littletyrell

[littletyrell]

bent knees.

If nothing else, it had become rapidly clear that Margaery, the Queen of Thorns, and their southron army were not entirely welcome at Winterfell. Their men added considerable numbers to the small armies Sansa possessed comprised of knights of the Vale, northerners, and wildlings -- but with those numbers came a heavy burden on the available food sources and shelter within Winterfell’s walls. Though the soldiers largely set up camp within the land of the keep, the Highgarden men were unaccustomed to the harsh winter and begged for housing inside the castle walls. Margaery was compassionate but unable to do much. Olenna was less compassionate, and barked at them all to act like men or, you might as well allow your frozen balls to fall off. 

Though they were surrounded by quasi-friends, it was a lonely existence. 

Margaery and Sansa saw little of one another, which the southron girl suspected was by design. Sansa was for all intents and purposes the power in the North, and had much to concern herself with -- Margaery was a thrice-widowed queen who’d never possessed any of the power that came with the title. She spent the majority of her time with her Grandmother discussing the White Walkers which the Northerners claimed were real, and the army of the undead that were set to arrive at Winterfell in the coming weeks. They discussed the self-titled Targaryen Queen who’d landed at Dragonstone -- the place where Loras Tyrell had died an agonizing death only months ago --  and how they intended to respond to her call for Westeros. It was clear that the North intended to maintain their independence, but the rest of the realm was still ruled by King’s Landing. Though Olenna had charge of the Highgarden forces who’d marched North, a significantly larger portion had remained in the Reach to defend their home. 

It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that your father had bent the knee and offered our armies, Olenna had mused aloud, he always was a cowardly cunt. 

Despite their suspicions, no letters from Highgarden arrived at Winterfell confirming as much. For all they knew, House Tyrell and the Reach were considered to simply be in an open rebellion -- unallied with neither Lannister nor Targaryen, instead supporting the independent North in what was whispered to be the war to end all wars. 

Things changed when a letter arrived for Sansa from Jon Snow. 

The King in the North -- though the title was now questionable -- had bent the knee to Queen Daenerys Targaryen, and in exchange she would bring her three dragons and armies of Unsullied and Dothraki to fight the war against the Long Night. Though Sansa had not yet addressed the Northerners on the subject, it had nonetheless reached the public through whispers. Margaery lacked a strong opinion on Jon Snow’s choice -- she was not a Northerner, and beyond that, she was still unsure of how she felt about the Dragon Queen. She was more interested in Sansa’s thoughts on the matter -- the Stark girl was smarter than most around her, that Margaery did not doubt.

When the day turned to night and most others had gone to their respective rooms for the evening, Margaery sought out Sansa. She waited outside the other girl’s solar, a fur coat wound around her sleeping gown -- she hadn’t, and likely wouldn’t, adjust to the Northern climate -- and knocked. 

[littletyrell]

sansastarkisms‌:  

“Of course he is,” she responded in defense of her brother. There is some guiltiness in her words as she came to Jon’s defense. Sansa knew in the past she hadn’t much of an opinion of Jon, not with the way she heard others speak of him and after seeing her mother’s constant dislike towards him, but she was trying to make amends. Jon was her brother no matter the rumors that floated around him and her father. The thought of someone using that against her and what remained of her family made her worry. 

Her gaze flitted between Margaery and Olenna, processing everything they said and trying to determine what would be the proper next step. One wrong move and the home she had finally reclaimed could be taken from her. She couldn’t afford to look like a foolish, incompetent child yet again. Carefully, Sansa nodded her head, aware that what they said was true. “I’ve learned too late that people are more than capable of stabbing you in the back for their own gain. Even as old friends, I have a duty to more than myself to protect.” 

