They latch onto others, use them to get the outcome that they need. Two blind children who barely pass for twelve and tell others they are thirteen because thirteen can get you by and New York City is the world, the stage of independence.Â
We're on our way to school, they say, with smiles they've learned to use for others. (For each other it is a smile in the voice because that is how they see.) We're just buying Mom some bread, she's sick.
(For all of their independence, they still must rely.)Â
Echolocation (is they key to our evolution) is how they get around, how they see, clucking their tongues and listening and knowing and it is science.Â
It is science and they lie.
What else is there to do but to lie? To themselves, most of all.Â
We ran, they say. Mom didn't want us so we ran.Â
And isn't it the most common story? Over and over and over again, a parent afraid of their child, shutting the door behind the back of the kid who r u n s because it is the safest route. Because Mom did not want them, because Dad hated them, because they couldn't stand living with hate.
And they lie. Two blind children who took off on their own to get away from hate, who lived on the streets for three days before making it to the train they took upstate.
AÂ LIE.Â
Because reality is too much. Reality is a mother's once kind hands shoving them onto a train with two tickets. Reality is Mom putting them on that train herself. Reality is the words 'You scare me, and I can't have you in this house while I"m pregnant.'Â
Reality is knowing Mom did the equivalent of leaving them at a bus station a week ago, and that the homelessness came after.Â
And they don't know what to do.Â
Reality is no control and ghosts as their guides. Â
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She is limbs and blue eyes and nimble fingers, and she makes a deal with the devil. The devil is a gorgeous lie, an ever moving picture with dark hair and sapphire eyes who speaks words like promises, are promises, because he speaks them.Â
The devil is a child, and so is she.
âYouâll have victory,â He says, and she is only four.
The devil is six years old, and she loves him, because he is her brother.
-
The devil with the sapphire eyes is still a never ending picture of beautiful colors. He grows, and she grows, and he is nine years old and that makes her seven. He crouches by her side on the streets, helps her pick through the litter and the dirt. Thereâs not a blade of grass in sight and there never has been, not in District Eight.
They find sewing needles in the dirt and hoard them, and the devil teaches her how to make things die.
âYou have to stab them right, right in the right spots, and then they go to sleep forever.â
Duvie asks him if itâs like the girls and boys on TV, who donât go to sleep, but die. Sheâs watched since she was four years old, watched with her neighbors and her mother, tucked against her motherâs side. Sheâs watched because they all do, because thereâs nothing else to do, and because her brother the devil said she would have victory.
Her brother says yes.
Itâs exactly like that.
-
The devil is ten and she is eight, and she comes to awareness in the same way that tributes in the Games stumble upon their deaths â quickly, and without any warning â a violent eruption of knowledge, of the fact that they are going to die, and it is going to be at the hands of the tribute in front of them.
Duvie is eight years old when she realizes that her brother wants her to die.
Theyâve shared everything since they were born, born on the same day two years apart so that nothing has ever been separate. Twins with different ages, a murderous game in black and red. They donât have much on their birthdays, and they always share the present.
People in the district talk. They say that there is something wrong with Loom Vernis, because of the way that he walks and the way that he talks, because he talks of killing things as if this was one of the career districts. As if this was one of the Districts in which there is honor in stomping to oneâs death.
She is eight years old when she realizes that he doesnât want to stomp to his death â he wants her to go in his place.
âThereâs victory!â He tells her, the ten year old devil who Duvie once mistook as a man who never stopped moving, when in fact he never moves at all â heâs been the same since the first time he told her sheâd be a good tribute. âAnd killing. Oh, youâll feel so much power in killing, Duvie!â
Duvie is eight years old when she tells him that she doesnât want to, and she is eight years old when he tells her that she must.
-
Itâs on her ninth birthday that he tells her, only days before the reaping â itâll be a year before Loom can even be in It himself.
âYouâre going to be in the games, and youâre going to win. Youâll go and youâll win and Iâll never bother you again, and Iâll never ask it of Dancer.â Dancer. Their little sister, only three. âBut if you donât âŠâ He smiles here, big and wide and full of too many promises, âAnd you turn eighteen, Ill split your skull myself. Come on,â he tells her. âIâm going to teach you how to fight.â
-
The devil is a faded picture in black and white, but just as vibrant as ever.
And she loves him.
He is her brother, and she doesnât understand.
Here is the thing â the one thing, the very truth at the center of it all:
Loom Vernis wants to kill, but he is a coward.
