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Chapter 26: Dragonstone: Shireen II; Arya VII; Margaery II; Jon XIVSummary:

Arriving at Dragonstone, Jon and the others plan for the future, Margaery awakens to her new reality, and a Red Priestess makes herself known.

Notes:

HI!

It looks like I managed to shave about a month off my update time, yeah! He... he... he...

In all serious, I'd like to thank anyone for their patience. In the past few months, I lost my beloved great-grandmother and my youngest brother spent a month in the hospital. It has also been the busy season at my bakery (So! Much! Frosting), so I haven't had as much time to work on this story as I'd like.

But, onto the fun stuff!

I've started a blog on Ko-fi! My user name is VixenRose and checking me out there will the letting you see sneak peaks of upcoming chapters, general updates, pictures of my person art work and quilting project, and some of my favorite recipes. For example, I just posted my recipe for bourbon chicken!

Anyway, ENJOY THE CHAPTER!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Shireen II

Despite never having known any other home, Shireen had always seen Dragonstone as a cold, grim place. It was the place where Targaryens' had first set foot in Westeros when they left the Valyrian Freehold. It was the place where they'd claimed their original seat and built their first castle, some say with dark magic and stones mined from Hell itself. It was a place of dragons and for dragonlords. And it was a place that Shireen had never felt welcome. 

No, she'd once heard her father admit that he'd never asked for nor wanted the island, and Shireen sometimes got the sense that the feeling was mutual. Dragonstone didn't want Stannis or Shireen, or any Baratheon here either. Some said the originator of her bloodline, Orys Baratheon, was Aegon Targaryen's bastard half-brother. If that was true, then the traces of dragonlord blood in Shireen's blood were not enough to warm the ghosts of dragons past to her. Scarcely a night passed in her childhood where Shireen did not dream of them coming to eat her.

Yet, for whatever reason Uncle Robert dumped it at Dragonstone at her father's feet all the same. With him gone, that responsibility now fell to Shireen.

And even now, as the island drew closer on the horizon, Shireen could not find any comfort in the sight. It was her home, yes, but not one she felt any warmth for. She didn't even have her parents, distant and unconventional as their love could be, to return to. All that was waiting for her would be cold stone, salt, and sea air.

'There are good things there too,' Shireen tried to remind herself. 'There is Maester Cressen, Patches, Davos' family... They're still there. I still have people who love me.'

"Almost home, Shireen," Davos said, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze. 

She forced a smile. "Yes, you must be happy to see Marya and your boys again."

While Davos' home was technically in Cape Wrath, he, his wife, and their younger children had moved into Dragonstone after her father's death to more easily help Shireen. She was glad to have them; Marya was warm and good-natured in a way that Shireen's mother had never been, and Davos' younger sons had always been fun to play with, never giving any mind to her Greyscale scars. That is, with what little time she got to play after becoming the official Lady of Dragonstone. 

"Always. I dream of the day we all —you included— can live peacefully."

Shireen rested her head against the man's shoulder. 'What a beautiful dream.'

Above them in the crow's nest, a voice rang out, declaring that they were almost approaching land. 

"Lady Shireen of Dragonstone, we are all elated at your safe return."

As was customary, the entire household had been present to retrieve Shireen and the others. With Maester Cressen acting as the voice, the all knelt and bowed before her in proper courtesy. By the same etiquette, no one yet mentioned Shireen's missing mother, nor the mixed-matched crowd of other Houses, colorful strangers, and foreign sailors. 

Shireen jutted out her chin and did her best to look proper and in-control, just like she'd been practicing in the mirror. She gave the signal for everyone to rise, and projecting her voice the best she could, Shireen said, "Maester Cressen, I trust that my household has been kept in good order in my absence."

"Of course, Lady Sh—Lady Baratheon," the elderly Maester nodded. "I have taken the liberty to have food, drink, and beds prepared for you and our men. I understand you have been through a terribly upsetting journey."

Maester Cressen had been part of Shireen's life since the day she was born. In many ways, he'd had a larger part of her upbringing than either of her parents did. Shireen had vivid memories of sitting in the old man's lap and playing with his long, white beard as he dabbed foul smelling pastes and ointments on her scarred skin with his trembling, wrinkled hands. And yet, despite his gentle warmth, Shireen always saw sadness in his eyes whenever Maester Cressen looked at her.

'I wonder... will he ever be able to see me as anything more than a mark of his failure? Does his kindness come from love or guilt?'

"Thank you for that but, as you can see—" Shireen gestured to the group behind her "—we have more guests than anticipated. Please see to it that they are giving adequate chambers for rest and recovery. Everyone will need baths and food, and some of them are in need of healing." 

The old maester's eyes scanned the group, growing wide when he undoubtedly recognized more than one face. "But, my lady, I—"

"We will discuss this more later, Maester," Shireen insisted, adding a hard edge to her voice. She leaned closer, "King's Landing took too many lives already, including my own mother. I would rather not see more bodies in my courtyard due to lack of care. Some of the people are the reason I am standing in front of you right now. In return, I will see that Guest Right is properly observed."

Maester Cressen gnawed on his lip, looking ready to say something, before giving a slow nod. "Yes, of course. I will see to it immediately."

The man waved over a group of servants and, just like that, the first challenge of the day was over.

The Master Chambers of Dragonstone were beautiful, decorated in the richest Valyrian finery and Targaryen tastes, and completely unused. To Shireen's knowledge, her parents had never shared a bed beyond what was needed to attempt to conceive a child. They had certainly never spent the night in the master chambers, preferring to keep to their own separate apartments that kept more to their tastes. Mother's was filled with symbols of her faith, and a locked chest that Shireen had never been allowed to touch, though she'd once caught a glimpse of large glass jars once. Father's was largely barren, with sparse decoration and minimal in the way of anything sentimental. One could not be faulted for thinking the owner of these quarters had no family at all. 

That was, however, except for three small portrait paintings on a bookcase. One was of Shireen's late grandparents, Lord Steffon Baratheon of Storm's End, and Lady Cassana Estermont. The second was of Mother and Father's wedding day; neither looked happy in it, and the painting was covered in a thin layer of dust, but the fact that it was there at all said much. The final one was of a much younger Shireen in her cradle. This one was the largest and most well-cared for. 

And it was these three portraits that Shireen had to mourn over. Her father, for all his stern, taciturn nature, had loved Shireen. He'd been good to her, more so than plenty of fathers were to their daughters. But words were never Stannis Baratheon's strong suit and, having never been verbal with his love, Shireen was left with little warmth to remember him by. 

"I miss you," Shireen told the portrait of her parents. "I just wish I had more to remember. I know Ser Davos loves me; he and his wife treat me as one of their own. But I still wish you both were here. I'm not ready to do this on my own."

"And yet you must."

Shireen jolted up in fright when the low, feminine voice spoke up from behind her. "Eeek!"

She spun around to see Lady Melisandre staring at her with those strange red eyes of hers. "L—Lady Melisandre, I didn't hear you come in."

'You're not supposed to be in here. These are private quarters!'

The red-clad woman smiled at her. "Of course not, child, I was already here. You simply did not see me."

"Oh... I suppose I was too distressed to notice."

Shireen felt a shiver run up her spine when Melisandre's smile widened in such a way that told her the woman was hiding something. 

"Yes, that is likely it. You poor thing, you've gone through such an ordeal in these past weeks." 

Without warning, Melisandre stepped forward and enveloped Shireen in a hug. The moment the woman touched her, she went ridged with fear. Even though the Red Woman's embrace was warm —too warm, unnaturally warm— and gentle, almost motherly, Shireen saw the falseness behind it. Since the day they'd first met, she'd known there was something wrong about Melisandre. Even now, after years of the woman being nothing but kind and encouraging to her, Shireen still refused to turn her back on the Red Woman. 