Making an enemy out of someone she once had been able to call a friend was what caused Sansa to agree to hosting them. Perhaps if they weren’t in Winterfell she wouldn’t have been so generous, but she trusted that the true allies she did have would keep her home safe if the Tyrells proved to be something else otherwise. “I will see to it that a room is set up for the two of you,” she spoke, before calling for someone outside of the room. After reiterating orders to set up a room for Margaery and Olenna, Sansa’s attention turned back towards them. “I won’t say that I trust your company quite yet, but I do remember the kindness you have both showed me in the past, so this will be my way of thanking you.” Her stare landed more so on Olenna at her words. 

A knock came at the door and someone else entered the room to announce their guests could be shown to their rooms. “You both must be tired after your journey,” she said. “If you’d like, you may retire to your rooms until later this evening.” 

“Your kindness is most appreciated,” Margaery replied, a smile blooming on her lips as Sansa agreed to host them for the time period. It was a smile of relief, truthfully -- without having the favor of House Stark, navigating the North and attempting a descent South in the midst of winter would have been disastrous -- they’d have been better off simply buying passage on a ship bound to Essos and awaiting the end of winter, war, or both. 

“Yes, it is,” Olenna agreed. “Trust that the Highgarden knights we’ve brought with us are more than flowery knights, dear. In exchange for the right to set camp within Winterfell’s land, we will see to it that our men know they have a duty to protect this place. Consider them armed guards for Winterfell as well as for House Tyrell. We will deliver the orders to allow you to give commands as needed...within reason.” 

Margaery passed a glance at her Grandmother as Sansa turned to order that their rooms were prepared. The elder woman seemed to be regarding the auburn-haired lady with something akin to pride, and Margaery thought that Olenna was impressed with the Stark woman. Margaery felt similarly: Sansa’s demeanor was drastically different as compared to what it had once been, but it also seemed to resemble the quiet ferocity of Catelyn Stark, whom Margaery had known only briefly. 

As Sansa suggested that they journey on to their rooms, Olenna nodded and stood slowly from her seat. Emboldened, Margaery took a few steps forward and reached for Sansa’s gloved hand. The naturally affectionate woman gave Sansa a quick squeeze, though she dropped their hands a moment later -- should she have overstepped her boundaries, she did not want to continue to overstep. 

“Thank you, Sansa. I hope that I can earn your trust again -- that we can be friends once more. I have so much that I’d like to tell you...and I imagine you have so many things to share as well. Should you ever feel so inclined, please do not hesitate to seek me out. I will be waiting.”

winter is coming.

[littletyrell]

sansastarkisms‌:  

Sansa was not the same girl she once was. The Sansa before would never have been able to speak so openly without fear of being reprimanded or belittled for even opening her mouth. Now she knew better. She was her own ruler now and she didn’t dare toy with the idea of letting someone try to take power over her. Not anymore. But even if time had passed, and Sansa had more scars than she could count, a part of her willed herself to let her walls down for the sake of the women before her. Had they showed nothing but kindness to her in the past? Had Olenna not helped Sansa escape from a fate she had not wanted? The voice of the old her was still there, but now she knew that voice was foolish. Weak. No one was truly an ally, not when something like a throne was up for grabs. 

A part of her feels bad for the fate Tommen faced. From her memories of her time spent in King’s Landing, Tommen had been nothing in comparison to Joffrey. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She can’t help but remove any sympathies from the words. One less Lannister was better for the world. Perhaps he could have become a sweeter king, but perhaps Cersei would have poisoned his soul just like the rest of their horrid family. 

Hearing Margaery had come because of an alliance for another was no surprise to her, not really. It still filled her with a sense of smugness for finally knowing better. What had surprised her was once the other woman had admitted to continuing on to Winterfell because of Sansa’s presence. It means nothing, she thought. She stood a little taller as if that would help keep her guard up around the Tyrells. 

The mention of the Targaryens and everyone else in the running to take the throne left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach though. If she could, she’d have found a way to keep Winterfell and the remaining family of hers away from the entire kingdom and the people who wanted it for their own. But that would be another foolish dream to hold onto, and so she knows that at some point soon she’d have to think about what Winterfell and those loyal to the Starks needed to do next. 