Heâll live through her, if he can.
And if he canât, heâll kill her himself, and heâll deal with the consequences later. Â
When she is fourteen, she gets chosen. It isnât a choice. She doesnât raise her hand and volunteer like Ellis from last yearâs games. Loom would never allow her to mess with fate like that. No, Duvie gets chosen.
She is glad that she did.
If she didnât, Loom would kill her himself, and then Mom would lose two of her children.Â
strangers in the night exchanging glances | flashback | edmure + roslin
It's not his marriage, not really, he knows that. His father and Walder Frey didn't all-out broker the deal but they have as well have. He'd met her at one of his father's parties, a few months ago, during one of their weekends in the country. She'd been there with her father, a rather pinched old man who had made Edmure nervous when he spoke to him. Roslin had been younger than him, a good deal--he'd thought at first that she must have just left school but she told him she was twenty-three, later, and  smiled lightly at his surprise. They'd danced together that night, at her insistence, and it had seemed like play-acting to him, dancing in the stiff air of the hall. His father had been trying to get Walder to join him in funding one of his projects, something he hadn't cared to share with Edmure and Edmure hadn't bothered to try and learn about.
It's not their marriage, really, and he feels vaguely sorry for her, wonders how much she even wanted to marry him, how much had been her father pushing her on, as his did. She likes him, he thinks, she's always seemed as though she does. It's a business deal, the two of them, and they won't admit it, can't admit it but she knows it as much as he does. She must.
He takes her coat as they go into the hotel, after the wedding. It was a small wedding, his father barely well enough to attend, the wedding party mostly taken up by her family (Robb had asked him if he planned to dance with Roslin's cousins with a light laugh, making a gesture to the line of girls, all of them plain and pinched). It's an unfamiliar gesture, more play-acting. He was raised to be a gentleman, of course, to take women's coats, to hold doors but Roslin is his wife and the usual gestures feel strange with her, like they are children trying to be adults.
She is beautiful, he thinks, pale and wide-eyed and smiling at him in a way that seems a little shy (not forced, he doesn't think. He hopes not). He's not sure if this is the right thing to say but he does anyway, a shy, awkward you're beautiful in the elevator with his hand on her back. It is the wrong thing to say, he thinks, as soon as he's said it, and curses himself for it.
The cars came and went, but none came for him. And so he walked. And the rain soaked through his polished shoes and pattered atop his umbrella like falling pebbles.
The funeral had been a dull one, with nobody but family in attendance. Harren Botley did not have many friends. He had spent most his life working, and nothing elseânight and day he was dedicated to Botley Bay; he breathed and bathed and shat the god-be-damned company, and didnât even own it yet. Even as a kid he had spent all his time cooped up in fatherâs office, attending to fatherâs needs, and father, father, father. Sawane Botley seemed to have eyes for none of his sons but Harren, and Harren have eyes for nothing but work and business and more work. Still, he was heir to the company, so I guess he was doing something right.
Father had been stone-faced and silent throughout the entire ceremony. He had not so much as uttered a âwelcome homeâ to Tris⊠and Tris wondered if he had even noticed that he was there. Perhaps his grief blinded him. If anything, Tris was glad that he had not been home with his father when news of his eldest son and heirâs death had reached the Botley home. He had heard that father had demolished the entire living room, yelling, âSTUPID! So stupid!â Well⊠maybe that would have been an interesting sightâŠ
It was a stupid death, though. Drunk driving, the police said; Harren being the one who was drunk. Tristifer had never seen his elder goody-two-shoes brother even touch a drink in the past⊠he wondered if it was all true, and why they would lie if it wasnât. Harren didnât have any enemies in the business world⊠did he?
His hotel was not far from the church, but the walk seemed a lot longer than it should have, especially with the wet chill in the air soaking through his suit jacket and making him shiver. He had forgotten how cold London could be, although New York was nothing better in the winter months. It had been three years since his last visit here⊠he thought heâd miss it more, but with fatherâs stoniness and motherâs over-apologetic attitude, now he just wanted to go home. But where is home? Isnât it here?
The lobby is a rush of warm, soothing air when Tris enters it. Avoiding the elevator, he makes a beeline for the stairwell instead, and walks up all 5 floors. He is breathless by the time he reaches his room and stoops down to pick up the newspaper outside his doorâhe had forgotten he had even ordered that, but unfolds it as he steps into the room.
