Lets ASOIAF Together

Even after I disappeared for a year or two, after my mom died suddenly and I had to care for my two siblings (both who were still in school and in no position to work as well) by working full time and dropping out of college, I was gone and came back to this blog after so long and it was like I was never gone. I got so much support and so many people expressed their happiness of me writing again.

There is no way I can ever thank you all for being so thoughtful and caring in those moments.

Fourthly, the last few years of writing for this blog have been wonderful and a blessing (if I may get a little cheesy). I enjoyed the “Targaryen November” that I did back in 2021, I enjoyed all the one shots/reader inserts I have done since then. And I’m so overwhelmed by the amount of likes and reblogs those have gotten and that stories from 2015 and 2016 and 2017 still get.

That said, over the last three months I have been through a lot and have had a lot of time to think over my writing, the blogs I have on this site, and my empty AO3 account. Tough times call for tough decisions.

As some may know, October 2021, I quit my full-time job and I returned to school to FINALLY earn a bachelor's degree. After dropping out twice, once to care for my siblings when they were in school and not working and a second time when Covid started and things got…dicey, I returned to college and am now just FIVE courses away from earning a degree in Creative Writing with a Concentration in Fiction Writing. This is all I have wanted for so long!

However, to make other dreams come true, I will be ALSO returning to work alongside attending college.

Not wanting to do long hiatus’ as I have done so many times already, and being at a point in my life – and in my grief for my sister which, again, was the leading factor of me writing for this fandom (besides my love for it) – where I feel I have outgrown ASOIAF/GOT, I am sad to say that I will not be writing for this blog any longer.

Everything will remain here, as an archive either indefinitely or until I move everything to another site for everyone to continue enjoying.

Anything I may write for this fandom will be posted on my A03 (as they are more likely to be  chaptered stories over one shots/reader inserts) under the username Atlex0616, which is also the name of my personal blog where I post….random crap (lmao).

I am sorry for all who were looking forward to one shots I had mentioned writing and posting. I am sorry for any unfinished series, especially, but it’s my hope to one day turn those into chaptered/oc inserted stories on patreon or (most likely) on Ao3.

I am not, however, sad to go. Growth is a necessary part of life.

This fandom is wonderful over all, and for those who have remained, please don’t let your joy for this fandom go away because of those view bad eggs who make this fandom toxic from time to time.

Ship who you want to ship, have whatever character you want as a favorite, believe whatever crazy, long winded, super impossible theory you want to believe. Just have fun with all this.

Be kind. Be considerate.

Don’t spread hate.

Feel free to private message me or send things via ask (ANON is STILL shut off, but I will answer asks/messages privately to you and nothing will be posted onto this blog!), feel free to look me up on my other blogs and start chats there!

Thank you so much for all the love

Stay Safe, Stay Healthy in this crazy world

Atlas/Atlex0616

Other Writing Blog (with just about every other fandom I’m apart of):  : @atlasalexanderwrites

KO-FI (if you feel like supporting me, I’ve still had a few people messaging about it and I’m just slow at responding/giving the link as some aren’t able to access the one at the top of the blog, sorry! And thank you!!!! <3): https://ko-fi.com/atlexwrites

Patreon (where you will be able to find my writings SOON from Original Works to a few random fandom pieces, but it will eventually/soon be mostly original works) : https://www.patreon.com/atlex0616

“Then bend the knee and pledge our swords to Stannis Baratheon.” It was what you had been telling Robb all along. There was no need to be Kings again. There was nothing that said the brother to the late King Robert wouldn’t get your House the justice you wanted. Seven hells, he was trying to kill the same people as you. “One united army is better than a hundred individual ones, Robb.”

“Theon is going to treat with his father,” Robb’s voice was sharp and final, his blue eyes dark with anger as he lifted his gaze from the table, “You can go, or you can stay.” And he spun around, storming from the tent leaving you and your mother alone in silence.

*

The sea was surprisingly nice to your stomach for it being your first time on a ship. At least, you were grateful for that.

Seated in the captain’s cabin, you were still chuckling at Theon trying to talk the captain’s daughter into spending some quality time with the two of you even an hour after leaving the port near Seagard.

“She was attractive, in her own right, I’m sorry she turned you down.” You teased, smirking across the room at your lover’s back as Theon stood staring out the window, half lost in thought as he had been since being told he was being sent away.

He didn’t react, and you didn’t push him to.

You understood that he was feeling nervous and giddy, excited to have a chance to do something helpful for the war effort, but also worried that he wouldn’t be able to do as Robb needed him to. Theon had always put a lot of pressure on himself, a pressure that was backed by the prejudice he felt from the words and stares of others since he had been brought to Winterfell a decade (or so) earlier.

Standing, you crossed the few feet between the two of you and wrapped your arms around his waist. Pressing your chest to his back, you placed a few kisses to his neck and whispered his name, “Come now, there will be other girls at the next port. Girls you and I can ravage for hours upon hours. It will be a little unfortunate that Patrek isn’t here with us.” The Heir of Seagard has been a welcomed companion to you and Theon’s escapades since coming South.

“If my father doesn’t accept Robb’s terms…”

“Then we will return to my brother, our King, with our sincerest apologies, but at least we would have tried to give him what he wants.” You were still, completely, against sending Theon to his father and trying to get the iron born on your House’s side of the war. Balon and his lot were unpredictable and had to feel sour about how their rebellion had ended. You had only agreed to come with Theon because…Robb had his honor, and you had yours as well. Robb was likely to remain a virgin until he found the special someone he would marry while you had fucked as soon as you came of age and didn’t bother with marrying whomever it was. If they gave it up before marriage, why should you offer them your hand?

Theon snickered and turned to you, his hand moving up to grab at your hair, using his hold on it to jerk your head back. “And what does my Prince want?” His lips were turned up into a wicked smirk as he, slowly, began to walk the two of you backwards toward the cot that was pressed into the corner of the cabin.

Leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his in a feather light kiss and whispered, “The world,”

His dark blue eyes glittered with mischief as he stepped back and dropped into a mocking bow, even going as far as to throw his arms out to the side, “As you wish, Your Highness.”

The arrogance, the mockery…it was enough to set you both off.

Your stomach, alit with lust and playful arrogance in your own (new) station as Prince of Winterfell and heir to the King of the North (until Robb married and had his own children), flipped at Theon’s use of your royal title. Licking at your bottom lip, you grabbed his neck before he could straighten fully from the bow and pulled him to you. Your gaze locked on his, you kissed him feverishly, the both of you grabbing at one another as you tumbled backwards onto the bed.

There wasn’t an inch of either of you that the other wasn’t acutely aware of. For the last three years, or so, the two of you had been stealing kisses and touches behind closed doors and in dark, deserted halls of Winterfell and then Riverrun, and sneaking away from camp for a quickie or three.

There wasn’t an inch of Theon that you couldn’t sketch in vivid colors and shades in your mind, a gentle smile on your lips whenever you thought of the older, young man and the sounds you were capable of drawing from him.

A gentle smile that was something far more wicked and humorous on Theon’s mouth, his dark, blue eyes dancing in delight whenever he caught you staring or when a topic of conversation strayed to close to a subject you both knew would cause you to think of your last rendezvous or some love mark the two of you had left on one another.

“…my sweet prince.” Theon cooed, teasingly as he laid beneath you, his teeth nipping at your shoulder and his hands grabbing roughly at your hips as the two of you mindlessly rutted against each other.

A growl meant to be a warning slipped from your lips as you pushed yourself back to your feet and began to undress. Theon knew how much you hated being called such things. Prince, Princeling, Your Highness…you had barely tolerated being called My Lord and Lordling, let alone be given a royal title that you didn’t (entirely) agree with.

Still, Theon had made it his personal mission to call you such every chance he had gotten. Really, he didn’t understand why it bothered you (being treated so poorly, always having the silent threat of death resting over his head, you knew that Theon wished people would call him by respectful titles), and so you tried not being too irritable about it. But sometimes your annoyance slipped through.

If I am a Prince, or a King, or a Lord, it means people I care for are dead.

Why would I want a title that will forever remind me of their loss?

Theon snickered as he stripped as well, his eyes locked on your manhood the moment you stood naked next to the cot, your clothes in a pile on the floor at your feet. He never had learned to hide his intentions or his desires.

It’s part of the reason Mother doesn’t care much for him.

Thank the gods your mother didn’t need to know about the two of you. You could already hear the days-long-lecture about how “if you must climb into bed with another boy, did it have to be Theon Greyjoy?” Seven hells, you could even give off a dozen names of young noble men who your mother would prefer you to choose over Theon; although, truthfully, she would probably not want you with any of them when politically savvy/advantageous marriages to young, beautiful noble girls were possible.

There’s a Tyrell, right? Maybe a Blackwood or Bracken, or a Martell? Any would make my mother happy if it brought more allies to our cause and furthered the line of House Stark.

Warm fingers wrapping around your cock brought you out of your thoughts, your gaze meeting Theon’s once more as he teased, “Do you have better things to be doing with your time, My Prince, than fucking?”

“Like you believe anything is more important than fucking.” You laughed with an eye roll as you brushed a hand over the back of his head, fisting your hand into his hair for leverage to keep him still as you leaned down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss.

“What could be?” Theon chuckled against your mouth, briefly biting down on your bottom lip – drawing a small bit of blood in the process – before adding, “There are some places who settle disagreements by fucking...”

The Summer Isles, Wildlings perhaps…

Running away to the Summer Isles doesn’t sound that terrible, truth be told. Not if I can be with you without responsibilities or Westerosi customs/traditions trying to tell us this is wrong…

Trying to keep the mood light, you carefully removed yourself (your cock) from Theon’s grasp and dropped to your knees while saying, “Let’s run off there instead, then, My Lord Greyjoy. This war has become quite dull.”

Theon just laughed and smirked at you as he laid back on his elbows, watching as you wrapped your hand around his manhood and a moment later took him into your mouth.

Some might consider it beneath them to do this, especially if they were in your place and was the heir to a throne. Why should they be on their knees and not the person they were servicing?

You weren’t like them. You enjoyed yourself a little too much drawing endless moans and whimpers and gasps from your lover(s). Theon, especially, was fun because he always talked a big game and flirted endlessly with the girls the two of you fucked, but the moment he was truly caught up in the moment his gentle, touch starved nature revealed itself.

Sloppy cock sucking…it’s what brought Theon and I together, really…

“Y/n…” Theon gasped, his arms giving out a few minutes later and he flopped back, his eyes wide and blown wide with lust as he lazily thrusted his hips, fucking your mouth as you hummed around him, letting him do as he pleased.

He fit deliciously, perfectly in your mouth – the weight of him on your tongue was one you missed when it was absent and greedily took from when it was available.

A sharp gasp sounded from above you just before Theon’s hand was gripping at the back of your head, holding you in place as he sat up and gave a handful of sharp, painful pushes of his hips.

Moaning, you watched him come undone.

His dark locks were a mess, his eyes were squeezed shut, his body was equal amounts tense and shaking. His chest was heaving as he found his release, his breath coming out in whimpers and breathless pants.

Gods…he’s beautiful.

It was moments like this when you realized how much you wanted to give him the whole fucking world. No matter how arrogant and stupid Theon could be, he was just a product of the world he had been living in since the Greyjoy Rebellion. He was surrounded every day by people who thought so little of him, taking greedily from anyone who showed him just a little bit of kindness. But it wasn’t truly in his nature to be cruel or violent. He would, if he felt it would give him respect and love, but it wasn’t who he truly was.

“Y/n...My Prince…” even shaking from the after shocks of his release, he was being a little shit.

Smiling adoringly at him, you swallowed the rest of his cum – that hadn’t already gone down your throat – and then gently removed him from your mouth. Leaning upward, you kissed his jaw, his cheek, and then his lips, murmuring his name while cupping his face in your hands.

“Stop calling me that, Theon.” You lightly commanded as you straddled his lap

He smirked and cracked open one of his eyes to look at you, “Of course, Your Highness, whatever you say.”

“Theon,”

“My Prince?”

Shaking your head, you grabbed his neck and waited for his full attention before whispering, “You are a pain in my ass.”

Theon laughed and smiled proudly, “Would you like for me to stop?”

Your grip on him loosened, your gaze turning to a fond softness as you leaned forward to place your lips to his forehead, “Of course I don’t, Theon.”

There was a long silence between the two of you as Theon wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you in place, and you pressed your face into the side of his head. So much was said in that silence, so much the two of you were far too scared to admit to yourselves, let alone each other.

Still, deep down you knew what he wanted to say but couldn’t. And for a moment you worried you would completely embarrass yourself by shedding tears.

Thankfully, Theon would never allow such softness to exist when he was probably feeling just as embarrassed by his own feelings.

His hand moved between your bodies and wrapped around you softening cock, his teeth snapped painfully into your bare shoulder, and he teased, “Come now, Your Highness, you haven’t yet proven that royal cock is better than all else. Giving up already?”

Pushing your thoughts away for now, there would be plenty of time for that later once the two of you were on Pyke, you shuddered against him, “Never. It’s not in my nature.”

All of this, and more, was what you informed the Small Council that night as you stood next to your King’s chair in the Small Council chambers, your hand tightening around his shoulder to give him some, silent comfort in the whole mess.

“…even if my brother agrees to remarry, the mourning period is a year. Unless I am mistaken, My Lord Hand.” You threw a sharp look at Otto, silently begging him to try and argue with you. Like you and Viserys, Otto was a widow as well – his wife having died just shy of two years earlier.

“You are not, Princess.” The man smiled, tightly, but softly at your words. The two of you hadn’t always been at odds. Often, the two of you were quite a united front at keeping Viserys on track and the realm prospering, but Otto had grown ambitious in the time since his dear, lady wife’s passing.

“Alright then,” you offered a small smile of your own and threw a glance around the room at the others in attendance, “The mourning period will be respected or there will be consequences.” Two heart beats, waiting to see if any of the men were going to argue or try to talk down to you. “If talks must be had, leave them for six moons. Allow our King to put the memory and his love for our, sweet Aemma to rest.”

Viserys sighed and you caught his gaze, the two of you smiling fondly at one another as your eldest brother took your hand in his own and brought it to his lips, kissing your knuckles. His sweet smile melted your heart. He was a good, gentle man, and he always tried to keep the peace in his House and his kingdoms…

“Now,” you murmured, leaning down to kiss his forehead just as your grandmother Alysanne used to do when you were a little girl, “I’m going to look in on my niece and the boys. Try to get some rest, Your Grace, please.”

“Give them all a goodnight from me, please.” Viserys whispered and squeezed your hand as you pulled away.

You promised that you would and then dropped into a perfect curtsy, wishing the Lords, knights, and Maester of the Small Council “the gentlest dreams” before leaving the room.

The Red Keep was dark, cold, and silent. With the King’s grief, the entirety of the royal court had taken to mourning as well, taking every voice from the halls, and leaving only whispers in the shadows.

Otto has always hated Daemon. He doesn’t want Rhaenyra, but he would back her if she was his only option.

Lyonel is loyal and intelligent. He knows that no one would truly follow Rhaenyra. They will only use her until someone better, someone with a cock came around.

Corlys backs Daemon and then Rhaenys. It’s only natural he would back his wife, but is it because he feels my cousin deserves the throne? Or is it because he craves the throne for himself?

The others would pretend to not have sides, but it was a lie. They all had their own agendas covered with the lie of being best for the realm.

“I was told, once, by a Lord of Winterfell, that the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” The voice of your father, Prince Baelon the Brave, came to you suddenly and you had to catch yourself on the wall as loneliness and a long-buried grief came rushing to the surface of your heart, “It is the same for us, for Targaryens. One of us may die, but we are only at our strongest when we are united.”

