Ages ago, when I was writing Full Fathom Five, my readers kept asking for the Robb x Marge and Jon x Dany ships over and over. It just wouldn't have worked in that story, but I promised I would one day write a story that did. And, in this story, I intend to deliver on that promise.

Summary: Traumatised and demoralised, Robb survives the Red Wedding and loses everything. Holed up in Riverrun with just his uncle, his last hope is fading fast. Widowed the same day she was married, Margaery Tyrell finds herself disillusioned and drifting until she joins her brothers and army in a diplomatic mission to the Riverlands. Meanwhile, Jon's world is turned upside down when he receives his brother's will and a certain Mother of Dragons circles ever closer to Westeros.

This is a mix of show and book verse, quickly diverging from both. This would not, could not and did not ever happen. I'm just playing around with the characters.

Chapter One: Dead; All Dead.

Lord Walder's toothless mouth flapped like a landed fish as he raised his hand for silence. Finally, to Robb's relief, the terrible musicians ceased their cacophony and the old man began talking. For the first time that night, it was not a barrage of thinly veiled insults either. Another reason for him to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Your Grace," the old man rattled, "the septon has prayed his prayers, some words have been spoken and Lord Edmure wrapped my sweetling in a fish cloak, but they are not yet man and wife. A sword needs a sheath and a wedding needs a bedding. What does my sire say? Is it meet that we should bed them?"

Robb's head soon began to throb to the chorus of a thousand voices all calling out in unison. "To bed! To bed! To bed with them." Giddy from the strong wine, he rose unsteadily to his feet. As he did so, someone else tried to get his attention. Irritably, Robb shrugged him off and raised a hand for silence. Once more, he forced himself to look happy. "If you think the time is meet, Lord Walder, then by all means let us bed them."

Up on the dais the poor bride was white with nerves, her eyes red from tears. She made him think of his half-brother's direwolf. Edmure, by contrast, looked ready to bed his bride right there on the high table for all the Twins to see. Meanwhile the old man looked on, his bald spotted head shining in the candlelight. For the first time that night, Robb met his gaze easily.

His declaration had been met with a roar of approval and all around him the crowds now parted. The women descended on Edmure while the men made for Roslyn. They would be stripped and bedded and finally the union would be complete. Meanwhile, the air was filled with their drunken japes and ribald jokes. Only Talisa didn't seem to get it. She was looking up at Robb from where she had remained seated.

"That is a very strange custom," she remarked, getting to her feet.

Any minute now the terrible music would start again and he reached for her hand, hoping for a dance. From the corner of his eye, he could see Dacey Mormont already pairing up with Emmett Frey. But before he could so much as form a reply to his Queen, the man from before forcefully cut over him, shouting over the continued din of the Frey girls now crowding around Edmure.

"Your Grace, please, the message is urgent."

Robb felt his tempter snapping again. The earlier rebuke from Lord Walder, the constant noise, the heat and the wine were all conspiring to make his head ache and now a messenger from some Lord or other was nagging at him when all he wanted was a moment alone with his wife.

"What is it?" he asked, curtly.

"There's a man outside with a girl who says she's your sister, Princess Arya."

For a moment, Robb was rooted to the spot. There were still crowds of Freys and Northerners bearing the happy couple the length of the hall, on the way to the bedding chamber. While he desperately tried to think, all he could hear was them. Then, compounding matters, the musicians began to play their discordant racket once more.

'Mother,' he thought to himself. Desperately, he tried to find her among the thronging crowds. When he spotted her, just as the crowds parted, she was on the opposite side of the hall and deep in conversation with Lord Bolton. Once he did see her, he had second thoughts. If this girl isn't Arya at all, then Catelyn's heart would break. After Bran and Rickon, the false hope would crush her.

"Robb, go. Go now," Talisa urged him, clearly wondering why he wasn't out the door already.

Desperation set in quick. "If the old man sees me leaving he'll take it as an insult."

Talisa sighed impatiently, pulling the cloak off her own shoulders. "The servant's entrance. Now go. I'll stay here and if anyone notices your absence, I'll make your excuses."

"Your Grace, please," the messenger urged. "The girl insists she is your sister and is beside herself."

Before leaving his Queen, he planted a firm kiss on her cheek. "Wait for me here, I'll be back soon."

She smiled, her dark eyes glittering happily. "I can't wait to meet her. Now go!"