“You’re right,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “Jon isn’t the kind of man to be take up just anyone.” She had spent so much of her life disregarding Jon as part of her family, but everything changed after her father’s death. And now, she couldn’t imagine standing beside anyone else besides Jon. 

It did bring her back to Margaery though. “So what is that you hoped to get out of being here then if not some alliance with my brother?” 

A small smile appeared on Margaery’s lips as Sansa crossed her arms and reinforced that Jon would not have an alliance with Tyrells via yet another marriage. The gesture was almost childish, and Margaery was glad to see that there was still some of that left in Sansa -- she’d not been entirely hammered out to survive the cruelties of Westeros. “I expect that he’s just as much a Stark as you are and your family was,” Margaery answered, “priding loyalty and honor over coin and pretty words. Though you may not believe it, my family holds loyalty close to our hearts as well.”

“Loyalty keeps us strong,” Olenna affirmed. “Know your allies, hate your enemies together. But honor can make you weak and vulnerable, as you well know, Sansa. I am glad to know that you have your bastard brother and are no longer alone in the world, but you must keep your lessons learned in that snake pit close to your heart. They have not lost their value now that winter has come.”

“My Grandmother is right,” Margaery continued, “but I think that you already know the truth of what she says, Sansa.” The fact of the matter was that there existed no reality in which Sansa would have survived the events that had transpired since her flight from King’s Landing if she had not retained some of the lessons she had gleaned from her time at court -- an ignorant Northern girl would’ve been long-since dead. “After all, you treat us with righteous wariness, rather than greeting us as old friends.”

Though she understood why Sansa was guarded, the reality of it left the former queen a little melancholy. She had hoped to find some comfort in her old friend, but she was uncertain that the version of Sansa she knew still remained enough to embrace her. 

“We hope for a roof over our heads for the time being, and the space for our men to set up camp outside Winterfell’s walls, if you’ll allow it. The journey North was long, the journey South will be longer now that winter has come. There are enemies in all directions, and dragons lingering not far off our borders. We hoped to support a King to champion for Westeros...but it looks as though our country lacks one.” Perhaps the Dragon Queen would be their best bet against the likes of Cersei -- though a Targaryen in power was not a comforting thought. “Would you extend guest right to us?”

winter is coming.

[littletyrell]

sansastarkisms‌: 

For so long she had dreamt of a prince who would sweep her off her feet and give her a fairy tale ending, but the girl with those foolish thoughts was long since dead. First had been the sight of her father’s beheading from the boy who was going to make her queen. Then came the beatings. The belittling. The threat to her life and the lives of those she had loved. Sansa hadn’t thought it could get any worse than Joffrey, but nothing had compared to being sold and wed to Lord Bolton. 

Joffrey had given her nightmares, but Lord Bolton had been a living nightmare. 

Theon Greyjoy had let her down again and again until he hadn’t. As much as she blamed him for not protecting her, she couldn’t forget that he had also saved her. Without him, she would have never been met with Brienne of Tarth, and without her, she would have never found Jon. 

As much as she had disliked Jon growing up, especially because of what he represented in their family, he was her family. He was some of the last of her family, and Sansa would never again turn her back on her family. 

Jon and his army were her salvation, and with that she finally had back some hope. She wants her home back. Their home back, and she will take back Winterfell with or without Jon’s support. Sansa is no longer just some little girl in pretty dresses. She is angry and determined – she is a lady who will let no man stop her. Still, relief and pride swell when Jon decides he will stand with her. She fears for Rickon’s life, but in her heart she’s already counted him dead. If only Jon understood the man they were about to face. 

