#gotau

you sighed, turning the corner, "i've always had robes fit for a royal in dorne."

"that is in the past. soon you'll have resided here longer than you have in dorne, you know."

you did not like that reminder. it brought an ache to your chest, and the urge to fling yourself from the nearest window to escape - an impossible feat since all your windows have had golden grates latched to them since you arrived - or take the narrow passageways behind the walls and run far far away. but you did not know where to go, and you could barely handle a sword, despite your lessons, as hongjoong, yeosang, ser johnny, and ser yuta liked to remind you. only mingi ever told you that you were improving in that area.

you paused at your chamber doors. you spoke without really looking at yeosang, "you said once that whomever i wed will determine my fate."

you turned to look up at yeosang, and a faint ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips at whatever he thought of your expression. he tilted his head, said, "you remembered that? i am touched, your grace."

you'd glared at his teasing tone, even as you clarified, "i want to know what happens when i marry the prince? you seemed so sure of yourself when you spoke of my fate. what of this arrangement, then? what is my fate now?"

yeosang's smile did not slip from his face as you wanted. kang yeosang would never give you the pleasure of vindication. he merely dragged a hand through his yellow-blond hair, his dark eyes piercing. his hand remained at the hilt of his sword, even as he said, "you will become king hongjoong's partner, my liege. his monarch."

you'd rolled your eyes. before you could respond, yeosang added a quiet, "and his weakness."

"weakness?" you'd laughed in disbelief.

"i suppose," yeosang tilted his head, the smile on his face a pretty thing, the signature kang amusement flitting across his face. "you always were a weakness of sorts."

"i am not." you'd glared, though your stomach flipped and heat curled at your cheeks. surely he did not believe such drivel. you said, "i never was, and i doubt that will change just because i am his spouse."

yeosang raised a brow at you. still he shrugged, clearly not bothering to inquire further. he said, "let's say you are not a weakness. you'll still be one of the most protected, most beloved, and most targeted people in the seven kingdoms."

that brought you pause. "targeted?"

"not many have love for a mad king with a penchant for burning anyone he disagrees with at the stake. the monarchy has always been a target, but, nowadays, i'd say the king's paranoia may come from a place of truth."

"and you've...known this?"

"i am in his kingsguard," yeosang said, as if it should be quite obvious to you. "i know of every threat, real or perceived."

"yes," you'd pressed, raising a brow, "but your father is the hand."

"my father does not tell me much."

"right." you bit out, rolling your eyes at his evasiveness.

yeosang laughed, but his eyes were dark, calculating, the expression of the kangs through and through. he shook his head, still, as he murmured, "rest assured that i never imagined hongjoong would put you in this position. especially with the queen - we'd all agreed you were much too sweet to play these games."

"yet, the moment i stepped onto the shores of king's landing, i've been entangled in them."

"blame your father for that."

you do. you do blame your father, and that was the worst of it.

you grit your teeth, said, "i do not need you all deciding such things on my behalf. i can decide on my own."

"i must admit, that is what concerns me most. your decisions have landed you in terrible situations with terrible enemies."

you glared at him and the clear jab at your intelligence. yeosang only smiled, and raised his hands in the air, mocking a placating gesture.

you'd continued glaring, even as you shouldered your way in to your chambers without giving him another glance nor word. he did not deserve such kindness. not when he hadn't bothered to answer your question properly in the first place, and only left you with more to think about.

~.~.~.~.~

guests began to arrive in small groups over the course of the next few days, and the servants of the red keep were left scrambling. your lessons were even cancelled in preparation for the wedding. you hadn't seen the king, his small council, or even hongjoong since that night.

when you'd told him he'd cost you your freedom, he'd grit his teeth and turned away. he'd left you in the empty throne room with the rotting flesh of his dead brother still lingering, his departing footsteps echoing all around, and you'd stared at his retreating back, at yeosang meeting your gaze over his shoulder even as he trailed after hongjoong.

hongjoong always had a response. he always returned your words with vitriol or amusement of his own. yet tonight, the throne room doors were flung open, and they remained open, because the servants and guards of the red keep did not consider your status high enough to wait on, not when the king has already dismissed the room and the prince has left, and you were left alone, your heart in your throat and your palms sweaty and your knees shaky. you held your breath as you left the throne room, as you trailed through the halls of the red keep you regrettably knew better than the halls of your home in sunspear, steadying yourself against the cold stone walls as you walked through the silent halls. you'd entered your chambers, ignoring the bowed head of one of the kingsguard that remained stationed by your door - an action of either the king or hongjoong that you did not wish to dwell on the implications behind - and even as you shut the door behind you and trailed into your chambers, you were too shocked to sob the way you knew you should have. you only slipped from your robes, and rubbed perfume oil in your palms until they were slippery and the scent of musk and roses invaded all your senses. you tried to mask the scent of rotting flesh still lingering in your nose, but you could still smell it. you believed you'd never forget it - that it would haunt you, a lasting memory of the king and queen's late son. you merely laid in your bed until the sun poured through the grates of your window, and stared at the ceiling you'd long memorized.

since that night, you'd only seen yeosang on the few occasions where he was one of the kingsguard asked to escort you back to your chambers.

you did not see mingi until days before the wedding, when the doors to the library creaked open, and mingi stuck his head in, his wide smile dragging out a smile of your own.

he sauntered into the library, his armor clinking as he walked, and he took a seat across from you, watching as you closed the book documenting wild plants you'd been engrossed in. you'd decided a few days ago, somewhere between the way your maids fell silent when you entered your chambers to bathe and your septa suggesting you go to the godswood and pray instead of lounging about in the library or your chambers, that since you knew nothing, you'd make it a point to learn everything. so you spent too many hours reading of the geography around king's landing. your septa scoffed at you every morning, leaving you alone in the library. you read of the wild plants of each of the kingdoms. even accounts of the plants that grew outside of westeros. you read anything and everything that gave you information about something outside of king's landing. perhaps, you hoped you could leave. one day. perhaps, you could go to the godswood and pray to every god who wanted to listen; you were certainly starting to become restless enough for such an absurd thing.

"doing some light reading?" he asked, eyeing the cover with a raised brow.

you'd shrugged, and mingi only nodded. he did not tend to push, and you were glad for it.

you said, "to what do i owe the pleasure, ser mingi?"

mingi's laugh was a sweet, loud, boisterous thing that filled the quiet library. one of the maesters that spent his time organizing the library shushed you both from the other side of the room. mingi giggled. you could not help but join.

he sobered up much too quickly. you watched as he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. he said, deep voice soft, "san asked me to find you."

you'd blinked, "he's here?"

"he arrived this morning," mingi said. "i left him in the courtyard."

you'd nodded, frowning at your fingers. you wrung your hands together. suddenly, you were nervous. you had not done anything wrong. you did not get a choice in the matter, in fact, yet you the nerves curled at the pit of your stomach.

mingi cleared his throat, "you do not need to see him yet. if you do not wish to."

you looked up at mingi. no one ever cared what you wished for. his expression held a sincerity you had not seen since sunspear, since yunho and wooyoung and your parents and -

"i do," you said, shaking away the loudness of your thoughts.

mingi only nodded as he rose from his seat, and held a hand out to you. you took it.

in the quiet halls, empty due to all the servants being busy with wedding preparations, mingi asked, "may i speak candidly?"

you'd frowned up at him, "you never need to ask, ser mingi."

mingi smiled, shaking his head, as he said, "i am sorry, y/n. you deserve more than you've been given."

you smiled as best as you could, despite the nerves, "it's all right. at least marrying the heir means i have the kingsguard to protect me?"

"the kingsguard only protects the king." mingi shook his head, and you detected a hint of pain in his tone, his eyes falling to his boots as he said, "still you have me, and yeosang. we're not much, but hongjoong listens to us."

you'd frowned at his words but before you could respond, you'd both arrived at the edge of the courtyard.

"mingi?" you murmured, worried by his stiff shoulders, watching as he bowed.

he shook his head, gesturing towards the courtyard, "lord san is waiting."

you did not push, as he would not have. instead, you'd nodded, and took the steps down into the courtyard, glancing back to watch mingi turn away back into the halls. with every conversation and interaction, you only worried further of your fate, and you despised king's landing - hongjoong - for it.

~.~.~.~.~

you found san where you always did, deep in the courtyard observing the flowers in bloom. this time, he peered at a white, almost translucent flower that grew in spirals along the stem.

the sun sat high in the sky, but the air was crisp. cold even. it left san with reddened ears and flushed cheeks. he still wore his riding boots. he must have been too busy to rest in his chambers after he arrived. san turned his gaze from the flower in front of him to you. his kind eyes were a gentle thing, one you'd come to miss over the stretches of time without him in the red keep.

his dimpled smile made your chest ache. the same ache that you felt when you thought of sunspear. when you thought of yeosang telling you that soon you'd have lived more name-days outside of dorne than in.

san held a hand out to you, and you took it, and his fingers were cold. they were not warm. when you looked at him, you only felt loss. perhaps, you'd invested too much into san. he warned you often that he didn't think the king would approve. you were naïve and you held onto hope, but were you so awful to do such a thing? were you in the wrong to see hope in another? to invest in it, even a little?

san held your hand in both his, and he rubbed it between his palms. you chewed the inside of your mouth before you said, "you're cold."

"so are you," his smile was always kind. you wanted to believe kindness was enough, but perhaps hongjoong truly was correct.

you looked from your intertwined hands to san's face. he met your gaze, and he held it as you finally asked, "what did your father tell you?"

san smiled. he let go of your hands, and he gestured to the bench off to the side. you both took a seat, the two of you turning to face each other. san rested an elbow on the back of the bench as he rested his chin on his knuckles.

"that the king refused to bless our betrothal," san's smile fell from his face, his kind eyes hardening, "and that he insinuated that house choi is conspiring against him."

you'd nodded, said, "i fear what he would have done to you if you were there."

"i heard what he said," san frowned, and for the first time you see a hint of fury in his eyes. you'd never understood the choi's house words, ours is the fury, until that very moment. you did not think the chois capable of fury. lord choi was always polite and calm, and san? well you did not think him capable of anger, let alone fury. you felt fury often, a byproduct of your gilded cage, and you could not imagine san displaying such unbridled anger.

yet here san sat, jaw clenched, barely restrained. it reminded you of late nights when you'd stare at your sharpened hair combs, and imagine despicable things. it made you frown, even as san continued, "hongjoong informed me of his father's threats. he also told me that the king wished to wed you to the corpse of a babe."

your frown deepened. a part of you had hoped san would not hear that detail. you did not want pity from him now, after all this time without it.

san's brows furrowed, and the fury lessened a bit as he smiled slightly, "hongjoong countered the king with his own proposal."

"you spoke to hongjoong?"

it was all you could say. you still did not know how to articulate how you felt about hongjoong's proposal, his stepping in when he did, and your subsequent betrothal. san studied you for a long moment, before he explained, "he spoke to me. the night of."

your eyes widened.

san sighed, "he rode to storm's end on his dragon. nearly jumped out of my skin at the sight. and...and he commanded me not to tell anyone."

"oh," you blinked, "should you be telling me this then?"

"i thought knowing he...that he worries like the rest of us would ease your nerves," san murmured. "hongjoong won't hurt you, y/n."

"i don't -"

"he told me you found him terrifying," san cut you off with a raised brow. "that you thought he'd be worse than his father."

you'd glared, "i didn't mean it. i was only...i wasn't..."

you'd trailed off, and san pressed a hand to yours, and he said, "it's okay to mean it. it's okay to be scared. you are not weak for it."

you let him hold your hand as you slumped against the bench and took in his words. he was right. that was a constant with san, that he was often right and you could never dispute his logic because of it. you muttered, "i knew you were too good to be true."

san let out a small laugh. he said, "i tried to prepare for this. for the king to reject our union, but i..."

he sighed, shaking his head.

"hoped?" you said with a laugh of your own. it fell flat, even to your own ears.

still, san smiled as he fiddled with your fingers between his, his hands warm, "too much, i fear."