His heart stops as he reads the headline.
CEO OF GREYJOY GROUP KILLED IN MUGGING
No⊠what? Balon Greyjoy? Really? His thoughts were rushing, boiling; his head thumping⊠first Harren, heir to Botley Bay, and now Balon Greyjoy, the CEO to Greyjoy Group? He sat down on the bed to steady himself, eyes skimming the article⊠but thenâŠ
Asha. His heart stops again as he sees the picture of her and her family underneath the headline. It had been years and years since he had last seen her⊠sheâs all grown up, now, he thought, sadly, remembering the teenage girl he had known and loved with dreams as big as the sky. He studied her imageâshe had let her hair grow slightly longer, her hips were well and rounded, her pimples long gone. He remembered those nights he had snuck out after curfew just to be with her, and how theyâd lay there under the starry sky, speaking of their futures and listing off all their ambitions. Asha kept hinting that her father sounded as if he would leave the company to her when he were to die, and Tris would get excited at that, sitting up and babbling on frantically of how theyâd get married and run the company together.
Foolish dreams, he thought, his fists clenching around the paper they held. Stupid, foolish, naive dreams.
He wondered if Balon really did leave the company to her in the end. He wondered how she felt. He wondered if she ever found another man and married him with dreams of running the company by his side. He wondered if heâd ever see her again.
He wished he could see her again.
His eyes skimmed through the remainder of the article, and he found a date and location for the funeral. I could go, he thought, I really could, Iâve even got the right clothes. But that was stupid, too. As stupid as his dreams.
âSeven bloody Hells, Jaime!â she cursed to the empty room. âYou should have a wife to mend your clothing for you!â
But of course Jaime didnât have a wife. They had yet to find a lord desperate enough to marry his daughter into their tainted House. So when Genna had found the tear in Jaimeâs crimson doublet, she took it upon herself to repair it.
She could have gotten another needle out, but her stubborn streak wouldnât let her. She set the doublet aside and went digging for the needle, pulling out spools of thread, and embroidery hoops, setting aside odds and ends she had collected over the years. Most of it should have been thrown out long ago.
She was almost to the very bottom when she saw it. Her needle with its tail of red thread rested on a remnant of blue silk, the color of cornflowers.
(the summer sky)
âHow have you remained hidden here for so many winters?â
Genna picked it up carefully, tracing the crimson thread against the blue fabric.
âWho will help us now, Tywin?â she whispered. âWho will help me now?â
Tywin will help me, Genna thought desperately. Her mother was seven years dead, and her cousins gossiped. She didnât know who else to trust. My brother will keep my secret. He will keep me safe.
She ran through the halls to her brotherâs room. The blue silk of her skirts soon became tangled around her legs, so she hiked them above her knees, praying fervently that she would not meet her septa along the way.
The corridors were empty, though. A white raven from the Citadel had arrived last night, to announce that summer was here at last. Almost everyone was gone from the Rock today, swimming in the ocean or basking in the warmth of the summer sun. Tywin wouldnât be, though. Even if everyone else had gone down to the beach, he would be alone in his room at this hour, in study.
But when Genna pushed open the heavy redwood door, she felt her heart sink into the twisting pit of her stomach. Of course Tywin isnât alone. How could I have been so stupid? She had forgotten that her father had held court that morning. Tywin held his own court now, expecting his siblings to attend him.
Seated behind his desk, Tywin at fifteen looked more a lord than their father at forty. Tygett stood on Tywinâs left, leaning over the desk to look at what their eldest brother was intent on writing. They were arguing. Kevan was seated across from Tywin, his back to the doorway she stood in. Only Gerion was absent.
No one noticed her.
Flee. The thought rose up in her like a bird taking wing. Not just this room, but this keep, this House, this life that was not your choosing. Then Tywin glanced up, his green eyes catching her. You are no bird, Genna. She entered and closed the door, but remained near it, her back to the wall.
Tyg slammed his fist down on the desk, making her jump. ââŠHells, Tywin, Iâm not arguing with you! I agree that the situation is dire. But you were wrong to stand up before the entire court and tell our father he was a fool. Even if he is.â
âWhat would have been wrong, my dear brother, would have been to let those ⊠those sheep believe I condoned Fatherâs latest folly.â Tywin threw his quill down in disgust, and stood up. âHe actually seems to think this new loan will appease Lord Reyne. That grasping bastard will not be appeased until all the gold in Casterly Rock is his.â
Genna didnât know what to do. She considered interrupting. She clutched the skirt of her dress instead.