Rickon is dead as Sansa knew he would be, but now so is Lord Bolton. She revels in knowing his name and his house will one day be forgotten, but even more at witnessing his death. Little by little Winterfell became home again. Sansa is not just Sansa Stark but Lady of Winterfell, and Jon is proclaimed King of the North. As much as she would like to stay in her moment of victory, she knows that only more war can come. She isn’t foolish, and maybe not as hopeful anymore, but she clutches at the warmth of victory. For now everything is as it should be. Tomorrow she will continue to plan for war.

Sansa’s heart sped when news of House Tyrell was at her doorstep. She had long ago stopped wondering about the friend she had made at King’s Landing – it was safer to assume the people she loved were dead than to hold out hope they survived the likes of Cersei Lannister. Still, she is led to the study, uncertain if who she’ll find will be an ally or another foe she must endure and cut down. She wonders if Margaery holds the same kind of scars she does. 

She holds her breath as she steps into the study. Her eyes first fall upon Lady Olenna and then they land on Margaery. So much time has passed, but the brunette still holds all the grace and poise Sansa can remember from the first time they had met in King’s Landing. 

For a moment she is at a loss for words. Seeing them alive does not fill her with the same relief she felt when she found Jon, but it’s close. The feeling is fleeting, however. Sansa is still afraid this encounter will end in yet another heartbreak. 

“And yet you have still come all this way,” she replies. Her words are formal and guarded. Showing weakness will only make an enemy bite. “I heard Cersei Lannister is Queen now and Tommen is dead. I am to assume your house was no longer safe under her rule and that’s why you came here. To seek refuge from them.”

Her gaze remains on Margaery, willing the other woman to return her gaze. Winterfell needs allies against the Lannisters and from the monsters Jon speaks of, but she needs to know that House Tyrell will be loyal them. To her and to Jon. As Jon comes to mind, another thought dawns on her as she continues to look at Margaery. “Or have you heard Jon is King of the North and wish to pledge your allegiance to him through marriage?” The thought makes more sense to Sansa. Of course Margaery and the Tyrells are looking for a king. This was never about her and her ties to the woman who showed her kindness in a hostile place.

Margaery watched as her Grandmother turned in her chair to regard Sansa. An intrigued smirk played about the elder woman’s lips as she watched the redheaded Stark speak. Though she tutted once or twice through Sansa’s words, she did not interrupt the girl as she once might have. Margaery noticed what she suspected her Grandmother had picked up on -- this was not the same Sansa that had left them in King’s Landing so many moons ago. Margaery could not imagine what had been done unto the girl in the time that had elapsed -- and truthfully, she did not want to try to picture it -- but Margaery knew that Sansa was built of something firmer now. It was not something to disparage -- after all, Margaery was no longer the same girl she’d been when they’d first gotten acquainted, either. 

“Some of what you say is true,” Margaery spoke at last. Beside her, she could hear Olenna’s mouth open and shut -- as if to suggest that she’d planned on speaking, but had willingly tossed over the right to her granddaughter. Margaery cast a passing gaze at the elder woman, smiled, and rose from the seat she’d been provided. Pivoting to face the Stark in the room, she turned her chin upwards to meet Sansa’s Tully-blue gaze. A smile remained present on her lips as she looked at the other girl. “Cersei is Queen, as she’s killed or driven out all other competitors. We can only rely on the word of ravens concerning Tommen -- it seems that he took his own life, rather than fell from his mother’s doing.” Her lips twisted then as she recalled the sweet, innocent boy who’d been turned foolishly into a King. He could’ve been good, if only he’d had the time. “Though, even if it was not done by her will, I believe his blood still lies in her hands.”

“But, as to the idea of having come here for asylum -- however inviting the North may be...we would have been wiser to remain sequestered in the south, had our intentions been to seek refuge from Cersei. We’ve split our army in two to come here, though our worry for our home is calmed by Willas’ friendliness with our Dornish neighbors, who hold revenge for their Prince dear to their hearts.” The Tyrell girl had never thought she’d see a day where Highgarden would ally themselves with Sunspear, but the chaos of King’s Landing had made a mockery of preexisting alliances. “Grandmother and I came North in hopes of bringing aid to Stannis Baratheon in his quest for the throne. It was his by right, after all. Unfortunately, the journey North is long, and Stannis’ reign was not.”