"You know what happened then?" she asked, hoping fear didn't come through in her voice. 

"I saw it in my fires." The woman stroked an elegant hand through Shireen's hair. "I only wish I'd been allowed to accompany you and your mother, perhaps I could have protected you both. Ser Davos' intentions for keeping me here were good, however, so you should not blame him."

For the briefest moment, all of Shireen's fear was replaced by rage. She wanted to lash out and demand what right the woman had to criticize Davos! She wanted to demand why Melisandre's so-called Lord of Light didn't show her what was going to happen before they left for King's Landing! She wanted to push her away and demand to know why Rh'llor didn't protect Mother, his devoted follower! Shireen wanted to bite and scratch and hit and like and burn everything related to the Red God down on the beach, and then throw everything left in the castle about the Seven in the fire too for good measure. 

'There are no gods,' Shireen thought to herself, her head starting to ache at the heavy scent of Lady Melisandre's perfumes. 'Gods wouldn't have let all this happen. And, if they did, then I want nothing to do with them.'

Instead of lashing out like she desperately wanted to, Shireen forced herself to remain still and calm until the Red Woman finally pulled away.

"Oh well, the past is just that: the past," she said. "It cannot be changed, not in any meaningful way, but it can be learned from. And learn we must, if we are to survive what is coming."

"The war?" Shireen asked, trying to ignore the squirming in her gut as Melisandre dismissed her mother's death as 'the past.' 

"Wars." 

"What?"

"The war against man, and then the war against monsters," the woman said cryptically, her red eyes seeming to glow in the candlelight. 

Shireen flinched back. "My father says that war makes monsters out of men, and men out of monsters. Is that what you mean?"

"In a way. The monsters we will be facing were men once but no longer, treating them as such would be folly. The night is dark and full of terrors, and this little squabble coming from the so-called Queen of Westeros is no more than a scuffle between greedy children before what is to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power, young Shireen. And his strength is evil and beyond measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends. Unless true men find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are made of true fire."

"I don't understand."

"Your forces are coming together, Lady Baratheon, yet I see if my fires they will not obey you as is," Lady Melisandre said. "My god and I can help you with that. We need these men to fight the final war, but first they need to see the Light. Let me help you convince these men to follow the true path, let me light their hearts ablaze so they can be useful in the war that is to come." 

It occurred to Shireen that the woman was absolutely genuine. Her desire to help, her belief in her god's power, and the idea that converting the people of Westeros was the best way to go about winning future wars wasn't a façade used to gain power. It was absolutely genuine.

And Melisandre was all the more terrifying for it. 

'You want to use me just like you used Mother and Father?' Shireen realized. 'You want to use me to get more followers? More blood for your god? I won't! I won't be your tool! I won't lead my people in the fire!'

"My mother and Father were always grateful for your aid and counsel, Lady Melisandre," Shireen forced herself to say as politely as possible. "Your words always have a place here."

'Mostly because I can't get rid of you without risking the ear of the court's ladies.'

The woman gave Shireen a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder. "You'll fill your role well. I have seen it in my fires."

'Fuck your fires! Fuck what you can see! I have no use for them.'

"Thank you. I endeavor to live up to your faith in me."

Shireen forced a weak smile at the group in front of her. "I thought it important for us all to share bread and salt as soon as possible. Once everyone had a chance to wash, rest, and have any injuries tended to, of course."

"And we thank you for that," Captain Adelaisa Vendicci said. "As well as allowing my men and I to refill our ship's stores."

"Of course, it seemed only right fair after your kindness and aid," Shireen replied. Others certainly wouldn't be happy about it, or approve of her giving away supplies, especially with what was coming. After all, a single bag of potatoes or flour could make all the difference in a siege, and after her father's infamous one at Storm's End, it was something he had taken very seriously. 

But she had to. Shireen could not let her rule start with selfishness and hypocrisy in the face of those who had given aid to her and those she cared about. 

"Well, here we all are," Tyrion Lannister said, faking cheeriness as the group of escaped lords, ladies, and assorted others gathered for super. "In one place waiting for all seven hells to break out across Westeros."

"Not all of us," Loras Tyrell spoke up. "Renly is still in the coma."

"Is this true?" Shireen asked. 

She'd known her uncle was in bad shape, but couldn't force herself to go see him. Uncle Renly had always been kind enough to her face, yet she'd always sensed that the man never really liked or cared for her. That being said, he was still her uncle, and some of her only remaining family. If nothing else, the man awaking and returning to full health meant that Renly could resume ruling Storm's End so Shireen didn't have to.

"Unfortunately, he still has not awakened," Lady Valerica said in her tight, controlled voice. "Nor has he shown signs of doing so, despite treatment. That does not mean he won't, mind you, but it's been over two weeks now, and that does not bode well for the man's prospects."

"I must concur with Lady Volkihar," Maester Cressen said, though he didn't look happy with it. "I examined Lord Renly myself, and indeed, his condition is not well."

At the woman's words, a tangible shutter went through the group. The death —and that is what being in a coma seemed to be for Shireen, dying without truly being able to rest— was another complication for the war that was going to happen. Someone trustworthy needed to take control of Storm's End, needed to lead those forces, if they were going to successfully contain Cersei. A seat of so much power couldn't be left empty. 

"Let's put those matters aside for tonight," Jon spoke up, his voice cutting through the somber atmosphere. "We've all been through so much hardship, I think we all—"

Creek!

The door to the dinning hall swung open as Lady Serana strolled into the room, a smaller figure following closely behind her.

"Apologies for my tardiness. I needed to assist my niece in getting prepared, and it took longer than anticipated," the woman said. 

"Niece?" Shireen asked, eyebrows shooting. 

Lady Serana had never mentioned having a niece, nor had Lady Valerica spoken of having another child, let alone one traveling with them. Around her, the group also broke out in mummers. Clearly this was as much news to everyone else as it was to Shireen.

That was, however, except for Jon, Arya, Enzo and... Lord Tyrion. They all sat up a little straighter in their chairs, attention going fully to the girl, though it wasn't surprise that crossed their face, it was… something else. Something Shireen couldn't name, not with the small amount of it she got a glimpse of

'What's that about?' Shireen wondered to herself. 'I can understand Jon knowing about her, he and Lady Serana are to be wed, and Enzo seems close to the family too. I know that Arya spends a lot of time with her brother and the Volkihars, so she'd likely be told about other family members. But Tyrion Lannister? He and Jon are friends, but to that degree?'

"Yes, I forgot that I had not made proper introductions. Forgive me, the poor girl is quite shy," Lady Serana said easily, like she couldn't understand why this was such a big deal. "Everyone, my niece: Myra Volkihar."

The young woman said nothing, just gave a nervous curtsy. She looked to be a year or so older than Shireen, with inky black hair cut short like she was in mourning, light skin, and green eyes. The black and red dress she was wearing was simple, aside from the silver lace trim and a small ruby necklace. There was something familiar about her, but no matter how hard she tried to focus on Myra's face, Shireen couldn't put her finger on it. As servants came to lay out the first course of the night, she decided that it was only because Myra looked like her aunt and let it go.

After appropriate greetings were made and Myra joined them at the table, Shireen turned back to Jon.

"You were saying something earlier, weren't you?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "I was saying that we should try to relax tonight. After everything, we all deserve that. The state of affairs is grim, yes, but we can have a proper, full council tomorrow when we're all better rested. No proper decisions can be made in exhaustion and anger. A full night of sleep on land will do us all wonders."