"my septa would say we did not pray to the gods enough."

san let out a breathless laugh, one you were glad to let settle in your memories. san lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss.

he said, "i will miss you."

the worst of it, you knew, was that you'd see him at court for the rest of your lives. in hindsight, he would always be there, but missing someone did not always mean distance. when hongjoong ascended the throne, san would take his father's place in hongjoong's small council. lord choi san of storm's end. you would see each other often then, and you'd wonder of what could have been, and he would come to pity you eventually, you knew, because hongjoong would rather have you visit the caricatures of sunspear in the depths of king's landing then take you there himself. hongjoong could very well keep you in this gilded cage and watch you rot. perhaps that is what scared you most about hongjoong. that he could decide your fate however he saw fit, just as his father could. hongjoong would sit on his throne, and you would sit tucked away in your chambers, and every time you passed san during feasts or in the halls or at dinner when he visited his friends you would wonder of what could have been. you knew it. and you could tell san knew it too as he looked at you with sorrowful eyes. you did not want to lose hope in the idea of setting foot in sunspear once more, but perhaps that was how it was meant to be.

you reached up and pressed your thumb to san's cheek. he let you, merely watching as you studied him.

you said, "whenever you visit, i will be here."

it was meant to be reassuring, but san pursed his lips, and the fury in his eyes was a sharp thing. a painful thing, really.

"i know," san closed his eyes, "and i am sorry for it."

"do not pity me." you told him, squeezing the hand he had in yours even as you pressed a finger under san's jaw, urging him to open his eyes and meet your gaze. he did, his eyes soft. kind. "swear to me you will not pity me. you will do as you always would, and we will not grieve for what could have been. swear it."

he searched your eyes for a long moment. it made the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end when he said, "are you certain?"

you nodded.

his eyes glistened, and you wanted to ask why but you did not. like with mingi, you did not wish to push. you did not wish to know, truly. you only nodded and nodded, fingers still resting under san's jaw, and san's voice was a soft thing, like an evening breeze, like the sound of your mother's voice when she called to you and wooyoung and yunho to come to her side, like the gentleness that exuded from yunho's very-being, like all the kindness you'd ever known in sunspear. all the kindness you'd known here wrapped gently into san's voice, his touch, his sad eyes, as he said, "i swear it."

you thought you'd been helping him, when you asked such a thing of him. you believed you were saving yourself grief.

you were not.

you pressed a kiss to his cheek, as chaste as the one he pressed to your hand, and as you leaned away he repeated, softer than ever, a whisper almost, "i swear it, y/n."

~.~.~.~.~

two days before the wedding, hongjoong leaned against the door to the library.

for a moment, you'd felt embarrassed at the sight of yourself with books and maps sprawled around you. you'd pushed two tables together with the help of the library's maester, who eyed you with resignation despite doing all you'd asked without complaint as he may have once before, and you had books stacked atop each other, a map of westeros and essos laid out in front of you. the map of essos was incomplete, and you'd fixated on perusing through books to determine the geography of essos on your own. clearly a terribly grandiose goal judging from the way the maester had raised a brow when you'd told him. still he merely disappeared and left you to your own devices. you could tell that he held a modicum of pity for you. at least it was either pity, or he believed you were succumbing to madness. you certainly felt as if you were succumbing to madness as the wedding drew closer. you barely slept and you tried to ignore the feeling of impending doom growing in your chest.

hongjoong merely remained propped against the entrance to the library, his arms folded over his chest, his silver-blond hair tied up. he certainly appeared more presentable than you did. his dark eyes remained fixed upon you, and for a moment you remained frozen. moments passed between you both, before you returned your attention to the map in front of you, ignoring the heat of embarrassment and his eyes still clearly fixed on the top of your head.

after a beat, hongjoong said, "y/n."

you only hummed, flipping through the book in front of you without quite seeing it. your heart raced against your ribs, and you did not wish to speak to hongjoong. you'd prefer if you never had to speak to him again, but at least for now you did not want to see him until you stood at the horrible altar.

another beat.

"y/n," he repeated, though this time his tone was laced with irritation. he said, "come to the dining hall."

you looked up at him once more, careful to avoid his dark gaze, frowning, "i am not hungry."

"that was not a request," hongjoong said, tone firm. his eyes narrowed slightly, but he still remained leaning against the door, still watching you, his gaze flitting over the books and maps in front of you.

your frown deepened as hongjoong quirked a brow at you.

"well? must i repeat myself, dearly betrothed?"

you grimaced at the mocking condescension dripping from his words, but you knew that despite everything he was still the heir, and you had to listen to him eventually. truly, you were in no mood to argue anyway.

you slammed the book shut in front of you. he merely watched as you stood, the chair creaking as it teetered on its hind legs. you grabbed it, pushing it in, and you snapped, "fine. happy?"

he did not respond to your lack of formalities, only rolled his eyes and spun on his heels.

he walked out of the library, the door slamming shut behind him. the resounding thud made your heart jump.

still, you followed after him. he only waited a moment for you to exit the library before he started walking. his robes swished in front of you, and his pace was a brutal thing you did not bother to keep up with. the silence between you both was an icy thing you were not planning on breaking first. you were angry with hongjoong. you would always be angry with him. you wanted -

he came to a sudden halt, steps from the dining hall. his robes fluttered around him as he turned to look you over for a long moment. his hard expression softened enough for you to frown, glancing at the dining hall as you did so. he replied, as if he could read the anxiety in your expression, "there's something for you in there. i suggest you attempt a smile, at the very least." he paused, "and you may thank me later."

you'd scowled at him, even as he spun, and opened the door. you'd never seen him open his own doors. wherever he went, he was announced, with fanfare and servants opening doors for him.

he swung the door open and stepped aside for you to enter first. you frowned at him, nervous. it was not customary for anyone to enter a room before a member of the royal family, but perhaps you'd have to get used to this since you would take on the kim banners in a few days' time.

he sighed, before he reached over and pressed a hand to the middle of your back. you jolted forward, away from his touch.

you entered the dining hall first.

you -

"oh, my love," her voice was unfamiliar. that thought would remain a heavy burden on your shoulders long after that moment passed. the way you did not recognize them for a long, long second. the unfamiliarity, despite the heaviness settling in your heart. seated at the dining table where you would usually sit with hongjoong, yeosang, mingi, and, on occasion, san, sat your mother, and where her hair was once full of color, it was now peppered gray. her skin was not so smooth, and her smile not so bright, and her beauty was dulled by an ancient sadness you understood all too well. your heart stopped when she whispered, "how you've grown."

you'd blinked. once, twice, three times, until it clicked.

until you felt your knees buckle beneath the weight of your realization, and you reached for the back of the dining chair. a hand touched the middle of your back. a light touch, barely there, and you looked over your shoulder at hongjoong, in disbelief. why would he...? his expression remained blank, unwavering.

oh.

you turned back to her.

your mother.

oh gods, it was your -

"mother, look again. if anything, they've gotten shorter," a deeper voice interrupted, and you tore your eyes from her, to the table, and you'd admonished yourself briefly for losing your composure in such a way. your vision tunneled onto your mother. you hadn't even considered -

your stomach flipped and your heart clenched and there was nothing keeping you upright aside from your grip on the chair in front of you. hongjoong's hand was gone, and you almost hoped for it back. almost.

your thoughts were blank as you stared and stared, and despite the unfamiliarity of the voice, you only needed to take a single glance to know. you were afraid you would not recognize them, that the years would take even that from you, and in many ways it had, but you still somehow knew.

two boys sat on either side of your mother, both with dark hair and skin kissed by the sun, but one was short and all angles and muscles, and the other tall even seated, all sinewy limbs and an aura of grace he never had before. they both held their heads high with a confidence that was only budding when you left sunspear. no longer were they boys made of gangly limbs. no longer could you pretend that the poor memories you had of them were accurate. it would never be accurate, and your memories were just distant things. still, despite that, they were not strangers. you knew them instantly, and you always would, and as they looked at you you found deep comfort in that revelation.

wooyoung was short and stocky, and the mischief in his expression still lingered, though it remained as a subtle undercurrent. a warning even. wooyoung's dark hair was longer - to his shoulders - and tied back into a knot, and you could still see the boy you remembered him as, in his small smile, and his eyes, and the way he fiddled with the sleeve of his robe as he looked at you. but the boy you remembered and the boy in front of you were too different. your head hurt at the thought of having to reconcile such a thing.

it was the same for yunho. his face still held the softness you remembered, but his eyes were hardened, and the kindness in his eyes were guarded. he held his chin up the way mingi did when he drew his swords, and the boy you knew long ago would not have dared swat at a fly, let alone raise a sword, but yunho's hand rests on the hilt of his sword as he smiles, and his eyes are wary as they flicker over your shoulder. still, his smile was a soft thing, a gentle thing, and it made your chest ache.

you stood there, gripping the chair in front of you as you committed the sight of them to your memories, and they looked at you as if they were doing the same. the ache in your chest worsened as you did so, and you knew this was a happy moment, a moment of celebration really, but you could not help but mourn the years you missed. the thought of missing all these years hurt more than your memories of them or the shallow letters or the way you imagined them every name-day, growing alongside you. your brothers grew up without you, and you without them, and that would always leave a hole. but, by the gods, how you've missed them. you felt, for the first time, as if you could breathe again. as if you were going to be all right, somehow, someway.

"it appears i am taller than you though," you said to wooyoung - the very thought that this was wooyoung before you in the flesh, that this was yunho, and your mother made you giddy and terrified all at once. to your horror, your voice crumbled halfway through your sentence. you choked back your sob, biting down on your lips.

still, wooyoung's small smile widened, and it was the same as when he was a boy. his eyes shone bright, teary almost. you bit down harder on your bottom lip, until you could taste blood. you refused to allow hongjoong to witness your vulnerability. certainly not when he was the one to arrange this.

there was another long beat of silence, drawn out and tense, a heavier burden on your shoulders really.

hongjoong was the one to break the silence. his voice echoed behind you, "i must take my leave. i will return shortly with lord jeong."

you turned to meet his gaze. he should not leave, as you doubted the king would be happy with his son leaving his dornish guests to conspire with his ward, but hongjoong merely dipped his head in a strange moment of acknowledgement, his brows furrowed slightly as he turned on his heels. the doors shut behind him, and you stared after him for a moment before you returned your attention to your family. only then had you registered hongjoong's words.

lord jeong.

your father was also here. that brought another wave emotions, and you did not know if you dreaded that meeting or not.

you looked at yunho, and your hands still shook, but you managed to keep your voice steady as you said, "you haven't grown either. not one bit."

it is strange how your family could be so familiar, yet so different.

yunho let out the smallest of laughs. it bubbled up from his lips, but his eyes were soft, kind.

then the sound of chairs scraping across the stone floor echoed through the dining hall, a chorus of scrapes, a chorus of movement. your grip on the chair in front of you grew tighter as they stood. as they drew closer. as it registered just how real this moment was.

your mother gathered you into her arms, and she cupped your cheeks, and dragged her hands along every part of you she could reach, her eyes searching your face, and she fussed, "you're so cold, my child. all these years, and you've refused to listen to my advice as well." she stroked your cheek, murmured, "kingdoms apart, yet stubborn just like your brothers."

and you tried to laugh, but it quickly turned into a broken sob that you could no longer suppress. you did not have to, with hongjoong gone and you alone with you family. you pressed your face into the crook of your mother's neck. you used to do it so often before, but you did not think it possible to miss a gesture as small as this. but you found yourself burying your face in the crook of your mother's neck, your chest tight as you tried and failed to breathe through your sob. you cried, and your chest hurt with the weight of it, and the sound tore through the quiet dining hall.

your mother pressed her palms to your face as she leaned away, tears in her eyes as she sniffled, and she studied you as if she would never see you again. you did not want to dwell on the thought. not when wooyoung tackled you into an embrace as soon as your mother let go.

no headlocks or childhood roughness, merely him reaching over and clinging to you, a small sniffle reaching your ears. you sensed the hesitation, the slight awkwardness, and you resented it. the years created a gap neither of you were sure how to navigate through. it made this worse somehow. you blinked away another onslaught of tears, if only to see him clearly and commit him to memory as he deserved. he tried to step away after a moment, but you clung to him, and he giggled, rocking you side to side. he cupped your cheek and brushed at your tears, and you looked over his shoulder, and met yunho's gaze then. the softness there was as you remembered, and this time the tears fell freely as you let go of wooyoung and reached for yunho. his embrace was as warm and kind as you remembered it. it was a warmth and kindness you'd missed dearly in king's landing. he held you as your mother did, as wooyoung did, as if you would disappear at any moment, and the sound of yunho and wooyoung and your mother crying burrowed itself in your heart.

as you embraced your family, and laughed through another onslaught of tears as you furiously wiped at them, you found yourself despising hongjoong for this. he wanted you to thank him, but were you truly thankful for this knowing that your family would have to go back to sunspear and you would not be able to go with them. were you truly thankful knowing that hongjoong, or the king, could have allowed this whenever they wished? you did not know when you'd see them once more. you did not know when they'd be allowed to visit you again. as you took a seat at the dining table, and your mother, wooyoung, and yunho drew their chairs close to you, as your mother squeezed your hand and refused to let go and wooyoung pushed all kinds of food onto your plate, and yunho wiped at his tears with the back of his hands, his expression hardening once more, you found you would have been more content with never seeing them again than having to lose them once more after this.