You were ten when your Prince-Father told you that, and seven years later he was dead. His death is what prompted the calling of the Great Council later that same year. You hadn’t understood his words for a long time, but now…now you understood.

Everyone is frightened of House Targaryen because of the dragons. Without them, there is no true reason to have your family as the ruling House of Westeros. The realm followed the commands of the King on the Iron Throne only far enough to not be seen as treasonous; otherwise, they were self-serving and didn’t truly have your House’s interests at heart.

Daemon is seen as a cruel monster, the second coming of Maegor the Cruel. Rhaenyra is a girl of near fifteen; they wouldn’t easily follow her now just as they weren’t willing to follow Rhaenys eleven years earlier. And Viserys…the King was gentle and open handed, but he was so naïve that there was no way it wouldn’t come back to hurt the House of the Dragon once he was gone.

“Your Highness?”

A gasp slipped past your lips at the sudden voice, your head snapping up to stare at the servant who stood some feet away – hesitant and skittish. It was only then you realized you were crying and shaking, your face had been in your hands when the young girl’s voice had pulled you out of your grief-filled-thoughts.

“Oh,” clearing your throat, you wiped at your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress and tried to look as presentable as possible in your condition, “Forgive me I…it…”

The girl – not much older than your niece – smiled shyly and stepped forward, “Pardons, Your Highness.” She pressed something into your hand before curtsying and hurrying away, up the stairs to wherever she was meant to be.

It was a handkerchief and a small gesture, but you appreciated it, nonetheless.

Wiping at your eyes and blowing your nose, you took a few moments to pull yourself together before continuing back to the royal apartments to hold your sons and your niece.

*

“You’ve been sending Alicent to the King’s chambers.”

There was no point in trying to pass it off as a question. The two of you had known each other for far too long for you to try and play ignorant with him. Admittedly, you hadn’t meant to open the conversation with that but the moment you were let into his office within the Tower of the Hand, your gaze landing on him seated behind his desk, the words fell from your lips on their own.

Otto had looked up the moment you were announced, and as you accused him of overstepping by sending his daughter to Viserys over the last two months, he sighed and stood. “Princess,” he bowed and waved the guard away.

Once the door was shut and you had moved closer, putting only his desk between you and him, you asked, “To comfort him only, My Lord Hand? Or something else?”

“Alicent is looking after the King just as she did the last one, Princess. She feels…”

“You feel,” you corrected with a raised brow, arms crossing over your chest as you said, “Please, Otto, do not treat me like I’m stupid. Lady Alicent is doing as you and your brother have commanded her to do. It’s a risky game,”

“Your Highness,” the Hand began to say only to stop as you raised your hand, silencing him even if it pained him to do so (if the fisting of his hands at his sides was anything to go off of).

“Making your daughter the King’s mistress…” you let your voice trail off as you tried to bite back your temper and tried to think a dozen steps ahead of the man in front of you. “…I adore Alicent, just as I adore Rhaenyra, My Lord Hand. And as a widow, myself, I understand how our King – my brother – is feeling. Of course, only a fraction. Viserys loved Aemma far more than I loved my late husband. My brother and his wife had far more time together, of course, for me to fully grasp their devotion for each other.” Shaking your head, you moved around the desk and grabbed Otto’s hand in both of yours, trying to get him to see reason – to think carefully about whatever it was he was planning.

Holding his gaze, you whispered, “Viserys is not ready to move on. If he takes Alicent now…in any capacity…it will be nowhere near what your daughter deserves, Ser. Someone must be a voice for Alicent while Viserys is the voice for his grief and broken dreams, as you are the voice of the High Tower.”

Otto was silent for a long moment after you had finished speaking, his gaze locked onto yours.

His other hand had come up to cover yours covering his as you finished speaking. He had moved closer to you when you rounded the side of the desk, naturally towering over you in a way that felt comforting when you were younger, but now often left you…confused.

There had been a strange tension between the two of you for months, years maybe, that you had purposefully ignored – not yet ready to admit to yourself what you knew, deep down. It was never much of a problem until moments like this. When the two of you were on opposite sides, and although you felt strongly about your own opinions, more than anything you wanted to agree with him – to see things his way – if just to avoid hurt feelings and resentments.

“As the Hand of the King, I must do what is best for the realm.”

“Obviously,” you laughed, smiling teasingly as you tried to push away the nerves that were beginning to creep into your stomach.

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile of his own as Otto continued to speak, “You don’t want Viserys to remarry, but I think we both know that he will not last without a companion of some sorts.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, pulling your hands free of his, “And you think Alicent is the best to do this? Better than…myself? Or some older noble woman from some other House?”

His jaw ticked as he questioned, “Would you prefer to be in her place instead, Your Highness?”

There was something about the way he asked it that set you off. Normally, you wouldn’t have been snappy or oversensitive, but something about the way he had worded his question – even with his voice being so monotone and impassive – made you defensively spit out, “Well, I have proven to be fertile and capable of producing male heirs which is the only true reason my brother would need to remarry, Ser. What does Alicent have besides a pretty face and ambitious relations?”

The Hand of the King who had served your grandsire and your brother, for many years, looked at you with a cool look that gave next to nothing away. If your words upset him more than they (naturally) would anger any man, you couldn’t tell. But he was bothered by them in some amount. Otto Hightower was too proud of his House and the name that had been made for it to feel indifferent toward your insult.

“I will ask this again.” Otto finally murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand then moving to grab the back of your neck as if to keep you from fleeing the room (and the conversation), “Do you want to be the Queen of Westeros?”

You laughed, breathlessly, and shook your head.

All amusement was gone from you despite your short laugh. How could he ask that of you? How long had the two of you known each other? How many times had you commented on how being the King or Queen felt lonely and tiresome and suffocating? Did he think you had been lying all those years? Simply saying those things because Aemma existed and was Queen at the time making it impossible for you to be?

Grabbing his wrist, huffing when his grip only tightened when you tried to pull free of his hold, you finally answered his question by saying, “I want to be a mother to my sons, a mother-figure to my niece who is now without a mother, and an advisor and companion to my King. You know I’m not interested in Viserys like that, Otto. I would be a poor wife for him. I would be more likely to bed Daemon or Corlys before I would even consider doing such acts with His Grace.” And there was zero desire in your body to bed either the Rogue Prince and/or the Sea Snake.

Otto leaned downward and smiled to himself, “That…is good to hear, Your Highness.”

You opened your mouth to hiss some half-ass attempt at an insult at him, once again calling him out for his ambitions regarding Alicent and Viserys, but any thought of doing so flew out the window when the lips of the Hand of the King were suddenly pressed into yours.

He…Otto Hightower is…kissing me?

His free hand – the one not clutching painfully tight at the back of your neck – grabbed your hip and shoved you back against his desk, his body pressing into your own, drawing every bit of air from your lungs as he kissed you.

Your eyes widened, a gasp rushing from your mouth into his own as realization struck you of what was happening.

And then your hands flew up to grab at his upper arms, your eyes snapping shut as you kissed him back.

What in the Seven Hells is happening?

A further act of the Lord’s indifference was him remarrying a month later to Lady Y/n of House H/N.

You.

You were the last person anyone expected to become Lady of the Rock (beautiful and smart, yes, but mouthy), but over a decade of ruling the Westerlands at Tywin’s side had silenced any complaints on your capabilities to manage a household.

The only problem some still had with you was the fact you hadn’t provided your husband with a new heir to replace Jaime and steal the title of heir from Tyrion.

It wasn’t from lack of trying. No matter how rocky things were in the early days of your marriage, compatibility in the bedroom had never been an issue.

And every Maester that ever examined you swore to you that you were healthy enough to conceive, and yet you had never been with child.

The gods seemed to just…not find you worthy enough to be a mother.

The irony of the entire situation was that Tywin – who should have wanted more children to add to his dynasty and give him an heir he felt was worthy of the name Lannister and the title of Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock – didn’t seem to care if he had a child with you.

“I have three children already. I have no need for anymore.” Tywin had said those words for years. In the beginning, you thought he meant he didn’t want any children from you. Because you weren’t Lady Joanna. As the years went on, and the fondness between you and your husband grew, it became obvious that Tywin simply didn’t desire anymore children to make a fuss about you remaining barren – he had children and then grandchildren. His dynasty was set (which, again, was funny with how often they disappointed him).

He was content in not having a child with you. “I enjoy having you to myself, wife.”

Tywin didn’t seem to realize how deeply it hurt you to not have a child of your own, and it grew increasingly difficult to hide that from him.

Or, he just didn’t care.

Eventually, people stopped mentioning your lack of childbearing directly to you. Instead, it simply added to the whispers about House Lannister to the Westerosi gossip circles.

Life went on.

You continued to do all you could to fall pregnant, and unknown to you, Tywin continued to do all he could to prevent that from happening.

*

“I’m sorry, My Lady.”

You couldn’t meet his gaze, too afraid that you would snap and say something cruel to him. It wasn’t the Maester’s fault that you weren’t with child. It wasn’t his fault you hadn’t given your husband an heir in the ten years you had been married.

“…it could just be too early to tell…”

Tears prickled in your eyes as you fled the room.

No.

It wasn’t too early to tell. You knew you hadn’t conceived a child. Deep down you knew the truth but still you continued with those check-ups every three moons.

You felt obsessed with the idea of having a child, and every time you were told you had failed, the need to get pregnant only grew worse.

It hadn’t always bothered you. Honestly, you appreciated being just a wife. The fact you had Tywin to yourself fulfilled some selfish void inside of you. Who wouldn’t want the ear to (one of) the most powerful men in Westeros? To have his favor and know you were placed above anyone else in matter of importance in his eye…how could you want to bring to life another human who would take his time from you?

And then your sixth wedding anniversary came about.

It was a year after your stepdaughter (and Queen), Cersei, had given birth to her oldest child, Joffrey. Tywin and you had traveled to King’s Landing to visit the Queen, Jaime, and the newly one year-old baby Prince.

Things were fine.

And then Cersei made a toast at dinner about being a wife and a mother, and how “to those who are blessed enough to become mothers,” it was easy to tell which role was more fulfilling in her eyes. And everyone knew it had been a silent jab at you for not being a mother after so many years.

You took her words with a cool smile.

But you had thought about her words every day since then – silently reminding yourself how you were useless to your husband and his House.

Even if Tywin continued to scoff, roll his eyes, and insist otherwise any time you brought it up.

You did your best to hold in your tears of frustration and self-hatred as you fled down the stairs from the Maester’s chambers, clutching your hands to your chest as if that act alone would hold back your hysterics until you were safely back in your own apartments.

Smiling and nodding toward the Lannister cousins, guards, and servants you passed, you barely allowed yourself to breathe even. Every act felt like you would burst into tears at any moment. Something you couldn’t let happen.

The Lady of Casterly Rock, the Lady Wife to Lord Tywin Lannister, would not show brokenness in front of anyone.

You were a lioness. You had spent ten years sharpening your claws. You would not allow your own short comings to pull that all down.

I am a lioness. I am not weak. I will not show any weakness. I…

“Wife,” his cool drawl stopped your stops, your breath rushing out all at once

You had rounded a corner, the stairs to the tower where you and your husband had your private chambers just at the end of the hall, and Tywin was there. Brow raised, wife slipping off his tongue as he stared down at you with his usual look of stoicism written across his handsome face.

“Tywin,” You swallowed down the lump that had begun to form in your throat, your heart hammering away as you tucked your hands behind your back trying to hide how badly they were shaking. Your tongue flickered out, running along your suddenly dry lips as you forced yourself to hold the green of his eyes.

“How is Maester Creylen this morning?” Tywin questioned as he led you over to a stone bench, placed under a window that overlooked the sea below.

Someone else may have been surprised that your husband knew where you had been just now, but it was Tywin. Not only was he acutely aware of (nearly) every goings on in his castle – especially if it involved his Lady Wife – but the check-ups had gone on for four years now, there was no way he wouldn’t have found out about them by now.

Sitting down, you waited for him to seat himself next to you before responding to his inquiry, “Maester Creylen is well, husband. I promise that I was not cruel to him in any way.” You forced a smile, watching your hands as you picked at the skirts of your dress.

He hummed and placed a hand over yours, stopping your movements in silent annoyance. The lion didn’t like your anxious movements; you knew it made him worry that something was wrong, even if he would never outright ask about it. His hand was large, strong, warm, and rough.

Often his touch made you feel safe, but in that moment…in that moment it angered you. Or, perhaps the anger you had for yourself just chose him to lash out at.

“How could I be angry at him?” you grumbled, pulling your hand from his and getting to your feet, too upset to sit any longer (even if you had only sat for half a minute or two). “He isn’t the cause of my shortcomings. My inability to give you a child, even a daughter.”

“Y/n,” Tywin didn’t stand, he sat there just watching you with a look of boredom – of course he would be bored. This wasn’t anything new. How often had he heard you complain about being childless? How often in the last decade had he avoided your company so he didn’t have to listen to you whine?

“No Tywin!” you cried out, your voice echoing as you turned away from him, tears spilling down your cheeks as you looked anywhere but at him. “I…is this my fault? Am I being punished by the gods for not wanting children for so long? Am I being punished for being so difficult when I was a child and making it to where I was so much older than my peers were when I finally married you? Is this my punishment for…for…. something I have done unknowingly?”

Is this your divine punishment, Tywin, for what you’ve done? For the way you’ve always treated Tyrion or for the murders of Rhaegar Targaryen’s children?

You had always done your best to not blame your husband. He had three children; how could he be to blame for you not falling pregnant? But, sometimes, in the cover of night, you found yourself lying awake in bed wondering if it was your fault at all. If you were being punished for your own crimes? Or if you were being punished for the crime of association?

You didn’t hear Tywin stand or approach you, but he was there suddenly grabbing your shoulders and pressing his chest to your back. His hands moved to grab your hands, holding them in front of you as he placed a few kisses to the side of your neck.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Your husband murmured against your skin, his grip tightening as you wiggled – trying to get free. “Enough,” the quick, growled out word only made you angrier.

“Let me go, Tywin.” You demanded, trying to move forward, out of his hold.

You didn’t want to be held by him. You couldn’t stand his touch.

There were too many emotions in your chest – guilt and selfishness and confusion and pain. You wanted to be alone, to cry and scream and break something. You didn’t want him to comfort you. You didn’t want him to tell you everything was fine and that you were overreacting (again).

The lion huffed, truly annoyed now, and in a flash had your back against the wall – held there by his body as his hands pressed into the stone on either side of your head. “Enough, Y/n.” his words were sharp, like how a lion’s jaw would snap shut around the neck of their prey. “There is nothing wrong with you. If you are barren, it does not matter. I do not want nor need another child presently.”

“My Lord,” you began to say with a huff, hoping that using his title and not his given name he would listen to you.

“You have not had a child because I have not allowed it.”

Wh-what?

He had spoken it after shouting your name, silencing you as your body flinched in surprise. Tywin had never yelled at you like that. He only ever shouted when he was pushed too far.

Had you pushed him too far? Had he cared more about the topic of you having his child than you had realized?

There was no time to think as the meaning of his words, softer spoken than your name moments before, began to set in.

I have not allowed it…

He…did not allow it?

Sighing, Tywin stepped away from you and said, “We had no need for a child of our own. I have heirs. Jaime will take over as Lord of Casterly Rock when I am dead. If not him, then one of Cersei’s younger sons. There was never any need for you to give me heirs. That is not why we married.”