"That sounds like a good idea," Lord Stark agreed. "It will allow everyone to get our thoughts in order. I know I would like a chance to get my children settled in for the night before making decisions regarding our futures."

A dark cloud still filling the room, there was a soft choir of agreements and acquisition. Shireen stirred her soup and hoped tomorrow would look a little brighter.

"Well, that could have gone worse," Davos said as he escorted Shireen back to her chambers. It was an old ritual of theirs and provided a quiet sort of comfort in its familiarity, brief as it was. 

"We didn't decide on anything," Shireen pointed out. "Nothing got better."

"You provided a group of powerful individuals a night of rest and safety after a terrible experience. If there's a hint of honor in any of them, they'll remember that in the coming times."

Davos gave her a smile so warm and so loving that it made her ache inside. "I'm so proud of you. Both today and during the trial, you held your own in a room of your peers. Even in the face of their scorn and distrust, you did not flinch. Keep your chin held high, Lady Baratheon, and soon no one will doubt that you're capable of leading your people."

Shireen scoffed, "I doubt that. I just know people are looking for the first excuse to replace me with a male heir."

"Gently as I can say, your father had no sons and his will was quite clear. You are his heir, no one else. More than that, you are the only trueborn Baratheon of note at the moment, what with Princess Myrcella missing."

'That's part of the problem.' 

As it stood, Shireen was already forced into a position to claim control of both Dragonstone and Storm's End as well as, potentially, the Iron Throne itself. None of which she wanted in the first place! Shireen would have gladly given up the position to a younger brother, should one have existed. Both because she'd always wanted a younger sibling and because it might have made her family happy. Unfortunately, her mother's womb had never produced a surviving child again, leaving small, sad Shireen to shoulder the burden of her father's title alone. To keep things together as best she could and pray that Uncle Renly would wake up soon.

'No siblings... I do have cousins though.'

Joffrey and Tommen were dead and Shireen mourned one of them. Myrcella, who'd always been sweet to her, was... gone. The Queen's letter claimed that she'd been kidnapped by the Starks. Yet Shireen had seen neither hide nor hair of her cousin while on the ship, and besides, Jon was too kind to do such a thing. Aside from them, there were Uncle Robert's bastards.

'Most of them are dead,' Shireen thought with a shiver. She'd never met any of them prior to the coup, of course, but the thought of so many innocent children being killed for the simple crime of existing! It also made her wonder if the attack on Shireen and her group was merely to take hostages... or get rid of her completely. 

'Except for the three Jon and his friends were able to save.'

Due to the close quarters of the Bell Singer , it was inevitable that Shireen had met her illegitimate cousins. Mhaegan had been nice, though Shireen had to hide her blush when the woman started talking about how she met Uncle Robert, and little Barra was cute. Dalla wasn't the most talkative of folks, but she was kind enough and busied herself by helping with the chores on the ship. Of all of them, she'd probably had the most contact with Dustun, a happy, friendly little boy who was excited to chat with anyone he could, especially the various sailors. At one point, he'd asked Shireen about the scars on her face. His mother had shushed him quickly, but Shireen had just answered the best she could. Children could be cruel, she knew that from experience, yet they were more often simply curious about what they didn't know. They rarely judged or pitied and, because of that, Shireen didn't mind their questions. 

Then there was Gendry.

Gendry seemed... nice , even if they'd hadn't properly spoken yet. The young man had tried to approach her once, on one of the first days they were all on the Bell Singer, but she'd fled to her cabin at the very sight of him. Gendry looked so much like her father that it was painful. More than that, it was frightening. 

Her newly discovered cousin, baseborn though he may be, looked like a young lord. He was tall with broad shoulders and strong muscles that cut an impressive frame, especially in the well-made, dark clothing and fur cloak the Captain had lent him. She'd seen him read too, so he at least knew his letters, and his appearance left little doubt he was a Baratheon by blood if not name.

'He could be my enemy. There are plenty who'd latched on to him and try to shove him into the role, even if Gendry doesn't want it first. He seems like a good enough young man, but the temptation of power has corrupted many good young men.'

They passed a window, giving Shireen a quick glance of her land. 

Her land...

A thought dawned on her. 'Gendry doesn't have to be my enemy. There are two regions that need a Baratheon heir, another seat that Gendry could fill. One closer to his blood.'

Shireen hoped Uncle Renly would wake up from his coma. That being said, she needed to plan for the very real possibility that he wouldn't or, if he did, wouldn't be the same man he once was. From what the Bell Singer's healer had said, people who woke up from long comas could have memory loss, vision issues, and a change in personality. None of which would bode well for a major lord. Strong Gendry, who looked every part the young Baratheon lord, could be a handsome substitute. 

'By the Seven, I'm terrible,' she thought, nearly stopping in her tracks. 'I'm already planning for my uncle's death and how to manipulate a cousin I've never spoken to before. Is this what it means to lead?'

"Shireen? Is something wrong?" 

Davos' voice pulled Shireen's from her thoughts. She blinked at him," Oh... I just have so much on my mind. Enough about my family, it's caused too much trouble for everyone as is. What about yours? Are Marya and your sons alright with having to stay at Dragonstone longer."

The former smuggler took a long moment to answer, seeming to want to take care to choose the right words. 

"Marya misses being home, and she misses having me home even more," he said eventually. "The younger boys are at an age where they need their father around to guide and teach them. I miss us all being home together at our keep in at Cape Wrath."

Shireen felt something inside herself wither up at Davos' words. Of course she knew that the man, for all she loved him like a second father, had his own family and responsibilities that he had to put to the side for the sake of Shireen. 

"But..." Davos continued, taking her face in his rough, callous hands so Shireen would look him in the eye. "...you and your future are important to all of us. You may be the Lady of Dragonstone, but are also our family. Marya sees you as the daughter we never had, and my sons see you as a sister to protect. And we will protect you. We will protect and aid you in any way you'll allow us."

.

.

.

"I don't want you to die," Shireen whispered, tears welling up in her blue eyes. "I can't lose you too, not after everyone else. You and your family—"

"Are by your side," Davos said gently. He pressed a kiss into her forehead. "For now and forever more."

Shireen let herself hug the man, finding comfort where she could. 'That's what I'm afraid of.'

Shireen's quarters were exactly the same as they had been when she'd departed for King's Landing, right down to the doll knocked askew on her dresser. She righted it, taking a moment to stroke the doll's black yarn braids before undoing the pins of her own hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. Having dismissed her maid for the night, Shireen took a moment to relish the quiet and stillness of her room. After having been in crowded Red Keep and then in the close quarters of the Bell Singer,  being alone seemed almost magical. 

But when Shireen went to change into the nightgown that had been set out for her, a low giggle echoed in her ear. 

Shireen shrieked, spinning around to see a shadow-cast, multicolored face staring at her dead in the eye.

"Patches!" she gasped, stumbling back on her bed. "What are you doing in here?"

The fool let out another giggle before ignoring her question to wander over to the nearest window that overlooked the sea. 

"Under the sea the mermen feast on starfish soup, and all the serving men are crabs," he said. 

Shireen didn't bother asking what that meant, she'd long since stopped trying to decipher Patchface's riddles. 

"Did something happen?" she asked instead. 

"Many, many things have happened~," the fool sang. "Have happened, are happening, will happen~."

'The war...'

"Yes," Shireen agreed sadly. "We will have to send men marching out to war soon, no matter how much I wish otherwise."

Patches nodded. 

"Men march off to war, 

Men march into the sea,

Men march into the dark,

Never again to be seen.