~.~.~.~.~

hours later, your mother was called away to speak to the queen. hongjoong had not returned. in that moment, you were completely alone with your brothers. you wondered, briefly, what the king would do if he learned of this. you were never truly left alone in all your time as the king's ward, and now you were alone with the two people you're sure the king despised more than your father.

yunho reached across the table, over the half-empty glasses of sunspear-grown wine and untouched fruits on your plate - you were too busy asking a thousand questions so you could somehow fill the years you'd missed to eat much. yunho answered with smiles while wooyoung recounted all kinds of stories, his loud laugh bounding off the walls and ceilings, and your mother merely sat with her chin rested on her palm and a fondness in her glittering eyes as she watched her children - and he pressed a finger to the scar on your arm. the burn.

you'd blinked, frowning at yunho's frown. yunho leaned back on his chair.

you explained, without much prompt, "remember when i first arrived here and wrote of dragons?" you brushed your fingers along the scar, "that was the night i got this."

wooyoung's brows furrowed. he leaned over, brushing a thumb over the rough skin of the scar. he looked up at yunho briefly, before his gaze flit to meet yours. there was anger there, the kind you used to see from him over petty childish things. before, it never bothered you, but now it felt as if it wasn't for anything petty, or childish, and it made you drop your hands to your lap as you pulled your sleeve over the scar. you looked to yunho, however his gaze was a contemplative thing, though there was a hint of anger there you've never known yunho capable of. it reminded you of san, and a part of you lamented that thought. san should have reminded you of yunho, but your time with yunho was stolen from you, and now yunho and wooyoung were reminders. you turned back to wooyoung, and he sighed, "you never mentioned it."

"i didn't want anyone to know i'd snuck into the dragonpit. if i wrote you of the incident, the entire small council would have known.

wooyoung sighed once more, a heavy thing, his shoulders slumping. the implication was clear, but you all knew your letters were being read.

after a moment, a hint of a smile tugged at his lips, his eyes twinkling. he said, "you thought sneaking in would be the best way to see dragons?"

you laughed, "how else would a ward see dragons?"

"you could have just asked," yunho mumbled.

you frowned. wooyoung rolled his eyes, "that is boring."

you laughed when yunho tossed a grape at wooyoung. it felt nice to laugh, and that thought alone was enough to sober you. you fiddled with your fingers in your lap, and the hall went quiet once more. you said, "why did neither of you visit as you promised?"

it's a childish question. you doubted the king would have let them step foot into the red keep without a viable reason. and you were not a viable reason.

but they never tried. they never tried, and you needed someone or something to be angry about.

you scowled half-heartedly at both of them.

"we wanted to," yunho spoke gently, but there was an exhaustion to his gaze.

"but you didn't try, and here i am," your voice rang through the dining hall, echoing. you gestured around you. "caged, alone, and set to wed the son of a mad king."

"it will be better than being a ward," wooyoung's voice was a low thing, hesitant, but firm.

you looked to him, eyes wide. you could not even find anger in you at his words. wooyoung did not know. he did not reside at court. you did not write him detailed letters because of lord kang's spying. how could wooyoung possibly know of your true worries? your fears? still, you asked, "how can you be so sure of that? how can you be sure that wedding the prince would be better than - than being a ward?"

there was a pause. you watched as wooyoung and yunho exchanged a look you could not read.

then wooyoung leaned close, his voice dropping into a whisper only you and yunho could hear. his eyes flickered between yours, searching, his jaw set, and his gaze was a sharp thing. he murmured, "is there a reason why you...why i should not be sure that your status will keep you safe?" wooyoung reached out and pressed a hand over yours, his voice soft, "has the prince hurt you, y/n?"

his tone held an edge to it you'd never heard from him before. something that hovered the way a sword would before a strike. it made you feel safe, strangely, in a way you hadn't felt in a while. no one here ever asked such questions - san, in all his wisdom, only ever provided you solutions, and you figured that was because comfort like this was meant for the pitied, and san did not pity you. perhaps, wooyoung and yunho did, but with wooyoung and yunho, it did not feel pathetic the way pity from strangers did. it felt like concern and care, and it warmed your heart and calmed your worries more than you'd ever admit aloud to them.

yet, you found yourself shaking your head. perhaps, you found hongjoong irritating and terrifying. perhaps, hongjoong despised you. but he never really hurt you. the one time in the hall, you'd choked him first. you've both said horrible things to each other. as the prince and heir to the iron throne, he wielded more power over you than you him. but he stepped in on your behalf. he saved you from that dragon years ago. san said he would not hurt you. in fact, hongjoong's never really hurt you. "he's never hurt me."

not yet, at least. the thought made your chest tighten.

it was as if your brothers could hear your thoughts. as if they knew the not yet lingering over your heads and at the tip of your tongue. that it was very much a possibility. it always would be. that was the world of kings and heirs.

wooyoung's hand tightened around your fingers. yunho's voice, however, was gentle despite his words.

"if prince hongjoong ever devolves into madness," yunho's voice rang in your ears, settled under your skin, and it made your eyes fill with tears, "we will come for you. i will bring you home, y/n."

you'd blinked through your tears at him. you did not want to dwell on the implication that you would not return otherwise. how could the heir's spouse ever reside in sunspear anyway? your voice sounded small, even to your own ears, "will you really?

yunho nodded, pressing a heavy hand to your shoulder, the warmth of his hand a gentle reminder of how cold king's landing truly was, and he said, "i swear it."

"on the gods," wooyoung let go of you and pressed a fruit to his lips his wet eyes full of a fire that reminded you of the sunset, "old and new, dead and alive. every single fucking one of them."

"i expect you both to keep that promise, then," you said, your laugh and joke falling flat.

still, yunho laughed even as he wiped at his wet cheeks with the back of his hand, snatching fruit from your untouched plate, and wooyoung drank more wine. before either of you could say another word, the doors to the dining hall opened, and your mother and father entered the hall, hongjoong leading the way. he met your gaze for a brief moment, brows furrowing as his gaze lingered, before he looked at your brothers. you glanced at them, and wooyoung had his eyes narrowed, while yunho's smile remained cold and polite.

hongjoong merely gestured at the dining hall doors.

"the king and queen wishes for me to escort you to the guest quarters," hongjoong said. "i hope your meal was to your liking."

yunho nodded briskly.

wooyoung only shrugged, his eyes narrowed, "it could have been better, your grace."

your mother threw wooyoung and yunho a sharp look, even as she said, "don't mind him. he tends to get cranky after long hours of sea travel. it was wonderful, your grace."

hongjoong's brows were furrowed in disbelief, and wooyoung snorted while yunho suppressed a small smile. your mother glared at them both.

your gaze flickered to the man that entered the room, however. your father. lord jeong.

he met your gaze over hongjoong's head, and you could pick out the pieces of him you often glimpsed in your mirrors and reflections. your chin. your ears. the pieces of him you saw in your brothers. eyes. height. hair. yunho's smile. wooyoung's nose.

you often would replay your last moments with him aboard the ship from sunspear to king's landing. the way he kneeled before you. the way he clasped his hands over yours.

your mother turned to hongjoong then, gesturing for him to join your brothers' side. they spoke quietly, clearly giving you and your father privacy, however hongjoong glanced your way anyway. wooyoung said something to him that made hongjoong's head snap to the side and his brows raise. your mother pinched wooyoung's back, something you only noticed from your angle, hidden from hongjoong's view, and wooyoung snickered at her, the sound reverberating off the high ceiling of the dining hall. wooyoung still bowed his head, his mouth moving. yunho spoke over him.

your father stepped fully into your view then, and you turned your attention to him. you shook the memories you had of him away. you'd replayed those moments so often, the grew into nightmares. sometimes your father would burst into flames, either by dragonfire or by the king's green fire he used to execute anyone disloyal. other times he would turn into the mad king, with claws for fingernails and a dripping grin and a chilling laugh.

"my child," your father's voice held a tremor of emotion you did not wish to pinpoint, "my y/n."

you'd blinked at him, at his words. my y/n. if you were his, then why had he let you go? why did he exchange your freedom for politics? perhaps, such an act would have been excusable if he'd only prepared you for king's landing, yet he hadn't even bothered doing that.

the anger curled at the pit of your stomach. it was always there, always gnawing at your insides like a hungry beast. like hongjoong's dragon when you'd seen it feast on animal carcasses from afar, too scared to step into the dragonpit since that night with the mad king and his council.

lord jeong's smile was dejected, "it has been too long."

"it has," was all you could say, watching him as your stomach churned.

"i do not enjoy when one of my children resents me," he sighed, shaking his head. his smile remained, however.

you frowned, "i do not resent you, father."

that was not true.

"that is not true," lord jeong chuckled. "we may have spent a long time apart, but you are still my child. more so than your mother hoped, judging from the accounts i've heard of your time here. i know you well. i expected there would be resentment in your heart when we met again, but how i wished it would not be so."

"how can i not resent you?" the admission alone made your chest feel tight, especially when your father leaned his head back to blink rapidly at the sky, as if he were lamenting the gods. you should be happy to see him. you knew that as a child of the prince of dorne, you had duties to fulfil, and this was one of them. you should not resent him, yet you did. you always would. he was your father, yet he had not been your father. and that only fueled the terrible gnawing beast at the pit of your stomach. you said, "you sent me here with nothing to fend myself with."

"i know," your father held out a hand, and you allowed him to take yours. you could not refuse it, despite everything. he kneeled in front of you, clasping your hands in his, just as he did on that ship. you were much taller now, or perhaps his back has grown more curved with old age, and you towered over him in a way you hadn't before. lost time shows itself in the smallest of gestures. this was one of them.

you tugged at his hands. he let you tug him to his feet. still, his knights that had followed him into the dining hall averted their gazes at the sight. everything was the same, yet it was so utterly different. you were someone else entirely this time, and your father was barely a father, and your brothers looked on with melancholic eyes, and your mother turned her back to the sight, and hongjoong merely frowned. hongjoong was not there before, and you did not like that he was here now. watching. seeing you. you felt as if he could see the monstrous anger at the pit of your stomach, that he would add this moment as yet another mental tally to his list of reasons why he believed you were just like him.

"i am sorry, y/n," lord jeong, the prince of dorne, your aging father, said, "will you allow me a chance to amend this?"

it tugged at your heartstrings, but you both knew that no matter how hard he tried, you were here now and you were set to marry prince hongjoong, heir to the iron throne. yunho would be the next prince of dorne, and dorne would be tied to westeros in both vows and blood. you hadn't been to sunspear since you were four-and-ten, and you would likely never return. once upon a time, you would have believed your father could do anything, as all children did. but you were no longer four-and-ten, and a worshipper to any of the gods, whether they were old or new or your parents. at twenty, you knew your father could never amend something so broken.

your voice came out too sharp, too bitter, "it's too late to amend this. not without..."

you sighed, trailing off, and your father finished, his eyes bright, "war."

you shook your head, said, "that is not worth it."

for a moment, your father merely met your gaze. you could not read his expression. after a moment, he said, "perhaps not."