“No,” you laughed, coldly “I was only meant to be a plaything for you to show about to try and make the world believe you weren’t bothered by the slights at the hand of the Mad King. I remember, My Lord. My father made me very aware of that in the days leading up to our wedding.” And then Tywin had made the mistake of letting his base urges override his judgement. He fucked you, consummated the marriage, and after that there was no point in attempting to annual the union once the House of the Dragon was defeated and Robert was crowned King.

His green eyes narrowed, and you knew if you were anyone else he would have sent you away with an insult and a warning instead of trying to continue the conversation. “You were a companion, Y/n.”

“A bed warmer.” You corrected, unsure of why you were picking a fight with him about this instead of asking him further about what he had meant about allowing you to fall pregnant.

He scoffed and shook his head, his jaw clenching as he bit back his anger. He was used to your mouthiness and your opinions, of course, but he had only truly enjoyed those things when they were directed at others who weren’t him. “Perhaps you should retire and spend the day resting. We’ll continue this later.”

Tywin turned to leave, a lonely chill settling immediately in your gut at the dismissal.

“Tywin please,” you grabbed his hand as tightly as you could, “Please what…what did you mean by you haven’t allowed me to fall with child? What did you do?”

Had he poisoned you with something that made you barren? Had he instructed Maester Creylen to perform some sort of procedure on you during one of the check ups that made it impossible for you to conceive?

“You are my wife. Mine. I wasn’t going to share you if I didn’t have to.”

“But…I’ve wanted a child for years, Tywin. Why…a baby wouldn’t have taken me from you…”

He laughed and wouldn’t meet your gaze, “Unless you died.” The too was silent but so loud.

I wouldn’t allow it…if I didn’t have to…didn’t have…you die…too

You were crying all over again as you pressed your face into his chest, your hands gripping tightly at the red fabric of his vest. You cried and cried…

In ten years, in all the times you had bothered your Lord Husband about having a child and complained and worried about how you hadn’t fallen pregnant, never once had you stopped to think about Tywin. You hadn’t thought to think about the risks of childbirth, of how you could die and Tywin would have to live through that a second time.

You knew that he already relived Lady Joanna’s death in the back of his head every day. How could you be so selfish to not realize your constant nagging was (most likely) half the reason for Tywin’s constant living nightmare?

“I…couldn’t stand the thought of losing you like I lost her. I didn’t have to risk it. So I refused to.” Tywin whispered to you after pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly and allowing you to cry softly into him.

It was unlike him to be so open with you, but this was the Rock. Anyone there who may have happened upon the two of you would have had the respect enough to look away and pretend the two of you weren’t there.

He had Creylen slip them into your breakfast every morning. It wasn’t moon tea, just a sort of contraceptive that workers in brothels were known to use. At first, Tywin ordered it because he didn’t want you to have a Lannister child – he wasn’t trustful enough of you to allow such a thing, but then the second year of your marriage came about and a fondness for you grew in his chest…

“...and I knew that I would not allow the gods to take you away as well.” Tywin was explaining some time later as the two of you sat in the sitting area of your apartments. You were seated on your husband’s lap, grateful for his gentle touch as he brushed his hands up and down your back,

“Oh darling,” leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his – gently and sweetly, humming as he returned your affection. “The gods may try if they wish, but I will not go so easily.” You laughed, playfully, and brushed a hand over his head, “Who would keep you out of trouble if I abandoned you?”

He laughed, short and quiet, but a laugh, nevertheless.

You fell silent after that, your face pressed into his neck.

Others would have yelled at him, refused to talk to him until he apologized or promised to make it all up to you. But you couldn’t find yourself to do that. Not when you understood why he had done it. Even if his methods were wrong and hurtful. Unlike most of his actions toward others, Tywin hadn’t done this to be cruel. He had simply…been trying to save his own heart.

How could you fault him for that?

“I do want a child of my own, My Lord.” You had to tell him. It wasn’t something you were going to easily forget about just because he had shared his concerns about the matter. “I know the risks, and I swear to you that I am strong enough to overcome them. But I deserve to be a mother, my love, even if it’s only to one child.”

You weren’t too old to give birth. Really, having heard the horror stories of women both older and younger than you, it was safer for someone your age to have a child than it was a woman-child or someone a decade older.

Tywin was silent for a long few minutes before nodding, stiffly, “I will think on it.”

So, you hid in the hold of the ship, scared and seasick for at least a week before the ship was anchored at port once more.

It was dark, and the crew worked quickly to unload the cargo so they could go to the brothels nearby. In their haste, they didn’t notice the hooded figure slip past them and off the ship. Your heart was pounding as you stepped off the wooden ramp, your fingers tightly clutching your hood so to keep it up and over your face.

You went to the nearest building once you reached the little port town, thankfully it was an inn and you were able to slip through the thick crowd of people to a table in the corner to the left of the bar.

You were shaking and you felt like at any moment you would start crying. Your thoughts were spiraling no matter how you tried to clear them, to think about what you were going to do. You were away from the lions, but where had you landed yourself?

Most of the people around you appeared to speak the common tongue, at least, and you sat there watching and listening to the conversations happening around you. Something prickled at the back of your mind, trying to give you a hint toward who they were – where you were – but your anxiety and exhaustion made you slow to understand.

And then you saw the sigil on one of the men’s arms and you gasped, sitting up straighter as you stared wide eyed at the symbol.

House Dalt. Their castle is Lemonwood. Lemons on a purple background…

Like your sister, Sansa, you had memorized most – if not all – the sigils of Westerosi houses from a young age. As the older, twin sister to the heir of Winterfell, you had always believed it your duty to know as much as you could about not only the bannermen who would follow your Father, and now Robb, into battle but also the sworn houses to the other Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.

You had always promised yourself you would know everything about everyone so you would, at the least, have the upper hand of knowing your enemy even if you couldn’t physically beat them.

That sigil meant you were still in Westeros.

Dorne, to be exact.

Dorne…

House Martell hated the Lannisters – everyone knew it. But did they hate the lions enough to give you safe passage back to White Harbor? Or would they sell you back to Queen Cersei if the price was right?

Standing, ignoring the nervousness and suspicion in your gut, you approached the table and cleared your throat. “Excuse me, Ser?” you knew that House Dalt was made up of landed knights, and made sure to use their knightly titles when you finally found the nerve to speak up.

It took a moment and only after another man, whose clothing was baren of any sigils or symbols that would tie him to any particular house, had poked the Dalt knight in the side and gestured toward you for the knight to finally turn his attention to you.

“Ser,” you cleared your throat a second time as your nerves threatened to take over and prevent you from speaking, “How far away from Sunspear are we?”

“Who’s asking?” the man’s voice was heavily accented, definitely Dornish, and his dark gaze squinted up at you as he tried to make out the features of your nearly – entirely – concealed face.

The man was suspicious of you, as if he was immediately on edge from some unspoken threat you had made toward his liege, and so you didn’t bother to speak in fancy words or in a round about way. You were as direct as you possibly could be as you said, “Someone trying to gain an audience with the Prince of Dorne, Ser, now please. Where are we? How far from Sunspear have I found myself?”

“Planky Town. You came by ship?” a light, flirty voice sounded from behind you followed by a firm hand landing on your ship while a body pressed into your opposite side. It was a bar maid, dressed in a simple gown that fell to her knees and showed off plenty of her cleavage. Her hair was black, her skin was olive, and her eyes stared at you with a dark, lustful look as if she was trying to envision you naked.

Your cheeks turned a bright pink at her look, but you were too focused on getting to a Martell that you didn’t allow yourself time to think on it for too long.

The barmaid continued with, “Must have, or else you would know where you are.” She laughed, the men at the table laughing along with her.

Planky Town. That explains the floating city then.

You hadn’t really noticed the planks until you had reached the inn, and you couldn’t remember ever learning about how the settlement was literally floating, but it was unique for sure.

“Yes, I came by ship.” You didn’t mention you came from King’s Landing or that you came by accident.

The knight from House Dalt hummed and got to his feet. He was tall, but not too much taller than you. Like Robb and Sansa, you were rather tall yourself. “What is a girl, who came by ship to Planky Town, looking to get from House Martell?”

It wasn’t lost on you that the other men at the table and the two nearest had stood and that the barmaid had scurried back to the bar.

Trying to be brave, you stood as straight as you could and said, hoping that it was enough of an explanation, “Safety from lions.”

*

Sunspear wasn’t too far away once you had been lifted onto a sand steed – horses bred in Dorne who were quick and had a high endurance to heat – with Ser Deizel Dalt (as he had introduced himself) riding with you and the group of knights had set off.

No further answers were demanded from you, and you were grateful for that. You were trying to get your thoughts and facts straight, trying to figure out what you were going to say and how you were going to convince the Prince of Dorne to help you.

The Spear Tower and the Tower of the Sun. The Spear Tower holds prisoners, noble ones according to the stories. And the Tower of the Sun is where the seat of the Prince(ess) of Dorne can be found.

Sunspear was larger than you had expected, and try as you might, you weren’t able to take in everything you passed and glanced over as you were led through the alleys and the winding labyrinth that led to the Old Palace where House Martell made their seat of power.

Men and Women with the sigil of a sun with a spear going diagonally through it on their clothes met your traveling party as you entered the courtyard. They were guards, you realized with wide eyes, a part of you gleefully watching the women who appeared just as respected as the men. You had always admired that about Dorne. Their relaxed attitude about the so called “gentler sex.”

The North was a little more relaxed than the southern Kingdoms, but nowhere like Dorne.

“…says she needs to speak to the Prince.” Ser Deizel was saying as the guards’ turned their attention to you.

“Her hood. Lower it.” The man who appeared to oversee the others demanded in a gruff tone. His voice was accented, but it didn’t sound Dornish. Not as Dornish as others, at least.

You didn’t resist as the knight seated behind you did as he was told, not ungently but you felt a few strands of hair get pulled in the process causing you to flinch and lean away from him some.

“Said something about wanting safety from lions.” Another man in your traveling party spoke up, and it was clear that everyone knew the meaning behind his words as they all suddenly grew tense and some even cursed.

One of the women spoke in a language you didn’t recognize (later, you would come to know it to be Rhoynish), but you thought you heard Lannister amongst the accented, fast paced speech.

Everyone climbed off the horses a moment later after a big man had appeared and spoke to the overseer, and you felt your stomach flip with a little bit of fear as one of the Martell guards grabbed your arm and pulled you away from Ser Deizel – leading you inside and not giving you a chance to find out if the knight and his companions were leaving already or if they were simply being led somewhere else.

You were taken directly to the Tower of the Sun, to the throne room where two thrones sat at the end of the hall. The ceiling was a dome of gold and leaded glass. The room itself was round and you turned in circles, eyes wide as you took in the colorful panels of glass that made up the walls and the windows, the floors were marble, and everything was exotic and beautiful.

On the dais, where the two thrones sat, stood a dark-haired man with a widow’s peak, his eyes were just as dark and his playful smile was as much a threat as it was teasing.

He had to be about the age of your Father, only a few years older if he had already lived four decades. He was dressed in yellows and oranges, and as the guards and you got closer to the dais he settled his gaze on you.

“Prince Oberyn,” the guards acknowledged with quick bows of respect, “She arrived at Planky Town seeking an audience with Prince Doran.”

Prince Oberyn Martell. Younger brother to Prince Doran and the late Princess Elia. He was known as the Red Viper.

He practiced at the Citadel for a time, if my studies are correct.

You wondered what it was he had learned, and if he had simply grown bored with the Maesters, or if he had grown disillusioned by something while there?

The Viper hummed and waved his hand about, “My brother will be here shortly. We were sleeping.”

“My apologies for waking you up, My Prince, it was not my intention.” You spoke up before anyone could stop you or before anyone else could talk, “My name is Y/n of House Stark. Ned Stark is my father. He’s been arrested by House Lannister, my sister Sansa is a hostage, my other sister Arya is…missing or...or….” dead.

Tears prickled in your eyes, and you looked down, closing your eyes as you tried to reign in your emotions. The last thing you wanted was to mention a dead sister in King’s Landing. That was the last thing you would want to bring up seeing how the Dornish Prince had lost his own sister.

Once you had reopened your eyes and focused your gaze back on the Dornish Prince, a Prince who was watching you intently – silently – waiting for whatever else you had to say, you dropped to your knees. Hoping it would show how serious you were, how desperate you were, you hung your head and whispered, “…Prince Oberyn, I am entirely at the mercy of your House. My father is a traitor, my sister a hostage, and I…I barely escaped the gold cloaks when they came looking for me. I have found myself on your shores begging for refuge and…and charity.”

The room fell silent as you sat there, hands clutched in your lap and your gaze full of tears, locked on the marble beneath you.

The silence stressed for so long that you begun to wonder if you were being spoken to and you just couldn’t make sense of anything – as if you had suddenly lost the ability to hear.

Just as you went to lift your head, to look for Prince Oberyn’s gaze, there was a warm finger beneath your chin – lifting your head back for you until your eyes met the gentle brown of another man. A man who was smiling sadly but kindly at you from the wheeled chair he was seated in, a blanket thrown over his legs.

Prince Doran.

He suffers from gout. He uses the chair to get around…

Eyes widening, you were quick to greet him with the respect you could muster, even placing a gentle kiss to the knuckles of the hand he had grabbed your face with.

“Rise, My Lady. Let us talk somewhere more comfortable.” The Prince of Dorne’s voice was as soft as his look and you were more than willing to do as he suggested.

A large man with a longaxe strapped to his back stood behind the Prince of Dorne’s chair. No doubt, he was the Captain of the Houseguard for the Martells. He was definitely imposing enough.

“Thank you, Prince Doran. As I told your brother, I am deeply sorry for imposing. I’m especially regretful to have pulled you out of bed. I, admit, I am unaware of the time.” The words felt rehearsed, your tongue felt thick and heavy. You tried to think of how Sansa would say things. She was always so much better at pretty words that people would want to hear. You were more your father’s child. There was only so much, you believed, that one could say with words before they became nothing but nonsense.

The Prince of Dorne brushed away your apology with a simple, “It’s alright, I assure you.”

Soon enough, you were led into a smaller room, a gallery by the looks of it and gladly accepted the seat offered to you as you were left alone with the two Martell Princes’ and the Captain, Aero Hotah.

“Your Father has been charged with treason; the crown does have one of your sisters but the other appears to be missing if our informant within the capital is to be trusted. Word is that Winterfell has called its banners and the Westerlands are currently ripping through the Riverlands for some…unknown offense.” Prince Doran wasted no time in explaining the situation to you, most of which you had no idea was happening and could do nothing but sit there and stare, wide eyed and horrified at what was being told to you.

“Robb called the banners? He’s only…we’re only…he can’t! He’s never led anything like that before!” you were on your feet and pacing, fresh tears slipping down your cheeks as your brain spiraled. “I must get home. I must be there. He can’t…he can’t do that alone.” Clutching your hands to your chest, you turned to look at Prince Doran, “I…are there any ships that travel from Planky Town to White Harbor? Robb cannot march south. Starks die in the south.”

Your throat squeezed at your own words, the truth of them settling deep in your gut.

Grandfather, Uncle Brandon, Aunt Lyanna.

Father and Sansa if they’re deemed useless.

Arya…

It was Prince Doran who pulled you from your thoughts, drawing your attention back to him. “We can offer you refuge, Lady Stark. You may remain here, and you will be safe from House Lannister and any of your enemies.”

“I can’t. I must get home.” You tried to argue, to explain why you were needed back at Winterfell more than you needed to stay there and stay safe.