“May have been for the best, in any case,” Olenna interjected, sniffing haughtily. “That business of the red witch didn’t sit right with me, even if he was Robert’s true heir -- if you ask me, we’d have been better off with the Targaryen. At least that’s a madness you know, rather than one that you don’t.”

Margaery hummed at her Grandmother’s words, without a suggestion of whether she agreed or disagreed. “We only continued on when we heard that you had been rumored to have returned to Winterfell.” She smiled ruefully as she answered Sansa’s accusation: “we heard of Jon Snow’s title after our decision to continue on had already been made. Though it may surprise you, I’ve not come in search of a wedding -- nor did I suspect he’d take me if I had. What sort of man who calls himself King would choose a thrice-widowed Queen?”

winter is coming.

[littletyrell]

winter is coming.

For as long as she lived, Margaery was certain she would never rid her mind of the image of the Red Keep from the vantage of the small window in her carriage.

The massive entity had loomed threateningly as they’d made their way out of the city’s limits, and had continued to intimidate even as it began to fade into the distance. It was only when it had been swallowed up by the darkness of the night that Margaery had allowed herself to release a long sigh, purging herself of several weeks’ worth of stress and despair. Her Grandmother reached over to squeeze her knee comfortingly, but Margaery struggled to even offer her a thankful smile.

The young Queen had been assured in the days that preceded her escape that her wrongful imprisonment would be coming to an abrupt halt, and that she was meant to be ready when the time came. Scrolls of paper had been tossed haphazardly into her cell at random times of day and night which swore that there was no evidence to hold her, and that even the High Sparrow would be forced to relent and free her without the labor of a trial by faith. These words were uplifting, but did little to prevent the overwhelming sadness that would appear when Margaery was ultimately left to suffer alone in her small cell -- or to even hear the not-so-distant cries of her similarly-imprisoned cousins, who were beaten by the Septa in an effort to bring forth the so-called “confession of sin” and the “redemption” which would follow. The Septa would come for her as well, but she dared not hit so hard as she was able -- there was some manner of law to be had there for a Queen, and perhaps Tommen had screamed and cried on her behalf from within the safety of the castle’s walls.

The day she was visited by Cersei Lannister had been the worst of her days stuck in that cell. The other Queen had come for no reason other than to gloat, and when that had become clear to Margaery, she was no longer able to hold the hatred she had choked on since first arriving at the capital. Margaery promised that all the pain that Cersei had caused the realm at large would be paid back to her. She lodged curses at the vile woman, and swore up and down that she would receive punishment from the Gods.

And so the Gods answered.

A scroll had been tossed into Margaery’s cell at an early hour, with an uplifting inscription: Cersei imprisoned. A few hours later, another scroll appeared, this one even more promising than the last: Tonight.

All it had taken was a changing of the guard, and suddenly Margaery was being rushed out of her cell -- and Megga and Elinor were not far behind. They were dressed in heavy, concealing cloaks, and shuffled under the protection of darkness into two separate carriages. When Margaery was settled into her own carriage, she had found none other than her Grandmother waiting inside. The embrace that the two women shared had been tender and real, and Margaery had found herself crying in a way she hadn’t since she was a little girl.

Even despite her desire to flee the capital and be done with it for good, the Tyrell in her struggled against the fear, questioning with a sniffle: “ -- will we -- should we -- should we retake the throne?” 