Rain falls,

Night falls,

Blood falls for the sky.

Water will boil, and walls will crumble.

Pray to the Crow and hope he never dies,

For when the wind sings the Darkness comes.

Who will survive, and who will die?

Who regrets, who remains?

Who has secrets, who has pain?

Who will hang their head in shame?

The Darkness feasts on blood,

The Darkness quells the pain.

Women shriek, and children cry,

But only silence answers. 

And though we may all struggle,

Death always comes~."

Shireen swallowed hard, every hair on her body standing on end. She said nothing as Patches skipped out of the room, leaving the young girl alone with her nightmares. 

Arya VII

"Well, that went well," Arya said. "No one threw any punches, at least. No fires."

Myrc—Myra fiddled with a lock of her dyed hair. "Oh, someone saw through my disguise. I just know they did! New hair, a different name, and some—" she tugged at the necklace Lady Valerica had given her "—necklace to keep them from seeing me for who I am!"

"Serana and her mother promised that, so long as you kept that necklace on, the chances of anyone recognizing you are slim to none," Arya replied from her perch on the bed. 

As Serana's niece and Lady Valerica's granddaughter, 'Myra' would be sharing one of the guest apartments of Dragonstone with the two women. Ayra was sure that the quarters were undoubtedly smaller and less fancy than the princess was used to, yet she hadn't complained. Arya had been tempted to ask to stay here with them —she was sharing with Sansa, who did nothing but alternate between pouting and crying into her pillow— but now didn't seem like the time nor the place.

"And besides," she continued, "even if they could tell who you were, it isn't like they could do anything. For one, how would they prove it? And, for two, we'd protect you, Jon, Enzo, Serana, and I. We'll make sure you don't have to go back to your mother. Besides, they wouldn't want you getting recognized either. Too much trouble if that happend."

"But— "

Arya reached out to grab Myra's wrist, stopping her frantic pacing around the room. "Hey, do you trust us?"

"Yes, but— "

"Do you think that we're strong enough to protect you?"

"I know you are," Myra said. "But still, I— "

"Then have faith in us." Arya gave the other girl her most confident smile, "I don't know how much good I'll be, but you're my friend. I'll always do what I can to help you. And I trust Jon to protect both of us, so... no matter what happens, I think it'll all be fine in the end."

.

.

.

"You're a good friend, Arya," Myra said, her voice weak and shaky. Without warning, she threw herself at Arya, wrapping her in a tight hug. "The best friend I ever had."

'That sounds very sad,' Arya thought, hugging the girl back as tight as she could. 

Then, after a moment, Arya realized that her own only true friends growing up had been her siblings, which didn't really count. She'd spent casual, friendly time with the children from Winterfell orphanage and the children of other lords and enjoyed it, but, again, that didn't really count. She'd never truly had a real friend either. She'd made brief friendships before, in the way young children do with others around, but they never lasted longer than a few days.

"Me too," she said. 

They stayed like that for a long moment, hugging and both trying not to cry as they mourned the opportunities they'd lost throughout their lives. Others had certainly had it worse, but wounds shouldn't be counted, and the positions they'd been born into had still cost them much. 

When they finally pulled apart, Myra wiped the wetness from her eyes and said, "Okay, time to get myself under control. You promised you'd show me how to do some spells today."

"Oh, right." Arya gnawed on her lower lip nervously. Once again, she was having second thoughts on her promise to help Myra learn magic. "You know, I'm not really the best person to teach you. I'm still learning myself. You'd probably be better off asking Serana or her mother; I know they have some books on magic with them. Or maybe Jon would let you join me in my lessons, even if they're less frequent now that things are going crazy."

"That's fine, I don't want to bother any of them," Myra replied, sitting down next to Arya on the bed. "And I trust you more than any of them."

Those words tugged at Arya's heart and she felt her reluctance slip away. "Alright, let's get started then. I won't try teaching you any destruction magic though, that can go really wrong if you're not careful."

"How so?

Arya felt the tips of her ears heat up and she rubbed the back of her neck. "I, uh, once set a tablecloth on fire by accident, had to put it out with tea."

Myra burst out in laughter. "I remember that! I thought you were just trying to get out of spending time with my m— Queen Cersei and your sister!"

"I mean, that was a nice side-effect," Arya admitted. Her smile fell as she realized there was a question she hadn't bothered to ask yet, "Myra, why do you want to learn magic? Is it so you can fight? Because, if that is the case— "

"No, not that," Myra said, cutting her off. "I do have plans, but they don't involve the battlefield."

Arya let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, that's good."

"Yes, I was hoping to learn more about something Lady Serana mentioned. She called it Conjur- Conjuration magic. Do you know anything about that?" Myra asked.

"Hmmm, I know one spell, and am learning another. I could teach you that."

"Good, I want to get started right away."

Arya awoke to a banging on the door, the shock of which jolted her so badly she nearly fell out of the bed. 

"Wha!" she yelped, grabbing at the covers to steady herself. 

"On your feet, Arya! The day is wasting away while you sleep!" Syrio Forel bellowed from behind the door. 

"Who's that?" Myra muttered sleepily, only barely lifting her head off the pillow. 

"My dancing teacher," she replied.

"Child, do you wish to learn or not?"

Myra blinked at the door. "He sounds very serious about dancing."

Then she turned back over and started snoring again. 

"Arya!"

"Coming!" she finally called back, adding a few more curses under her breath. Untangling herself from the blankets, Arya glanced towards the beds that were supposed to be for Serana, only to find that neither looked like it had been slept in.  'Huh, that is strange.'

"Do not make me open this door myself!"

"Ugh!" Arya growled, undoing the door's lock and throwing the door open. "Do you know what time it is?"

The Swordmaster didn't even blink at her tone or state of disarray, instead presenting Arya's sword to her. "Yes, time to train. Go put on something more practical and meet Syrio Forel on the south-most wall-walk."

The girl blinked at him. "Huh? 

"Don't keep your mouth open like that, you look like a foolish fish."

"I... don't understand," Arya said. "We're getting back to training already? You said I needed to rest."

"And you have. Now it is time to get back to work," the man said, shoving Arya's sword into her chest so suddenly that she almost dropped it in her scramble to grab the blade. "Besides, I have a new type of training in mind for you."

'New training?' Arya felt a rush of excitement shoot through her body, a smile growing on her face and any lingering tiredness fleeing. "I'll get changed and meet you there soon as I can."

"See that you do."

Then the man vanished down the castle hall, leaving Arya to whisper a quick goodbye to Myra before rushing back to her own family's quarters. When she crept inside, she saw Sansa curled up on one of the beds. 

'Wow, she looks awful!' Arya fought the cringe to the sight of her sister. Sansa's hair was a wreck, nothing like the sleek, carefully brushed and maintained mane the older Stark girl was always so proud of. Her Tully blue eyes were bloodshot with heavy, dark bags that marked many sleepless nights. She'd been deteriorating all while they were sailing, but now looked worse than ever. 

"Where have you been?" she asked.

Arya didn't answer immediately, too busy yanking on her training clothes and yanking a comb through her messy dark hair. "I spent last night helping Serana and her family with something, ended up falling asleep in her room."

That was mostly, technically speaking, Arya had been helping 'Myra Volkihar,' albeit with learning magic. They'd practice late into the night, so much so that Arya had been completely drained. She didn't even remember falling asleep, just resting her eyes for a moment. The exhaustion of trying to cast spells had hit Myra too, and she'd only managed a small glow from the fingertips. She could only assume that Serana or Lady Valerica had found them both passed out on the bed, and tucked them both in.

"Lady Serana," Sansa tried to correct quietly. 

