the Street of Flour and the Flea Bottom alleys.”

He stood, the motion sharp and impatient. The scent of his perfume, something sweet and cloying, cut through the stale air of the throne room.

“And if the mob gathers again, they are to be dispersed. With steel, not words. The next crowd that forms gets a lesson in what happens when they forget their place.” His green eyes, so like his mother’s but without any of her cold intelligence, found Tyrion. “See to it.”

Sandor Clegane, a mountain of scarred grey steel and black leather, shifted his weight by the door.

Joffrey swept past Tyrion, his velvet cloak brushing against the dwarf’s shoulder. “Come, Sandor. I’ve wasted enough time on this. I have a meeting with an alchemist.”

The Hound’s gaze met Tyrion’s for a single, flat second. Tyrion knows the word 'alchemist' scares Sandor as much as him. Then he turned and followed his king, the heavy thud of their boots echoing down the long, shadowed hall.

Double the watch. Triple it. The orders were a child’s fantasy. He didn’t have the men to double a latrine detail, let alone the city watch. And dispersing riots with steel… that was how you turned a hungry crowd into a burning city.

He let out a slow breath, the sound barely audible. The grim reality of the city’s defense, the one he’d just painted over with confident lies for the king, settled back onto his shoulders. It was heavier than any crown.

--------------------------------------------------------

Holding a capital was entirely a matter of cruel ledgers, and Tyrion felt as though he were writing the sums in his own blood.

"Seventeen days of grain," his quartermaster muttered, trailing him across the outer ward. "Twenty if we cut the evening bread. The Redwyne fleet is cutting off access to the seas now so food is harder to get."

"Cut the morning ration completely," Tyrion ordered without breaking his stride. "Half a loaf at midday and dusk. That buys us twenty-six days."

He left the man gaping like a fish and intercepted a Gold Cloak sergeant near the stairs. He slashed the city watch wages from weekly to fortnightly before the man could even complain. Every copper and every grain of wheat mattered. Tyrion pushed past crews struggling to lift ballistas into position, cursing the bread queues that were draining his labor force.

Then the ledgers stopped mattering.

Bronn was waiting at the foot of the gatehouse stairs when Tyrion came down from them, a heel of bread in one hand and someone else's apple in the other. Bronn did not normally wait.

"The scouts came in from the south road this morning. I caught them before the gate captain did. It's… I don't even have words. It's not good."

"Walk."

Bronn fell in beside him.

"Three dragons. They came down in a field in the Kingswood, in among that Tyrell column the scouts have been counting all week. The runners agreed on three, and there is no doubt about that part."

"And the rest."

"Something flying with them." Bronn leaned in, lower. "Not winged. Not bird-shaped. The boy who came in first could only tell me it kept pace with the dragons and was the size of a wherry on the river. Another said it was made of grey iron, and a third swore it was a ship that had no business in the air. The only thing all three agreed on was that it set down in the same field the dragons did."

Tyrion listened as the three scouts stammered through their conflicting reports. None of them had a word for the massive silver object resting beside the kingsroad. They described a fallen star, a giant steel beetle, and a shield the size of a castle. That profound lack of vocabulary terrified Tyrion even more than the dragons.

"And the Stark bastard was riding the green beast," Bronn noted, leaning casually against the stone wall. "All three agreed on that part. Sat on its back like it was a prized destrier."

Tyrion rubbed his temples. He had spent his entire tenure as Hand building a defense made of stone, iron, and starved men. He had planned for a conventional war against a rational enemy. Now he was facing mythical monsters and a silver monstrosity that defied the laws of nature itself. He suddenly required a very large cup of wine.

"Tyrell van is a day out," Bronn said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And the pyromancers are twitchy today. Tighter than yesterday. I want to walk through the Guildhall myself before sundown."

Just one day. Father was still at least a week away, chasing ghosts in the Riverlands while leaving his deformed son to face the wrath of Highgarden. And Highgarden had somehow allied itself with three fire breathing nightmares and a silver fortress from the sky.

"Go. Verify the alchemists' stock," Tyrion commanded. "Return before dark."

Bronn didn't move from his lean against the wall. "You're sending me to count jars of piss that burn? The Tyrells will be here by tomorrow's dusk."