“Are you out of your bloody mind, girl?” Olenna had tutted, though the bite lacked in her tone. She brushed a wrinkled hand comfortingly over Margaery’s brow, and the young queen’s eyes closed as she relaxed into the contact. “Cersei’s Sparrow has turned this city upside-down -- if we stay, we’ll be eaten alive with all the rest of them.” Scoffing, Olenna made a move as if to look back in the direction of the capital. “Good riddance to the lot of them. Let them burn together -- and burn they will, if we’re to believe this truth of the Targaryen girl and her three demons. She would’ve had no mercy for anyone else calling themselves Queen, dear -- if it wasn’t for this, I would’ve found another way to get you out of that viper’s nest.” 

Margaery tried to keep her elation at bay. It felt so strange, to have abandoned the fantasy of being the queen. It felt as though she’d ended that life in the cell Cersei had made for her, and had come out a different person. The only trouble was she didn’t know what it was this Margaery wanted. 

“If not here,” Margaery ventured, “ -- then where? Home?”

“A war in the south,” Olenna agreed with a nod, “what dear Renly had wanted all along, realized all too late.” Olenna scoffed, continuing: “war will come, should Cersei free herself of that prison she’s made for herself. The bitch is slippery, and she very well might manage it. Should she, I suspect she’ll turn to take her revenge on Highgarden and every other land she thinks has wronged her.” 

“She feels wronged by the realm,” Margaery added, a frown pulling on her lips. “She seeks war with each House that does not bend to her.” Olenna hummed her agreement, and Margaery leaned back against the carriage seat as she contemplated the path that was laid out before them. They had two choice: to tuck tale and defend themselves, or to defend the realm at large. The latter was what she’d wanted as Queen -- to make the realm better via the removal of the Lannisters. The option still presented itself. 

“What if we went North instead?” Margaery thought aloud. “What if we joined Stannis, and made him King? He may not have the love of the people, but he is intelligent and capable -- even Renly would have admitted such a thing.” Sensing her Grandmother’s rejection, Margaery pressed: “it is his right to inherit the throne, Grandmother. And our error to deprive him of it. All of this -- all of this could have been solved so long ago, had we just allowed it to pass as it should have been. The realm will be safer for it. And House Tyrell will be hailed as the saviors of the realm for delivering Stannis unto the throne.” 

“It is not a bad thought,” Olenna commented after a long moment, seeming to relent. “But even despite the forces we have with us now, we need the permission of that oaf to move them --”

“What permission do you need?” Margaery countered, her golden gaze suddenly steely. “He will do as you say and question nothing of it. The decision rests with you, Grandmother. The fate of the realm sits in your hands. Yours, and no one else’s.”

While Elinor and Megga returned to the safety of Highgarden, Margaery and Olenna took to the North. Her two abused cousins carried with them a letter sealed by Olenna, ordering Mace to provide a division of their soldiers to journey North and accompany their party. It was some weeks before they had their affirmation -- and some time more before they received word that their soldiers marched. Olenna had commented to Margaery that the troops they promised Stannis would be a month or more delayed when they themselves arrived North, but Margaery was not swayed. She thought only of the best sort of revenge against Cersei -- a Westeros made better in the wake of her dethroning. Perhaps she would not even be executed, despite how badly she knew others -- as well as herself -- would wish to see her blood. Perhaps it would be a worse punishment to have her suffer with her misery. 

Across the months of their journey North, Margaery thought often of who she would be in this new world. She’d tried and failed three times over to be a Queen. To the realm at large she remained a maiden, still able to marry -- though she suspected many might see her as some sort of a beautiful curse, unable to bed someone without causing their demise. Despite this, she could not imagine herself marrying some Reachmen lord that her father would choose for her, and being no one at all. Nor could she imagine herself attached to a Storm lord chosen by Stannis to affirm the alliance he knew nothing of, though she knew it was very likely a possibility of her fate. She thought endlessly and determined nothing.