Arya rolled her eyes. "She helped save our lives and is going to be our Good Sister soon. I think we can drop the formalities of titles."

"Jon isn't our brother, so she isn't going to be our Good Sister," Sansa muttered. "And you shouldn't be wandering around a strange castle, not now."

"Father knew where I was," Arya shot back, feeling her annoyance spike. She turned to look at Sansa and sneered, "Besides, I'm not the one who screwed up badly enough to get locked up in a room where I can't hurt anyone else."

Sansa just broke into tears, rolling over so she was facing away from Arya. The youngest Stark girl felt a twinge of pity at the sight of her distraught sister, but she pushed it away. After all, she had better things to do.

"Just... don't get into more trouble," she said. "And tell Father that I'll be with my dance teacher if you see him."

More sniffles.

'Things won't get better until you start working at it, Sansa,' Arya thought to herself as she left the room. 'No one will fix this for you, not me, not Father, and not anyone else.'

"I'm here, I'm here!" Arya called as she skidded to a stop in front of Syrio. 

"You're late."

"I had a hard time finding where you meant," she said. "This castle is so confusing."

Dragonstone was so unlike Winterfell. If Winterfell was sturdy and strong and worn comfortably with age, then Dragonstone felt... sharp. Sharp and strange and dark. A grim place made of black stone shaped in odd, unnatural ways. And the place was absolutely covered in depictions of bizarre animals; mostly dragons, which made sense, but also basilisks, cockatrices, demons, griffins, hellhounds, manticores, minotaurs, wyverns, gargoyles, and other creatures that Arya couldn't name. The gargoyles, at least, were familiar, as they had similar sculptures and crenellations in Winterfell. Every other creature seemed to stare at Arya with cold, judging eyes that made her shiver. 

"It is different," Syrio agreed, "but beautiful, in its own way."

"...I suppose it has its charm," Arya said, not wanting to disagree with her teacher. "So, what is this new training you have for me?"

The man grinned at her, and nodded at Arya's sword. "Put that down first, child. Then you will see."

"Huh?"

"Put it down,"

"But— "

Syrio cut her off with a sharp look, "You swore to Syrio Forel that you'd follow his instructions without question. Are you breaking your word, Arya child?"

Arya swallowed hard and shook her head, propping her sword up against the wall-walk rampart. "No, of course not. I'll follow your lead, just... just keep teaching me. Please. I want to learn, I want it more than anything."

"And you'll have it, but first you must learn to quiet your mind," the man replied. "A loud, unfocused mind will kill you faster than any enemy blade."

Then without another word, Syrio hauled himself up onto the top of the rampart. With the grace of a cat, the man knelt down and held out his hand to Arya.

"Come on, child. Join Syrio Forel."

Arya eyed the narrow ledge, taking note of the narrow space and the force of the wind coming off the ocean. "What if we fall?"

"Syrio Forel never falls. You must not either."

Arya opened her mouth to argue again before stopping herself. 'I have to trust him.'

Stealing her resolve, Arya took her teacher's hand and climbed up onto the wall beside. Syrio allowed Arya to hold onto him until she found her footing and steadied herself. 

"Wwwoooww!" Arya whimpered as the wind tugged at her hair and clothes, trying not to look at the ground so far beneath them. 'Good thing I'm not swearing a dress. The skirts would probably get me killed.'

Syrio seemed to recognize her growing fear. "Don't look at the ground; it is not important. Watch the horizon instead. Keep your eye on the rising sun, and breathe with the rhythm of the waves. Let yourself relax, Arya child."

Arya seized the man's voice as an anchor, using it as an attempt to force away the fear. She locked onto the spot where the sun, orange and bright and huge, met the ocean; keeping her eyes on it, trying not to move her head, Arya willed herself to stand up straight. Raising her arms out to her sides, she listened for the sounds of the crashing waves. 

'In... Out... In... Out... In... Out... In... Out...'

Though she couldn't be entirely sure she was even actually hearing the sound of the tide — it was so far away, after all— timing her breathing with the push and pull of the waves was enough that Arya felt herself relax. Her racing heart slowed in her chest. and Arya's body relaxed, becoming less rigid. Rather than fight against the wind, Arya allowed her body to rock with it and the energy to disperse through her. It was an instinctual thing, her body adjusting to keep her balance. She didn't think to do it, didn't decide how to shift her wait or move her feet. She just did it and wondered if this was what it was like to be a cat.

Eventually, a strange sense of peace came over the girl. 

"There, you have," Syrio said, pride so evident in his voice that Arya felt herself smile. 

They stayed like that for a long while, staring out over the ocean in silence. Arya closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh, salty sea air. For the first time since... Arya honestly couldn't even say when, she felt completely at peace. It seemed as if the only thing that existed in the world was her, the ledge beneath her feet, and the horizon before her.

"Syrio Forel wishes to apologize."

"Huh?" Arya blinked, startled by the sudden statement. "For what?"

"For not taking your concerns seriously," the man said, folding his arms behind his back. Arya watched the way her teacher moved, so fluid and effortless it was incredible. After a moment, she mirrored his pose. 

"Oh, is this about... about what happened on the boat?" she asked. "You were right though. I was pushing myself too hard; I was trying to learn too much too fast. And you saw how bad that went." 

"True. Syrio Forel was not apologizing for that however. Merely that he did not give the reason behind your eagerness due respect. The desire to protect one's self and loved ones is noble, for all it can make one reckless." He looked at her then, his eyes dark and serious, "Make no mistake, we are entering terrible times, Arya child. Syrio Forel to be prepared and able to be defend yourself. He simply also wants you to not-"

"Be hasty," Arya finished. She sighed, "I can't promise that. I'll always want to learn more, always want to get strong. But I swear that I'll do better. I'll listen and I'll learn and I'll do my best to be patient."

That earned her a smile. "That is all Syrio Forel asks."

The man turned, jumping down onto the walk with feline grace. "Come along then. Time to return to your sword work."

The smile on her face growing larger, Arya followed. Her feet hit the stone hard and she found herself stumbling forward. But she moved with the momentum and, after three steps, regained her balance. Keeping her movements as smooth as possible, Arya snatched up her sword and came to a stop in front of Syrio.

'Not perfect. Not yet. I'm getting there though.'

Even her teacher seemed to agree. 

"Good," he said. "Now, pick up your sword. It is time to begin."

"Here?" Arya asked, looking around. The walkway of the allure wasn't wide; two fully-grown men would probably have a hard time standing side by side comfortably on it.

"Here," Syrio nodded. "The Water Dance style is well-suited for narrow, tight spaces. This will do nicely... So long as you do not fall."

He said that last part teasingly. Yet when Arya took another glance over the side, she shook her head. "I won't."

"Excellent. Now, draw your sword and... Defend! "

"Well, this certainly wasn't what I was expecting."

Arya froze up before slowly turning to face her bemused-looking father. By the man's side stood Nymeria, who cocked her massive furry head to the side as she looked at her. Swallowing hard, Arya followed her father's gaze to the sword still clutched in her hand before looking back up to him.

"Don't tell Mother," she blurted out. 

At her words, a flash of... something crossed Father's face, yet it was gone before Arya could put a name to it. Instead, he put on a calm mask and asked, "Where did you get that?"

"..."

"Arya, I'm not angry. I knew you had a sword; I caught glimpses of you training on the ship," he said. "I just want to understand how all this happened."

The youngest Stark girl bit her lip nervously. "...Jon gave it to me. He had it made by Gendry and his master."

To Arya's surprise, Father laughed at her answer. "Why am I not surprised?" 