Kevan reached for the papers Tywin had been scribbling on. âPerhaps it all will be his.â He studied what was written on them. âIf your accounting is correct, Tywin, and if Father continues as he hasâŠ. In ten years, weâll be ruined.â
Count yourself lucky, Kevan. Some of us donât have ten years.
Tyg and Tywin began to argue again, and only Genna heard the soft click as the door opened slightly. Little Gerion peaked into the room. He noticed her right away, and smiled his most charming smile. âSweet sister,â he said softly, âI know Lann stole gold from the sun for our hair, but how did you manage to steal the summer sky for your new dress?â
Genna looked down at herself, and almost gave in to despair. Blue was one of the colors of House Frey. Her husbandâs house. Why did this have to happen? Why?
âHave you finally decided to grace us with your presence, Gerion?â Tywin asked sharply, âOr do you have more important business to attend to?â
Gerion pushed the door open fully. âNever, Tywin.â His eyes twinkled with laughter as he bowed gracefully before their brother, flourishing his crimson cloak. The sand clinging to its hem barely spoiled the effect. âI wouldnât miss one of your little parties for the world.â He boosted himself up to sit on top of the desk, meeting Tywinâs glare with another smile.
Tywin chose to ignore him and returned to the papers he was perusing. âGenna.â He spoke without looking up. âI have need of you. Come and look over my figures.â
Genna stayed where she was, refusing to move. She couldnât serve him right now. He is the lord. He has a duty to us. To me. She couldnât find any words, though. Her eyes were wet.
âGenna. Come here.â It was a command this time.
Kevan turned and opened his mouth to speak, but whatever reprimand her little brother planned to give was forgotten when he finally saw her. âTywin.â Her brother finally looked up, finally saw the hunted look on her face and the tears in her eyes. They were all staring at her now. She didnât know whether to feel relief, or merely to cry harder.
âWhy are you weeping, Genna?â Tywin approached her, the other three following, until they all surrounded her.
 âPlease,â she whispered. Now that she finally had the chance to speak, she felt like her throat had closed up, and she didnât know what to say. âPlease help me. Septa Lorelle said that when I--â She choked back a sob. âI must-- But I donât want to--â She could barely speak under the intensity of Tywinâs gaze. âPlease donât let him. Please,â she begged, incapable of any more words.
âWhat in Seven Hells are you-â Tyg began, but Tywin held up two fingers for silence, never taking his eyes off of her. âWould you be kind enough to elaborate, Genna?â
She had nothing left. She turned to flee, as she should have done, but Kevan was blocking the door. She tried to push past him, but then Gerion startled her.
âGenna! How did you cut yourself?â
She looked behind her in horror. As she had waited for her brothers, the blood of her first flowering had seeped through her dress, leaving a crimson stain on the blue skirt.
 âHow did you manage to cut yourself, Genna?â Gerion asked again.
Genna would have laughed if she wasnât crying.
âBe quiet, Gerion, and give me your cloak.â Tywin held his hand out without looking, never taking his eyes off her. I understand, Genna. It will be alright.
âBut why does she need my cloak? She needs a maester.â
âAs soon as you give me your cloak,â Tywin said impatiently, âYou will run to the Maestersâ Corridor. Tell them I require one of them in the Lady Gennaâs rooms.â He paused. âNot Maester Jorin. Bring Maester Alastor.â Alastor was as gentle and kind as Jorin was harsh and scolding.
Genna ran to Tywin, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his broad chest as sobs racked her body. She was grateful for how strong, how solid he was.
His doublet was growing damp by the time he draped the crimson cloak around her shoulders. She could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke quietly near her ear. âI will protect you, Genna. You may be his wife, but he will not touch you. Dry your tears. Have you ever seen a lion weep?â
She thought of another cloak, though, a blue one, trimmed with grey fur, that Emmon Frey had given her five years ago.
âBut Iâm not a lion!â she cried. âIâm not a Lannister! Iâm a Frey!â She spat the name like a curse.
âDonât be a fool,â he told her curtly. âYou are a Lannister, Genna. You will always be a Lannister.â
She didnât remember how they arrived at her room, only that her brother guided her. Kevan and Tyg remained outside, but she refused to let go of Tywin, so he accompanied her in. He opened her wardrobe. âBlue does not suit you.â He chose a dress, laying it on her bed. âThis is your color, little sister. Crimson.â
A knock sounded at the door. âEnter,â he called.