The worst of their journey came when they moved through the Stormlands, and caught word of Loras’ fate. The details were sparse and grim: he had fought Cersei’s false war and had been defeated. He was said to be laid out in agony at Dragonstone, wounded from blade and burns and slowly inching towards death. The news had set Margaery into tears for days, and she had begged for nearly a week to divert their course and reclaim his body from Dragonstone. Her Grandmother’s repeated insistence that they could not go to a land teaming with Lannister soldiers was sound, but Margaery could not rid herself of the nightmare of sweet Loras dying with not a soul around him who truly loved him. She prayed for his soul in the night, and begged for his soul to stay by her side as they journeyed onward. 

They had made it through the Vale with relative ease, despite their caution. Upon reaching the territory, they had learned of the pitiable fate of Lysa Tully -- and the fate of her child, now made the ward of Petyr Baelish. They dared not journey to the Eyrie to meet with the mockingbird, though they suspected that he was well aware of the forces which moved through the region. These suspicions were confirmed when a flurry of news greeted them in a letter signed by Baelish, leaving them as chilled as the snow that coated the ground. 

Stannis was dead. His army was dead.  Lord Bolton was dead.  The bastard Bolton called himself Lord of Winterfell. The bastard Lord had married a girl said to be Sansa Stark. Sansa Stark had escaped the bastard, and was thought to be plotting the siege of her home.

Winterfell would need to be retaken swiftly, and the letter suggested that the Eyrie’s forces would be deployed only if called upon by Sansa. Without them, however, it was likely any attempt to fight the Bolton army -- bolstered by traitorous houses of the North -- would fail. The night after they’d received the letter, Margaery dreamed of red hair, and of a beautiful girl who seemed to carry with her all the sadness of the world. When she awoke, she demanded that they come to her aid. 

“We do not know if Sansa Stark is alive,” Olenna had protested, exasperated at that point by their fruitless journey. “Look at the snow falling around us -- it is all the more likely she died out in that cold, hiding away from that little monster. That little slip of a thing could not survive this.” 

“This is her home,” Margaery had protested, steadfast in her desire to journey on to Winterfell. “For all that she has survived already, she would have survived her own home. Grandmother, we cannot turn our backs on her.” Margaery’s expression had crumpled then, remembering how they had left her to be married to Tyrion when their own plot had fallen through. The youngest Lannister was far from a cruel man -- but it had been a mockery nonetheless, and Margaery knew Sansa had suffered for it. “What would we be, if we turned our backs now?”  

They did not move from a small inn nearby Moat Cailin for nearly a month -- they would not go to Winterfell without their army in tow. During this time, Margaery and her Grandmother acclimated as best they could to the North. The bitter cold was not good for a woman of Olenna’s age, and Margaery sought to have her constantly cloaked in large furs that seemed to drown her. Margaery herself was swathed in them, and found that with each passing day her skin seemed to pale in the icy region. When she cast a glance at her reflection in a looking glass, she found that she did not recognize the girl who looked back. This was not the little queen of the Red Keep -- it was someone else entirely. It was someone she did not quite know yet. 

When their army arrived, they moved at last for Winterfell. In the deep snow, they seemed to travel more slowly than ever before -- a journey meant to be 6 months had seemed to stretch to 8 or 9 by the time they’d closed in upon Torrhen’s square, just southwest of Winterfell. It was there that they received their last bit of news: the Bolton bastard was dead, and Winterfell had been retaken by House Stark -- led by none other than Jon Snow, Winterfell’s own bastard boy. In the wake of this battle, the Northerners had called out for Jon to take up a long-forgotten title: the King in the North. 

When Margaery had heard this news, a shock of laughter had overtaken her. Olenna had turned, frustrated, and demanded she divulge what it was that amused her so. 

“We journeyed all this way for a King,” Margaery exclaimed, her shoulders shaking with a kind of grim mirth, “ -- well, we’ve found one, haven’t we?”

To this point, Olenna joined in on this rueful, mourning laughter. It was a dark humor, twisted by months of strife and years of blood before it. It was the work of the Gods, Margaery knew, that they had someone still achieved the purpose of their journey. 