It was then that Nymeria finally decided she wanted some attention. Letting out a quiet bark, the direwolf padded over to Syrio, bumping her head against his hip. Clearly she still had not forgiven Arya for the boat ride. 

For a brief moment, the swordmaster looked down at the direwolf in confusion before scratching Nymeria behind one of her ears. "Greetings, noble beast."

Father turned to Syrio, cocking an eyebrow at him. "Dancing instructor?"

"Syrio Forel is the former First Sword of Bravos. His skill with the Water Dance sword style is legendary," her teacher replied without hesitation or any hint of the guilt that Arya was feeling. Perhaps that made sense though, he had no loyalty to the man. "Though he is a fantastic ballroom dancer as well."

"Ah." Father turned back to Arya, "I take it Jon hired him as well?"

Arya gave an awkward, guilty smile. "You're really not angry? Are you going to stop my lessons."

"I suppose I'm upset this was all done without my knowledge... but no, I'm not angry. And since these skills aided you in escaping King's Landing, I truly have nothing to complain about, let alone attempt to stop," her father sighed. Then he smiled at her, sweet and sad at the same time. "Your aunt loved swordplay. Perhaps, if our father had allowed her to train formally, things could have gone differently..."

He trailed off, going quiet for a moment before shaking himself back to the present. He smiled again, "From what I saw, you were doing very well. I would like to watch you practice your… dance from the beginning one day soon."

"Well..." Arya looked at Syrio questioningly. 

The man shrugged. "Typically, Syrio Forel only allows other students to sit in on training sessions. However, as he is your father, I will allow it."

"Thank you. I hope we can discuss Arya's training as well," Father said with a nod. "But first, I would like to speak with my daughter."

"Of course." 

Giving them some privacy, Syrio vanished further down the allure. Taking the opportunity for a short rest, Arya leaned back against the stone wall behind her and took a drink from her water skin. "What is going on? Have you heard back from home yet?"

"Sadly no," Father said, shaking his head. "For now, we have to take this as everything is going well, or as well they can be."

"I just wish we knew what was going on with Robb, Bran, and Rickon."

"Me too. Yet until we hear back, we have to trust that they are safe with your mother. Robb has trained and prepared his entire life for this situation, he can handle things until we return." 

"Can you ever actually be prepared for something like this?" Arya asked, trying to imagine what had been going through Robb's mind since he got news of the events that unfolded in King's Landing.

Father winced. "...No, not truly."

At that moment, Arya's father looked older and more frail than she'd even seen him. She wanted to say something... anything to make him feel better.

Instead, she just gave him a hug. "Don't worry. We'll see them all again soon."

"Aye, that is the hope," Father said, hugging her back. "In fact, that is what I wanted to speak with you about. As soon as possible, you and Sansa will be sailing back for Winterfell. With war brewing on the horizon, it is the safest place for you both right now."

"But what about you?!" 

'Is he planning on staying here? Or go somewhere else? Is he leaving us behind?' Arya couldn't bear the thought of saying goodbye to her Father, not after everything they'd been through!

"Tonight's Council will decide more, yet if all goes well, then I hope to sail with you both. Regardless, you and Sansa both need to be with the rest of the family."

"You and Jon are family! You need to come too!"

"It's not that simple. As far as anyone can tell, Cersei has not moved her forces. If she moves first, it is an attack on her own subjects. But, if we do before her, it's a rebellion. That can be an important difference in the eyes of many," Father explained. "For now, I simply ask that you trust me. In return, I offer you my own trust."

.

.

.

"Alright," Arya whispered. "Alright. I don't like it, but I trust you. I'll go, I won't argue... So long as Syrio can still come."

Father let out a laugh, "Sneaky little wolf! Of course. So long as he agrees, Syrio Forel will always be welcome in Winterfell."

Father gave her another hug. His embrace was tight and warm, so much so that it was able to give Arya the illusion of safety.

It was midday when Syrio finally ended their training session, telling Arya to stretch and bathe before eating. This was something he often stressed, the importance of rest and rejuvenation after practice. This, he'd say, was a key component in getting stronger, for if you just endlessly abused your body, day after day, then it never had a chance to repair itself until it was better than ever. 

So here she was, flexing out the muscles of her legs when she heard someone else approach. By her side, Nymeria lifted her massive head up off her paws. Glancing over her shoulder, Arya was surprised to see Gendry standing a few feet away.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I've never been outside King's Landing in my life. I got curious and was exploring the castle grounds. I saw you up here, thought I would say hello," Gendry shrugged. He nodded towards her now sheathed sword, "You're good at that. I saw you on the boat too."

"Thanks," Arya said. One day, she'd stop preening at such praise. Today would not be that day. "I never thought I'd have my very own sword, let alone properly train with one."

Gendry stepped closer, holding out his hands. It took Arya a moment to realize what he was silently asking for. When she did, the girl handed over her sword with only slight hesitation. 

"It's a beautiful piece of work," the blacksmith's apprentice said, pulling the blade from its sheath and holding it up to the sky to examine it. "Still looks good, you've been taking care of it. I'm proud to have had a hand in its creation."

"You made my sword?" Arya asked.

"Hardly," Gendry laughed. "I just helped with the grunt work. No, this type of work was still too delicate for me. Look at it, as skinny as a needle."

Delicate was a good word for the blade. Thin and light, lacking any cumbersome, unnecessary ornamentation, and designed so that Arya could comfortably wield it with either hand. That was something Syrio had taken full advantage of, drilling her over and over again with one hand before forcing her to twitch to the other. 

"Have you given it a name yet?" Gendry asked. "I know plenty of people do."

Arya hadn't even considered such a thing, hadn't really had the time. Still, perhaps she should. Candle had a name, after all. "Have you ever named a blade before?"

"No, it was never my place. Besides, swords never interested me."

The idea of a man not being interested in swords was strange to Arya. She thought all men, even the more bookish types, liked the idea of fighting. 

Speaking of which...

"Wait, can you fight?" she asked. 

Gendry shrugged and gave her a small grin. "I saved you back in King's Landing, didn't I?"

Arya rolled her eyes, making the young man chuckle. "No, I mean, like, really fight. Properly."

"Nah. I know how to throw a punch and have been in my fair share of tavern brawls, but that's it. No fancy training for me." 

"You should get some as soon as possible!" Arya said quickly. "I can ask Syrio to let you join us, or maybe Jon can help you!"

"I can handle myself just fine."

"That's not good enough," she insisted, Nymeria letting out a bark of agreement. "Not with what's going on. Not with how everything is changing. Not with what already happened to your…"

She trailed off, not wanting to think of the dead children of the late King Robert. Any of them. 

At her words, Gendry flinched. He looked away, out towards the ocean. 

"Life has changed," he agreed. "I'm the bastard son of the dead King Robert, and we're going against the Queen. I never imagined myself being a part of something that big, aside from helping make the armor made to protect soldiers alongside the swords meant to kill them. How long do you think the war will last?"

"Weeks, months, maybe even years. Or, if there is a miracle, it might never come at all," Arya shrugged. She didn't remember her father marching off for the Greyjoy Rebellion; she'd just been a newborn after all. "After it's all over... What will you do?"

"If I'm still alive, you mean?"

"Don't talk like that! We have to believe that we'll all make it out! I know it is foolish, yet we can't let despair sink in and give ourselves over to the Stranger before he's actually here. That won't do us any good."

Gendry looked shocked for a moment before flashing Arya a teasing grin. "Why, Lady Arya, I didn't know you were so eloquent! You're Lady Mother must be so proud."

Arya punched him in the arm, feeling a flash of pride when he winced. "Shut up, I'm being serious. And don't call me a lady!"