But you knew there was no way to get home. Not now. Not with the Seven Kingdoms quickly spiraling into war. Any ship in the seas around Westeros would be allied to one House or another, and it was unlikely they would be for House Stark or any Northern House with a port. Trade was more likely to be for the Reach, Crownlands, and the Vale.

History is repeating itself, My Prince. How am I supposed to sit here and let harm come to my brother? To my sisters?

“Doing nothing is the hardest thing we can do.” Prince Doran had whispered as he wiped the tears from your cheeks, “But…acting can do more harm than good.”

He dismissed Prince Oberyn and Aero Hotah as you broke down into silent sobs.

*

“Lord Stark was beheaded. His council called for mercy, to send him to the Night’s Watch, it is rumored. The boy-King decided to act mercilessly.”

“Winterfell was attacked, supposedly by the Iron Born. There were no survivors.”

“They’re calling it the Red Wedding. Many were taken hostage, most of the Northern army was slain. The King in the North…Lady Stark…both were killed.”

“…as I have said so many times, history is repeating itself.” The words fell from your lips, almost too softly for anyone in the room to hear you, as you stood staring out the window of the chambers you had been given within the Water Gardens – where Prince Doran had taken up residence some time before the War of the Five Kings had broken out. “Grandfather. Uncle. Aunt. For my child or Sansa’s…Rickard became Eddard, Brandon became Robb, and Lyanna became…” Arya? It could still end up being Sansa or even you, but Sansa was more likely.

Lyanna Stark.

The young maiden chosen by Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and loved, supposedly, by him so much that he stole her away and started a war in the process.

“Princess Myrcella is an innocent of this. I refuse to allow her to take place of your sister, My Prince. I am glad that she is here with us and has found companionship with the children of the gardens.” You hadn’t personally seen the Lannister looking Baratheon Princess, it wasn’t safe to reveal yourself with a member of King Joffrey’s kingsguard being the sworn shield of Myrcella, but you knew she was happy and well liked. “I hold her no ill will, I hope you know this.” It was this reassurance you had wanted to give him, it was this that you had requested a private audience with him that afternoon after lunch.

You were devasted over the loss of your father, brothers, and mother, but you would not take it out on a child as innocent as you were in all of this.

“I appreciate your words, My Lady, but I did not need to be told this.” Prince Doran held a hand out to you, pulling you away from the window and to his side. He shared a smile with you as you placed a kiss to his palm and dropped to your knees on the cushion that had been placed next to the chair he was seated in (having decided to be moved from his wheeled chair to something more comfortable as your conversations often went on for hours). He placed his hand to your cheek once you had let it go, his thumb brushing a few stray tears from your cheek. “We must be patient, in time we will all be given the revenge we believe we’re entitled to.” His voice was still soft, but there was a strength to it as if he knew something he wasn’t letting you in on – something he was keeping very, very close to his heart.

“Doran,” his name no longer felt strange on your tongue, now it fell from your lips with a fondness you had developed with so much ease in the early days of being in Dorne. “I am orphaned, I am wanted, I am…I am the last of my kin beyond Sansa and Jon Snow. What am I to do if I ever got this revenge? Would I go back to Winterfell? Alone? To rebuild my House and…and try to heal from the scars of the south?”

What if you didn’t want to do that? What if you didn’t care about rebuilding your House or getting revenge? What if you were tired and simply wanted to be safe for what little time you might have left alive before the lions found you and took your head as well?

“You are not alone. You will always have a friend in Dorne, Y/n. You are always welcomed in Sunspear and amongst my House.” And his lips pressed against your forehead, a rare act of his fondness toward you that had you gasping with emotion and gently grabbing at his arm – his hand still pressed to your cheek.

It was like he was aware of the thoughts you had at night when you were lying in bed, clinging to the things you had left in your life that could be taken away. House Martell, their kindness and acceptance, and the few things you had as physical possessions. Everything else had been taken from you in the capital or at Winterfell – stolen by the Lannisters and the Iron Born.

You couldn’t even remember when you started praying to the old and the new gods at night, begging them to let you stay in Dorne and to remain in the company of the Martells and other Dornish who you had met since arriving in Planky Town some months earlier. Before you knew, you were happy and even found yourself going hours without thinking about your parents, your siblings, Winterfell, the North, Jon Snow, or your direwolf who you had left at Winterfell when you agreed to travel South with your father and sisters.

And hearing the Prince of Dorne himself welcome you to remain as a member of his household, to stay there for the rest of your life surrounded by those who had become so important to you, a second or chosen family beyond your blood relations…it was something you had wanted to hear and, yet, you hadn’t been aware that you wanted to hear them.

Is it wrong of me to want to stay here? Is it wrong of me to not want to fight? To just want to…survive?

Getting to your feet, you gently cupped Prince Doran’s face and kissed his forehead in return. “Thank you, My Prince.” You sniffled, letting your tears fall. “I do not wish to be a burden, and so I will do whatever you need of me. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

*

The news reached you when you were walking the lemon orchard with one of the younger Sand Snakes. The servant had only told you once you had sent little Dorea away, and the words had barely slipped past the boy’s mouth before you were gathering the skirt of your dress in your hands and running back to the palace.

Prince Doran was alone when you reached him on the balcony he spent his days, watching the children play in the fountains. You didn’t care who was there, not even if it was Princess Myrcella and her sworn shield, Arys Oakheart.

“My Prince,” you gasped, placing a kiss to his knuckles before whispering, “I just heard. I am so sorry.” What else were you meant to say? Nothing that had been said to you about Robb, Bran, or Rickon’s murders had comforted you. Why would any of it comfort the Prince of Dorne?

“He accepted the trial by combat. He knew the possibilities.” It was all Doran said, and although he didn’t sound like it, you knew he was hurting by the way the parchment in his hand was being crushed - the message about how Prince Oberyn had been killed in the capital must have been written on it.

Doran didn’t say anything else, and you didn’t push him.

You sat beside him, peeling blood oranges and gently coaxing him to eat a few pieces. You talked to him instead, telling him stories about the North and all the tales Northern children believed about the Dornish and their Rhonyar ancestry.

The two of you sat there for hours. You talked and Doran listened. He seemed to enjoy the sound of your voice, at least, as every time you fell silent he squeezed your hand – a silent gesture he had begun not long into your stay in Dorne that always told you to continue whatever topic you had been exploring.

“The children need to be told, Doran. The younger sand snakes…should I leave that to Lady Ellaria when she returns?” you knew Oberyn’s paramour was going to be devastated over the death of her long-time lover, but you also knew she was a mother and would always put her daughters first.

You just hoped that they hadn’t been told by Obara, Lady Nym, or Tyene. You could never be sure what the three oldest of Oberyn’s daughters were thinking or planning.

“I am sure they have already been told.” Doran whispered, speaking up for the first time since that afternoon. A soft sigh slipped from his lips as he turned his head, his dark eyes meeting yours. “Y/n,” he shook his head slightly and continued, “Dorne will get its revenge, sooner than later. Will you stand with me and mine? Or would you like to go somewhere else? Somewhere that could be safe? Essos? The Summer Isles?”

“My Prince?” Frowning, you shook your head and whispered, “Are you trying to send me away? I am the last of my House, as far as I know, besides my bastard brother who has given his life to the Night’s Watch. Where would I go? Where would I be welcomed? I belong here now, in Dorne. If a day comes that the North could feel warm and comforting, then perhaps I will return, but for now…” your cheeks turned a soft pink as you said, shyly, “For now, my warmth and comfort is here with you, My Prince. You, your children, your brother’s children. I do not ask for anything, only your companionship. In any form that is offered to me.”

The Prince of Dorne smiled, so sweetly, and cupped your chin in his hand, “All that I can give is yours, My Lady, until you no longer wish to have it. Your companionship is a blessing to my weary soul.”

Oh, how I feel the same, My Prince.

You wanted to hug him tightly, but you were afraid of hurting him due to his gout. That didn’t stop you from grabbing his hand from your chin and placing your lips to his palm, your tears falling silently into his hand as you tried your very best to convey your deepest feelings to him without words.

You barely managed to hold back your sob as you whispered, “For all my life, Doran, I will wish to have it. All of it.”

Dorne wasn’t where you had expected to find yourself, or to spend your life, but after a year of being there – rescued by the Prince of Dorne and adored by him and his house – it was all you wanted. Even if all the tragedies hadn’t happened to your family, you knew in your heart you would have pleaded with Robb to allow you to stay had you ended up in Dorne somehow, either way.

It was breath taking, and if you had been a lesser man of lesser birth you would have fallen to your knees and begged for her love right there. You had only been in the capital for half a day at that point, but you had yet to see anyone as breath taking as her. Even growing up at the Rock, you were quick to hold the opinion that there was no one in the world that could challenge her.

“My Lady,” taking her offered hand, you bowed and pressed your lips to her knuckles – humming at the feeling of the soft skin of her hand pressed against the calloused, roughness of your own. “You will be a breath of fresh air to both House Baratheon and House Lannister. Dare I say, you will be the greatest beauty for any of us to behold since my dear, late mother passed away.” You hadn’t known your mother, the late Lady Joanna, but you had heard of her beauty and her fierceness. Two things the rose in front of you would need if she was going to marry, bed, and live with your psychopathic nephew.

“You flatter me, Ser.” She had laughed and pretended to be shy as she looked down, a light blush on her cheeks. Most would probably think she was blushing from embarrassment; you knew she was blushing because she enjoyed the compliments. The sly way she looked at you afterwards when you finally released her hand was enough to confirm your suspicions. “It is delightful to meet you. When I heard our noble King had a third Uncle, and a twin to Lord Tyrion at that, I knew I just had to meet you the first chance I got.”

Flattery. Rehearsed words all ladies in Westeros were taught to recycle and repeat whenever in public environments…you weren’t sure how much of what she said was true, but you were certain – either way – it was all rehearsed in her head just as you had been taught to tell an enemy what they wanted to hear in order to get what it was you wanted.

“Yes, unfortunately, I have to admit that Tyrion got all the looks between the two of us.” It was a joke you and Tyrion had shared since you were very young. So many others used it as cruelty toward your brother due to his stunted height, and so Tyrion and you had begun to use it as your own joke – a way to use their mockery against him by fashioning it into a suit of armor for your twin.

It was subtle, but you saw the small switch in her features before Margaery responded with a laugh and a “You jest, Ser!” No matter her feelings toward Tyrion, or your family as a whole, she didn’t appreciate people being mocked.

“In a way I suppose I do,” you admitted with a small smile, finally sparing a look in Ser Loras’ direction, noting how he had walked away a few feet to speak to a guard dressed in the colors and sigil of a house from the Reach. He was her chaperone, and not a very good one at that in your opinion.

Still, it did allow you and Margaery a bit of privacy even with the two of you being in a public setting.

Taking Margaery’s hand, you led her over to one of the small sitting areas that overlooked a stretch of the Blackwater. “Tyrion is my dearest brother; I beg of you to understand that.” You begun to explain, softly, as the two of you sat down. “He has been hated for his size and his looks our whole life. If he had been born normal, what most would consider normal, like me than he would have been spared such ridicule. But, alas, whereas you or I could have easily killed our mothers at our births and still been loved, Tyrion had a hand in killing our mother and simultaneously had a hand in insulting our Lord Father by being a half man.”

Every cruel joke and word that had been thrown at Tyrion throughout the near twenty-seven years you had been alive rang through your mind. You had always tried to protect him as much as you could. He was older than you, to some he nearly caused your own death with the violence he shown in ripping out of Lady Joanna and “nearly killing her on the spot.” But he was your brother, your twin, and he did not have your advantages. You had to protect him. No matter what. From your father, the banners of the west, your elder sister, and even from Tyrion himself.

“He is not perfect. He is spiteful and doesn’t seem to truly take anything serious. Like Jaime. He is most like our Father, I think. He will let an insult go for a time, but sooner or later, Tyrion always gets the revenge he deems he’s owed. But...he is my brother. I would never intentionally harm him physically or verbally.”

You needed her to know that you weren’t like your family. You needed Margaery to know that what you said before about Tyrion having all the looks was an inside joke between you and your twin.

Not only did you not want her to think ill of you, but you didn’t want her to think she had no allies at court and that she would have to be cruel to keep her place.

Please, you are most definitely not Cersei, Lady Margaery. Remain kind. Remain thoughtful.

The world so desperately needed such gentleness after all the pain and death.

“Ser,” her hand covered your own as she gave you a sweet smile, her brown eyes beaming, “Anyone who thinks you do not care about Lord Tyrion are foolish.”

“And what do you think of me?” You were half-teasing when you asked it, figuring she would laugh and give some comment of flattery that anyone would give to a Lannister and the (possible) future Lord of Casterly Rock.

There was a seriousness to her as Margaery lifted her free hand and placed it to your cheek, “That you see a great deal more than you let on. That you are not like your Father, sister, or brothers. That you…” she paused, her eyes flickering here and there as if she was searching for something specific that would lend her the correct words to use to describe her thoughts, “That you are one of a kind, Ser, and I find myself overjoyed to have had the opportunity to meet you and speak to you.”

It was your turn to be speechless.

It wasn’t anything new for you. You had always been more quiet, more internal and thoughtful.

Only now…now you wished you could find the words to say in response to that.

Instead, your mouth was dry.

And your heart had slowed to a pace that shouldn’t have brought you peace, but it did.

There was a calm inside of you as you held her gaze.

It wasn’t love. No. It was too early for that, and you felt that Margaery was far too young for you even if she was – if you remembered correctly – around sixteen and, thus, of age in the eyes of Westerosi customs.

But it was fondness.

And…wonder.

In all your years growing up at Casterly Rock, never had you dreamt that you would find an angel who would look past the reds and golds of your Father’s house and see you for who you were in private – not just for the mask you wore around everyone else.

Soft and warm, witty and charming…

How could you have ever dreamt of such a creature? The lions were known to be selfish, to believe only they were worth having the greatest treasures in the world, but never could you have ever selfishly dreamt up such a gift from the gods could exist in human form.

It was in that moment as you lifted her hand to your lips once more, placing a brief kiss to her palm, that you chose the path of selfishness. That you decided, then and there, no matter what, you would remain close to Margaery. Lady or Queen. You would not lose her companionship, no matter the form it was offered to you.

*

“…are trying to marry Sansa Stark to Willas Tyrell.” There was very little that was stopping you from not laughing at your Lord Father, the Hand of the King, as you sat in the Tower of the Hand with him, Cersei, and Tyrion.

Somehow, you managed to keep your amusement to yourself as you waited for the great Tywin Lannister to continue with whatever he had to say and get to the reason you had been summoned there beyond to tell you what House Tyrell was planning.

It didn’t surprise you, and honestly you supported it. Sansa, from what very little you knew of her, seemed the type to have been very happy at Highgarden. Plus, you knew that Willas Tyrell, the heir of Mace Tyrell and Margaery’s eldest brother, was intelligent and a decent enough person. He would be good for Sansa in time if he gave her the chance to heal and grow before expecting anything from her.

Far better than Joffrey, at the least.

“…we cannot allow that to happen.” Your father was saying as you refocused, “So, we must find Sansa Stark a new husband.”

“Good luck with that then.” Tyrion was skeptical, just as you were beginning to feel. There was a reason the two of you had been called there, and it was more than just the fact you were Lannisters.

You looked at your father and then at your sister, noticing the way your Father was looking at you with a look of expectation, as if he was waiting to see the moment the realization of his words struck you. Cersei was just smirking ugly as she always did when she was smug over knowing something others didn’t.