"just tell me this," you asked, "do you regret it?"

"as a ruler? no," your father's voice was quiet as it rang between you both, "but as a father? every single day."

perhaps your father would have waged war to amend this, but lord jeong would never, and you both knew it.

so, you only nodded, and gestured towards the doors to the dining hall, where hongjoong, wooyoung, yunho, and your mother waited. your father left with them, and though your resentment for him did not grow any smaller, you understood.

with that, however, you were left alone. you were always left alone.

~.~.~.~.~

it took you a moment to gather yourself, but as you stepped out of the empty dining hall, the servants rushing around you to clean up, you were met with an unexpected face outside the dining hall, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned heavily against the stone walls.

you blinked in surprise. yeosang stood straight as he bowed his head and announced, "i was asked to escort you back to your chambers, my liege."

you wished to deny him, but the only people who would ask yeosang of such a thing were not the deniable types.

besides, his tone did not hold its usual teasing lilt. though his smile was a lopsided thing, one you feared had become a permanent fixture upon his features. you wondered often if he knew how to look genuine. it'd suit his pretty features.

still, you simply nodded, shaking the last remnants of your vulnerability away. you should not allow such a thing to happen again, you knew. you strode past him, and yeosang did not say a word. he merely stayed in step behind you, the sounds of both your footsteps and the light clinks of his armor echoing along the halls. the only breaks in the silence was the occasional greetings from other members of the court or servants. they used to ignore you, but you refused to dwell on the reasons behind the sudden interest.

your wing of the red keep was always quiet. even the decorations were less grandiose. it was another way for the kims to remind you of your place, no doubt, but you found you'd miss it. surely, you would move into hongjoong's wing after all this, and that thought alone made your stomach churn with anxiety.

you pressed a palm to the door to your chambers, but the anxious twist in your stomach only grew. you hated that feeling, more than anything. in that moment, all you wanted was to flee. you wanted to return to sunspear and lay under the sun and -

"what would you do if i tried to leave?" you spun to face yeosang, your heart racing at the thought. you doubted you would be able to get far - the kims had dragons and the entire city watch at their disposal and your maps would be difficult to apply outside the library when you had no real idea of the layout or terrain of king's landing or the land outside of the city.

"leave?" yeosang tilted his head, his dark eyes alight with curiosity and another emotion you could not pinpoint. you did not wish to decipher it, in fact. you were tired of maintaining hyperawareness of the body language of those around you.

"run away. flee. leave the red keep," you studied him for a long moment, but he remained unreadable, "i've memorized half the maps in the library, you know."

yeosang nodded slowly. he said, "as a member of the kingsguard, i'd have to stop you."

you frowned at his specification. you raised a brow, crossing your arms, "but as kang yeosang?"

"i would like to see how you leaving plays out," he said with a snort, and a twinkle of that teasing kang amusement he always carried.

"oh," you nodded. you were not sure what answer you expected, but you certainly did not expect such honesty regarding yeosang's penchant for games. but did yeosang ever lie to you about such things? you should not have expected anything else.

"as yeosang, however," yeosang continued, "i'd wonder why you hadn't attempted to flee any sooner. mingi mentioned the maps and botany books."

you blinked in surprise at him, "he told you?"

"why wouldn't he?"

you crossed your arms over your chest, ignoring the question and instead opting for your next curiosity, "is there a distinction? between kang yeosang and yeosang?"

yeosang rolled his eyes, "at court, there always is."

you frowned. your father had made such a distinction moments ago, as prince of dorne and as your father. begrudgingly enough, yeosang was right.

yeosang said, "are you getting cold feet?"

at that, you rolled your eyes, "that is one way to describe it."

"you know," yeosang smiled, shifting from foot-to-foot, his armor clinking with each shift, "i spent the morning with the prince while he gave your brothers a tour of the red keep. i must admit, it was quite enlightening." yeosang gave you a critical once-over that made you scowl, even as he said, "here i thought your attitude was an outlier. wooyoung may be even bolder than you, my liege."

the thought of yeosang and hongjoong spending an entire morning with yunho and wooyoung made you grimace. you could only imagine what was exchanged between them. you probed, "you spoke to them?"

"quite a bit about many things," yeosang snorted, his eyes growing distant for a moment, "sparred even."

your frown deepened at that. you hadn't seen any bruises on your brothers or hongjoong during lunch. you said, "i should hope you lost."

a bubble of laughter spilled from yeosang's lips. it was a genuine thing, loud and encompassing, echoing off the walls and filling the quiet of your halls in a way it hadn't seen since you first stepped into your wing of the red keep. yeosang shook his head, said, "praying on my downfall, are you?"

you could not help the smile at his laugh. it was a contagious thing, and it was new. it was nice. you were right in thinking that genuineness suited yeosang. still, he was a kang, and he'd always be a kang. and, after that, he was hongjoong's kingsguard and best friend. you said, "i would never."

"your brothers asked after your lessons, so we took them through the motions of your day," yeosang gazed flickered over yours, eyes searching, and all the mischief gone. all that was left was a look that felt as if he could see right through you and into your head. he murmured, "they love you quite a bit, don't they?"

"as i do them," you bristled slightly at his tone. "you don't appear too happy about that."

yeosang let out a small, humorless laugh. you found it jarring compared to the belly-ache of a laugh he let out earlier.

"surely you understand why."

you only stared at him. his smile fell.

he said, "wars have been started for less, y/n. much, much less."

~.~.~.~.~

the morning of your wedding, your septa and the maids entered your bedchambers with a determination that made you laugh, despite everything. perhaps you were on the verge of madness since you hadn't slept at all, something your septa had admonished you for immediately.

westeros wedding traditions were a long, tedious thing, especially coupled with all the vows you'd have to recite in the sept to the gods. you were not even sure whether you'd have to participate in the added old kim tradition of taking dragonglass to hongjoong and your lips. the thought made your stomach churn. you doubted you be allowed to complete any dornish wedding traditions. the rowdiness. the fun. the lack of formalities. it was something you loved when you'd attended a wedding as a child. something you wished for yourself once upon a time. and then, there was the bedding ceremony. where your friends would carry your spouse to their chambers during the feast, disrobing them as they carried them through the halls, before tossing them onto the bed. your spouse's friends would do the same to you. then they'd lock you in the bedroom, laugh and tease you both to their heart's content, and leave you to consummate the marriage. it was a vulgar, terrifying tradition, one you might have felt different about if your spouse was not prince kim hongjoong.

your stomach turned at the thought of it.

you did not get to see your family again, as you were whisked through the motions of the day, and the nerves clawed at your insides each time you caught a glimpse of them, only to be pulled away.

the queen straightened your clothes as you stood in the halls behind the closed doors to the sept, the seven-sided prayer room where vows were made, where you were to walk down the aisle. yeosang and mingi stood at either side of the door.

the queen, bent and tired and smaller than you remembered, smiled gently, and she said, "good luck, dear."

it felt like a warning.

you found yourself asking, "who is going to walk me?"

the queen looked at you with sad eyes. she said, "the king is your ward. he would like to give you away."

no.

you shook your head. it was a small thing. you did not know if you would make it down the sept with the mad king and his claws on you. you'd vowed long ago you will kill him before he could ever touch you again. the thought rang in your head. all day, you'd wanted your mother or your brothers, or even your father, for just one moment. yet, even now, king kim wanted to flaunt the power he had over lord jeong and dorne.

you looked at the queen. you said, "it is tradition for my family to walk with me."

the queen's brows furrowed.

your chest was tight.

you said, "i have never asked you of anything, your grace. please grant me this, at least."

you did not expect much. she tugged at your collar once more, before she turned and left.

you looked at yeosang and mingi. mingi smiled sweetly. he said, "you look wonderful."

you thought you were going to cry. it felt as if you were walking to your execution. as if they were dressing you up like a pig for slaughter. you'd blinked at mingi, once, twice, and his sweet smile slipped from his expression, turning into concern.

yeosang only pat mingi's back and said, "get back into position. we're to start soon."

in the end, your father hooked his arm through your elbow, and he said, "endure, my child. just for a little longer."

you looked up at him, and your fingers curled around his arm, and maybe he was not your father anymore, but he was for a little while, and that was what kept you holding on, you believe.

the music was loud, and you kept your focus straight ahead, on the septon. not on hongjoong. never on hongjoong.

at least until your father walked you to your designated spot, and gently pried your fingers off his arm as he took his seat. at least until you were facing hongjoong, and his gaze flickered to your hands, to the way they remained balled fists at your side before he met your gaze. the septon spoke and spoke, but hongjoong's gaze remained on you.

his white hair curled at his shoulders, lying loose. today, it was not so messy, as if someone had taken a hair comb to it. his robes were regal black and red, made of silk that matched the outfit you'd been put into. silver chains fastened his cloak to his robes, and his hand was adorned with silver rings, both old and new. his dark eyes remained fixed on you, his sharp features somehow softer as he looked at you. kinder. perhaps that was because of the sunlight streaming in from the windows above. either way, his gaze lingered in a way that made the nerves so much worse. you focused on the details, until the septon's words echoed around you, jolting you from your thoughts, "look upon each other and say the words."

you were given the words by your septa, to list off the names of each of the seven gods. your voice sounded steadier to your ears than you thought it could be. you were glad for it. hongjoong listed the names alongside you, both your voices ringing together in the room.

then the room went silent, and hongjoong watched you with unreadable eyes, his jaw ticking slightly. the septon looked at you expectantly. you swallowed, before you said, "i am his, and he is mine. from this day, until the end of my days."

the septon looked to hongjoong. he smiled, and it was a small thing, the corners of his lips lilting up. he held your gaze as he said, voice low, voice ringing into the silence, "i am yours, and you are mine. from this day, until the end of my days."

if your heart stilled because of him or the way he changed the vows to speak directly to you, or because you were now wedded to prince hongjoong of westeros, you would not know, for hongjoong then said, "with this kiss, i pledge my love."

you'd froze, and he stepped close, his eyes flickering over your face for a moment, before he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips. it lasted mere seconds. the mad king shook his head from his place behind hongjoong. as hongjoong moved back and you both turned to the clapping and hooting audience of court members and nobility, you did not think you could endure any longer. you met san's eyes, to the right sat next to his father, and he smiled kindly, and you looked to your family then, and they sat rigid and watchful, too polite, and you were too overwhelmed to think let alone react. hongjoong's hand remained in yours as you were both ushered from the room first, down the aisle, to the feast.

~.~.~.~.~

"how wonderful that i may finally call you my child through marriage," the mad king reached over and dragged his long nails along your cheek. you suppressed a shudder. he looked at hongjoong, said, "perhaps you have proved yourself useful at long last, my son."

you watched as he threw his arms back, as he gestured to your father, beckoning him forward, and he said, "not only am i in possession of an army fourteen thousand strong, but i may now welcome another child to my family. the gods have truly blessed us, have they not, lord jeong?"

your father smiled through his teeth, "extraordinarily, your grace."

the mad king threw his head back and laughed, his voice booming through the great dining hall. he shouted, "let us feast then! to a blessed union and new beginnings."

then the king stumbled to his throne, and hongjoong scoffed under his breath.

your father was quickly joined by your mother. your father did not say anything, but your mother reached over and pat your cheek, wordless before she downed her glass of wine. she looked to hongjoong, and said, "you will treat them well."

"yes, of course."