"Which is precisely why you will go now." Tyrion's gaze drifted back toward the distant, imagined shape of the kingsroad. The descriptions of the fallen star and the steel beetle echoed in his mind, absurd and terrifying. "I don't like the unknown with this news of another flying object. This war has turned into something else entirely. On top of the dragons."

Bronn's eyes narrowed. "So?"

"So we need the wildfire." The admission felt like swallowing a live coal. "Every last jar of it. Joffrey was right to have the stocks ready, gods rot his little soul." He turned from the wall, the rough stone scraping his shoulder. "But he will not be the one to hold the torch. He'd burn the city to kill a sparrow."

"You want me to secure the Guildhall." It wasn't a question.

"Tell them the Hand of the King requires an inventory for the defense of the city." Tyrion's smile was a thin, bitter thing. "It's even true."

Bronn retreated toward the stairs. "If things go sour and they try to string me up, I will be out the Mud Gate before the rope is tied. I might stay and fight if you double my coin."

"You will get your standard rate," Tyrion told him, "and you will earn it."

"I best be getting a castle for sticking with you through this."

With those words, Bronn was gone.

Tyrion turned back toward the inner ward and found Cersei already there.

She was crossing the muster yard at speed, two captains behind her, a clerk holding a ledger she had taken from someone's hands. The stride of a woman who had decided what news meant before the man delivering it had finished delivering it.

"What were you coming from?" Tyrion asked, his voice carrying across the emptying yard.

Cersei didn't break stride. "That is none of an imp's business."

Her left hand jerked, vanishing into the heavy crimson folds of her sleeve. The movement was a fraction too fast for royalty. Before the velvet swallowed her fingers, Tyrion caught the unmistakable glint of glass before she bunched the fabric tight around her knuckles, pressing her arm flat against her hip.

"We will get Jaime back," Tyrion said, trying for a tone that wasn't quite conciliatory but wasn't combative either. "Ned Stark would not execute Jaime, he would want negotiations."

She stopped then, finally turning to face him. The scent of her perfume, heavy with myrrh and something sharper, cut through the damp air of the yard. "You," she said, her voice low and precise, "should be the one in a cell. Not him."

A white cloak appeared at the edge of the yard.

"His Grace requires the Queen Regent and the Acting Hand at the small courtyard. Immediately."

Ser Mandon Moore spoke loud enough for the nearby gold cloaks to hear. It was a public summons, demanding absolute obedience. Cersei swallowed whatever insult she meant to hurl next. She smoothed the front of her gown, locking the furious sister away and putting the Queen Regent firmly back in place. She swept past Tyrion toward the keep. He followed, the silence between them thick and suffocating.

--------------------------------------------------------

The stench hit them before they cleared the archway. It was a thick, sugary smell that made the back of Tyrion's throat burn. A massive pyre dominated the small courtyard. Men had meticulously stacked the dry summer wood and drenched it in the pyromancers' unnatural fluid. Joffrey waited for them in a gilded chair, swinging a booted foot.

Cersei stopped dead. Her hand moved instinctively to her throat. "Sweetling. What are you doing?"

"Ruling," Joffrey answered simply. He offered them a bright, terrifying smile, immensely proud of whatever horror he had arranged. "We caught a traitor poking around the alchemists halls." He waved his hand lazily. "Bring him out."

Tyrion's eyes widened as Sandor Clegane hauled Bronn into the yard.

Bronn had taken a savage beating. His cheekbone was split open, and thick blood soaked the collar of his tunic. His wrists were tied tight with heavy rope. Sandor held the mercenary by the scruff of his neck, but the Hound's legendary ferocity was entirely absent. Sandor was staring fixedly at the green-stained logs. His massive hand shook slightly against Bronn's collar, his eyes wide and locked on the pyre as if he expected it to spontaneously erupt.

Tyrion's own cleverness had finally woven a noose. He had kept his operatives completely blind to one another for safety, and that very caution had just delivered Bronn directly to the king.

Bronn did not look at Tyrion. He kept his eyes on the unlit logs. A seasoned sellsword knew exactly how to read a room, and this one promised a terrible, screaming death.

Pycelle unrolled a piece of parchment and began reading the forged confession. It was a clumsy fake, designed to find a scapegoat for Jeffery's test.

