Hello! Hope you are well! Would it be okay to ask why you don’t take requests anymore? Do you mean indefinitely or is there a chance that could change in future? You don’t have to answer this, I understand it’s somewhat adjacent to prying, but I’m just curious! I love your writing and have been reading your work for years haha:)
Hi! No issue in asking 🙂 I absolutely don’t mind and it was nice checking in to see something in my inbox!
I just haven’t had time to dedicate to writing. My life got incredibly busy between my career, graduate school, and home ownership amongst other things. I don’t foresee myself having overwhelming free time for awhile as I have another year of grad school ahead of me after this spring. I do still write some. I’ve been working on something for awhile but I’ve found it’s hard to keep up with posts on a reasonable schedule. This is why I’m terrible at finishing stories - my goal for any future works is to finish writing them before I start posting!
Requests were always a grey zone for me. While I enjoyed getting them, there were a few people that got pretty pushy about me not writing what they wanted. Also, as I got older (I’m in my late 20’s now), it got uncomfortable when I knew the people requesting certain topics were likely minors.
Thank you, though, for being here 🤗 I appreciate you sending this in and feel free to drop any ideas into my inbox! …I just can’t promise anything will come of it timely or at all 😅
Summary: Negan decides whether he will stay in the past or follow her to his future.
The distinct sound of two melodic tones, one after the other, cascaded down from the bannister, rattled against the concrete floors, and reverberated up into the stale stagnant air. Fingers wrapped tightly around the metal railings that groaned under the weight of her body. She stared down onto the factory floor, lips still rounded to whistle, eyes glued to the figure that sat on the black leather couch.
“You’ve grown predictable, Negan.”
He breathed her name but couldn’t tell if the sound made it to her ears as she pushed herself backward and began walking down the corridor. She disappeared out of sight, swallowed by the endless hallways that now felt foreign to him.
There was no time to get lost in the past. Action propelled him forward, speaking in his rushed movements. He climbed the steps, two at a time, his toe catching on the last as his gaze fumbled. His balance wobbled as he caught himself and continued toward her.
Her silhouette extended across the walls, crawling over the cinderblocks. Her steps dissipated, floating into the air and dispelling to nothing. Negan wondered if he had truly seen her. Was he compensating and coping with the decision he had made earlier that morning? He questioned if he had begun to hear things. Years of almost entire isolation left him to wander the caverns of his mind. Perhaps he had latched onto the one thing that made him feel.
His head scanned the open doorways, finding nothing but emptiness.
The soles of his shoes clicked against the concrete floors as he walked down the hall. It didn’t feel like he was moving, more like drifting along the corridor. Reality was rifting as he reached for the door handle. It was cold, feeling as though nobody had been there.
When he pressed his ear to the door, he could hear nothing. It creaked open slowly and mechanically; he could hear the brief whisper of the voices that haunted the space.
His heart stopped, skipping a beat in a painfully real reminder that he was alive.
“Reliving the glory days?” She met him through the top of her lashes. Boots, dusted slightly with the stagnation of the Sanctuary, stared back at him. Her ankles crossed one over the other atop the table, mirroring the position he often fell into when he sat there.
Her head cocked as she curled her lip. She opened her arms, pushed back slightly so her chair rested on its back legs, and motioned with grandiosity to the empty room. “This is your life’s work, reduced to nothing.”
The words that left her were not meant to be agitating or aggravating. If anything, she was more melancholy. Memories of the Sanctuary in its prime still flashed through her eyes like nightmares.
Negan pushed through the air that suddenly felt thick. He could see her clear as day, but the setting felt unfamiliar - like he no longer belonged. He took the chair at her side, unease flowing through his veins as he lowered himself to sit. He was physically there but mentally distant. Shadows of those lost danced in the corners of his eyes. Their voices called out to him, beckoning him further into the recesses. They were distinct and clear, but he could not recall their faces.
What felt like a lifetime had passed since he called this place home. Eons separated himself from the man he once was.