Maester Alastor and two serving maids came in. The maester inclined his head. âLord Tywin.â Genna could barely remember a time when her brother had not been addressed as lord. âHow may I be of service?â
âThe Lady Genna has had her first flowering.â Genna felt her cheeks redden at his blunt words. âAttend her. My lady,â her brother bowed slightly in her direction, âI shall await you without. Join me at your leisure.â
She didnât want him to leave, but the maester was already speaking to her as Tywin stepped out. Then the women washed her and dressed her in the gown her brother had chosen. When she was finally alone in her room, she looked down at her dress, crimson now. The color of moonblood, Genna thought with disgust. She wasnât sure it was an improvement over the blue silk.
She joined her brothers outside. Tywin offered her his arm, and led her down the corridor.
âWhere are we going?â
âTo pay a visit to Emmon Frey,â Tyg answered.
Genna tried to pull away from Tywin, but he held her arm too tightly. âI donât wish to see him. Must we?â
âYes. We must. Who are you, Genna?â Tywin asked.
âA Lannister,â she responded hesitantly, uncertain if it was true. Her brother frowned, so she forced herself to sound more confident. âI am a lioness.â Even if she didnât believe it, Tywin looked pleased by her words.
âA lioness of Lannister has nothing to fear. You have my word.â They stopped in front of the door to her husbandâs room. Tywin looked at his brothers. âAs we discussed.â What was discussed? Before Genna could ask, Gerion knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply.Â
Together they swept into the center of the room, where she looked upon her startled husband.
Nineteen year old Emmon Frey was everything that young Tywin Lannister was not. While Tywin was tall, muscled, and gleaming, Emm was short, scrawny, and dull.
âLord Tywin! My lords, my lady, I ⊠I was not expecting you to honor me with your company today. May I offer you some wine?â
âNo, thank you, Emmon.â Tywin surprised her when he dropped her hand and stepped away. âI came to tell you that your wife has flowered.â
Betrayed, Genna looked over at her brother in shock. Why? Why would you tell him? she wanted to ask. But Tywin wasnât looking at her. He studied Emmon Frey.
Emm seemed to be in just as much shock as she for a moment, but he recovered more quickly. âThank you, Lord Tywin. I appreciate your coming to tell me. Very much.â When Tywin said nothing, Emmâs eyes fell on her. She saw greed in them. Greed, and something else she didnât recognize. It made her wary.
Emm came over to her. Even if he was shorter than Tywin, her husband was still a hand taller than she. Genna refused to look up at him. I will give you nothing freely, Emmon Frey. Take what you want. If you can. He tilted her chin up to look into her face. âI hope youâll dine with me tonight, my lady.â
âI regret that I have a prior engagement, my lord,â she lied. âOne of my cousins invited me to join her at the bonfires on the beach tonight.â
âThen come to see me after.â
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tywin make a small gesture, but she counted on nothing from her brothers now.
âW-why, my lord? I am afraid I would be rather tired at such a late hour, and a poor companion to you.â
âI doubt that.â His face was so close to hers that she thought he intended to kiss her. She pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut.
And then suddenly the room erupted in shouting. Someone pushed her backwards, and she would have fallen had Kevanâs quick hands not caught her.
She opened her eyes to see Tyg holding Emm with his arms behind his back, while Tywin pressed a knife to the manâs throat.
âHave you all gone mad? Thatâs my wife!â
âWrong. Thatâs my sister.â Genna had heard that quiet tone before, but never had Tywinâs voice sounded so cold. His face was only inches away from Emmonâs. âYou seem to think you can play with something of mine. You canât. So let us be clear. If you ever bed my sister against her wishes, I will cut off your cock.â Â A wet spot formed on Emmâs breeches, and Genna wrinkled her nose at the smell. Â
âIf you ever hurt my sister in any way, I will take this knife ⊠and I will ram it into your skull.âÂ
Do it, brother, a dark stranger inside her whispered, breaking its long silence. Why do you speak of âifâsâ to the guilty? When his shackles left my ankles bloody before I ever learned to run? When he weighed me down and broke my back before I ever stood as straight and tall as you?  When he murdered my burnished future and ground my golden dreams to dust? Do it.
Perhaps the voice wasnât such a stranger to Tywin Lannister.