“Which of us?” The words fell from your tongue thickly, your throat squeezing in disgust

Naturally, Cersei opened her mouth to spew her hatred before your Lord Father had a chance to, “I think it should be Tyrion. Oh, how delightful that would be.” Her beautiful face was distorted with hatred, the lioness smirking openly at your twin brother who stared back at her in equal amount disbelief and dislike.

“She’s a child!” Tyrion protested, slamming shut the book he had brought in with him to discuss the costs of Margaery and Joffrey’s wedding, “Take her from Joffrey just to give her to me? How cruel can our family be to her?!”

“You should be grateful. This is far more than you deserve.” Cersei continued to mock him, but there was a bite to her words. She always did hate when she believed others were playing at being decent.

You listened to them argue back and forth but returned your gaze to your father. He had only spared his other two children a fleeting look before focusing back on you. It was the only answer you needed to know who he had chosen to secure the North for the crown.

She’s even younger than Margaery.

How old is she again? Thirteen? Fourteen in a few moons?

If Margaery is a child, does that make Sansa Stark an infant?

“I want to be the one to inform her, Father. That’s the only concession I ask for.” You had spent nearly every day of your life around your Tywin Lannister, you knew what you could say and what wouldn’t be immediately dismissed as if your Father had better things to listen to. You knew what was pointless in bringing up, “She’ll be miserable” or “This isn’t fair to her!” He wouldn’t care. He would roll his eyes and fire back with something cold and stern.

Your Father smirked, or his lips turned up ever so slightly in what you considered a smirk, and he nodded “Very well.” And he lifted his hand, his way of dismissing you.

You fled the room, for once not stopping to consider if Tyrion was staying or following.

There was a tightness in your chest, anger mixed with an understanding of the situation that brought disgust and hopelessness and resentment. You understood that House Stark was needed to truly secure the North and stop another rebellion (at the least, in your Father’s life time), and you understood why it was better for your House to have that control over any other – especially the Tyrells who were just as (if not more) powerful than your Father’s house.

That didn’t mean you had to be okay with it.

That didn’t mean that you couldn’t be disgusted with it all.

You were nearly a decade and a half older than Sansa Stark. There was no way you could go through with what your father believed would happen.

Wed her, Bed her, Put a child in her…

There was no doubt that he had silently thrown the command at you, but you refused. You wouldn’t do that to Sansa. You couldn’t…

That’s not who I want to be.

Worried that another would tell Sansa, you went straight to her and found the eldest daughter to Ned Stark with Margaery and her cousins, in the Maiden Vault, seated on plush cushions surrounding a table covered with deserts.

You nearly changed your mind when you realized this, not wanting to say anything in front of the Tyrells – whether because you were trying to keep it all a secret or because you didn’t want Margaery to think poorly of you, you couldn’t be sure.

“My Lady?” you spoke softly as you moved toward Sansa, bowing once she had looked up and met your gaze, “My apologies for bothering you. We must speak, urgently.”

“Ser Y/N!” Margaery laughed, reaching for your hand in an attempt to pull you down so you’d be seated beside her.

You shook your head, refusing her offer while staring at the auburn haired girl you would soon cloak and bring under your protection.

Sansa was seated across from you, her gaze confused and apprehensive. Delicately as you knew the Stark girl often acted, she placed her half-eaten lemon cake back onto her plate and dropped her hands into her lap. “Ser, I’m not sure what we could have to talk about.” She wasn’t rude about it, just confused and uncertain. No doubt, after all the horrors your nephew had put her through, she was waiting to finally be told she would be killed as her father had been.

Or, worse, married to Joffrey after all.

“Lord Tywin, my father, has just informed me of a decision he and the King have made just this morning. A decision that concerns you, My Lady, in which I requested to be given leave to tell you myself.” The words fell robotically from your lips, just as the words of flattery had fallen from Margaery’s weeks earlier. Your tongue felt heavy, and it took all you had to not stutter over your words.

You watched Margaery look from the Stark girl to you and back, her own hands which were in her own lap turned white as she seemed to realize the possibility of your family learning of the Tyrells plot.

Sansa’s eyes were wide and her voice shook only slightly as she whispered, “What is it, Ser? What does your House want from me now?”

You closed your eyes, unable to look at her as you whispered, “Your name.” and half a heartbeat later you explained, briefly, “We are to be wed.”

You were met with silence and looks of shocked horror.

*

The Small Council was more than annoyed at the fact you were so stubbornly against consummating your marriage, more than once threatening to annual the marriage or find another Lannister to do the job instead, but even two years into your union with Sansa Stark, your father had yet to follow through with the threat.

Just as you knew he would.

You were his heir. If he or someone else even appeared to bed your wife in your stead, that would only cause rumors that you weren’t capable of fathering children or that Sansa was infertile. At the least, as far as most of the realm believed, you and Sansa shared a bed but were simply slow at producing your first heir.

Besides, after you had brought up your concerns about Sansa dying in childbirth alongside the child due to her young age and undeveloped body, even being backed by studies recorded by the Maesters of the Citadel, your lord father reluctantly stepped down a little.

“She will be turning sixteen soon,” Margaery, the Queen of Westeros for two years now, mentioned one morning as the two of you walked the gardens with your ten-year-old nephew, Tommen, who you had taken as your squire shortly after marrying Sansa. “No doubt, your continued insistence that she isn’t old enough or prepared enough to be a mother will be mute.” It was her way of warning you. She always did her best to keep you aware of her husband’s moods and feelings toward anything and everyone at court.

You considered her words as you watched Tommen lean over to brush his hand through the water in one of the many bird baths before moving to do the same to the fountain a few feet away.

She knew all too well the expectations placed on young, noble ladies to conceive and birth children. The Small Council had given her a year to grow with the King’s child, and yet nothing seemed to take root. It was well known that Joffrey visited her bed nearly every night for that first year without success, and then for half a year after that he had visited her several times a day, and the last few months he seemed to grow bored with her and had begun to visit her – instead – every other day, there were some weeks he had only visited her twice.

“I will need to consummate our marriage, yes.” You had, with difficulty, acknowledged this fact days earlier when Sansa herself had mentioned her upcoming nameday – she had been asking you about the chances of traveling to Casterly Rock during it. She had yet to be there, and she was inquiring about the likelihood of being able to meet and visit with her Uncle Edmure Tully who was a permanent prisoner resident of the Rock alongside his Frey wife and their daughter.

You had told her that you would ask your Father and the conversation had been dropped, but it had also made you realize how your time of fighting the inevitable was coming to an end. Sooner rather than later you would have to bed your Lady Wife.

“Just as the crown is going to have to do something in regards to the King.” You grabbed Margaery’s hand and waited for her to stop walking before whispering, “Joffrey seems incapable of producing children. Or the two of you are not right for each other. They will have him sleep with a whore or get him a noble mistress, someone they can trust not to talk if she fails to fall with child in a time the council believes appropriate.” Turning your body to face her fully, you added, “There is no telling what my nephew will do should another fall pregnant with his child.”

Everyone knew he was practically Maegor the Cruel reborn. And he had only gotten worse since he had turned sixteen, coming of age, and calling off what little regency he had.

Margaery didn’t try to talk circles around you. It had been too long since she had done that when the two of you were alone.  Instead, she nodded and asked, “What do you suggest, Ser? There is only so much I can do, even as Queen.”

There were fertility teas, but as far as you knew, Margaery had already been made to try well over two dozen variations. None with any success. There were rumored positions and times of day/week that were said to work best for those trying to fall pregnant. There had been no success with those either.

Everyone wanted to blame Margaery, but you were one of the few who believed the King was at fault.

There were no signs that Margaery, nor House Tyrell, had issues with fertility or childbearing; however, the rumors of Joffrey’s conception being as they were…you could easily understand how such things could affect fertility.

Look at the Targaryens, after all. Sure, most were able to conceive, but how many were stillbirths and miscarriages.

There was, really, only one sure fire way to see if Margaery was infertile or not…

The thought alone made you shift from one foot to another, your hand moving to the hilt of your sword as if to fend off an invisible enemy.

It was an act of treason, and whoever suggested it could be killed. The person that actually took part in it would…well, who knew what Joffrey would creatively come up with as a method of torture.

“Y/n?” Margaery’s hand on your cheek drew you from your thoughts, a look of curiosity and concern was written across her face.

“I cannot say it, Your Grace. It’s not wise or safe to say.” You covered her hand with yours, grateful for the softness of her touch. Leaning closer to her, you whispered, “You must become with child, one that could be passed off as His Grace’s, and soon.”

You left her there as one of Margaery’s cousins came around the corner of the hedge and quickly approached the Queen.

As you reached the edge of the gardens near one of the many castle doors that led inside, you glanced over your shoulder at the Queen – watching as her soft, brown locks blew slightly in the wind, her big, brown eyes holding hers as her Hightower cousin whispered in her ear. You offered her a smile and bowed, never taking your gaze from her’s as you thought, Remember this. I will do whatever you ask of me. I am yours to do with as you please. Your faithful servant, My Queen, until my dying day.

*

You heard later that Margaery was summoned to the throne room after your walk in the gardens. That was what her cousin had been sent to inform her. Joffrey had been awaiting her, his Kingsguard and Small Council in attendance. The prick had scolded her for not doing her duties, for spending all her time with Sansa and with you. Your nephew had accused her of being a whore and reminded her that House Tyrell would be nothing without the Lannisters, that Margaery would be nothing without Joffrey.

You were told this by a servant that night as you sat having dinner with Sansa. The two of you sat in stunned silence as the servant told everything. Even for someone as cruel as Joffrey, you wouldn’t have expected some of the things he had said.

“I wish I could be surprised.” Sansa whispered as the two of you laid in bed, her in her shift and you in your trousers (as you never slept naked in each other’s presence), her head on your chest had become habit when she was upset “I just feel so awful for her. I wish I knew if she was alright.” Your young wife sniffled and instinctively you tightened your arms around her.

“Would you like to go and see her? I am sure she would appreciate the company.” It wasn’t yet too late. The two of you often laid down early so you would be left alone by others and could have time to think over your days. No doubt, Margaery would still be awake for several hours.

“What if His Grace is with her?” Sansa didn’t sound afraid as she would have two years prior. Her voice was still soft, the words sounded rehearsed as she had learned to say them in, but instead of being afraid of Joffrey, your young wife had grown annoyed and angry, and often – privately – whispered to you how it was “for the best” that she wasn’t her younger sister, Arya, or else the King would be dead – or his death would be near.

You weren’t sure how much of it was an exaggeration in terms of how her younger sister was like, but you had very little doubt of Sansa’s capabilities if given the opportunity.

Gently, you eased Sansa’s head from your chest and got to your feet. “I pity him if Joffrey turns up at the Queen’s chambers tonight. No doubt, Ser Loras has been stationed inside his sister’s room as a deterrent to any who dare enter.” Moving over to the balcony, you pulled the doors shut and slipped the lock into place. “Or, I can always go and check on her myself in case my nephew is there, and then report back to you.” Whether Sansa was braver and smarter now than she had been, you knew her fear still gripped her sometimes when around your family.

“Please,”

Your heart could have broken at the sound of that single word.

It still surprised you how caring Sansa could be toward others, even more so than Margaery sometimes. It made you want to wrap the girl in your arms and shield her with your own life.

Moving back over to the bed, you cupped Sansa’s face in your hands and placed a kiss to her forehead. It was the only amount of intimacy beyond holding her in bed (and holding hands) that you allowed between the two of you. You were still so reluctant against using her in such a way.

“You are a delight to me, My Lady.” You sweetly complimented before pulling away to dress.

You noticed the color to Sansa’s cheeks and the way she thanked you so shyly as you went to turn away. It was yet another reason for you to stand firm on the boundaries you had created between the two of you.

As you slipped into the hall, you heard Sansa slip the board into place across the door – it was a another, small rule you had set from your first day of marriage. She was never alone in your chambers without the lock in place.

You had a single guard outside your door, one you had trusted your whole life and who you knew to be loyal to you and no one else. As you stepped past him, you softly ordered him to remain there and protect your wife. And should anyone wish to see you, that you were indisposed due to “attempting to do your duty.” Purposefully, you left the meaning up to interpretation.

The walk to the Queen’s chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast was brief thanks to the placement of your own rooms. Less than ten minutes and Ser Loras was greeting you with a stiff bow. It was obvious he was tense and angry.

“Is she alone?” you asked the white knight, gaze flickering over his Kingsguard armor and the hilt of the sword at his side.

The third son to Mace Tyrell nodded, stiffly, and said “As she has been all evening.” And he stepped inside the room to announce you.

After a brief few moments of muffled voices, Ser Loras stepped back out and gestured you inside.

You wasted no time in doing so, bowing lowly as soon as you were inside with the door shut behind you.

Margaery was in bed, but she wasn’t prepared for bed. It just looked as if she had chosen to lay down out of boredom or a headache. She looked troubled, but not as if she had been crying.

Thank the gods, it doesn’t look like Joffrey had been cruel enough to strike her.

That was something you had been most worried about since being told by the servant what had happened. Ever since Sansa had softly whispered that were she in Margaery’s position, Joffrey wouldn’t have hesitated to have Ser Meryn hit her.

“He used to do it all the time.”

“Ser Y/n,” Margaery smiled and held out her hand, silently telling you that you could move closer. She didn’t get out of bed, and as you took her hand to kiss her knuckles you couldn’t help but notice she was shaking ever so slightly.

Had you been crying after all?

Clearing your throat, you explained your being there with, “Sansa was concerned for you and wishes she could come herself, but I fear she was worried that His Grace would be here. I came in her stead.” As you remained standing next to the bed, Margaery’s hand clutched in your own as you tried to figure out what to say and how to comfort her.

It wasn’t like you could go and punch some sense into the King.

As tempting as that is.

“I must become with child.” Margaery spoke as if you hadn’t said anything, her smile glued to her lips even as her eyes seemed a distant. As if she was physically in that room, but mentally she was in her own world. Her voice was robotic as if someone had a blade to her throat and she was simply repeating what was fed to her from behind. “I am the Queen, you see, and I have been remiss in my duties. Our gracious King reminded me of that today. I must do my duty to my hus…”

You slapped a hand over her lips without really thinking, something sparking in your chest pushing you to silence her before she could say anything further. You were pissed and you were barely holding yourself back.

How fucking long will we all stand on the side watching this damned, cursed city make people less than who they truly are?

How many times will be stand by and let my sister and brother’s bastard son be so cruel before someone puts him in his place?

Her fingers wrapped around your wrist and after a moment of you just standing there, half bent over her, breathing heavily and trying to decide if you wanted to hold her or scold her, you let Margaery pull your hand away so she could speak.

“I know that Joffrey might not be able to father my children, Ser.” One hand kept ahold of your wrist as the other pressed against your covered chest, “I know that I will have to find a suitable replacement.”

Lannister green eyes met the dark brown of her own as her words set in.

Margaery slid her hand lower, her voice dropping lower in what you knew to be the flirtatious tone she used when being playful and teasing, and murmured “That is what you had been suggesting this morning, isn’t it?”

“Your Grace,” you were breathless, no amount of experience could ever prepare you for a beautiful, kind temptress like the Rose of Highgarden.

“Your Queen asked you a question, Y/n.” She was laughing at you, a small giggle slipping past her lips as she stood, pressing her body to yours.

You cursed, but you returned her smile as well.

*

Your first night didn’t happen on that visit. If the two of you were going to risk your lives, you both knew you would have to play it safe.

Margaery began drinking fertility teas as often as was safe enough to do, the two of you slowly distanced yourself from one another to lesson suspicion and make it appear as if the Queen had silently renewed her vows to your nephew, and you pleaded with your lord father until you had been given permission to take Sansa to the Westerlands for half a year.