“Negan.” She softened, her feet sliding down from the table. “…sorry. I- uh. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know.” He nodded quickly, a slight bounce to his head as he met her concerned gaze. “You’re right. All of that… everything… for nothing.” He looked around the room but stayed present in the moment. “They really put you in charge of all of them.”
“And they hated me for it. More than they hated Daryl.” The corner of her mouth pulled into a bitter smile. “I think your regime instilled a little sexism.”
“My regime.” He repeated, the word sour on his tongue. When he looked up from his closed hands, he met her eye and wondered why he had fled Alexandria in the first place. “How’d you know where I’d go?”
The bitterness in her features subsided and melted into amusement. Her eyes sparkled in the way that he had grown to love.
“It’s the only place you know. I just wish you’da told me you wanted a field trip. Would have saved me time this morning preparing your breakfast.”
Negan’s gaze was soft, watching her in a way that was vastly different from the last time they met in that room. “What was on the menu?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She teased. “I spent hours on it this morning - woke up at the crack of dawn. It was a special ‘thank you for not escaping’ breakfast.”
“Oatmeal again?”
She pulled air through her teeth and smirked a sound that landed somewhere between playful and sly. “It had sugar in it. I found some on the last supply run.”
“You’re getting too soft with me, sweetheart.”
After returning from the Sanctuary and reintegrating into Alexandria, she was assigned to his watch. They started out rocky. Negan would antagonize, she would react with silence. Over time, something clicked. Something sparked. A low kindling of a newfound friendship that glowed in the moonlight ignited between them - much to the displeasure of others.
“If you come back, I’m never gonna do another nice thing for your sorry ass.” The rubber toe of her boot bounced off Negan’s shoe as she kicked her foot into his. “You gonna start hating me for that, too - being soft on you?”
If.
The word latched onto his ears the second it left her lips. If he was coming back. The notion of leaving hadn’t even crossed his mind since he heard her whistle. She was like a shadow in the sunlight; standing out and offering reprieve from his blindness.
The chair she sat in let out a terrible screech as she stood.
“Look.” Her gaze was gentle, a calm unspoken understanding settled into her features. The palm of her hand was warm as it pressed lightly against his cheek.
Over the years, his face had shallowed and sunken. In his prime, unrestrained and belligerent, he was full of color. There were no limits to the hues he shone. Every color refracted from his being, only to muddle and mix upon his downfall. Now his shoulders hunched, his eyes were somber, and his spirit lay beneath the tree where Rick bested him.
“I’m not gonna force you to come back.” Her shoulders tensed as his relaxed. His head felt heavy as he melted into her touch. “You can go - run off and leave all of this behind if you want… I’ll tell them I couldn’t find you.”
Her other hand danced from his cheek to his neck and onto his shoulder. The slight squeeze she gave him sent a chill down his spine.
He wondered if she felt it too.
He followed her touch like a magnet as she pulled away. The allure she held over him was one thing he wasn’t willing to battle. She was radiant from the moment they met. There was no fight too great, no fear too overwhelming. Persistence dripped from her body as she displayed an acute determination that even the bravest soldiers didn’t have.
And when everything was done, when Rick made the finite decision to keep Negan alive, she stood by his decision.
Negan remembered the first time he felt her touch. His body was growing cold, death’s cruel and unforgiving tendrils were drawing him toward the darkness. Warm blood oozed from his throat and trickled down his chest. The world blurred as his vision tunneled; voices faded into one another. As he began to close his eyes, he met hers.
Her hand was pressed firmly against his neck, uncaring of the stains being left on her fingertips. She cradled the back of his head and looked at him in a way that no other had since the end of the world.
Part of him wished for the end, but something - someone, kept him there.
“I’ll give you time to mull it over.” Her voice called from the doorway. Only then did he realize she wasn’t in his space anymore, the distinct outline of her figure left him empty. “If you aren’t down in the yard in ten minutes I’ll take that as your answer…
and if that’s the case, then it’s been nice knowing you - the real you. The one you were hiding behind all of this.”
Negan couldn’t tear himself away from the empty doorway after she left.