"Fine, fine." Gendry rubbed his arm, his face growing grave. "How am I supposed to know what the future has in store for me when I can't even imagine what tomorrow will look like?"

That was a good question, one Arya had no true answer too. Instead, she decided to answer a question with another question. "Well, is there anything you'd want to do? Anywhere you'd want to go? Things you'd want to see?"

"I'd always pictured myself opening my own blacksmith shop one day," Gendry said. "I thought I'd find a wife, start a family, and grow old having a normal, comfortable life. I never thought to want or wish for anything else. And yet I doubt a life that simple is possible here in Westeros anymore, not after everything that has happened. Not after knowing what I do."

He looked back over the sea once more. "Enzo said Jon would let me come back to Skyrim with him, that blacksmiths are always welcome there, and they could help me get established. I think, if we all survive, I'm going to do that."

Something in Arya's heart hitched at those words. 'You're leaving me too?'

"You don't have to go that far away!" 

Arya was surprised at how quick and high pitched the words that tumbled out of mouth. Gendry was too, if the look he gave her was anything to go by. 

"You just found out you have brothers and maybe even sisters, don't you want to get to know them?" she asked, trying to cover her slip-up. "I know younger siblings can be annoying, yet having them around is usually worth it. Trust me."

Gendry chuckled again. "They're cute, I'll give them that. They're so young though, I'm not sure that I can ever be close to, or feel the love for 'em that you feel for Jon and your other siblings. I'll wish them well, of course, and won't mind spending time around 'em, but that's it."

Arya bit her lip, deciding to change tactics. "Well... You could also come up to Winterfell with Sansa and I! King Robert was my father's dearest friend, I'm sure he'd welcome you with welcome arms. You even still be a blacksmith; the North has plenty of use for them."

"It wouldn't be the same. Even in Winterfell, my past would still follow me. Who my father is would still be important there, as would being a bastard. From the way Enzo describes it, in Skyrim none of that would matter. No one would know me, I could become whoever I want." Gendry grinned at her, "You seem very intent on getting me to stay here. Any particular reason for that?"

"I just..." Arya looked away so she couldn't see Gendry's stupid face and bright blue eyes, the tips of her ears starting to burn. "I just... am glad you're with us."

.

.

.

"Me too."

Margaery II

The first thing Margaery became aware of was how thirsty she was. Her mouth and throat felt as dry and rough as parchment paper. When she tried to swallow, Margaery's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as her throat spasmed wildly.

'I need water,' she thought. In that moment, nothing else in all of Margaery's existence mattered more than finding just a single glass of water. 'I need it now!'

Yet, to obtain the elusive liquid, she first needed to open her eyes. A task that proved to be more difficult than one would imagine. Margaery's eyelids felt like they were welded shut!

'Open up! Open up! Open up!' the young woman demanded of herself. 

Slowly... Painfully, vision returned to Margaery. Yet it wasn't the same. She couldn't quite understand, or even properly put the issue into words, but there was something genuinely wrong with her vision. More than that...

'Where am I?' Margaery wondered, forcing herself to sit up as she looked around the room. 

The rows of beds separated by hanging sheets, shelves full of salves and herbs, and stacks of bandages told her she was in an infirmary. Yet, instead of the wide windows that let in plenty of sun, warm wood, and flowing linens of High Garden's main infirmary or even the grand, ostentatious one found in the Red Keep, this one was cold with walls made from dark stone and had little in the way of windows to let in light. While the dimness felt soothing against Margaery's pounding headache, she also shivered at the unwelcoming atmosphere.

However, all that confusion fled her mind when Margaery spotted a pitcher and empty glass resting on a table across the room from her. 

'Water!'

Margaery pushed the blankets covering her away, only taking the briefest moment to notice how clumsy and uncoordinated her movements were. Under different circumstances, it would have concerned her more but, for now, all she could think of was getting a drink. She swung her legs out of bed to stand and—

BAM!

—crashed to the floor. 

Ahhhh!" she screamed in pain, feeling tears coming.

What was going on? Why couldn't she move properly? Why was her body so weak? Why did falling hurt so much? Why couldn't Margaery see right?

The sound of footsteps approaching broke through the chaos raging in Margaery's mind. Foolishly, her heart leapt in joy at the thought that it was a member of her family.

'Mother?' she thought. 'Father? Grandmother? Is that you?'

Yet, when she looked up, Margery found herself staring into a pair of cold, inquisitive green eyes of a severe-looking, dark-haired older woman. 

"Good, you're finally awake," the woman said. She reached down, causing Margaery to flinch, and grabbed her by the biceps. With surprising ease, the woman lifted Margaery from the floor and sat her down on the floor. 

"Who are you?" Margaery coughed, her voice dry and rough. Just forcing those three words out was nearly impossible. 

"Valerica Volkihar," the woman said. Without asking or hesitation, she put two icy fingers on the base of Margaery's neck. "...Good, your pulse is steady."

That didn't mean anything to the young woman. She still only had one thing on her mind. "Water."

"Hmm, yes. You're probably thirsty," Volkihar said with a nod as she continued her examination of Margaery. The woman's hands, while gentle enough, made her shiver. They were so cold! "One moment."

Volkihar went to retrieve the pitcher of water, but rather than pour Margaery a glass, she pulled a clean washcloth from a cabinet and soak it with water. 

"Here, suck the moisture from this first," she said, handing Margaery the wet cloth. When she gave the woman a confused look, Volkihar explained. "You need to pace yourself while reintroducing water into your body. If you drink too quickly, you risk vomiting, and no one wants to deal with that."

Under most circumstances, a cultured and privileged young lady like Margaery would have balked at such an uncouth action. Today she shoved the rag into her mouth like it was a slice of the finest pie in the world.

"Hmmm," she moaned as the moisture wet her mouth and slid down her throat, soothing her discomfort. Margaery had never thought much about the taste of water, but right now it tasted as sweet as honey. 

"Your body is hungry as well, even if you do not realize it yet," Volkihar continued. She turned to two young women watching on while huddled in a corner, so quiet that Magarey hadn't even noticed them. Infirmary assistants, if she had to guess. Volkihar pointed at one of them, eliciting a loud, fearful squeak. "You! Go get some food from the kitchens for this girl. Either a warm broth or applesauce. Nothing too heavy, do you understand me?"

"Yes, milady. Right away," the assistant said quickly, scurrying out of the room like a mouse being chased down by a cat.

"That girl will never be good at this if acts like she is about to faint every time I look at her," Lady Volkihar said, mostly to herself. She turned back to Margaery, her face growing contemplative. "Alright, let's look at you."

Her cold, delicate fingers reached out and cupped Margaery's face before sliding up to adjust—

'Bandages?I was... I was injured,' she wondered, reaching up to touch her own face. Her fingers slid over the texture of soft cloth. "What happened?"

Lady Valerica cocked a dark brow at her, "Do you not remember?"

Margaery frowned, shaking her head. That very small action sent a sharp stab of pain through her entire head. Still, she fought through the pain and tried to focus on the most recent members she could drag up. "I... My family and I were in King's Landing... There was a knock on the door... Someone attacked Renly, then... then..."

Her fingers slid up on her face. Higher and higher until she was touching the thick layer that was covering her left eye. Or, rather, where her eye should be. Her heartbeat sped up and a cold layer of sweat broke out over Margaery's body.

"...My eye!" she croaked. "Where is it?"

"Gone."

Margaery doubled over, wrenching as her entire body trembled. Her chest hurt, breathing became heard and the hands clutching at her face started tingling.

'I can't breathe!' she realized, gasping for air even as none came. 'I'm dying!'