It was four moons later on the eve of your departure back to the Rock when you finally made love to Margaery for the first time.

Joffrey had gone hunting that afternoon, but that morning he had ordered Margaery to his bed. It was perfect. Should your seed quicken within the young queen, no one – Joffrey especially – would have any reason to believe someone other than the bastard himself was father.

You met Margaery in the godswood under the heart tree an hour after Joffrey had ridden under the southern gate of the city. You were dressed in the red and golds of your house, and she was dressed in the greens and golds of her own. In some, delusion and silly part of your brain, you made the silent joke that it was as if the two of you were getting married.

“Are you certain?” you asked as you took her hand and led her over to the blanket you had laid out behind the oak tree, hidden from view of anyone unless they chose to walk close enough.

Margaery just smiled and closed the space between your bodies, leaning up to press her lips to your cheek.

One more, single look from her and it was enough to have your arms wrapping around her body and kissing her for the very first time.

Her lips were soft and tasted of honey from her afternoon snack. They moved with yours in fluid motion, giving control to you as you did the same in return.

Your bodies felt perfect together. Your arms wrapped tightly around her, one of your hands on the small of her back and the other tangled in the long, thick brown curls of her hair. Her hands clung to the back of your head, her nails digging into your hair and the nape of your neck. Her figure was small but womanly, and you could only imagine how even more beautiful she would be when the effects of motherhood took hold. Your own figure was broad shouldered and muscled, not quite like your older brother Jaime, but you weren’t scrawny by any means.

The two of you let your clothes fall wherever as you undressed, your lips and hands moving all over each other – doing your best to explore Margaery as she did the same in return – even as you lifted her briefly just so you could lay her down and settle yourself on top of her.

“You are beautiful,” you murmured, brushing the tips of your fingers down the side of her face then her neck, collarbone, and to her small breasts. “I will be jealous at the fact he will lay with you when I am not.” Perhaps it was stupid to admit it in that moment, but you wanted her to know. Needed her to know.

Margaery whispered your name and pulled you close for another, soothing kiss. “My sweet, loyal knight. My lion protector. My Lord of Casterly Rock.” She was pleased by your words; you could tell by the smirk she wore as she spoke against your lips.

Cursing in a shaky breath, you lined your cock up with Margaery’s entrance and buried your face in her neck as you give a sharp thrust of hips.

Am I any better than Jaime? All he has done has been for love. And what I’m doing now? It’s not to get some sort of revenge on Joffrey on Sansa’s behalf. No. This…this is my desire for Margaery, my love for my nephew’s wife. My…my love and desire and my fear that if something isn’t done that Joffrey will kill…

Gritting your teeth and pulling yourself away from dark thoughts, you settled yourself on your arms and took the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as your own.

With a roughness you would feel bad about afterwards, but which Margaery seemed to love all too much, you left bruises with your mouth and your hands on her pale skin knowing Joffrey and the maids wouldn’t question them (if they even noticed).

Margaery left her own marks on you, angry red claw marks that bled in a few places and she littered your neck and shoulders in bruises as she tried to quiet herself and not draw attention to your coupling.

The two of you carried on for hours, and you made sure to take your sweet rose in every position rumored to help conceive, flashing a smirk up at her as Margaery sat, straddling your hips, shaking from yet another orgasm as you continued to thrust up into her. Both of you had found your release multiple times, Margaery had the natural advantage of being a woman and you had always been blessed with a high endurance to such activities.

Three more, quick and sharp thrusts later, and you filled your lover with your seed once more, continuing to give slow, lazy thrusts until your balls were empty and you stilled. Margaery had fallen limp and quiet before you had finished and as you settled and tried to catch your breath, your wrapped your arms around her, holding her close.

“You know,” she whispered several, long minutes earlier when she had finally caught her breath and regained some strength, “I will be jealous of Sansa, I think, when she finally falls heavy with your child. It will be difficult to share you, even if it is truly she who is sharing you first.”

You kissed Margaery’s forehead and tilted her head up so you could meet her gaze, “I will have to tell her about us. She will be hurt, and I am sorry that she will be hurt. I will explain our reasoning, I cannot keep this from her. I…I know she will come to understand. I hope anyway.”

“Hope,” the brunette whispered as she laid her head back on your shoulder and shut her eyes.

You saw Rhaella open her mouth, and you knew that she was in one of her rare moods. The ones where she would speak up now and regret it for weeks to come. You loved her for trying, but she had never been loved by Aerys and he would sooner listen to the Dornish or to a Khal of the Dothraki before listening to his sister-wife.

“But why him? Do we not give him enough favor by having him as your Hand?” the words were yours, but you weren’t even aware of opening your mouth until the words had been spoken, and everyone was suddenly looking at you.

Aerys and Rhaella, the guards, the members of the small council and royal court who had been handpicked by your brother to eat with the royal family…

Your heart was racing, your hands clutched each other in your lap…

You didn’t dare to meet the gaze of your brother – your King.

He laughed, shortly, before speaking, “My dear, sweet sister.” The scraping of a chair against the stone floor made you tense. The footsteps made your jaw clench. And then long, warm fingers were forcing your chin upward, so your gaze met his.

“Your Grace,” you began to say only to fall silent as Aerys’ hand clamped over your mouth – fingers digging into your cheeks as he leaned down

“Y/n,” Aerys murmured, lips against your ear making you shiver in fear and disgust, “You will marry Tywin because I have commanded it. If I told you to fuck every lord of my kingdoms, you would because I have commanded it.”

Thick tears of hatred pooled in your eyes as he spoke. You had never liked your brother, but until that moment, you had never hated him.

“…you are mine to do with as I wish…” Whatever Aerys would have said afterwards was cut off by a loud, sternly spoken, “Cousin!” followed by the sound of a goblet being slammed down, onto the table top.

Aerys turned and both of you stared at the Lord of Storm’s End, your cousin through his mother – your aunt Rhaelle.

Steffon of the House Baratheon

Your cousin waited for the Kign to release you before saying, his voice not as loud but just as stern, “As a new father and someone barely a year older than Her Highness, I have to agree with our Queen, Aerys. Y/n isn’t even of age yet. She cannot marry our dear friend, our Lord Hand, for some time still. What if her body is not yet ready? Give her a year, Your Grace. It isn’t like it will hurt anything.”

You could have kissed Steffon in that moment.

And it wasn’t until he had finished speaking – knowing that your King, your brother, rarely went against what Steffon said – that you let your body relax in your chair, your stomach tightening and cramping still, but at least you knew the battle had been won for now.

Or, at the least, we are at a stalemate.

“It is a wedding that will celebrate the future Lady of the Rock.” Your gaze flickered toward the man seated to the right of where Aerys had been sitting minutes before. You held your breath, wondering what he was getting at.

Everyone else in the room (except for maybe your three year old nephew who was very entertained by his porridge) looked at the lion as well, waiting.

Tywin Lannister, your apparent betrothed and the Hand of the King, had sat silently throughout breakfast. Something that wasn’t unusual for the man when he deemed it worth his time to join others and not keep himself locked away in his office.

Now, as he began to speak, he lifted his gaze from his mostly finished plate of food and green eyes clashed with the purple of your own. He spoke up once more, saying, “There is also the matters at hand that are far more pressing than how many courses and flower arrangements will be needed. You have only been King for three moons, Your Grace. We must ensure stability first and foremost.”

Watching him, you wondered if he was tying to buy his time? If he was attempting to delay the union in order to find a way out of the marriage?

After all, everyone knew the rumors that whispered about how Lady Joanna held the Hand’s heart…

…just as everyone knew the rumors about how it was Lady Joanna who warmed the King’s sheets at night.

Your brother turned to Tywin, immediately boasting about something you didn’t bother to pay attention to. He let you go in the process, and you wasted little time in fleeing the hall – returning to the safety of your chambers.

The urge to scream was great as you leaned against the door.

The urge to tell Aerys off, to talk down to him as he so often belittled you and Rhaella.

But…what would that accomplish?

You were a woman in a man’s world.

And barely at that, still a child in more ways than you were a woman.

Brushing away the tears that had fallen onto your cheeks, you let out a shaky breath and moved out to the balcony.

For a moment, you stared down at the spike moat below and counted as many as you could as you tried to reign in your thoughts and emotions.

The best course of action is to marry. To gain protection from another house where Aerys will think twice before putting his hands on me…

Tywin was the second most powerful man in Westeros; he would have to remain in the capital with the King and the rest of the Small Council.

But…

What use could you make of marrying into House Lannister, then?

Being married to the Hand of the King, at least until you managed to give him a child, meant you would still live in King’s Landing. You would still have to be around your brother.

Am I cursed to remain around Aerys? Is he right? Is he blessed with two sisters so he can use us for his own, sick and cruel games?

A sharp but not ungentle knock on the door to your bedchambers pulled you from your thoughts – unknowingly keeping you from spiraling down into absolute despair.

After a moment, Ser Barristan Selmy – a member of your brother’s Kingsguard and a true knight to all who knew him – was opening the door just enough to stick his head into the room.

His gaze moved around the space, a small frown on his lips until you took pity on him and took a single step back inside, a soft smile gracing both of your faces as he spotted you, “Your Highness, the Hand of the King seeks an audience.” The knight was to the point and brief. You appreciated that about him.

Letting out a shaky breath, you looked down at your hands. They were shaking and it made you want to start crying again.

“Princess?” Ser Barristan’s voice was closer now, but you didn’t jump in surprise. The knight took his duties very seriously, but he was also just a sweet hearted person. You weren’t surprised to find that he had moved further into the room, shutting the door behind him to give you privacy against those who could see from the hall.

His hand grabbed your shoulder, squeezing briefly until you had met his gaze. Then he smiled and asked, “Would you like for me to tell him that you’re indisposed? Surely, he can’t have much to say that is too important?” He wouldn’t normally have suggested such a thing – dismissing the Hand of the King like he was a common knight or lowly lord. But…he was teasing, trying to cheer you up, and it was another thing you adored about him.

Turning toward the looking glass on the table next to your bed, you rubbed at your cheeks and ran your hand through your hair a few times before sighing and plastering a small smile to your lips. “Ser, please let our noble Hand in. And…please stay with us. We wouldn’t want to have people talking.”

Took a seat on the stone bench, your hands in your lap, and your gaze locked on the lion the moment he stepped into your room. Your stomach flipped and your nerves had you drawing your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing at it as Tywin moved past Ser Barristan and out to you.

“Your Highness,” the heir of the Rock bowed, swiftly, before moving to stand in front of you, no doubt so you would be forced to hurt your neck so you could look up at him.

You refused, instead, keeping your gaze locked on the pattern of the red and gold lions on his sleeve and his vest.

“Our wedding will take place in eleven moons. His Grace has agreed to waiting for us to be married until you have reached your sixteenth nameday. As I am the Hand of the King and you are the King’s sister, the ceremony will be in the Sept of Baelor, the reception within the Red Keep.” His voice was nothing but stoic, completely business like, as if he was speaking to someone he saw as beneath him but couldn’t risk upsetting (yet).

“Very well, My Lord.” Standing, you mentally cursed that you still had to tilt your head back – some – to meet his gaze with the two of you being so close, “Is there anything else, Ser?”

Green eyes pierced you as he stared down at you. He tucked his arms behind his back the moment you stood up, only adding to the fact his stance screamed authority. For a moment, you were reminded of the lion just a few years earlier, back when your grandsire Aegon V was still alive. He hadn’t changed, really. Perhaps a little more firm and stern, but he hadn’t softened.

Most certainly, he wasn’t suddenly as soft as Lord Tytos, Tywin’s father.

Tywin of the House Lannister had never been anything like his father.

Serious and not one for smiles or pleasantries, he had been a member of the royal household for as long as you could remember and had fought alongside Aerys and Steffon – the three of them close since childhood – in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He had returned, harsher and stricter than when he left (something you couldn’t believe was possible) and began setting right the slights against his father’s house (despite his still alive Lord Father trying to argue otherwise).

And now we have the Rains of Castamere to forever cement the laughless-lion’s victory…

“Do you not wish to marry? Or is it the groom you have an issue with?” His eyes narrowed, but not in a silent warning. It was like he was preparing himself to detect treachery before you had even opened your mouth to respond.

There was a copper taste in your mouth as you replied, “I am a servant to the realm, My Lord Hand. If my brother, who is our most noble King, wishes for me to be wed, then I shall humbly say the vows and go to the marriage bed if he and his advisors only point me in the right direction.”

Your lip was bleeding from where you had been (nervously) chewing on it moments before, and now that you knew this, you couldn’t help but let your tongue dart out to wipe at the small wound.

Tywin watched your tongue for a long moment before saying, softer than you had ever heard him speak (from what you could recall, anyhow), “Are you dissatisfied with me as a husband? Is there another you would have preferred?”

He was trying to find out if he had competition. Some small part of you was amused. Sure, he was most likely just trying to be proactive – trying to be possessive of you now that you would be (or, already were?) his. Another possession for him to hold above the heads of the other Lords of the Seven Kingdoms. But you were amused at the possibility of him being jealous. The thought that the lion would be jealous at the possibility that you could believe someone more worthy of you, of your hand, than the King’s Hand…

You couldn’t help but smirk and raise a brow at him, asking, “Are you dissatisfied with me as a choice of wife? Would you not have preferred someone else? Someone like…Lady Joanna?” You weren’t worried about angering him with the question. You were curious, and if you were truly meant to become his Lady Wife, you wanted to know where you stood amongst those you would – more than likely – have to see every day of your marriage.

Something flickered in those green eyes of his, but Tywin vanished it quickly and gave a swift, simple, “No,” and the tone of it said what he didn’t. That there would be no further question about Lady Joanna or anyone else that the lion may be interested in.

His hand landed on your cheek and your breath caught in your throat. It wasn’t a cruel touch, but it wasn’t a spontaneous one either.

His moves are rarely spontaneous. The laughless lion never acts without thought. Never without precision.

His skin was warm and calloused and heavy, but it was light as the pad of his thumb wiped along your bottom lip – collecting the blood that had accumulated there.

Neither of you spoke as Tywin looked down at his finger and then slowly, as if to tease you, pushed his thumb between your lips. He didn’t meet your gaze this time. No. He kept his gaze on your mouth as you hesitantly licked your blood from his skin.

It wasn’t…intimate to you.

Aerys had always done strange things similar, but different, to that so you only knew to interpret it as some sort of mental game. Some sort of…strange and silent mockery.

The darkening of the Hand’s eyes told you that he was not thinking along the same lines.

As you pulled back, making no noise as Tywin let his hand fall back to his side, you looked to the side at Ser Barristan. The knight was watching the lion, his hand gripping the handle of his sword so tightly his knuckles were visibly white. That was how you knew that Tywin had done something wrong – not the same as Aerys and his mind games, something else that at just fifteen you were still, far too naïve to understand.

“My Lord,” you whispered, returning your gaze to your betrothed just as Ser Barristan also spoke, moving to your side to say, “Your Highness, the Queen is asking for you.”

Tywin looked at him, and you wondered if he knew that the knight was lying. It was obvious he wanted to tell him to leave.

You wondered if his word held more authority than your older sister’s.

Your grandmother, Betha Blackwood, would have had more authority than any of your grandsire’s Hands. Your mother, (Princess and then Queen) Shaera, would have had close to – if not the same – amount of authority as your father, Jaehaerys, had she wanted it at any point in her life.

But Rhaella…she was mindful of her duty, even so early into her marriage with Aerys. She would never think to reach further than custom dictated. If she had more power than Tywin, would she use it? Or would she allow the Hand to overrule her command at every opportunity your betrothed saw fit?