As she descended the staircase, the air grew husky. It was metallic, rusted, and smelled faintly of mildew. The once bustling courtyard was abandoned now. Life had shriveled into a wasteland, inhabited only by the dead.
Her bike creaked as she leaned against it.
It felt like forever ago that she stood on these same grounds for the first time. Eugene’s usefulness transferred to her as he shared the bullet-making process and suddenly, she was useful.
She thought of the first time she met Negan. Tall and slender, he was conventionally attractive in a nextdoor neighbor kind-of-way. He sauntered from the RV with arrogance in his step and a bat on his shoulder. Brutality tingled at his fingertips, radiating unnerving energy with each curse that passed his lips. He was an omen of death that flew too close to the sun.
The leather seat of her bike crackled as she dragged her finger along the surface. Her mind wandered to the hushed conversations, the shared dinners, and the prolonged card games that she and Negan shared. He would drag them on for hours, doing his best to keep her there.
He was nothing like himself at the beginning of his captivity. As control slipped through his fingers, he desperately tried to cling to anything he could. Words quickly became his weapon, calling her every name in the book. He tried to pick apart her insecurities, her hopes, her dreams, anything he could have said was spoken into the walls that contained him. It never dissuaded her, she always returned.
Time passed and reluctance settled into the pit of her stomach. Her head craned upward as she stared at the war room’s window, unable to see anyone looking back.
She would return alone - a failed mission.
She would explain to Michonne that Negan was long gone.
She would find a new normal without the person that became her constant.
Her bike grumbled as she kicked her leg over the side and rested her weight onto the seat. The ignition bubbled and growled as she twisted the key. She felt like she was leaving part of her behind, a small piece that Negan would hold with him forever.
“You aren’t leaving without me, are you?”
The factory door was parted where Negan exited the building. A refreshed smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was resolute in his decision.
His chest tightened at the sight of her face. Her lips parted slightly in disbelief before exploding into a grin.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
He crossed the yard and stood at her side, mirroring the position she held at the table. A hand, cold but warming, pressed into the plushness of her cheek.
“You know I can’t leave you.” His thumb traced the delicate space beneath her eye. “This place… there’s nothing for me here. Never was.”
He brought his other hand to the opposite side of her face, caressing her fully now. His eyes were soft and filled with certainty.
Summary: Sad-ish.. Written fast and slowly at the same time. It’s been in my wip for… a few years now. Enjoy 💕 not mega edited, apologies for any grammatical thingies.
Word count: 2800
An overwhelming race of the steadfast beating in her chest exploded as soon as the fields were flooded with a haze of crimson. Flags waved proudly in the wretched wind of the summer day, creating a sea of blood upon the grassy plains. The first harvests of the summer crept in from the false spring of years past, providing the first taste of freshness in two years.
She could hear the heralds heralding from the gates of King’s Landing where forces encroached on the sky scraping walls. With enough focus, she could spot him riding in front. Rising gallantly from a white steed, the Lannister patriarch sat with a stiff back and cold resolve. Pleated drapery cascaded down from his broad shoulders to attach to his narrowed hips. Everything about him bled with an unwavering confidence, the same confidence that had stolen her heart from her intended many years previous.
“Princess.” The Master of Whispers was always lurking around corners and concealing himself within the shadows spoke. His hand was cold and plush against her shoulder as he delicately reached out to guide the princess away. “You should be in the Holdfast where it is safest.”
“There is no threat.” Her tone was resolute and her shoulders squared as she shook loose from his light hold. The Grand Maester was also nearby, listening as the two conversed. “Lord Tywin is here for our protection.” Her defense was as strong as the impenetrable stones holding the earth down. Beliefs cemented in centuries of faith grounded her as she, for the first time in years, felt a wave of calm wash over her body.
“A precious assumption from a naive heart.” He, Varys, paced the small space of the stone tower. “Have you considered-”
His words meant nothing to her for he spoke in an ill favor of her beloved lord. She would have none of his lies. Fleeing his presence, she joined the Grand Maester at the window’s ledge. Her fingers were warm against the cold stone that separated her from the open air. “It is anything but an assumption, my Lord.”