She gave him no choice in the matter and nudged him in the back, giving him a sharp shove forwards. Taking the initiative, the messenger – the chained giant of House Umber sewn to his doublet – led him toward a small exit that was screened off from the main hall. The servant's entrance. They ducked inside, mingling with the hordes of servants all passing in and out of the main hall. Some bore barrels of wine on their shoulders, other's hoisted whole carcasses from the store rooms to the spits in the open fires. Not one person in there had time to notice the two newcomers as they hurried through.

The heat in the great hall was bad enough, in the kitchens it was stifling. Robb shoved his way through the kitchen exit and took a grateful breath of night air. It seemed they had made it through the kitchen doors just in time, as a man with a ring of keys set about locking the doors. He thought about asking them to keep it open, until he remembered he could return through the front entrance. Surely, Frey would not be angry if he saw him returning with his sister. Arya would be another potential bride for one of his odious sons, if nothing else.

Finally. out of the noise and clamour of the hall, he could speak to the Umber messenger more clearly.

"Did you see her? Where is she?" he asked.

The man did not stop and carried on leading him to the external front yard of the hall, where supply carts still clattered over the cobbles.

"She's at the postern gate, Your Grace. She was brought here by a man with a scarred face and that's all I know," the other man explained as he led the way.

Robb followed, marvelling at how loud the musicians inside the hall were. Even outside, among the thousands of men camped outside, he could hear their din loud and clear. Muffled, but distinct, it suddenly stopped. Sending up a silent prayer of thanks, he wrapped Talisa's cloak tight around him and hurried after the messenger. If that was Arya, he didn't like the sound of the man with her one bit.

Together, the wove through the crowds of drunk soldiers who'd been gifted free wine and an abundance of food. After months of scarcity on the battlefields, each man had taken full of advantage of Lord Walder's generosity. But, as they neared the postern gate in question, the Rayne's of Castamere began to drift across the campsite from within the hall. Slow and ethereal, it sent a chill down Robb's spine.

'Strange choice', he thought to himself. But he didn't have long to reflect on it. A little boy suddenly shot out of the crowd and barrelled into him, hugging him tight around the middle. Impatient to be rid of him, Robb tried to shrug him off.

"Boy-" he cut off abruptly as the child looked up. "Arya!"

Her hair had been cut off, she had grown, but she was still undoubtedly Arya. Her eyes welled with tears and she bit her lip, the way she did when she thought people were angry with her.

"Robb," she said, her grip on him tightening. "Robb, it's me. Where's mother? I want mother. I promise I'll be Lady and curtsey and learn how to-"

A scream rent the air behind them, cutting off the rest of her sentence. They both whipped around toward the source of the noise, to where a man had a sword thrust through his gut at the same time as another had his throat cut. Simultaneously, tables were kicked over as armed men suddenly charged through the crowds lashing out at all who got in their way.

"Robb, what's happening?" Arya asked, her voice shaking as fear took hold of her. "Those are our bannermen."

"I don't know," he replied. In one movement, he turned back to her and dropped to his knees so he could hug her tight. "Arya, I don't know what's happening, but you need to get out of here. Where's the man who brought you? Find him and tell him to get you to Riverrun. Uncle Brynden will keep you both safe."

Fear and confusion played across her face, growing worse as the killing intensified. Robb had no time to tarry.

"Go!" he urged her.

A big man, scarred face with dirty hair covering the wounds badly, appeared from the crowds and dragged her away. It was the Hound and Robb had no time to curse himself. Arya struggled and screamed, but her strength was no match for the man who had her. However, he had kept her safe so far and Robb could only send up a silent prayer that he continued to do so.

He reached for his sword, remembering he had left it outside the hall before the wedding began. Now fires had broken out while tents with sleeping soldiers inside were set alight by men in Frey livery. All the while the Reyne's of Castamere continued to drift eerily through the night air as the massacre swung into motion. He had no time to formulate a coherent plan, but he found himself running back toward the common hall where his mother and Talisa were still at the feast. They wouldn't have a notion of what was happening outside those walls, they wouldn't hear the screams over the music. Men in Bolton livery now lined the battlements, crossbows drawn and at the ready. Robb breathed a sigh of relief, which proved short lived as they began firing on their own side. He saw one Bolton man shoot down a Glover and a Mormont. Another Bolton thrust a sword through the belly of an Umber.

Robb felt his mouth run dry as he realised the Boltons and Freys were acting in tandem. But, numb with disbelief, he couldn't stop himself from trying to reach them, to find out what they thought they were doing. As he neared the hall, now completely surrounded by Boltons and Freys loosing arrows into the crowds below, he could hear screams coming from within. The music had ceased, replaced only by shouts and death cries.