"He conspired with the dragon bastard," Joffrey interrupted, waving a hand in bored annoyance. The evidence was tedious. He just wanted the fire.

Tyrion stepped forward, the words leaving him before he could weigh their cost. "Your Grace, that note is a child's scrawl. Any scrivener in Flea Bottom could have penned it. The man it names is already dead and cannot speak to its falsehood. Your own justices would—"

"Would what?" Joffrey's voice sliced through the air, high and clear with a boy's delight in cruelty. He turned fully from the pyre, his green eyes bright. "Are you a traitor too, Uncle?"

The question stripped the breath straight from his lungs. His mouth opened, but no sound came. The clever retorts, the legalistic arguments, all evaporated. He stood there, a dwarf in a lion's courtyard, with the smell of pitch and something acrid, chemical, filling his nostrils.

Joffrey smiled, a perfect, terrible thing. He saw the silence and understood it as confession. "I thought not." He waved a dismissive hand toward the logs. "This is better. A proper test. The traitors coming for my throne will burn just so. I just need to see how it works."

"Your Grace," Tyrion managed, his voice a rasp. "This man is my sworn captain. He has served the crown faithfully—"

"He nothing more than a sellsword who serves a dragon's bastard," Joffrey interrupted, his tone bored. "Mother says I must be strong. Strong kings burn their enemies." He looked at the pyromancer. "Is it ready?"

The old man in the alchemist's robes gave a shaky nod. "The substance is... volatile, Your Grace. Once lit, it will burn until nothing remains. Water will not quench it."

"Excellent." Joffrey's smile widened. He looked back at Tyrion, savoring the moment. "You may stay and watch, Uncle. Consider it a lesson in loyalty. Hound. Put him on the wood."

Sandor froze.

"Joffrey, stop," Cersei said. Her voice was quiet, trembling with the realization that she could no longer control him. "Setting wildfire ablaze now is not a—"

"Do be quiet mother, I am burning a Targaryen spy. My uncle should be thanking me." Joffrey pulled his arm free from her grasp. "Hound. Do it."

Sandor moved like a sleepwalker. He shoved Bronn toward the stones. Bronn offered no resistance. He knew exactly what the Hound's grip meant, and he knew there was no talking his way out of a soaked pyre. Sandor let go and backed away instantly.

Bronn finally met Tyrion's eyes.

“Was a good arrangement,” Bronn said. His voice was flat, practical. “Shame it ends like this.”

Tyrion’s hands were locked behind his back. He could feel the tremor in his own fingers. “I am sorry Bronn. I am—.” Tyrion couldn't get the last few words out, his voice choking.

Joffrey swaggered forward, the torch flame licking at the air. “Any last words for the realm, traitor?”

Bronn spat at Joffrey’s feet. The gob of saliva sizzled on the hot stone near the wildfire puddle. “Go fuck yourself, Your Grace.”

Joffrey’s face purpled. He hurled the torch.

The wildfire didn’t burn. It screamed. A wall of green light erupted upward, a roar of heat that sucked the air from Tyrion’s lungs. The smell was burning hair and cooked meat and that awful sweet chemical tang. He forced his eyes open. Bronn was a silhouette inside the inferno, a shape that buckled and then was gone, consumed in a heartbeat.

The heat pushed at Tyrion’s face, dry and blistering. He could the taste ash from the distance.

Sandor Clegane stood like a statue, the green flames reflecting in his eyes. One massive hand was pressed against his scarred cheek, as if to feel the ruin anew.

Joffrey looked back at Tyrion, his smile returning. “For your safety, Uncle, you’ll stay in the Tower of the Hand. Ser Meryn will see you there.”

“The Black Cells would be more secure, Your Grace,” Pycelle offered from the archway.

“I said the Tower,” Joffrey repeated, his voice dropping to a petulant whisper. “I want him close. Where I can see him.”

Tyrion said nothing. The ultimate weapon he had hoarded and hidden for months was now fully controlled by a boy who treated burning men as evening entertainment.

Cersei stared at the emerald fire, her hand gripping her throat. She had raised a monster, and he had just slipped his leash entirely.

Ser Meryn grabbed Tyrion's shoulder. As he was dragged toward the keep, Tyrion looked back. Sandor Clegane was still standing by the flames, completely lost to the nightmare.