“Lord Tywin has not taken a stance during the Rebellion.” Varys tucked his chin to his chest as he eyed the silken fabrics that hung from his wrists. “Greeting the city with thousands of armed men often is not a welcoming sight. Should Lord Tywin decide that his faith with the crown has run thin, it will not end well for the Targaryen dynasty.”
“It will turn in our favor.” Pycelle insisted, pressing his shaking fingers to the heavy chains that hunched his back. “Lord Tywin has served the Targaryen dynasty valiantly and faithfully since the day he became Lord of Casterly Rock upon his father’s death. His heir serves in the King’s Guard and his daughter was set to wed Rhaegar.”
“The crowned-prince was slain on the Trident and Prince Rhaegar was wed to Elia Martell.” Varys reminded the room, though his words were not warm.
The mention of his name made her suddenly uncomfortable. “Rhaegar is dead, but that does not mean that Cercei’s love for him has ceased. She would have married him if not for my father’s decisions.” She pressed her hand firmly down on her stomach to quell the fluttering butterflies that bounced from its walls as she looked into the blinding glint of his crimson armor. “Let him in.”
“My princess,” Varys tone had become concerningly low, “do not allow your love for him to shroud your rational thought. There is a reason that Lord Tywin had not chosen a side in this war. At the death of your brother, he joins the battle. Does that not leave a bitter taste upon your tongue?”
“He will not allow us to crumble.” She defended, a sweat breaking out on her forehead. “He was my intended for many years. This is a way for him to finally have my father accept the betrothal. The Lannister army will assist us in quelling this rebellion once and for all.”
A hush fell over the room as the uneven footsteps of the king echoed up the stairwell. His were followed closely by another, a younger man covered in heavy armor. All eyes were focused directly on the painted wooden door that separated the overlook from the rest of the Keep.
Hobbling into the room, thin and frail, Aerys used any railing he could to maintain his balance. A wild look clouded his lilac eyes, fluctuating from pinpricks to full dilation. Nobody present was truly sure if he was aware of his surroundings. Behind him stood Jaime Lannister, a dashing young knight with hearts to spare. Though popular among the crowds of maidens, she wondered who he was truly interested in.
Pycelle and Varys plead their cases to the lone judge who seemed to go in and out of listening. His fingers shook as they gripped at the golden crown of tangled wings placed heavily atop his brittle hair. For a moment he pressed his thinning lips together and contemplated deeply in a way that she had not seen him do in decades. Deep in the cavernous depths of his mental prison, he listened to the voices that instructed him in his daily life. “Lord Tywin cannot be trusted, my king.” One voice, foreign and shrill, urged while the other, mature and shaken, suggested differently. “Lord Tywin will protect this city. He will end the rebellion.”
Aerys did not ponder on his options for an extended period of time. His decision was made in the filling of a lung as he muttered the few words aside from garbled madness he had in the past few months.
“Let him in.”
Those words seemed to mean nothing to Aerys as his eyes glazed back over from his position in the room. He did not look to his daughter nor his council who all dispersed throughout the throne room. Pycelle began his short jaunt to the front gates where he instructed a footsoldier to deliver word from the King that the gates should be opened to Lord Tywin.
“Come, princess.” Varys began to pull the princess’s arm, but found a stone wall beneath his fingertips. “We must get you somewhere safe.”
She was unmoving and uncaring of what the Master of Whispers had to say. Any words that came from his mouth were null in her mind.
“Princess, you must go now.” Varys pulled forcefully at the princess’s arm, so much so that the sleeve of her gown tore in his fingertips. Any other instance as such would leave a man without his head but an urgentness in his chest compelled him to act with ferocity. “Lord Tywin and his men are not here to ensure your safety.”
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it.