He reached for the first Bolton he could get his hands on, causing the man to drop his crossbow.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "Where is Lord Bolton? Take me to him now or I'll cut your throat."

The man said nothing while another trained the crossbow straight at Robb's heart. Realising what was happening, he tried to pivot out of the way, but a blinding pain in his shoulder informed him the arrow had hit home. He staggered back under the impact of the bolt, trying not to cry out with pain. All around him people fled, he tripped over a corpse in Stark livery and looked over his now bleeding shoulder to where the direwolf banners shrivelled and burned in open fires raging across the camps. He didn't have time to process what was happening, he had to find a way back into the hall. He had to reach his mother and his Queen.

"Robb!" Arya cried out behind him. "Robb, no!"

She caught his cloak – Talisa's cloak – and began pulling him. How she escaped the Hound, he could not even guess at.

"Arya," he was angry now. "Go. Get away from here."

"You can't go back in," she screamed over the slaughter. "They're killing everyone. Come with us or they'll kill you too."

With a cold, sickening horror, he realised she was right. All those people left in the hall would be dead already and there was no way he could get back in. He thought of the kitchens and the servants entrance, then remembered that they'd been about to lock the doors. Hindsight gifted him the realisation that this was all planned.

"Robb, please!" Arya pleaded. "Find mother and come with us. I'm not going anywhere without you."

He could not bring himself to tell her that Catelyn was still inside the hall.

Mercifully, Sandor Clegane reappeared with his sword dripping red with blood. One large, gauntleted hand lifted Arya by the scruff of her neck as he dumped her on a huge destrier. Whether his own or stolen, Robb couldn't have cared less.

"Take her," he gasped, breathlessly. "Take her to Riverrun, to Brynden Tully! I'm staying here."

"Are you fucking mad?" Clegane growled at him. "Stay here and you'll die."

Arya cried out loud in anger and fear, but they were soon lost among the chaos. Whether they made it or not, Robb couldn't worry about that now. Ignoring the pain building in his shoulder, he stumbled forwards in search of Grey Wind. Where the crowds thinned, he hid behind trailers or carts and, at one point, a stack of barrels. But when he reached the place where the wolf was chained, Grey Wind was already dead. Robb could see his face resting in the straw, red with blood, slack and lifeless.

It hit him, then. The grief, the anger, the betrayal. But there was still no time to dwell on it. He reached for a sword that once belonged to a now dead soldier and pushed away from the wall he had hidden behind. Although his strength was leaving him fast and his shirt was now soaked in blood, he managed to run. He focused all his rage and all his grief into putting one leg in front of the other as fast as he could, lashing out with his sword every time he saw a Frey or Bolton livery. He cut the legs from under one man and took another's head off with one strong blow. Someone had been chasing him, so he pivoted gracefully and slashed at his face and took off the top of his head. Blood sprayed over him as the corpse fell to the floor with a sickening thump.

All around him, men grunted and died to the sound of the strings in the hall and the beat of the distant drum. There was nothing he could do for any of them now. He reached a gate guarded by nothing more than a tradesman caught in the melee and barrelled past him. And he was on the bridge, caught between the twin towers of House Frey. The same bridge that had led him to this very moment. He looked down the length of the bridge, to the second of the towers. All looked peaceful there, but he hadn't a hope of making it the length before being killed. He couldn't go forwards and he couldn't go back. He was trapped between the two.

Already, soldiers from the tower he had just left chased him. They stopped a few feet away and shot another quarrel at him, hitting him in the thigh as another passed overhead. Robb staggered under the force of the blow, the pain spreading outward and knocking the breath from his lungs. There was only one escape route now, and it gurgled and churned darkly below him. Pulling the quarrel out of his thigh, he fell forwards and stifled the cry of pain and let himself fall as a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts saw him on his way.

Margaery's chamber door opened and she caught a brief glimpse of that familiar auburn hair belonging to the girl waiting outside. She breathed a sigh of relief and checked the dishes laid out on her small table again. Lemon cakes, crisp mint tea and an assortment of other little treats. Everything was in order and even the sun had shown its face. Off the terrace, the Blackwater glittered merrily, bringing with it a fresh see breeze that swept over the Maidenvault.

Megga curtsied to her. "Lady Stark-"

"I know," she cut her cousin off. "Please, show her in."

She had half expected Sansa to shun her after the marriage fiasco. They had promised her Willas and Cersei had forced Tyrion on her instead. Even now, it made her seethe and her knuckles whiten as she unknowingly made a fist, as if to punch the Queen Mother. She and her grandmother had taken this act for what it was – a declaration of war. For now, however, she pushed her anger aside and rose to kiss her dear friend on the cheek.