"that was not a request, your grace."

hongjoong blinked. your mother stepped down, back to the table. wooyoung was in deep conversation with san, while yunho and mingi exchanged a bow - a sight that made your heart warm, strangely enough.

hongjoong said, "i finally see where you and your brothers get your audacity from."

you glared at hongjoong.

he let out a breathless laugh, before he turned away from you and sat at his spot at the head table, his mother between him and his father. his gaze swept over the guests at the feast drinking before it lifted up to meet yours. he gestured at the seat next to him. you did not wish to endure any longer.

but you still sat down. without a word or a glance hongjoong's way, you took the wine cup in front of you and downed it. a servant came scurrying your way, refilling it immediately. you'd blinked at the action - they'd never done such a thing for you before.

you downed another. and another. you looked at hongjoong. he only laughed.

you looked down at your family. your father mingled as he should. so did you mother. yunho looked up at you, and he raised a glass to you, and you drank from your seat at the table, and wooyoung rested his chin on his palm as he smiled sadly up at you as he spoke to san, and the beast at the pit of your stomach wished to burst from you right then, in front of everyone. you wished to burn everything here, and burn yourself with it.

you wanted to go to your bedchambers, with the caged windows, and you wanted to stare at the ceiling. you wanted to return to being a mere ward.

but you were a kim now, moreso you think then you'd ever been a jeong, let alone dornish.

~.~.~.~.~

you were drunker than you'd wanted to be when the guests called for the bedding ceremony. it was a flurry of movement. one moment, you and hongjoong were sitting at the table watching your guests dance. and the next, you were being tugged from the chair and tossed into the air. hongjoong's laughter was a loud thing. you could see him being pulled away in the other direction, yunho and wooyoung tugging him along. you'd blinked when you realized what was happening, panic settling in your stomach.

mingi tossed you in the air. he murmured, "sorry" before he tugged at your cloak. that was all that was tossed aside. you looked over his shoulder as yeosang trailed after mingi, not so subtly pushing any of the other drunken noblemen or lieges pushing their way towards you. mingi grabbed a shoe and tossed it back. it satisfied their need for tradition, you realized, and it did not leave you disrobed. your fingers curled around mingi's shoulder in thanks. mingi merely kicked open the door to hongjoong's bedchambers and placed you carefully on the bed. yeosang waved everyone out.

moments later, hongjoong stumbled into his chambers, his hair a mess, and his cloak missing. his silk shirt was torn. otherwise he was also clothed. still, you would not have put it past your brothers to have bruised hongjoong up under the guise of the bedding ceremony. the thought made you smile, despite everything.

you sat on his bed, watching as he paused at the foot of the bed. you could hear drunken teasing and laughter beyond the closed door, but the sheer fact that you were utterly alone with hongjoong made blood rush to your ears and your heart race and that overwhelming, angry feeling you've felt all day rear it's ugly head.

hongjoong peered down at you, tilting his head as his gaze swept down your form. despite the messy hair, and torn shirt, he still looked so regal, larger than life really, and you watched with bated breath as he stepped closer. one step, two steps, until his shins knocked against the side of the mattress, inches from your feet.

he bent at the waist, until his face hovered above you. it was a slow descent, and you held your breath all the while.

he lifted a hand, and brushed his fingers along your cheek, your jaw, the cool touch of one of his rings making you jerk away. you said, "what are you doing?"

"touching what's mine."

you'd blinked.

he said, "is that not what we vowed to each other. i am yours, and you are mine."

"i don't -" you shook your head, said, "i am not yours. i am no one's to own."

he raised a brow, still hovering, dark eyes still watching, and you could not endure any longer.

you pressed a hand to his chest and pushed him. he stumbled back, surprised. even as you rose from the bed and repeated, voice sharp, anger bubbling at your chest, "i am not yours, and i never will be."

then he laughed. he laughed, and it set something off in you. something angry and vindictive, something that had been growing inside you all this time, waiting for you to allow it to rear its head. you shoved him again. harder.

he stumbled back once more, and you kept shoving him, until his back hit the wall. it was like the hallway all over again, except this time, you were so angry and overwhelmed and absolutely exhausted with hongjoong's games that all you wanted was for him to shut his mouth.

his laughter died quickly. before you could say anything, he shoved you back. you blinked in surprise, making a move to push him, but he shoved you once more, and you stumbled back. his shoves were softer than yours, small pushes that made you step back because you did not want him to touch you. you'd used much more force. still he pushed you. once, twice, as many times as you him, until the back of your knees hit the bed and your legs buckled at the impact. you fell back onto the bed, and he followed you, climbing onto the bed, knees on either side of your legs and his weight a light pressure on your legs. you smacked him hard, so he reached for your hands, his fingers curling around your wrists as he pinned them away, the rings on his fingers digging into your skin. he peered down at you, annoyed, "did you think i'd allow this a second time? one time is fine, but how many times have you hit me?"

you struggled against his grip, but he kept you pinned to the bed, merely watching you thrash with a strange look in his eyes. you said, "fuck off."

"how many times?" his voice was low, annoyed, even as glared down at you.

"i - don't know." the struggling was fruitless. you both knew it. so you stopped, scowling up at him. his grip on your wrists tightened slightly, his eyes dark. you vowed, then, that you would never allow yourself to end up in such a position with him again. you spat, "can you blame me? i do not want this. would you not do the same if you were in my position?"

for a moment hongjoong merely studied you, before he sighed and let go of your wrists. often, you wondered if he even knew how to imagine himself in other's positions.

he rolled off you, sitting cross-legged at your side on the bed as he peered down at you. "contrary to what you seem to believe, i am no monster, y/n. i do not bed anyone without their enthusiastic consent. i will not have you, y/n, until you ask."

his voice was a low thing. kind almost. it settled over all your feelings, and it broke something inside you. you pressed your hands to your face, to your mouth, but you were breathing too hard and too fast, and the ache in your chest became too large, too heavy, too painful. it was everything you'd felt throughout the night. it was everything all at once, and it was too much. you stared at the ceiling - it was taller than yours, more dizzying. the entire room was so much bigger, and you felt so small in hongjoong's too-big bed.

you said, voice muffled by your hand pressed to your mouth to quiet yourself, to hold yourself together, "do you know what my father said to me today?"

hongjoong had already rolled off the bed, had shrugged his torn shirt from his shoulders, and you'd averted your gaze from his bare skin as you waited for a response. acknowledgment. why you needed him to acknowledge your words, you did not know.

after a moment of shuffling, hongjoong stood over you at the edge of the bed, peering down at you. he wore his sleeping robes, and his eyes were a heavy, unreadable thing. you took that as enough of a response. enough acknowledgement.

"he told me to endure. and i thought i could but -" you pressed your other hand to your stinging eyes, your chest heaving. you felt as though your chest would cave in with the heaviness of your father's words and his actions, and the fact that you were here now in hongjoong's bedchambers, tied to him until the end of your days. all for a game of thrones you had no hand in. a searing part of you wished someone would start a war for you, but you were not worth such things.

"you've endured for over six years," hongjoong said, peering down at you, "you would think your father would have kinder words for you after all these years."

you dropped your hand from your stinging eyes and looked up at him, "i do not think fathers know how to be kind."

hongjoong blinked rapidly at you, glancing away briefly, his eyes lingering across the room. then he looked back down at you as he spoke, each word slow, thoughtful, "is this how we reconcile? over our unkind fathers?"

you laughed then, you could not help it. hongjoong's gaze remained fixed on you, the corner of his lip tipping upwards. you said, "we could."

"we could," hongjoong said with a nod.

you'd blinked at him, watching as hongjoong reached out and brushed a finger down your cheek, along your jaw, under your chin.

you stared at him as you said, "we won't though, will we?"

"i'll consider reconciling if you beg me for it," hongjoong smiled softly, his touch along your jaw softer still. "i'll give you all the power you've ever wanted. all you have to do is beg."

his voice was a low thing, and your emotions were on high. his touch drew you in, though you did not want to admit it. in this moment, you'd considered it. for a moment, you considered giving in. who were you, but a creature of dorne in a gilded cage, meant to shadow the future king of westeros. nothing more, nothing less. you were tired, and you did not wish to endure any longer.

but, he wanted you to beg. he wanted you to need him, and you refused. you did not wish to need anyone any longer. not san and storm's end. not your father, or even your brothers.

despite it all, you did not want it.

so you reached up and pushed his hand from your face. hongjoong chuckled, a soft thing that settled under your skin.

he said, "one day, you will."

he said it with such certainty, the itch under your skin and the beast in your belly grew ten times larger. you were never quite so zealous, but every nerve in your body wished for you to prove hongjoong wrong. to have him grovel for you instead.

"let us pray that you live to see such a day," you said. your words were very much treason, but hongjoong did not bother to comment on it. instead, he only grinned, all teeth, and sparkling eyes.

She fixes her gaze to the waiting man, and draws herself to her fullest height. “In the Light of the Seve, today justice will be done. Lord Pike of House Lannister, you are charged with the murder of Lord Jacob Tyrell, and you are charged with treason of not one king, but two: King Thelonious and King Finn. Today your guilt will be judged before the realm and the gods. As Queen of the South and Protector of the Realm, I appoint Lord Marcus Kane, the hand of the queen, and Lord Robert Mertyn, the master of laws, to stand witness to your trial. Between us, we shall decide upon your innocence or guilt, do you understand?” The two men take their places in the seats either side of her.

Pike’s lip curls, but he gives a cursory bow of his head and says, tone syrupy. “I do.”

“And how do you plead?” Lord Marcus asks.

Pike’s eyes trail lazily over them all. “I plead innocent, of course.”

“Of course,” Clarke echoes, unable to keep the venom from her voice. “Then let us begin. The crown calls its first witness, Captain Miller of the City Watch.”

Captain Miller takes his place at the stand set up for the witnesses with a straight back and set jaw. He looks to all the world like the paradigm of all the City Watch should be, strong and serious, his gold cloak shining in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. A small part of Clarke wants to scan the room and find Monty, try to reassure him, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Captain Miller as he bows to her.

“Captain Miller of the City Watch, know that you stand before the judgement of the Seven, who will forgive no lies. Please tell us what you know of Lord Pike’s guilt.” Lord Mertyn asks gruffly, his heavy eyebrows set in a frown.

“Yes, my lord,” He nods his head, his eyes flickering uncertainly to Lord Pike. The accused seems utterly unaffected by his presence, lounging to one side of the pulpit to watch on with lazy arrogance. “Lord Pike paid off many members of the City Watch, including Lord Commander Trent Copper.”

From the side of the room there is an outraged gasp, and Lord Commander Trent steps forwards from his place at the front of the crowd.

“Your majesty, this is proposterous!” He takes a part  stride forwards, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

“Stand down, Lord Commander,” At her words, Ser Roan, Octavia and Princess Emeline all step forwards, reaching for their own weapons, and the Lord Commander stutters at the sight. “If you are innocent you have nothing to fear.” Her eyes go back to Captain Miller. “Captain, what proof do you have?”

“I was charged to guard the door to his solar during their meetings several times, your majesty.” Captain Miller admits, “And later several of my men told me that they had been offered a generous reward for turning a blind eye to Lord Pike’s dealings within the City Watch.”

“To what end did Lord Pike infiltrate the Watch?” Lord Marcus asks, and when Captain Miller hesitates he encourages him. “Speak true, Captain.”

“I believe,” Captain Miller says, “That Lord Pike had King Thelonious killed the night of the riots. He was sent into the city with the Watch to protect him, including Lord Commander Trent Copper.”

“This is madness!” The Lord Commander argues, hotly. “The king was pulled from his horse that night!”

“The rioters should never have been able to get that close!” Captain Miller snaps back, “And there is no one to question, since you killed the men you claimed to have done it!”

“They killed my king!” Trent looks around for support and a murmur ripples through the crowd. “I was doing my duty by killing him.”

“And disposing of loose ends,” Captain Miller adds, darkly and Clarke claps her hands once for silence.

“Thank you for your testimony, Captain Miller. Please take Lord Commander Copper into custody until these proceedings are over.”

The Lord Commander begins to argue angrily, pulling his sword, and she talks over his protests as two of the the castle guards disarm him, dragging his arms behind his back. “If you are innocent you have nothing to fear, Lord Commander.” She settles her gaze on Lord Pike. “The same could be said for you, my Lord.”

“Do I seem scared, my lady?” He asks, meeting her eyes unflinchingly.

She purses her lips, looking away from him as Lord Marcus calls out for the next witness to take the stand. Her eyes widen when she sees Monty taking his place on the stand, his back straight and his eyes so very serious. He is trembling just slightly, but he meets their eyes with confidence when Lord Marcus addresses him.