All the years Tywin spent as Hand of the King he had vied for her hand. He had, on multiple occasions, taken her to spend the summer months in Casterly Rock where she could live freely and happily. He had planted seeds of safety in her core that had only cemented her trust in him, and hindered Varys’s attempts to guide the girl away.
None of it mattered, though. Tywin would get what he wanted in the end even if his desires had to adjust to the circumstances.
~~*~~
“What of the girl?” The path to King’s Landing had been an easy one, one that Lord Tywin had made many in the past.
Red velvet cloth draped thickly over the encampment that laid near the forking of Blackwater Rush. The room was occupied by a select few. The men within were to carry out the most heinous of crimes. Though reports conflict, it is generally accepted that the sinister deeds were ordered by the Lannister lord. In the distance laid their destiny, one that would alter timelines that had been set in stone for centuries.
Lord Tywin adjusted his jaw from where it had been clenched harshly to the right of center, keeping his lips pressed into a thin scornful line. “Leave her to me.”
~~*~~
Her feet could not carry her fast enough away from Varys. Echos of his pitchy voice rang through the walls and into her eardrums, beating away like sticks upon clashing cymbals. Heavy material glided across the floor, sweeping every bit of dirt and debris into its train as she ran desperately for the throne room. At the very least, she knew that Ser Jaime and her father would be there, waiting for their fates.
It was an odd moment of willful ignorance on the princess’s part. Deep in her heart she knew that she was running to her death. She was painfully aware of the chaos that ensued in and outside of the walls that had protected her for her entire life. The screaming in the streets were not joyous. No bells rang for celebration. Scarlet embers flecked with honeyed gold were not that of the evening sunset.
The screams were pained, filled and overflowing with an extinguishment of life. Sounds of bells were morphed from crumbling walls and pounding doors as foot soldiers stormed through the cobblestone streets. The evening sunset was not due for hours. Fires were set across the city, illuminating the rising smoke and ash that clouded the sky in a display of power.
She should have left.
Within the throne room, she was met with a sight that brought bile rising to the top of her throat. Churning upset her stomach and she heaved on a dry tongue. Though his skin had paled throughout the years, he looked particularly gaunt lying on the floor with ichor trickling from his neck. His fingers were curled into fists that bruised purple down to his wrists. Thin and stringy hair that once glittered in the vibrancy of the midday sun was now filled and bland, painted a shade of garnet similar to that of Lord Tywin’s armor.
If it weren’t for the circumstance, she could have said that Jaime looked particularly regal upon the Iron Throne. Downcast eyes focused on the glint of steel in his lap, concentrated rivet directed at the dense pressure that moved his shoulders downward.
“Ser Jaime?”
She could see the turmoil in his eyes as he looked up from his seat. The princess should have fled for Dragonstone, Jaime thought as she took heavy steps in his direction. He refused to listen to the nagging voice in his head telling him to do what was honorable. Her fate was already sealed.
“Ser Jaime?” She repeated, steps growing faster in speed and more uneven as she clutched at her chest and neared her father’s corpse.
“Ser Jaime? Please!” Anguished sorrow bled from her lips as she placed a hand gently over her father’s heart. It had not beat a single time in nearly ten minutes.
Footsteps fell in large groups from the Throne Room’s main entrance. The doors were left open from when she had come through them, allowing Tywin and his small garrison east entry.
Tywin Lannister stood there before her, his crimson armor dulled from bloodshed. Whose blood stained his chest, she did not know, but given his stature and ease of movement one could presume that he was relatively unharmed. A simple halting of his hand had the remaining infantrymen stalled in the doorway, the majority turning their backs to the room as they surveyed the hall outside. Tywin began his approach.
Faint screams bounced off the walls and into the rafters of the room, rising upward like plumes of heavy black smoke until they disappeared into the air. The princess was beside herself, her hands now red with her father’s ichor matching the front of her dress where he had bled as she groomed his hair out of his face. For all that he had put her through, he was still her father.
Tywin was upon her now, his face hardened as he watched her shoulders relaxing as the weight of her situation fully dawned on her. She turned to him then, eyes filled with tears that streamed down the contours of her face.