“Thank you, Ser.” You offered the knight a smile and then returned your gaze to the man in front of you, “My Lord, forgive me. I mustn’t keep our Queen waiting. Well wishes to the rest of your day.” You curtsied, trying to act every inch the Princess you had been bred and raised to be.

If your steps were quick as you left your chambers, you chose to be ignorant.

If your cheeks were flushed, you blamed it on the heat and spoke no further about it.

If you were doubtful and terrified about your impending marriage, you…you kept those thoughts to yourself.

I am just a girl in this world. My worth is next to nothing. To marry Tywin Lannister, to be the future Lady of Casterly Rock isn’t so awful. It’s especially not terrible if I am sent back to the Rock while my husband remains in the capital.

A quiet life in the Westerlands, overlooking the sea, away from the cruel words, touches, and stares of your brother?

Your twin was an awful person. Barely of age when he came into his throne, he had been a cruel ruler. Sure, he had his moments when he wanted to appear nice. The arrival of Lady Margaery Tyrell had helped – a tiny bit – but cruelty was in Joff’s nature, and it had gotten him killed in the end.

“…and there is the matter of your wedding. Many wish to see you married to Lady Margaery when it is deemed appropriate.” Your Grandfather, and Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister was saying as you sat with him and the rest of the council in the Tower of the Hand where the Small Council meetings (now) took place.

His words made you frown, and you tried to think if he was attempting to lead you astray somehow, or to do what he wanted without you realizing it might not have been the best idea…

Margaery Tyrell.

The Rose of Highgarden.

She was beautiful, stunning even, and you had always had a good friendship with her from the first moment you met years earlier at a tourney.

She had seen the monster Joffrey was, there was no way she hadn’t, and still she had married him. She was either stupidly naïve and thought she could change him, or she married him because she knew she wouldn’t have to put up with his tyranny.

“Lady Margaery will do quite well, My Lord Hand.” You finally replied with as you realized those in attendance were waiting for you to speak, “Since we are making changes to my household, I would like to send the Queen Mother back to Casterly Rock. I am a man grown now. Furthermore, my little brother needs to squire for someone. I was hoping that Prince Oberyn could suggest someone worthy.” You met the Dornish Prince’s gaze, curious to catch his reaction.

You knew of him, only, and his reputation. You had never been fortunate enough to have a real conversation with him. Being the spare and Joffrey’s heir, you were both protected at all costs and ignored whenever possible. You hadn’t minded back then, but now that you were King, you were finding it increasingly unsettling to not know any of the men around you every day.

“Your Grace,” Lord Tywin drawled, his gaze catching yours even as you tried to avoid it, “The Princess Myrcella is already in Dornish company. Perhaps you should honor another house with the squiring of your brother?”

“What house would you suggest, Grandfather? Tully? Stark? My Uncle Stannis? Greyjoy? Arryn? In case you have all forgotten so quickly, the only possible allied Houses are Lannister, Tyrell, and Martell…and I believe I honor the Reach quite well for taking to wife someone who has been married twice and outlived both husbands in such a short amount of time.”

One of those husbands being my brother.

You didn’t bother to try and please anyone there. You were the King. You had a responsibility to your people, and the difficult task of fixing the realm after the mess Joffrey had left in his wake.

“Tommen will squire in Dorne even if it must also be for House Martell,” you decided, getting to your feet – uncaring if your council did the same – and heading for the door where your Uncle Jaime, and the now Lord Commander of your Kingsguard, stood waiting, “Send my mother to Casterly Rock, as well. That’s an order. From your King.”

As you left the room, you could have sworn you saw Ser Jaime smirk – no doubt at the looks of irritation your Small Council was wearing.

“Well done, Your Grace.” Your mother’s twin brother hummed as he fell into line beside you

“On what? I’m simply doing things Joffrey didn’t. I figure, if I do the opposite of him, that I’ll live – at the least – a little bit longer.”

You would be lying if you tried to say that you weren’t a little hesitant about being King. Your father, or the man you had known to be your father, had been killed by a boar – though rumors are that your mother had him killed by your cousin Lancel. Your older brother had been poisoned at his wedding, and the culprits were unknown (rumors whispered about the Imp, about the Tyrells, and even the ghosts of the Starks). And…you knew you were a bastard born of an affair between your mother and uncle.

“Ser Jaime,” you sighed as the two of you headed for your chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast, “When you were with the Starks, why didn’t they kill you?”

Your Uncle frowned, your name falling from his lips with hesitation.

Sighing, you shut the door once the two of you were inside and moved to sit down on the edge of your bed, “The Starks should have killed you. It’s what Grandfather, Joffrey, Mother, even you I imagine would have done if things were the other way around. Why didn’t Robb Stark take your head?”

The Kingslayer shifted from one foot to another, his green gaze locked on yours as if he was trying to decide on whether to answer truthfully, with a half-truth, or with an outright lie.

Most likely, you decided as you took off your crown and set it aside on your pillow, he was trying to decide the safest route to take. After all, Aerys Targaryen, your legal father, and Joffrey all had famous tempers. Ser Jaime had served on all their Kingsguard, even if he hadn’t been around too much to truly be on your brother’s everyone knew Joffrey’s temper as a Prince.

“They put a price on Lady Sansa’s head, and decided you weren’t of equal value to it, didn’t they?” It wasn’t too much of a surprise, but still it left you a little bewildered. Not many Lords would do that if it meant winning a war (but, of course, the Starks had gone to war to get a sister back before. Why wouldn’t Robb Stark follow in his father’s footsteps?).

“Typical Starks,” the one-handed knight offered with a smirk

You rolled your eyes and asked, “And what’s wrong with that?” You would do the same if it was Tommen and Myrcella. In a heartbeat and without hesitation.

If your uncle had anything he wanted to say in return, the opportunity was stolen from him by the knock on the door.

Both of you frowned and looked at it as if it had suddenly started singing and dancing.

Ever since you had been crowned King, you had fallen into the habit of using this time after the Small Council meeting to collect your thoughts and next steps. Everyone – even your Mother and Grandfather – knew better than to bother you unless there was a massive problem.

“Your Grace?” that feminine voice made you sigh and throw a pleading look toward your uncle

Lady Margaery.

Your betrothed.

The two of you had always gotten along, but not as future spouses. You were barely of age. You didn’t know how to act around the Rose of Highgarden now!

Gesturing for Ser Jaime to remain where he was, you crossed the room and pulled the door open, smiling softly at the young woman who was smiling back with those brown eyes full of playfulness. She was…beautiful. You could definitely understand why so many people were enamored with her from the moment they first met her. You had felt that same softness, that same ease of mind, that day in the throne room after the battle of the Blackwater when you had taken her hand and placed a kiss to her knuckles – her gentle tone, her sweet words…

“My Lady,” you bowed, offering her a small – almost shy – smile as she curtsied and greeted you in return, “My apologies, Lady Margaery, were we meant to meet?” You let your gaze flicker over her, noting how nice she looked in the black gown she was wearing (you avoided looking too long, not wanting her to think you were staring at her chest).

She laughed and your mouth went dry, “Not to worry, Your Grace, you’re not late for anything.” Her hand landed on your arm and you shifted nervously from one foot to the other, “I was just checking up on you. I imagine being King means not a lot of people have asked about how you are doing with Joffrey’s death.”

“Uncle, that will be all.” You said, quickly, gesturing for the knight to leave before you or your betrothed said anything further. Gently, you pulled Margaery into the room and to the side out of your Uncle’s way.

“Y/n,” Ser Jaime began to say before catching your gaze and letting out a sigh, “I will be in the hall, Your Grace, if you need anything. Your Grace, My Lady.” He bowed and stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him

“My Lady,” you murmured, leading her out to the balcony, “Let us be frank with one another. Joffrey was an awful person, but he was my twin. I miss him for the boy he used to be. Back before I knew better, back before all his cruelty was realized. I have agreed to marry you when the proper time comes, you will be Queen. And my mother will be on her way to Casterly Rock so not to be able to continue meddling where she shouldn’t.”

You saw no reason in wasting time in putting everything out there to her. Your position as King and hers as Queen once the two of was married was a very dangerous one. Nothing was ever completely settled or safe. There would always be a threat to you or her, or the both of you.

“If you help me in teaching me how to…appeal to the smallfolk, I swear to you by the old gods and the new, that I will be kind and thoughtful to you. You will never want for anything that I am able to provide for you. I will be your husband above all else if you are able to promise the same in return.”

The brunette nodded, all signs of playfulness replaced with complete seriousness, “Your Grace,”

“Y/n,” you corrected with a small smile, almost shy, and a shrug “If you are to be my wife…”

“Y/n,” Margaery seemed pleased by that as she continued to speak, “I have always wanted to be the Queen, and you’re right. Joffrey was a cruel person, but you are not. The people adore you and me. Together, we will forge new alliances and a better future than the world our fathers have handed down.”

I pray to all the gods for that every day, my dear lady.

*

“…and I’ve been assured by the council that the Queen Mother will, in fact, be returning to Casterly Rock after the wedding. Until then, she is being watched day and night to ensure that she doesn’t do something…foolish.” The gardens of the Red Keep were beautiful, even as Summer was coming to an end as the Citadel had written to all corners of Westeros some weeks earlier.

As you and Margaery walked through them, her arm wrapped around your own, you could not help but smile at her.

“Will you miss her when she’s gone? I miss my mother terribly when she is away from me. Sometimes, she is only in the next room and it’s like she has disappeared.” Margaery’s voice was soft and sympathetic, but a little guarded as everyone who lived in King’s Landing eventually learned to do.

You wanted to say that you would miss your mother. Who wouldn’t? If Tommen was asked, he would say that he would miss Cersei Lannister a great deal if he was away from her. He was still too young, too sweet and impressionable to understand the great many things that had come to pass because of your mother, your father, your uncles, your grandfather, and your brother…

Smiling, sadly, you murmured, “I will miss having a mother, but I will not be sad to see her go. With her goes one more person who would use my reign – our reign – for their own greed and advances.” It was difficult to say it. To speak with intelligence, you had only read about, but had never been taught to use – truly.

The reign of Robert Baratheon had been one of peace and fun. Married to a lioness, he had been named the father to three sons and a daughter. Joffrey had been the heir and thus favored. Myrcella was the only daughter, the only Princess of Westeros (save for Arianne, daughter to Prince Doran of Dorne) and was loved by all who met her for her gentle spirit. Tommen was the youngest, the baby, and he was coddled probably far more than he should have been. And you. You were the second born, another son, and Joffrey’s heir. The heir’s heir. You were well looked after and taught the bare minimum, but it had been left to your own wants to learn tales and songs, knowledge of the Kings of old before and after the coming of Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters.

“I feel like a fraud.” You murmured, detangling your arm from Margaery’s and moving to sit on the edge of the nearest fountain. Your hands were shaking, your heart was racing…

“Your Grace?” she sounded confused and when she sat down beside you, she wore a look of true concern.

You wondered if that was truly what she was feeling? Or was she just pretending because that’s what was expected of a dutiful lady and future wife?

“I was not raised or trained to be King. Honestly, I probably was expected to train as a soldier and become a member of the Kingsguard. I keep talking as if I’ve got all the answers. As if I will be the one to right the wounds my family has dealt onto the people of the Seven Kingdoms. But I don’t know how to do that. I don’t even know where to begin.”

Margaery’s hands, soft and warm, cupped your cheeks and waited for you to meet her gaze before she spoke, “You care for your people. That is all you truly need. Care for your people, do your best, and be kind. You did not wound them, but you can make amends. With time and care, you will be the greatest King. You simply have to believe.”

Sighing, you leaned forward and placed a kiss to her cheek, “Thank you, My Lady, for your wise council. I shall take it to heart and think over it, always.” They were the words of a gracious king, but they were also the words of a thankful friend.

The future was uncertain, and you were scared. The last two years, or so, had been difficult and full of death...

Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, and Stranger.

Please, lead me into a prosperous reign. Please keep me from the easy road of greed and evil.

If it will protect and save the realms I swore to protect, please lead me there.

And so it must have surprised your father a great deal when you stepped into his apartments at Sunspear with a determined look that faltered only slightly when Prince Oberyn looked up from some book he was reading.

“Papa,” you greeted with a quick but proper curtsey before you moved closer and placed a kiss to his cheek “I am glad to see you are doing well.”

The younger brother to the Prince of Dorne watched you closely as you sat down, the corner of his lips twitching into a playful smile as he said, “Daughter, I’m glad to see you as well. Any man would be happy to see your beauty.” Reaching out, he grabbed your cheek and then leaned over to place a kiss to your forehead, “But a father especially for you, and your sisters, are the greatest delight in my life.”

You blushed at his words, more out of joy from hearing the words than of your natural shyness.

“But why have you come to me today instead of venturing to the Water Gardens with the others?”

You huffed in playful annoyance, slouching ever so slightly into the cushions as you pretended to be upset with his question. “Am I not allowed to simply come and see my father?” you giggled, scooting closer to him so you could rest your head against his arm.

Prince Oberyn wrapped an arm around your shoulders and held you to him while whispering, “Of course you can, my sweet Y/n. I would never deny any of my girls a visit.” Any sort of amusement or hidden meaning to his words was absent now. As it always was when he had private moments with his children. While the Viper was known for his sharp wit, those closest to him knew how dear his daughters were to him and how serious he could be when he sensed they needed it.

Sighing in contentment, you closed your eyes and let yourself soak in the comfort and safety of your father. You may have been born a bastard, but Oberyn Martell would never treat his daughters like they were mistakes or beneath him. He was loving and gentle and thoughtful and, overall, protective. It was why you were there. While you liked to solve your problems yourself, sometimes you needed your Father to help make things better.

“Papa,” you whispered some time later, breaking the silence that had comfortably fallen over the two of you, “I…I think I’m in love with Y/B/F.”

He just chuckled. He knew. Of course he knew!

As much as you should have been, you weren’t surprised. Your father was too great of a parent to not have noticed.

“Tell her then,”

You shook your head, fiercely, “What if she doesn’t feel the same way? I would make a fool of myself and ruin our friendship!”

Your father smiled and shifted so he could cup your face with his hands, “Y/n, if you do not tell her how you feel, you will be sad and you will regret it.”

“But…”

“No,” he interrupted, pressing a finger to your lips, “It is frightening, the unknown, but that is one of the best things about life. The unknown. Not knowing what is ahead of you. But if you do not reach into that void…you could miss out on the greatest things the world has to offer you.”

Swallowing past the lump in your throat, you asked with a shaky voice full of emotions, “And…what if she does feel the same way?”

He was honorable, and even though he was certainly idealistic and too hopeful sometimes, he was your King and you easily accepted that.

When he married Roslin just before the Northern army marched to the Westerlands, you smiled brightly – joyfully – and cheered the loudest over everyone. How could you think there could be anyone better for your sister than Robb Stark?

You weren’t jealous of him be married to Roslin. You didn’t even realize that your feelings toward him were anything but those of a loyal bannermen, of a loyal King’s guardman.

And then Robb got shot with that damned arrow at the Crag.

And it was you who fought off the enemy as SmallJon Umber, Dacey Mormont, and another carried Robb for cover. You were like a madmen, cutting down anyone who dared to come near your King.

Anyone who saw you would have praised you for your loyalty, but later, as you sat at Robb’s bedside wiping his forehead with that cloth to keep the fever from taking over, the pieces started clicking together.

You weren’t sure when it all started, but you were more than just a very loyal soldier in the army of the King of the North.

*

Brandon and Rickon.

His younger brothers. The Starks at Winterfell.

Dead.