“What is your name?”

“Monty, my lord.”

“And what do you do, Monty?”

He swallows just once and Clarke follows the bob of his throat, her own dry with fear and surprise. “I’m a whore.”

His words cause a flurry of gasps through the watching crowd. Several ladies reach for their handkerchiefs or their husbands, and the men seem angry and mortified, but Lord Marcus hushes them all.

“And where do you work, Monty?” There is a kindness to his voice and to his eyes that seems to warm Monty to him and the boy relaxes just a little as he speaks.

“The Red Door on the Street of Silk, my lord.”

From the corner of her eye Clarke can see that Lord Pike is watching Monty with some interest. There is no fear to his eyes, but there is a curiosity, and Clarke wishes she could rip Monty away from his slimy gaze.

“Who did you entertain there, boy?” Lord Robert interrupts, gruffly.

Monty shifts from foot to foot uncertainly. “All manner of men and women, my lord. But several of my clients were… men of importance in the city.”

“Men of importance,” Lord Marcus echoes. “Did you ever learn anything of Lord Pike’s wrongdoings while you were with these men?”

“I did, my lord.” Monty shoots a glance at Lord Pike, but the Lannister only offers him an unsettling smile in return. “It isn’t worth my life to tell you who I was entertaining, but they told me things about Lord Pike’s business with them. They said he had weapons from the castle sent to some of the most heinous villains in the city and instructed them to stir up unrest and cause trouble.” The watching crowd look between each other, but Lord Robert fixes Monty with a suspicious gaze.

“Why would they tell you these things?”

Monty flushes, but squares his jaw and answers. “Men like to talk when they’re happy, my lord.”

A louder outcry follows his words, and Lord Robert turns puce. A low, lazy laugh escapes Lord Pike, and Clarke fixes him with a contemptuous gaze.

“What is so amusing, Lord Pike?”

Pike smiles up at her, bowing his head mockingly. “Excuse me, Lady Clarke, I am just surprised that any self respecting lord would believe the word of a common whore over the word of an honoured lord.”

“It seems to me, Lord Pike,” Lord Marcus addresses him coldly, “That this boy has far more honour than you do.” He turns back to Monty, his tone softening. “Can anyone vouch for you?”

“Ask anyone,” There is a shadow to Monty’s voice, “They’ll tell you I’ve worked there since I was a boy.”

“Thank you,” Lord Marcus waves his hand. “Thank you for your honesty Monty, you are excused.” As Monty gladly steps off the witness stand, Lord Marcus continues. “The crown would call its next witness, Grand Maester Orrin.”

The waiting crowd rustle as they turn to watch the old maester push himself from his seat and walk to the witness’s stand, leaning heavily on his cane. The long chain that he wears around his neck, bearing the many links of his status, jangles softly, the only noise in the otherwise silent hall, and it seems as if every eye in the room is upon him as steps onto the witness stand.

“Thank you for joining us today, Grand Maester,” Clarke begins, trying to shake away the shock that still lingers with her after Monty’s testimony.  “You treated all three of the men Lord Pike is accused of murdering, isn’t that right?”

“I did, your majesty,” Maester Orrin casts a hard glance at the accused, who does not seem concerned by his presence.

“Could you tell us how they died, please Grand Maester?”

“Of course your majesty,” With some shuffling, Maester Orrin pulls a sheaf of parchment from inside his robe and smooths them out, peering down at his own scrawling handwriting. “To begin with the easiest case, King Thelonious died after he was pulled from his horse and beaten to death by rioters in the streets.”

“And how could I have caused that, Grand Maester?” Lord Pike challenges, “Ask anyone, I was in the castle throughout the riots, protecting the women and children, like Lady Clarke.”

Clarke bristles, fighting against her temper to say something, but Lord Marcus beats her to it, saying coolly, “Your involvement with the riots has already been established, Lord Pike.”

“By a whore and a lying, upstart Captain,” He shoots back.

“You are only worsening the case against yourself, my lord,” Clarke answers, shortly. “Please continue, Grand Maester.”

Maester Orrin nods, clearing his throat. “His majesty was clearly killed by injuries with heavy, sharp weapons, the sort which you would not imagine ordinary peasants to have. Now King Finn,” The words send a shot of pain through her heart, and Clarke has to swallow heavy when he says. “King Finn was killed by an assassin in his bedchamber,” He hesitates, glancing at Clarke. “As of course, you already know, your majesty.”

The memory of Finn’s cold body lying beside hers, her finger slippery with his blood, swims before her, momentarily so vivid she feels she might retch.

“I do,” She agrees, and her voice shakes just slightly.

“Finally, it was the first murder, of your father Lord Jacob, which puzzled me the most your majesty.” Maester Orrin continues, “He was a generally healthy man, so when he began to complain of stomach pains I thought nothing of it and prescribed him a remedy. Little did I know that that remedy was being tampered with, and he was in fact poisoned by Tears of Lys, an expensive and rare poison indeed.”

“Poison and assassins,” Lord Pike says, sharply mocking. “Terrible things, but how am I to be blamed for them?”

“A good question, my lord.” Maester Orrin answers, “I would like to bring another witness out, your majesty.”

“By all means, Grand Maester,” She gestures, and watches on as he beckons forwards Glenn.

The boy had been astoundingly easy to find- it seems he had taken her threat seriously- and now he appears, pale and shaking, to stand before them. He looks as if he’s about to be sick, sweat on his brow and darkening the pits of his tunic, and he cannot draw his eyes from the floor. Her fingers pick at a loose piece of thread unravelling from the sleeve of his tunic so habitually that Clarke is sure that he will have unravelled the entire thing by the end of the trial. For a moment she feels a flash of sympathy for him- before her is only a boy, utterly terrified and alone in the world, and her heart softens until Grand Maester prompts the boy to speak.

“Tell the queen and her lords what you told me, boy.”

Glenn opens his mouth, but for a few awful seconds no sound comes out. Clarke risks a glance at Lord Pike and feels a thrill to see that his brows have tightened just a little, the corners of his mouth twisting downwards in displeasure as he watches Glenn stumble and fumble for words.

“Speak, boy.” Lord Robert, clearly displeased with all of the hesitation and uncertainty, snaps.

The words seem to jolt Glenn from his frightened stupor, because he sets his gaze to the steps of the dais, unable to meet their eyes, and says, voice low and shaking. “I poisoned Lord Tyrell, your majesty.”

An eruption of outrage comes from the crowd watching in the stands. Lord Tyrell had been much loved throughout the land and his death had been so mysterious that these words send a spark through them. Furious curses are sent Glenn’s way and the sound of swords being drawn makes the boy quiver where he stands, his eyes widening with fear. He sends an anxious glance at his old master, but Grand Maester Orrin offers no sympathy.

“How is that possible?” Lord Robert asks, his eyes narrowing, “Lord Tyrell was well protected.”

“I- I worked as Maester Orrin’s apprentice and delivered Lord Tyrell has medicine every day. When the time came, I swapped the vials for the ones given to me.” Glenn confesses, tripping over his words.

“Vials of poison,” Lord Marcus clarifies, and Glenn nods fearfully.

“And who gave you these vials?” Clarke asks, and her voice is so cold that she barely recognises it.

There is a moment of silence, so dense that it feels like a humming in her ears, as the whole hall holds its breath.

“Lord Pike,” Glenn speaks as quickly as possible, almost rigid with fear. “Lord Pike gave them to me, I swear it.”

All eyes turn to the accused lord, and when Clarke’s join them, she finds that any sense of unease has been wiped from the Lannister’s expression. If anything he looks amused by proceedings, like he’s watching a mummer’s farce from overseas.

“Thank you for your honesty Glenn,” She looks down on him and tries to summon the empathy she knows her father would have, but the forgiveness that came so easily to him is hard to reach for when she thinks of his dead body lying in state in the Great Sept. “You have confessed to the murder of a great lord, a great man. For this the punishment should be death.” Glenn’s knees seem to shake, his mouth dropping open in protest, but she cuts through him before he can say anything. “But for your part in proving Lord Pike’s villainy, you will be sent to the Wall, to serve your queen for the rest of your life.”

Glenn seems to slump with relief, and Clarke settles back upon the Iron Throne to watch as he is escorted from the hall by two guards. Her gaze is caught by movement, and she watches, pressing her lips together with irritation, as Lord Pike straightens himself out and turns to address the room.

“Is this what justice is under Clarke Tyrell’s rule? A parade of phony witnesses brought before the crowds to fool them into compliance?” He lifts his hands, gesturing to the room and then to himself. “Can a man no longer defend himself? Is justice merely a farce in our new land?”

No one dares to speak, but as people begin to exchange looks Clarke knows that she must do something before Pike can ruin all of her carefully laid plans.

She plasters her most benign, innocent smile to her face and says, lightly. “Of course not, Lord Pike, you will be given the chance to speak.”

He turns to look at her slowly, like a hunter laying its eyes upon its prey. “May I speak now, Lady Clarke?” He asks and his tone reflects hers so perfectly that she feels as if she is looking in a mirror.

There is nothing she can say but: “Of course, Lord Pike.”

Lord Pike turns, placing his hands behind his back and looking out upon the people of the south. While he is the one in chains, it is they who are the captive audience now. Surely this trial will be remembered for years to come, and written down by thousands of maesters. One thing they will remember is that when the time came to plead his innocence Lord Pike turned to look at the people of the city, rather than the woman he did not acknowledge as his queen.

“Lords and ladies,” His eyes roam across the hall, seeming to pause on every person there. “Some of you are friends, some of you would surely like to see Lady Clarke put my head on a spike… but I am sure you all would like to see justice done for the deaths of our two beloved kings and Lord Tyrell. Unfortunately I cannot offer you that.” He turns to glance back at the throne and his expression is soft with sympathy and pity.

“Lady Clarke may have been a good woman once, but she is a woman nonetheless. Her head can be easily swayed by the whisperings of snakes in her ear, especially when she is weak with grief.” The words bring fury rushing to her heart like a firestorm, consuming everything in its wake, and she fights to keep her expression as impassive and cool as possible. “The claims put forward here today could only be believed by something touched by evil or manipulated by those around them.”

He gestures to the Grand Maester who is still at the stand. “Assassins and poisons you say Grand Maester. What proof do you have that it was I who sent these assassins? And poison… it seems to me that you have instructed your boy- who I have never seen before- to name me as the culprit when in fact it was you who had access to Lord Tyrell’s drafts.”

“Glenn swore before the gods.” Grand Maester Orrin reminds him sharply and Lord Pike gives half a shrug.

“I believe in the gods as much as any Septa, Grand Maester, but I may forsake them if I was asked to speak against the queen before her entire court, army, and Queensguard.”

The watching crowd murmur softly, glances exchanged, and it is as if Clarke can see the persuasive power of Pike’s words drifting through them like smoke.

“And who corroborates these lies?” Pike gestures broadly to where Captain Miller and Monty stand, “An upstart captain from Flea Bottom and a cheap whore from the Street of Silk. You would not want your wives or daughters near these men and yet today their word is treated as sacred.”

Glances are cast in the direction of the two witnesses, and Clarke sees Monty shrink back under the attention. Anger blushes through her, and it is all she can do not to stand and order Pike beheaded there and then.

“I have always been loyal to this realm,” Pike continues, “It is why I was named Hand of the King to both King Thelonious and King Finn. They knew that I would put the realm over all else.” Here his voice rises with passion, and even Clarke feels inclined to believe him. “This land is where my ancestors first sewed the fields and fished the seas. When King Thelonious asked us to fight against the northern uprising the Lannisters were proud to go into battle and my sons laid down their lives for their king, as so many others did.” There is a rumble of agreement, and here he turns to face Clarke again. There is a slant of something like fury and desperation in his eyes which turns her blood cold. “I am loyal to this land, Lady Clarke, and the good people of Westeros will see that, even if you do not.”

Voices, their owners invisible in the crowds, shout out their agreement, and the rumbling conversations rise to a full hubbub of debate and conversation, as people argue amongst themselves. The hall descends into chaos, and when Clarke glances at Lord Marcus, she sees that he too is alarmed at how quickly this has tumbled out of their careful grasp. They had underestimated the power of Pike’s words, and even when Clarke stands to call for attention there is no quiet.

