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.”