Robb hadn’t spoken in hours, not since his first initial reaction to the news upon its delivery.

You, SmallJon, Dacey, and several others that included men from the North and the Riverlands, all stood in the room. The others weren’t looking directly at the young King, but you knew they were eyeing him out the corner of their eyes, waiting for directions.

You didn’t bother to try and hide your gaze, staring directly at Robb as he sat on the edge of the bed, dressed only in a pair of brown trousers with the bandages over his wounds. You wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but you bit back on that desire.

You considered sending Dacey to find a woman, to get Robb’s mind off his grief, but you knew that would be a misstep. Robb wasn’t the type, and he was married to your sister – your sweet, gentle sister. You would hate yourself if you led your good-brother into the bed of another.

“Your Grace,” it was SmallJon as the giant of a man stepped forward, awkward but gentle. “What would you like for us to do?”

“I…I don’t know.” The sixteen year old managed to croak, his hands were shaking as he continued to stare at the floor beneath his bare feet.

Everyone in the room looked at each other. The Northerners were sympathetic, but everyone was worried.

“Get out,” you found yourself saying, moving to stand with your back to Robb but blocking him from the view of most who were gathered. “His Grace needs to rest and needs time to think. Tell the others to set patrols and look outs, stay alert, but get sleep if you’re able to find it.”

Many looked like they wanted to argue, but Dacey and SmallJon (always top supporters of Robb, both being heirs to their respective Houses and understanding Northern loyalty and family bonds) repeated your words with no room for argument and cleared the room.

You waited for the door to shut before turning and moving to sit down on the bed beside Robb, resting a hand to his shoulder as a means of comfort. You waited two, solid minutes before the younger man was crying once more. You grabbed the side of his neck and pulled him against your side, holding him.

It was awkward, somewhat, for you.

Growing up at the Twins, anyone displaying acts of sympathy were rare and mocked. You had always had Roslin and her gentle nature, so thankfully, you weren’t one to shun the notion of being caring.

So, awkward or not, you held the King to your side and let him cry.

“I too have lost brothers, Your Grace.” You murmured, trying to relate to him and trying to comfort him, “My mother had many children, even if so few survived to come of age. I cannot begin to understand where your pain is coming from in its entirety, but we will avenge them. The Iron born will pay for this. All of our enemies will pay for this.”

Robb had stopped crying by this point and was simply slumped against you. For a moment, you believed he had fallen asleep, too exhausted from his emotions and from still recovering from his wounds, but then he shifted and lifted his head from your shoulder.

“Do I continue here, in the Westerlands, Ser? Or am I meant to return to the North, to secure my lands?”

You want to get revenge for your dead brothers? When your sisters, the Lady Sansa at the least, is still alive and still in enemy hands? How deep does your grief go, Robb?

“The Westerlands were used as a distraction, and a means of showing that we could if we wanted to.” You spoke slowly, your thoughts racing as you tried to come up with a logical course of action. Personally, you could swing a sword and you had your knighthood, but you had always preferred to sing alongside Roslin and to read books under trees instead of jousting or cutting men down on a battlefield. “We must take back Moat Cailin, at the least. I don’t pretend to know the North and its entire layout, Your Grace, nor do I pretend to be a master at battle strategy, but…pull the men back to Riverrun. We can regroup. The North must be taken back, but we also need to ensure that we don’t lose our footing in the South.”

At the least, this would allow Robb to grieve (with Lady Catelyn and Roslin) and to straighten his head out so he could lead, effectively, and not blunder under the pressure of his guilt and grief.

He watched you and nodded along as you spoke, taking in and accepting your words, his thoughts racing as he stood and limped over to the window, staring outside.

You just watched him, thankful that the familiar look of determination had replaced the devastation that had been written on his face only moments earlier. You were at war, and unfortunately, that meant there was no time for the King to be sidelined by his grief (and guilt over making the poor decisions that had led to it).

“Y/n,” Robb whispered, several minutes later as he shut the wooden shutters over the window, “Roslin is with child.”

“I know.” You were filled with excitement and dread, all too familiar with how deadly childbearing and childbirth could be for your sister.

Robb’s face had hardened as he turned back to you, not for the first time looking years older than he truly was, “I will not lose her and our child as I have lost everyone else.” His voice was just as hard, full of determination that he had tried his best to maintain throughout the past year.

You shook your head, “No. You won’t.”

He watched you, a strange look passing over his face as he did, but it was gone within a blink of an eye and replaced with a small, sad smile, "You may leave, if you want. We all could use some rest.”

You bowed and turned to leave but stopped with your hand on the doorknob.

“Robb,” it was rare for you to say his given name and not his title, but you were trying to be genuine, and you were…what you wanted to say was personal, and it went beyond the Young Wolf being your liege. “You did what you believed was the right thing when you sent Theon away, and you should have listened to those who told you not to. That said, do not begin to doubt every decision you make. You know how to lead men into battle, you know how to fight. Continue to do that. Self-doubt will kill this campaign faster than any enemy will.”

Your gaze met his, the two of you studying the other. You waited to see if he would respond, or if it was best for you to just go.

In that last moment, just as you began to think your words had fallen on death ears, or that he was just going to remain silent, the red-headed man crossed the room (limping as he attempted to avoid pain from his wound in his side) and grabbed your shoulders. His face was only a few inches away from your own, his blue eyes dark and searching yours for something.

You could never say when you fell in love with Robb Stark, but that moment was when you realized that you were – undoubtedly – in love with the King of the North.

Your heart was racing, and as much as you wanted to push away every feeling and thought that you had been raised by Westerosi society to be too ladylike and feminine, you lost the fight to do so as your brain went fussy and all you could hear was a buzzing in your ears.

Robb whispered your name as your back hit the door, drawing a gasp from your lips as you hadn’t realized that Robb had been pushing you or that you had been stepping backwards. His hands, large and strong and calloused grabbed your face, pressed over your ears.

“Your Grace,” you tried, tried to keep things appropriate between the two of you

His lips turned upward into a small smile and then he surged forward, slamming his lips against your own.

You gasped in surprised even as your eyes slammed shut, your hands grabbing at his hips to hold him as close to you as possible. You only needed one, half second before you returned the kiss.

This is wrong.

So, so, so, so, wrong.

“Egg,” you smiled brightly at your younger brother the moment he and his hedge knight stepped into your tent just outside Ashford castle. Rushing over to Aegon, you pulled him into a tight hug and pressed a kiss to his head (where just a few days prior he had had a head full of golden-silver hair). “I told Father not to send you off with Daeron. What he was thinking when he made that decision…” your gaze slipped to the hedge knight as you spoke, your words trailing off as a red blush pooled into your cheeks. Meeting his gaze had made you realize, immediately, how much you sounded like Aegon’s mother and not his sister. “Aegon, are you going to introduce me to your friend? You’ve already gotten him into quite a bit of trouble, let us not make it worse by throwing all rules of propriety away.”

“Oh! This is Ser Duncan!” Egg announced, grabbing a hold of your hand and turning toward the tall young man standing awkwardly, still, in the entrance to the tent – as if to give him the chance to make a quick escape if needed. “This is Y/n, the third child to my Father.”

“How do you do, Ser?” you questioned with a raised brow, watching the way he shifted awkwardly and gave an awful attempt at a bow. You couldn’t help but giggle behind your hand at it and moved closer to him, softly saying, “Thank you for standing up to Aerion. He’s a jerk, and unfortunately not used to being told off. None of my brothers are. They’re lucky to be Princes in that regard.”

The corner of the hedge knight’s lips twitched, and you were delighted to know he found amusement in your wit. “I am fine, Your Grace.”

“Highness,” The correction fell from your lips before you really thought about it. Toward anyone else, you may have questioned what their Maester or Septa had taught them, but you knew the young man in front of you wasn’t of noble birth, so you just softly explained, “Your Grace is preserved for the King and his Queen Consort. For a Prince or Princess, you use Your Highness. It puts us above the Lords and Ladies, but rightfully beneath the ruling couple.”

The sun-streak haired man frowned, probably wanting to ask why it was all complicated, but seemingly chose to either not bother asking or to just ask your little brother later.

“Y/N!’ Egg called out to you from where he was bent over, half hidden inside the trunk at the foot of your bed.

“Yes, little brother?” you couldn’t help but turn to him, fondly rolling your eyes in Ser Duncan’s direction briefly as if to silently joke about children. Looking your brother over, you waited until he straightened up to sigh at what he was holding. “Egg…”

“I just want to show him,” Aegon insisted, moving over to his hedge knight and holding up the white and blue egg that you had had sense birth, “Look, Ser! A dragon egg!”

You watched them interact. Aegon excited and Ser Duncan trying to hold back his surprise and curiosity through a barely displayed look that attempted to silently tell his squire to behave.

It was then you took the moment to look him over, truly, something you hadn’t allowed yourself to do since your mother had passed five years earlier. You hadn’t had the opportunity to fond over the knights or even the Lords of your grandfather’s court, or those who came to Summerhall to see your Prince Father. You had taken it upon yourself to care for the younger three children – Rhae especially as she had been just a babe when your mother passed – while encouraging your  oldest, youngest sibling Aemon, to do well at the Citadel, trying your best to keep Aerion (who unfortunately was your twin) from murdering your younger siblings, and Daeron…your sweet, oldest brother who had always had a trouble life with his awful dragon dreams…

Ser Duncan the Tall was…well, his (obvious) self-given title was accurate for sure. Standing at seven feet, or close enough to it, his shoulders were broad with obvious muscle that his brown, wool tunic did nothing to hide. Around his waist was a length of rope with his sword hanging off it. Ser Duncan was a handsome young man, older than you by a few months at the least and three years at the most if you had to make a guess.

“Where did you grow up, Ser?” You questioned, crossing the short distance between the two of you as Aegon finally managed to shove the dragon egg into the hedge knight’s hands with a bright smile.

Ser Duncan handed the egg over to you, seemingly grateful to not be holding it any longer (after his encounter with Aerion, the puppeteer, and an apparent mock at your House because of some silly, fake dead dragon, you couldn’t really blame him for not wanting to risk dropping (and breaking) the petrified egg. “Flea Bottom,” He answered with a small step backwards, his cheeks heating up ever so slightly.

“An orphan?” you pressed on, moving to put the egg back in your trunk before closing the lid and sitting down on it

“Yes,”

“And because of that you are finding it difficult to find people to fight for you because they have no prior loyalty to you or to your blood?” By the way Aegon looked down at his feet, you knew that you had rightfully (and finally) guessed the true meaning of your brother and the hedge knight’s visit.

You had expected your brother to come to you for aid the moment you learned from your Uncle, the Hand of the King Prince Baelor that there was to be a trial of the seven involving Ser Duncan and Aerion. Aegon always came to you and Aemon for aid when he was in trouble (whether from a lie or for a cause he felt worthy of his attention), and you had known that this wouldn’t be any different.

Of course, you had to have some amusement in it before finally cutting to the chase as you were now doing.

 “You need me to talk to a few Lords and some knights to try and help you find people to stand with you.” You looked back and forth between the two, watching as they side eyed each other nearly in sync.

Do they really know each other that well already?

It had only been two days now!

Or, had Aegon met Ser Duncan in King’s Landing at some point when Egg had managed to sneak out of the Red Keep?

You wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the case.

Ser Duncan sighed, sounding absolutely defeated, and asked, “Who would want to fight alongside me? They don’t know me and…would it not cause them issues for fighting against your family?”

“Any true knight would fight for you, Ser, if they believe your cause is as noble as my brother believes it is.” You paused, considering your next words carefully, “As noble as I believe your actions were. So, I will aid you in your mini quest in finding men to stand with you in your trial.”

May the seven gods and the gods of Old Valyria make those men great men of Westeros to show a display of true knighthood, and not the joke that my older two brothers make it out to be.

*

You met up with Ser Duncan and Aegon the morning of the trial near where the fight was to take place. Ignoring the glare of your twin and father, and the curious looks of Daeron, the Kingsguard, and all others watching, you took the hedge knight’s hand in both of yours and lifted it to your lips, kissing his palm and whispering a soft “good luck” to him.

He had smiled at you, a look of gratefulness but uncertainty.

You wanted to tell him that the gods would not be unjust to him, and that he and those who stood with him would win. You wanted to tell him that the gods rarely, truly sided with the blood of the dragon. Why else was your House’s history filled with so much spilt blood at the hands of brothers? House Targaryen being only seventy-nine years removed from the Dance of the Dragons between the Greens and the Blacks, Queen Rhaenyra vs King Aegon the Second.

Instead of saying any of that, you remained at his side, dressed in a red dress with extravagant designs of black dragons running around the sleeves and skirt. You brushed off the stares of your father and brothers with a cool stare of your own, curtsying out of respect the first time you noticed them watching but holding their gaze until they looked away any time after.

If anyone had asked, you would have said you were simply supporting true knighthood. Just as your Uncle Baelor announced as he chose to be the seventh man on Ser Duncan’s team.

Certainly, you weren’t going to admit that you felt sad when you had to release the knight’s hand, and that you wanted to cry every time he was struck during the contest. Nor, that you almost cried of joy when you realized the hedge knight and his six companions had won against Aerion, Daeron, your Father, the three Kingsguard knight, and Ser Steffon.

“He is a true knight,” you announced to your cousin, Valarr, at some point during the trial of the seven, your gaze glued to Ser Duncan.

Valarr had only hummed, his gaze locked on your fathers as the eldest and youngest sons of King Daeron the Good met each other in the field.

You watched with wide eyes, hand pressed to your lips.

This…wasn’t good! They could seriously hurt each other if Aerion and Daeron both didn’t withdrawal their accusations against Ser Duncan.

You looked away, back toward Ser Duncan and Aerion. The last thing you wanted was to watch your father harm Valarr’s.

Aerion being bested probably wasn’t the greatest thing for your House, but at the least he was rather far in the line of succession. Your twin brother was (if both sons and daughters were considered in the succession) eleventh in line to the throne, at the time of the Tourney of Ashford Meadows, so his defeat – while humiliating for him and for your father, no doubt – was more something for the King to sigh and shake his head at then be annoyed/concerned over.

Ser Duncan winning had to come off as inspiring for those who weren’t fortunate enough to be born into a noble line. His win, and him gaining favor and companionship with nobles, was a display to the smallfolk that they were thought about and cared for by the knights of the realm but also by (some of) the Lords who remembered their knightly vows and continued to live by them.

You weren’t really paying attention to how everyone else reacted to the contest the moment you realized Ser Duncan and Aerion were about to (finally) come to blows once more. Your gaze locked on the tall young man and stayed there until Aerion yielded.

Ser Duncan was quick, much quicker than you would have expected from a man his size. And he was strong, that much was made clear from how he pushed the other men around and at the force his punches and kicks had behind them as they landed on his opponents.

Brave – even if it made him stupid. Attractive, and he’s probably completely oblivious to the fact if the rest of his (humbled) personality was anything to go by. At the least, he’s good in a fight even if his sword work could use a little polishing.

It was lost on you that you liked him far more than a Princess would ever be allowed to like a commoner.

You were at Ser Duncan’s side when he was helped to the ground, so riddled with pain and blood loss that he was barely able to stand and his speech was nearly impossible to understand. Still, you laughed and kneeled at his side, cupping his face as you did so. “I hope this teaches you to think things more clearly from now on.” You half teased, but you also looked at Aegon, hoping he took your words seriously as he stood to the other side of the hedge knight.

“Yes…Your Highness,” Ser Duncan slurred, his dark gaze unfocused but on your face.

You smiled, blushing slightly at his words, “Y/n, Ser Duncan. My name is Y/n.”