Finally, Clarke glances at Octavia, who nods once and takes the staff of the waiting footman to bang against the floor so loudly that most people are startled into silence. Lord Pike watches these proceedings with the smug expression of a cat who has caught a mouse, and when he meets Clarke’s gaze there is no fear in his eyes any more.

“The council will take a brief break to consider all that Lord Pike has said.” Clarke calls above the noise, and with a nod of her head Pike is seized by the arms by Roan and Emeline, and dragged back to the Black Cells.

---

Bellamy has never before been to the Black Cells. He had heard whispers in his time in Kings Landing that the cells were so cold they would freeze a man to death, but not before the blindness sent him into madness. When he died, rats the size of fat pigeons would scurry from the walls and feast on his corpse, so that by the time the door was next opened there was nothing left of him for the guards to carry away. He thinks of these stories as he sits in his cell, his back pressed up against the cold wall and his feet tucked beneath him. Every time he hears the scurry of tiny feet, he flinches away, certain that sharp teeth are about to sink into his flesh. He has been in utter darkness since he was dragged down to his cell by one of the Queensguards. Time moves strangely in the darkness, and it feels as if he has been here for days, though he’s sure that cannot be true because he feels no hunger or thirst, only dread.

What will the southern queen do with him now he is here, so firmly in her grasp? Bellamy has never been a man for wild dreams and fantasies, and his sensible, soldier’s mind tells him that if he ever sees the light of day again, it will only last for as long as it takes to get to the hangman’s noose. He has always been a Lannister man and done his duty for his house. He tries to tell himself that this is only the same, and that Pike will surely find a way to save him, one of his most loyal men, once he is found innocent, but there is a wriggling uncertainty that burrows in his gut.

When keys rattle in the door, he bolts upright as far as he can with the chains attaching him to the wall. Outside, the hallway is lit with blazing torches, so when the door swings open the crack of light that shines in is painfully blinding. He squints, turning his head away a little, and through bleary eyes he can make out the two white cloaked forms. One is the hulking, broad shouldered man who had nearly caught him trying to free Lord Pike, and the other, to his horror, is Octavia, her expression cold and distant. The man places a torch in the sconce in the wall, casting the dank, ugly little cell in its light, and Octavia steps back to allow the queen into the room.

Queen Clarke looks down upon him and gives a small, soft smile which sits utterly incongruously to her sparkling crown and the stench of death that lingers around them.

“Bellamy,” She greets him, with a nod, “I hope your stay here hasn’t been too unpleasant so far.”

“Do you?” He manages to ask, his voice hoarse, and he thinks he sees something slip away in her expression, a note of real humour in her words.

“Not really. The Black Cells aren’t supposed to be a pleasure house, after all.”

“Why are you here?” He scowls up at her, struggling uselessly against his bonds. His eyes flicker to Octavia. “Are you just here to taunt me?”

“Of course not Bellamy,” Queen Clarke shakes her head, “I have far more important things to do with my time.”

“Then what?” He snaps, and the hulking knight glowers down at him, his hand going to his sword.

“Show some respect, boy.”

“No, no,” Queen Clarke holds up a delicate hand, “I understand his question, I would want to know as well.” She steps further into the cell and Octavia swings the door shut behind her.

While the darkness had made this cell seem overwhelmingly cavernous, with the light of the torch bouncing from the four walls, and the three imposing figures stood above him, it seems to Bellamy like the smallest space in all of Westeros.

“You’re a smart man Bellamy, and a soldier too, so I’m sure you’re under no illusion that I will allow you to leave this cell alive.” Ice runs through Bellamy’s veins at her words, but he fights to keep the fear from his face. “But you’re young yet, your whole life is ahead of you,” She looks down at him, considering, “You’re a fair looking man, I’m sure many a pretty girl would like to be your wife. She could give you strong sons to take care of you as you grow old. And you must have some skill with a sword to be so trusted by Lord Pike, with talent and hardwork you could rise up far, have a nice home and lands of your own. Do you really want to give all of that up for a man as evil as Lord Pike?”

“He is not evil, he’s a good man,” Bellamy bites back and she nods, considering his words carefully.

A moment of silence passes between them, and then she speaks again, more softly.

“What about your sister?” The words send a bolt to Bellamy’s heart and he can’t help but glance at Octavia. He thinks he sees a twitch in her expression as well, a momentary heartbreak flickering across her face, and has to shut his eyes as pain washes through him. “Your only family, who you’ve been searching for all of your life. Do you really want to lose her now? Have you thought about what this will do to her, your little sister?”

He opens his eyes and meets Octavia’s gaze again, only to find her looking at him with a sheen of tears to her eyes.

“Bellamy,” Her voice breaks over his name, “Please…”

“I-” Bellamy’s breath catches in his throat and for a moment all he can see is Octavia, with bare feet and long, tangled hair, chasing him along the Flint Cliffs and squealing when he lifts her into the air and spins her round. He squeezes his eyes shut again, shaking his head. “No, no I can’t. Lord Pike lifted me from the dirt, he made me a man.”

“ You made you a man, Bellamy!” Octavia explodes, furiously. “Lord Pike doesn’t care about what happens to you, he’s a monster!”

“He does care about me!” Bellamy argues, “I’m his right hand man, he trusts me to-” he almost bites his tongue off, hesitating over his words, but it’s enough to catch Queen Clarke’s attention.

“Trusts you to do what, Bellamy?” When he shakes his head she sighs, a note of frustration in her voice. “Alright, we’ll do this the difficult way.” She nods to the other Queensguard, but when he approaches Bellamy, he doesn’t strike him as expected.

Instead, he frees Bellamy from the wall, dragging him to his feet and holding him up when he stumbles. His hands are cuffed behind him back, and at Clarke’s nod, a thick gag is stuffed into his mouth. He bites down around the leather and cloth, bracing himself for what’s to come as he is dragged from his cell.

“You don’t need to speak for this, only listen.” Queen Clarke throws over her shoulder as she leads the way down the winding corridors.

Bellamy peers around for an escape, but the walls are thick, with no windows and no door to the outside world in sight. They pause outside a cell that seems identical to his, and the hulking Queensguard holds him firmly in place, the sharp press of a dagger appearing at his neck.

“Remember,” Clarke says lightly. “You don’t need to speak, just listen.”

He watches on with wide eyes as she fishes a chain from her cleavage, on the end of which hangs a key. As she unlocks the cell door he knows that this, if nothing else, means that he will either join her or not live to see another morning. She wouldn’t risk showing him this secret if she weren’t sure he wouldn’t be a liability in the future. The thought makes the blade against his throat seem suddenly sharper.

Queen Clarke steps into the cell, and out of sight, Octavia following with her hand on the pommel of her sword. “My lord, I hope you’re well after the morning’s excitement.”

“Perfectly well, Lady Clarke,” Lord Pike’s voice comes from the cell and Bellamy’s brows tighten, wondering what Lady Clarke is playing at. “I would be obliged if you would unlock my cuffs though.”

“And allow you to put your hands around my neck?” She counters, lightly. “I think not, although…” She pauses, as if considering, “That isn’t really your style, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Lord Pike does not sound as fervent as Bellamy would have expected. “I’m no killer.”

“Our witnesses say differently,” She counters.

“Your witnesses?” He hears Lord Pike laugh once, a harsh, sarcastic sound. “As I so easily proved on the stand, your witnesses are nothing but a mad old man and two low lives. Rest assured, when I get out of here I will make sure that your two little Flea Bottom friends are found at the bottom of the Bay of Blackwater.”

The words send a shiver through Bellamy’s spine, and he listens more closely as Lady Clarke answers.

“I thought you were no killer?”

“Of course I’m not, they’ll slip and fall one day, with rocks tied to their ankles.”

“Accidents and assassins and poison,” Lady Clarke’s voice has taken on a hard line. “Is that how you rose to the top, Pike? Not off your own merit, I’m sure.”

“I got where I am today because I’m loyal to my house and the people of Westeros,” Lord Pike answers and for the first time he seems aggravated. “Your fool father was too fair, Thelonious too soft after his wife died. And your beloved husband…” Here he laughs, “Little more than an empty head to be filled with ideas. It’s a shame you recognised that too, or maybe he would still be alive now.”

“So you did kill them?” Clarke asks, and her voice is shaking just a little. “When they got in your way or became too difficult to manipulate? You did all of this for the throne?”

“The throne?” Pike laughs again, “You think that ugly iron chair gives you power, girl? It doesn’t, the true power is always behind the throne.” He pauses, “Although I think the person controlling you has a throne of her own. I should have seen that earlier.”

“So, this was for power?” Clarke ignores his accusation. “You wanted to take back the north and have control over all seven kingdoms?”

“We are weaker apart,” He answers, seriously, “And that Stark girl has no right to sit on her own throne. You want to talk about power for the sake of power, look only to them. Her father couldn’t stand being controlled by southerners, so he started a war that killed thousands of good men, good soldiers.”

“Including your sons,” Lady Clarke’s voice has dropped, and Bellamy has to strain to hear her, “That’s why you wanted to take back the north.”

“For the good of the land.” Lord Pike says, shortly.

“And the Iron Bank helped you because they saw you had the most money to offer them, they sent assassins to kill me and kill the king, on your orders.”

“I was impressed when you escaped.” Pike admits, “You seem to have something to you Lady Clarke, an innate skill for surviving, though it won’t help you when I put your head on a spike.”

The words send a rush of sickness through Bellamy’s body, shivering down his spine and settling in his gut.

“You seem convinced you’ll survive,” She observes, “If you confess to your crimes now, I may consider sparing your life.” “

And why would I do that?”

“I have Bellamy Blake, for starters.” Bellamy’s eyes widen at the sound of her admission.

There is a moment of silence, and Bellamy wishes more than anything else that he could see Pike’s expression. Finally, he speaks.

“Bellamy Blake.” He rolls the words over his tongue, weighing them up. “Why would I care about him?”

“From what I hear he’s one of your most trusted men. Surely you wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.” Lady Clarke returns and when Pike laughs again, the sound that will follow Bellamy to his grave, he feels like he might vomit.

“Oh, Lady Clarke, I ridded myself of my weaknesses long ago. Do what you want with Blake, I don’t care.”

The words are like a strike to the stomach, and he is mortified to feel tears rising at the back of his throat. They continue to speak, but he doesn’t hear what they say. Behind his eyes, every interaction he has ever had with Lord Pike floods through him, and he sees them all so differently now. Did Lord Pike truly think nothing of him? When Bellamy crossed half the world on his orders, keeping himself hidden and risking his life in the process, was there nothing in Pike’s congratulations, his friendly welcome on his return and the goblet of mead they shared? Bellamy slackens in Roan’s grip, dread and despair and fury warring in his heart. When Lady Clarke steps from the cell and meets his eyes, he nods just once.

---

“Lady Tyrell, thank you for joining us today,” The tone that Lord Marcus uses with Clarke’s mother is just a touch too soft for the current proceedings, and based on the glance that Clarke shoots him, Lexa knows that Clarke must think so too.

The trial is stretching on into the afternoon, after an arduous two hour break which seemed to go on forever to Lexa. The castle is so filled with nobles, here to witness the trial, that she was forced to retire to her chambers for even an ounce of peace, where she had paced the room like a caged beast. The expression on Clarke’s face when they had recessed told her that the southern queen did not need her company, but she still longs to be at Clarke’s side, longs to know what is going on.

Instead, she is stuck watching from the crowds like the rest of the nobles in the city, waiting with baited breath as Lady Tyrell clears her throat and nods.

Lexa has only seen Lady Tyrell once since she arrived in Kings Landing, a cursory meeting in which they exchanged pleasantries and very little else. Perhaps Clarke’s mother was always a serious woman, but Lexa expects that the events of the last few months have made her more serious, and more cautious still, her eyes hard and her heart harder.

“You watched your lord husband’s health deteriorate, is that right?” Lord Marcus asks, some of the softness gone from his words now. “And it was you who seeked Grand Maester Orrin’s help on his behalf?”