When they arrived at last at Winterfell, they were met with an understandable opposition. House Tyrell, for all the North knew, were allies of the Lannisters. An envoy from their forces was sent to parlay with a soldier of Winterfell -- a massive man with fiery hair -- and communicate the message of House Tyrell’s break from House Lannister. When their man returned some time later, he was escorted by that same giant, who called himself Torrhen. She and Olenna had been permitted access into the castle, but their men would remain outside Winterfell’s protective walls. 

They were escorted to a study within the family’s solar, and were told to wait -- they would be greeted by Sansa Stark, as she would be the only one among them to confirm their identity. Margaery stood uncomfortably in the room, facing away from the door. Olenna reclined in one of the seats beside her. When the heavy door opened, Margaery inhaled softly. 

“We came to offer you aid in the retaking of your home,” Margaery spoke, her lips curving into a rueful smirk as the words left her lips. She dared not turn her head to greet her former friend, though she wished too desperately. “Too little and too late, as I can clearly see. Our help was hardly needed.” 

[littletyrell]

headcanon 1 || the tyrell images

the TYRELL family find themselves in images. they create, they bloom, THEY SURVIVE. each child has their own way of life is so surrounded in pictures of themselves that they create to ensure that on the o u t s i d e they seem like the perfect family.

WILLAS:     the scholar; darling broken boy. he is found in libraries, in ink stains on fingers, in the silent spaces. OH!! he has a good h e a r t, doesn’t he? he is the rain that falls on the crops, the way things GROW despite struggles. his is the strength of the water, the relentless desire to reach goals. they paint the perfect HEIR on his fingers, make other families wish for a son so good. his is the justice of the courtroom, the solemnity of a prayer, the wisdom of a maester. his image is in the pages of a book, and they sell him as the wisest of them all. 

GARLAN:    the warrior; man of swords. he is found in the crash of steel, in the blood of man, in laughter after a good fight. OH!! isn’t his bravery is the kindof l e g e n d s? he is relentless training, the pint of ale given to an EXHAUSTED body. his is the strength of the fire, the burning desire to make it mean something. they paint him to be a man away from SHOW, hide him from tourneys and make him a hero of myth. his is the calm before the storm, the wishes on a battlefield, the lives left behind. his image is in the shine of a sword, and they sell him as the bravest of them all.

LORAS:  the knight; bathed in flowers. he is found in tourneys, in the roar of the crowd, in the endless banners. OH!! don’t they love to put his n a m e in songs? he is the very public smile, the private TOUCHES that he gives to lovers. his is the strength of the earth, the growth and development of so many living things. they paint him to live in the SPOTLIGHT, to play the crowds and give everyone thoughts of love. his is the loyalty of a friend, the desire for a celebrity, the dreams of a child. his image is the doting of a crowd, and they sell him as the loveliest of them all.

MARGAERY:  the princess; pretty little thing. she is found in laughter, in quick footsteps in hallways, in gowns and balls. OH!! isn’t she the most g i v i n g girl? she is a blooming rose, the promise of a GIFTED future. hers is the strength of the air, the constant movement of a life in motion. they paint her to take the WORLD by storm, to give to the doting underdogs who see her as their queen. hers is the giving of a martyr, the sweetness of a dessert, the beauty of a dove. her image is the love of a saint, and they sell her as the kindest of them all. 

                                                               –  BONUS. –

LEONETTE;    the maiden; brought to riches. she is found in hopeful eyes, in the dreams of every girl, in the realities that find them. OH!! didn’t she t a k e to this life with such ease? she is white dresses and bare feet, the thought that everyone can RISE above their station. hers is the strength of spirit, the ability to find her feet in a new home. they paint her as the GREATEST good, to have thrived as the new daughter of a great family. hers is the love of a woman, the grace of a lady, the dreaming of a child. her image is the woman he saved, and they sell her as the sweetest of them all.