He pressed the knife harder against Emmâs throat.  A tiny trickle of red began to drip down the blade. Genna licked her lips. This is your color, little sister. Crimson. She couldnât have looked away, even had she wanted to.Â
When next Tywin spoke, his quiet words fell like winter stones. âShow anything but the utmost respect for my lioness of Lannister, and I will go to war on your miserable House ⊠and I will kill - every - last - one of you.â
Genna felt the floor beneath her feet tremble in that moment, or so she would say in later years. If anyone else had made such a threat, she would have laughed at the boastful fool. But Tywin Lannister was not a fool to be laughed at. She believed.
Tywin finally removed his knife from Emmâs throat. He wiped the blade clean on her husbandâs shirt, leaving a crimson stain. âRelease him.â He sheathed the knife, beginning to turn away.
Emmon sighed in relief, a great gust of air that Genna wouldnât have believed possible from such a small man. Tywin pivoted sharply, punching Emmon hard in the stomach. He sank to his knees, gasping for breath.Â
Her brother didnât spare the lord of Frey a second glance. He looked only at her. See, little sister? I told you a Lannister has nothing to fear. You are a Lannister, Genna. You will always be a Lannister. She beamed at him.  He nodded in acknowledgement before drawing himself erect, the courteous lord once more. âNow that everything is clear here ⊠If you would accompany me to my solar, Genna, I still wish you to look over my figures. Bid your lord husband good day, my lady.â
âGood day, my lord.â Genna curtsied in Emmâs general direction. If it so happened that the lord of Casterly Rock was in that direction, well, Genna thought that was all the better.
Tywin offered her his arm and escorted her from the room. She felt very much a Lannister on her brotherâs arm. A lioness.
She leaned against him as they walked, studying him out of the corner of her eye. His green eyes focusing on what was before them, Tywin remained oblivious. His thick golden hair was a perfect match to her own. She could feel muscle in the arm that she clung to, from his mornings spent sparring with Tygett. His shoulders were broad enough that Genna imagined he could carry the weight of Casterly Rock on them.
Everything that he is not.
Just for a moment, Genna wished that Tywin Lannister was not her brother.
--------------------------------
Gennaâs eyes were wet.
âThere is too much dust in here,â she announced to the empty room, using the scrap of blue silk to wipe at her eyes. âThe servants never clean well enough anymore.â
In ten years, weâll be ruined.
In ten years, weâll be ruined.
The sweet, high voice that Genna remembered from her girlhood was a sharp contrast to the weary tone Kevan had spoken in last week.
You were wrong before. Ten years later we were the most feared House in Westeros, and Tywin was Hand of the King.
You will be wrong again, Kevan.
.
.
.
[Written by tywinning for After The Trident RP]
[[Suddenly I feel like I know where a little bit of Joffâs psychopathicness (shh, thatâs a word) came from. Tywin was wrapped a little too tight. I just really love Genna, because I imagined the identity crisis she might have gone through when she was young. I tried to show her symbolic marriage to House Lannister with Tywin intimately placing a brideâs cloak about her, supplanting the Frey cloak, and then Tywin leaves a crimson stain on Emmonâs clothes instead by wiping the blood off on him. And the idea that Tywin âgave Emmon Frey a nervous belly for a wedding presentâ has always fascinated me, because Tywin would sucker punch him to give him the message âYou will never be safe from me.â I was also really interested in when the idea came to Tywin about wiping out an entire House; the Freys came to mind. I also tried to make it very âLANNISTERâ where Tywin basically uses Genna as bait. Foreshadowing Gerionâs late arrival to the party with Brightroar FTW. (Shut up, my head canon is my canon!!!) And WHEE INCEST RUNS DEEP!]]Â
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If I Wake You Up, There Will Be Hell to Pay (Flashback - Closed to Irri Maleh)
She had been hoping heâd just leave , too busy that he was chatting with all the important people present that night, that he wouldnât waste his time on an employee. That was what she was after all for the time being. But he didnât seem to be in a hurry he started talking, probably trying to have his idea of a conversation which basically consisted of him talking about himself and answering his own questions. Boring.
Thankfully soon enough came the time of the first representation and she was much too happy to reach the stage where at least Viserys wouldnât be able to follow her. She received a text message from Jhiqui before the representation.
â Lose richie boy, we miss you out there and Renly said something about an after party. Isnât that guy of following you around ?