“I did,” Lady Tyrell nods once, and the shadow of grief on her face says more than her words ever could. “My husband was not a man who sought help easily, so I asked Grand Master Orrin to speak to him.”

“Was Lord Tyrell prone to illness?”

“Not at all,” She shakes her head, “I have some knowledge of healing, from my own mother, and I know that my husband was a well man.”

“And it was this that made you first suspect your husband had been poisoned,” Lord Marcus supplies. “This was why you sought my help in the Eyrie?”

“It was,” Lady Tyrell confirms, “I knew that something had happened to Jacob, I knew his death was suspicious, so I sought help where I knew I would be safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell others of your suspicions, Lady Tyrell?” Lord Robert Mertyn cuts in, and Lexa watches as Clarke’s expression pinches a little with frustration.

Lady Tyrell hesitates, her eyes flickering to Clarke for just a moment. Lexa can see that she is considering her words carefully, “I… am like any other mother, my lord, I cannot help but worry for my child’s safety. The queen was here in Kings Landing, within Lord Pike’s grip, and I feared what he would do to her if I told anyone else.”

“May I ask the witness a question, my lord?” Lord Pike interjects. He has come back to the stand still buoyant on his previous victory, and now he lounges against the stand as if he does not have chains around his wrists.

Lord Marcus fixes him with a hard stare, and a pregnant pause passes, before finally he allows, grudgingly. “You may, Lord Pike, but mind your tongue.”

“I always do,” He smiles wanly. “Lady Tyrell, did you ever see your husband and I fight? Outside of the arguments and debates of the King’s Council, of course.”

Lady Tyrell’s lips press together in an expression eerily reminiscent of her daughter. “No, though I knew you were not fond of each other.”

“That does not make a murderer, Lady Tyrell.” Lord Pike looks out at the watching nobles. “I would dare say many of us have men we are not fond of, but we wouldn’t take their life.”

“And yet it is you who has most prospered from my husband’s death.” Lady Tyrell answers, sharply.

“Enough.” It is Clarke who cuts through their words, “You have badgered the witness enough, Lord Pike. Thank you, Lady Tyrell, you may step down.”

It is clear from the frustration in Clarke’s expression that this trial is not going as smoothly as she had hoped. Lexa is quietly impressed at Lord Pike’s charms, which she had previously underestimated. She realises now, belatedly, that a man such as him could not have done all that he has without a tremendous amount of skill and cunning, and when she thinks of Lord Bolton sitting at her table, all while plotting against her, her skin crawls. Soon, she knows, she will have to return to Winterfell and ensure that the north is firmly in her grip. Now, she looks up as Clarke herself calls forwards their next witness, and her eyes widen when a man steps through the doors, flanked by two guards.

He looks familiar, though she is sure she doesn’t know him, and the red and gold lion on his surcoat draws all eyes in the room. Judging by Lord Pike’s reaction she is not the only person who is surprised; the Lannister lord’s brows crease darkly, a shadow of fury and fear passing over his expression.

Beside her, Anya stiffens, and when Lexa glances to meet her gaze curiously, Anya murmurs. “That is Octavia’s brother. I met him only last night.”

Lexa’s eyes only widen further, and when she looks back to the man she can see the similarity to Octavia in the colour of his eyes and the press of his lips.

Before she can ask anything more, Clarke says. “Bellamy Blake, you are Lord Pike’s man’s, are you not?”

“I am, your majesty,” Blake agrees, after a moment of hesitation, but he does not spare a glance for his former master.

“And you are choosing to break his trust now?” Lord Robert asks, suspicion in his tone.

Bellamy Blake swallows uncertainly, “Lord Pike has shown himself to be a villain, my lord.”

Lord Pike makes a soft sound, close to a scoff, but Clarke ignores him completely.

“Bellamy, what do you know of Lord Pike’s treachery?” Bellamy Blake takes a deep breath, and Lexa knows that everyone is waiting to hear what he will say; even Lord Pike seems to be watching with baited breath, though Bellamy does not spare him a glance.

“Lord Pike,” He says at last, “Plotted to kill both King Thelonious and King Finn, and poisoned Lord Tyrell.”

“And how do you know this?” Lord Marcus asks into the deafening silence that follows his words.

“Because I helped him, my lord.”

The uproar that follows Bellamy’s words is enough to make Honour growl at her side, and send Liberty and Patience pacing forwards, their hackles raised. Clarke holds her hand up, and Lexa watches as the hall falls into silence again.

“I know this is distressing,” Clarke speaks, her voice more soothing now. “But we must hear what Bellamy Blake has to say.” She turns back to him. “Bellamy, how did you help Lord Pike?”

“I-” Bellamy stumbles and for a moment Lexa thinks he will cower and revoke his statement, but then he squares his shoulders and his hands clasp behind his back, like the soldier she is sure he is. “I did many things, your majesty, but the most important I think is my business in Braavos.”

“In Braavos?”

“I took large sums of Lannister gold to the Faceless Men in Braavos, and paid them on Lord Pike’s behalf to kill King Finn. Before that, I went to Braavos on Lord Pike’s command to buy Tears of Lys to poison your father.”

“I see, and were you aware of your crimes, Bellamy?” Clarke asks, severely, and Bellamy hangs his head.

“I knew that the Faceless Men could not be used for any good purpose, your majesty, but I didn’t know that Lord Pike would dare to kill the king.”

“Two kings!” Lord Robert interjects, and there is a murmuring of agreement from the crowds which Clarke allows to run its course before speaking again. Bellamy’s words prick at Lexa’s mind, needling at her brain, and her brows crease just a little as she considers them.

“You are wise to come before us now Bellamy, and your testimony is very valuable.” She considers him for a moment, gazing down at him thoughtfully. “But you did aid in the killing of three great men.”

Bellamy tenses at her words and his eyes dart up to her nervously. “I did,” He finally admits, reluctantly.

“You have proven yourself loyal and reliable, Bellamy.” Clarke looks out at her watching populace and offers them a smile as soft as sunshine. “And the Mother and the Maiden teach us to forgive those who have wronged us. Therefore, I am pardoning you of your crimes and naming you a Gold Cloak.” There is a rumble of disagreement from the crowds, but this time Clarke speaks above them, her voice hardening. “You will report directly to Captain Miller, and work to protect the city that you have betrayed. Mark my words, if you place a toe out of line you will find your head up on  the battlements beside your old master’s.”

Bellamy seems to almost shrink with relief, his shoulders slouching and his breath leaving him in one long sigh. “Yes, your majesty. Thank you.”

“How can you allow this man to go free if you truly believe what he says?” Lord Pike demands, and Lexa watches, her eyes widening, as Clarke fixes him with a furious gaze. In this moment she looks everything like the fearsome queens of old, and Lexa feels her skin prickle at the sight.

“You will be silent, Lord Pike. I will not have a traitor and a murderer questioning my justice.”

“An accused traitor,” Lord Pike fires back, “You have not yet proven me guilty.”

“But we soon will.” Clarke answers him, her voice low with promise, and Lexa watches on with bated breath as she nods to a waiting Queensguard.

The man bows his head, and then ushers forward a figure from the shadows. A gasp ripples through the crowd as Prince Wells steps into the light and makes his way up to the dias. The city knew, of course, that their beloved prince had returned, but no one has caught a glance of him since he stepped foot through the castle doors. Even Lexa has yet to meet the man formally, though she has heard tell of him from Clarke, and her eyes venture over him as hungrily as the rest of the watching audiences’.

She has not seen Prince Wells since before the war, before she became queen of her own lands. She had only met him a handful of times, when she had accompanied her father down to Kings Landing for summits and celebrations, and always she had seen him as a quiet and serious boy, content to listen and watch rather they force himself to the fore as so many of his contemporaries had. Now, he seems much changed, still thin from his time in captivity, with longer hair and darker eyes.

“Prince Wells, thank you for joining us.” Clarke welcomes him, ignoring the murmurs and muttering from the watching nobles, but noting the way that Pike’s brows narrow furiously. “Please tell us what you know of Lord Pike’s treachery.”

Prince Wells nods once, and then, barely sparing a glance at Pike, recounts his story of blackmail and kidnapping in a clear, strong voice that rings through the otherwise silent hall. Lexa watches the nobles glance at one another in astonishment, sees women reach for handkerchiefs and smelling salts when Prince Wells speaks of his hasty marriage, his child and his doomed love for a girl from Flea Bottom, and men reach for their swords when he tells of blackmail and imprisonment. By the time he has finished speaking Pike is shaking his head, his expression one of pity and sadness.

“Wells, my dear boy,” He makes as if to reach out and though the man is chained and they are yards apart, Prince Wells flinches back. “You cannot know how happy I am to see you, I knew it was odd that you fled the capital but I never thought…” He trails off. “If only your father could see you now.”

“Don’t say a word about my father,” Prince Wells’ voice is tight with anguish, and even Lexa feels her heart twinge for the boy.

“Wells, I wish you had asked to see me before you came up here,” Pike sighs, like a woebegotten father, “I cannot say how Lady Clarke has tricked you into believing this, but her feminine wiles have proven themselves against stronger men.”

“I have not been tricked,” Wells answers, forcefully. “I may have been drugged but I remember the dungeons, I remember you pressing that quill into my hands and forcing me to sign away my life.”

“Thank you for your testimony, Prince Wells,” Clarke stands, and the crown upon her head sparkles in the light of the sun. “We have heard all of our testimonies, unless anyone would like to step forward to speak in Lord Pike’s defense?” There is a deafening silence, and Lexa thinks she sees the corner of Clarke’s mouth twitch with amusement. “I thought not. Lord Pike, is there anything you wish to say?”

Pike’s resentful, furious gaze is pounding into Clarke, his lips curled with disgust, and when he finally turns to face the waiting crowd it is a different man who speaks.

“You are all fools if you think this rein will come to anything good.” He warns them all, his voice heavy with emotion. “Your queen, your virgin mother, is not the woman you think she is. The darkness of the Crone follows her and it will come for all of you if you allow her to stay on the throne. She will lead you into times as never seen before- already she is in cahoots with the northern queen! She will not rest until what is left of the south is destroyed, and you all with it!”

He breaks off, his breath heaving, and Clarke intones cooly.

“As riveting as that is, Lord Pike, we have yet to decide on your guilt.” Pike turns to face her, almost snarling with  his fury. “Lord Marcus, your decision?”

“Guilty, your majesty.”

“And you, Lord Robert?”

“Born guilty, your majesty!”

“I too find you guilty, Lord Pike.” Clarke gazes down upon him and it is as if she is seeing him from a great height, far away from his lies and terror. “I sentence you to death.”

Her Hogwarts letter arrives on the morning of July First, at 8:00 on the dot, delivered by a prissy red owl Jon says he recognizes as belonging to Professor Longbottom.

“Head of Hufflepuff? With the greenhouses?” Cat whispers under her breath, aghast. “Oh, Ned, I’m not sure Sansa will do well with so much...dirt.”

“Aren’t they a soft sort, Hufflepuffs?” Old Nan rasps from the corner. It’s 8:12, and Sansa is still exulting over her letter upstairs with Arya. The joy and relief is still fresh, and there’s none of the self-important pride she’s been indulging in lately, Jon notices. Nan’s still grumbling on about stereotypes. “Too chummy with the house elves, too, in my day. Spent their afternoons skiving off sports practice for tarts and candies.”

Cat turns to Ned with panic in her eyes. “She does love pastries, Ned. Do you think they--Professor Granger--know that about her? Already?”

Ned sighs heavily and folds up his copy of the Daily Prophet. “My dear Old Nan, Hufflepuffs are loyal and reliable friends. Kitty, my love, there’s worse things in the world than a love of gardening.” His eyes snag on Jon at the far end of the breakfast table, and his mouth mouth twitches into a small smile. “In fact, it’s thanks to our loyal, faithful Lyanna that we have apples and peaches for snacks and jam each year.”

Hufflepuff would’ve been fine. Ravenclaw, a delightful surprise.

But none of them had expected-- anticipated-- contemplated--