"Lady Sansa, how lovely to see you again," she said, courteous as ever. "How are you feeling now?"

Sansa blushed. She always blushed. Olenna thought it made the girl look like a pomegranate. Margaery thought it quite becoming of her.

"I am well, your grace."

"Stupid question, really," Margaery intoned, showing her to her seat at the table. "It's just you and me today, so no interruptions."

Cersei had spies in her household. But it mattered not for Margaery had spies in the Queen Mother's household too. It was a game they played. A game she was growing heartily sick of. But today, she had gone to pains to ensure it really was just her and Sansa.

"Sansa, I want you to know that my grandmother and I had no part in Cersei's cruel plans," she said, serving up the girl's favourite cakes. "We knew nothing of your marriage to Lord Tyrion and, if we had, we could have acted to stop it."

Sansa put her brave face on. "It's all right, really. Lord Tyrion isn't like his sister. He's different to all the Lannisters."

Margaery's heart broke for her. A beauty wasted on a disgraced imp. Worse, Tywin was still refusing to name Tyrion his heir even though there was no other of his own line. It meant Sansa didn't even have the comfort of Casterly Rock to console her.

"Anyway, you ought not feel sorry for me, you're marrying Joffrey in a few days time!" Sansa laughed. "I would take Tyrion over him any day. At least Tyrion is kind. He's promised not to make me do anything until I am ready."

That piqued her interest. "By 'anything' do you mean the marriage bed, my lady?"

Sansa nodded and blushed furiously, showing her to be the child she still was. "Yes," she murmured. She dropped her voice lower and added: "I know that means we aren't really married yet."

Margaery allowed herself a smile. "My advice to you is to keep it that way. Mark my words, things will be changing around here and Cersei will be quite undone once Joffrey and I are married."

With a little luck, Sansa's own brother would see to that too. The King in the North continued to vex the mighty Tywin, keeping that lion's pride in check on every battlefield from the Whispering Wood to Oxcross. As for Joffrey, he was all bluster and fury, with little of substance to justify his own grandiosity. But still, she had to marry him for better or worse. Her father had seen to that.

They fell into chatter as Margaery served the tea herself. They talked about the gallant knights pouring into the court for the upcoming wedding; they even talked about Edmure Tully's marriage to Roslyn Frey and Petyr Baelish's attempts to woo Lysa Arryn. It seemed love was in the air for just about everyone, except her. Marrying the king was her duty. And like all duties, she just had to grit her teeth and get on with it.

"Who was it your brother married?" she queried.

Sansa shrugged as she bit into a lemon cake and swallowed. "No one will tell me her name. But I know she's from Volantis. I wish I could meet her, she's my new Queen."

Cersei would have had the girl's head for saying that, but Margaery didn't mind. In fact, it was time for a confession of her own.

"I've been curious to meet your brother ever since your mother told me all about him, when we met at the Stormlands. And just about everyone whose opinion I value had nothing but praise for your dear father."

Sadness filled the other girl's eyes at mention of her father. "Even Joffrey?"

"I said, everyone whose opinion I value," Margaery laughed.

For a second the other girl looked shocked, but she too laughed and covered her mouth as if she'd said something rude.

"A visitor, my lady."

Margaery turned to where Megga had rejoined them on the terrace. "I did say I was not to be interrupted."

Megga leaned in close to Margaery's ear and whispered so only she could hear. "Lord Tyrion."

Margaery groaned inwardly, but refused to disrupt Sansa's afternoon tea. Instead, she rose and courteously excused herself as if nothing was wrong. Outside, in the small presence chamber, she found the dwarf waiting for her with the look of a lost dog on his face. In his hands, he held a small scrap of parchment that he toyed with incessantly. She curtsied to him and for a moment they were level with each other.

"Is my wife in there with you?" he asked.

Tyrion glanced around nervously, as if Sansa might be hiding in the nearby ornamental vase. Margaery almost laughed.

"Yes, my lord. Why so nervous?"

He handed her the parchment, which she read once and then twice. 'Roslyn landed a fine fat trout,' it said. Then something about wolf pelts that made little sense, unless…

"Is this what I think it is?" she asked, feeling her blood run cold.

She glanced over her shoulder, to where the door had been left open. Fearing Sansa might overhear, she quickly closed it and returned to Lord Tyrion. She noticed how pale he was, how he rocked unsteadily on his feet. His mismatched eyes failed to meet her own and he trembled.

"Dead," he said. "All dead."

Thanks for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.