After the representation, she walked right to the buffet to grap a cup of fruit punch and there he was waiting for her. He complimented her dance without any trace of real appreciation or admiration in his voice. Clearly he wanted something and she wasnât getting rid of him until he got it. Well this is gonna be a long night, she thought.
The drinks kept flowing and flowing and flowing...
Viserys continued drinking and drinking. This Irri girl was hard to impress. She was clearly unimpressed by him, which was extremely strange. It was also extremely frustrating. The drinks helped him hide frustration, but did not help him get her giggling and laughing stupidly like what normal girls would usually do.
However, after his... (shit, lost count) glass of champagne, he felt more bold, more daring. He felt that trying to impress her was just a waste of time. Just go with it.
"Forget all that crap before... Would you like to see a real dragon?" he asked her, a crooked smile on his lips.
There's something I need to tell you (Flashback) || Closed to Arianne Martell
"Do you want anything?" The waitress' voice broke Viserys' train of thought. He looked up and found her smiling at him. "No thanks," he said, raising a hand. "I'm waiting for someone." "Alright then." She smiled at him once more before leaving him. As she walked away, he drummed his fingers against the table and looked at his watch. She should be here soon. Crap. What he was about to do was different from usual, and he wasn't prepared. It might be the first time he had ever done this.
Usually he got what he wanted, when he wanted. They would flock to him like birds chasing after a worm, except he wasn't a worm, though they might as well be silly, stupid birds with brains like theirs. He was a dragon, a Targaryen. They went nuts for his last name, the extravagent high society life he lived. He loved it. Just a look and a few words could get him some company for the night. He didn't even have to feel anything for them.
Now, things were opposite, he thought as he took a glance to outside the cafe window. She wasn't there, but a few paparazzi were. Fuck them. They were bumbling idiots working for gossip seeking newspapers and magazines who asked the most annoying questions and blew things out of proportions when they had the slightest chance. Thank God he was seated somewhere where they couldn't snap any photos. Bloody fools.
Then she walked in. Shit. Her eyes searched the area and immediately stopped when they were focused on him. "There you are," she said bluntly, as she approached him. She was so different from those other bimbos, who would have said that in some squeaky, high pitched and all around fake voice. "You called me here?"
"Arianne," he replied. He had to pause awhile before continuing. "I did call you."Â
flashback | amongst the bodycount | for arryontheroad
The rumors filled his ears and solidified in his bones. The words infection, death, dead, undead, came about and stuck like tar in his veins until he wasn't even sure if he was among the living still. He looked around the silent store and down at the bullet he was loading at the moment into the shotgun on the counter. A couple of blocks down there had been reports of break-ins and robberies, and he knew it wouldn't be long until people stormed this place to take the smorgasbord of weaponry that it had to offer.
Carefully, methodically, Gendry walked to the backroom that was his shithole for a place to sleep. Within it he placed his favorite guns and bullets, ones that he worked on for more time than could ever be counted. When the desperate - no, he told himself, they call themselves survivors - came and destroyed this place, he didn't want his guns and his bullets in their hands. He locked the door up to his room, grabbed the nearby bottle of whiskey, and left the store.
There was already a strict curfew coming about for all citizens. Do not walk the streets. Do not be alone. Quarantines were just starting up. Police were to be patrolling the streets, armed, and would not hesitate to shoot. But they haven't been seen for a rather long while on this street. So Gendry left the store, and took a walk.
Gendry knew exactly what he was doing. Every footstep was intentional. He allowed himself to kick some old trash and debris as he walked, so as to make a bit more noise. If anyone was around they would most definitely notice him. He took swigs of whiskey for a bit, until the bite was too much so he threw the bottle to the ground and let the shattered glass echo down the seemingly empty streets. He stood there for a bit, waiting, and then grunted in frustration.
It took more patience than he had to find his untimely end, it seemed.
He rounded the corner, and all thoughts stopped in his mind. There was a person in front of him, someone who he'd see a lot at the public library when he'd try and sleep there for the night. Only, no. They weren't a person. That word could not be used for them. They looked the same, just a bit more rough around the edges so to say, but he knew what this was in front of him. Ten feet away.
And then seven.
Six.
Five.
He realized that his heart was beating fast and he moved his hands frantically to his pockets before remembering he went out bare of weapons.
His eyes met the cold circlets of the being in front of him, who was now salivating at the thought of the dinner that had just given himself up.
He gulped and suddenly felt a strong desire to make it out of this alive, which was not the most ideal situation or timing to be feeling this way.