A firm, icy hand squeezed the back of Margaery's neck and shoved her head down until it was between her knees. 

"You can breathe, even if it doesn't feel like it," Lady Volkihar said firmly. "I know you're upset. I know you're scared. Yet there is no need to be afraid, you are safe now. Try to imagine the melody of your favorite song and breathe along with that."

Though the older woman's voice seemed as if it was miles away, Margaery did her best to follow the advice. Through her racing mind, she screamed to remember the lyrics of her favorite song and focused on that.

'~High in the halls of the kings who are gone

Jenny would dance with her ghosts

The ones she had lost and the ones she had found

And the ones who had loved her the most~'

As Margaery mentally sang the sweet, somber tune, she felt her heart rate slow. The tightness in her chest relaxed, her lungs filling with air once more. Even the tingling in her hands stopped.

When she no longer felt the urge to vomit her guts over the floor, the young Rose of Highgarden slowly raised her head to look Lady Volkihar in her hard green eyes. "Where is my family?"

"Here, in this same castle."

"Where is 'here'?" she demanded.

"I believe it is called Dragonstone. You, your family, and many others were brought here after escaping King's Landing."

'Dragonstone? The Baratheon seat? Why here? Did Stannis' daughter rescue us? I thought we met up with Stark's men?'

"I want to see them," Margaery said. "I need to see them, right now. Why isn't anyone here for me?"

After a moment, the older woman nodded. "That is probably for the best." She turned towards the second assistant, "You, go find the rest of the Tyrells, and bring them here immediately. If they resist, you have my permission to tell them about the good news."

With a frantic nod, the assistant all but fled the room leaving Margaery alone with Lady Volkihar once more. For a moment, there was nothing but silence until another thought occurred to her. 

"Renly... He was with Loras and I when we were attacked," she said, absentmindedly fiddling with her bandages. "They hit him. Is he..." 

Margaery trailed off, not wanting to fully speak the question into existence. While she had no true attachment to Renly, or even feel anything above vague warmth for the man, he was important to Loras. If Renly had been killed, right in front of Loras, Margaery feared that her brother would never recover. 

"He is here as well."

"In the castle?" Margaery asked. If so, that was good. If he was here, then Renly couldn't have been injured that greatly. It also meant that he was probably with Loras. Would he come with her family?

"...No," the older woman said slowly. Cautiously. "He is here, in the infirmary as well. Would you like to see him?"

"I..." The answer caught in Margaery's throat. Did she want to know? Would it make her feel any better? 'No. No, I can't look away. Remember what grandmother said. Gather all the information you can and make decisions from there. Never be ignorant of what is happening around you, that just makes you a victim.'

She swallowed hard. "Yes, show me."

Lady Volkihar gave her an impressed, approving look. She walked over to one of the hanging sheets, and pulled it away. 

"Oh gods," Margaery gasped. 

Renly was laying on the cot, tucked under the sheets and so still that he looked dead. His black hair had been cut close to the skull, and like Margaery, had a swath of bandages wrapped around his head. 

"What... What's wrong with him?"

"The head trauma left him in a coma," Lady Volkihar explained, casting the prone man a pitying glance. "There is still know way of telling when, or if, he'll wake up. For now, all we can do is keep him comfortable."

"Is there any hope?" Margaery asked, a frantic edge to her voice. 'Oh, Loras! I'm so sorry!'

"...I suppose there is always hope," the older woman said after a moment. "I worry about allowing it to continue foolishly. That, I believe, is crueler in the end."

Without her permission, some dark part of Margaery agreed. After all, if Renly never woke up, then did that mean Loras would be doomed to waste away as well? Never able to move on or recover? 

It was times like this that made Margaery glad she'd never fallen in love. It seemed like such a cruel, ruthless thing. 

'Would anyone even be able to love me now?" she wondered, still playing with the bandages wrapped around her face. Gently tugging at the edge of one, Margaery took a deep breath. "I want to see... myself. I need to know what happened."

"Are you sure you're ready? It will be quite jarring. You may not recognize yourself at first."

Margaery shot her a sharp, angry look. "You think I don't know that?"

The older woman shrugged. "Simply a warning. I am not one to comfort others, so don't expect it when you see your new reality. I'll ask one more time: Are you ready?"

"...Yes."

It wasn't as if she could hide from the truth, after all. 

Silently, Lady Valerica retrieved a hand mirror and small pair of scissors from a set of drawers. Passing Margaery the mirror, the older woman started cutting the bandages off.

"Close your eye." she said. "Don't open it until I say so."

'Eye. Not 'eyes.' I only have one eye now.'

Margaery did as instructed, breathing in shaky breath when she felt cool, fresh air against her previously covered skin. Even without seeing the face, she could feel something was different now. The skin was tighter and hotter than she remembered. When she experimentally rolled her jaw, it tugged unnaturally and sent a jolt of pain through her face. 

It also itched so bad that Margaery had to resist the urge to scratch the skin of her face off. 

"Alright, you can look now."

Slowly... Almost painfully... Margaery opened her last remaining eye.

And almost immediately let out a choked sob. "N-no."

She could only stare in horror at the scar —deep red and raised and ugly— as it ran from her left cheekbone up through her eye, then across the bridge of her nose before cutting through her right eyebrow and ending midway up her forehead. Her left eye socket was completely empty. After tracing it with her mind a dozen times, Margaery raised a shaky hand up to touch it. Just so that she could completely confirm to herself that it was real, that this wasn't a horrible nightmare. Only for her hand to be slapped away by Lady Valerica. 

"Don't touch," she warned. "Picking and rubbing at the wound will only result in a slower healing process, and a larger, more noticeable scar. And we don't want that, do we?"

The thought made Margaery fold her hands tight in her lap. Still... "It itches!"

"That just means it's healing," Lady Valerica said, a small smile playing on her lips. Going to rustle around in a cabinet, she continued. "Believe it or not, that and the heat you're feeling is a good sign."

She turned and tossed Margaery a small glass vial, which the young woman fumbled for. It slipped through her fingers and landed in her lap. "What's this?"

"A salve of my own creation. It will soothe the itching while continuing to promote healing. Rub it on the wound three times a day with clean hands until the bottle is empty." Then, after a moment, Lady Valerica gave Margaery a look that could almost be considered sympathetic, and added, "I do understand that the healing process is long and uncomfortable. That is why we kept you asleep through a combination of potions and magic."

Magic. After everything that had happened, Margaery barely even registered the word.

"Now it is time for the wound to breathe, however, and you need to get back on your feet," the older woman finished. 

Margaery turned the bottle over in her hand and scoffed. "I don't suppose you have anything that will make my eye grow back, do you?"

"Unfortunately, that is outside of my area of expertise."

A deep feeling of bitterness swept the young lady like a wave on the beach. For so long, she trained and practiced to be the best. At her grandmother's knee, Margaery learned all she needed to to bring any person, any court in Westeros under her thumb and this is how she ended up? Disfigured and doomed to be discarded?

"So that's it then?" she snapped. "I'm broken and there is nothing you or anyone else can do about it?"

At her words, Lady Valerica stilled from her folding clean bandages. She looked up and turned slowly, her cold green eyes looking at Margaery as if she was a puzzle to solve. 

"Oh, I have seen worse head injuries. Given time and proper treatment, the wound will heal completely and the other eye will learn to compensate for your lacking vision. It wouldn't be complete, but I foresee that you'll have no major issues navigating the world around you." The older woman tilted her head to the side, "And, if you're speaking of the scar... then I'm disappointed."

Margaery flinched back. "Disappointed? What gives you the right to be disappointed?"