He had always thought of her to be particularly beautiful. In the warm summer months, he had spent many hours courting her in the privacy of his own home. There was a hope in him back then that they could wed and from their union would come heirs that he could marry off to solidify his power. Whether there was true love for her in there was questionable.
There was nothing about the princess he disliked. She was agreeable, fairly intelligent, and held onto his word like it had been written by the gods. Although, she did not worship him. A clear admiration for the man was displayed on her features, especially so when he was leading council meetings or sitting the throne in the place of her father. She had told him on many occasions that she wished to be able to hold the room the same way he did. In fact, there were many things he found he did like. Her company was comfortable, always melding into his presence as if she had always been there. No one would argue her beauty either. Similar in looks to that of her mother, the princess was soft and ethereal in appearance. She dressed in beautiful gowns and always smelled slightly of rose and mint. Even now in the chaos of the sacking, she held that same look.
“What does this mean for me?” The words fell like a feather from her lips, floating softly downward to the floor where her gaze was focused.
When no answer came from Tywin she turned and looked upward at him. “My lord?”
There were truthfully only two possibilities for her future and Tywin knew that.
He extended a hand down to her and stiffened when she accepted it and rose to meet his gaze. Trembling fingers wrapped around his. The entirety of her body was shaking. He took the opportunity to pull her into his chest despite the hardness of his armor. A gentle hand smoothed down the back of her hair and rested on the nape of her neck.
“What will come of me now?” She repeated, enjoying the way he embraced her. Calming to his touch, she deepened her hold on him.
“The war is over, princess.” Tywin hushed her tearful sobs, pressing a light kiss to the side of her head as her crying intensified. “The house of the dragon has fallen.”
The princess only looked into his emerald eyes when his gloved finger guided her vision upward. He knew he should not have allowed himself to indulge in the moment. Robert Baratheon would not let a Targaryen, especially the sister of Rhaegar, live peacefully. He personally saw to the death of the prince and Tywin did not intend to let him see to the princess’s end.
Knowing that no guard dared to turn their heads in their direction, Tywin drew the princess near and placed a light kiss to her lips. Their personalities in that moment were completely opposite. She was ravenous, starved of his touch and seeking validation in his arms. Her hands found the dimples of his waist, barely detectable through the armor, and rested there. If it were not for the metal, she would have dug crescents into his skin.
On the other hand, he was calm. A storm brewed in the pit of his stomach, but he did not show it.
She let out a soft breath when the cold metal sunk itself into her chest. Tywin held her still, not allowing her legs to give out. One hand held the blade firmly by his side, soaked in her blood. The other was cradling her body, holding her to his chest. An uncomfortable warmth oozed from the bodice of her dress. It added depth to the blood that already stained his breastplate.
Her lips parted to speak but nothing could come from her lungs for no air remained. Pleading questioning eyes met ones that would display sorrow and remorse if they could. It would be a cold day in hell before Tywin would admit what he had done was wrong. Every fiber of his being scolded him, but his own selfishness was not enough to start a war with a man who had just won his own.
Tywin knew that the only end for her that he would accept was the embrace of death. If not for his blade, Robert Baratheon would either have the princess killed or marry her to claim the throne. Selfishly, Tywin could not bear to see her wed to another.
She was his.
Her love, her body, her heart, and her death was his.
SPOILER WARNING!! This has A LOT of spoilers for the next season of the show.
Summary: Aemond informs his wife of his impending battle. (Sorry if it’s kinda bad, just an idea after I read the book and I mean, he’s dreamy in a troubled kinda way.)
“A fortnight, then.”
Flame-lit logs crackled within the stone hearth, answering her words like a captivated audience. The murmur of gossiped tripe ached in her bones the same way it had since the beginning of her husband’s family affairs.
“I thought it right to tell you.” He replied with mixed emotion in his tone.
Ignoring him, she focused herself on the fiery embers as they rose upward, disappearing beyond the chimney’s base. Shades of bursting orange and flickering crimsons cast dramatic shadows across the contours of her warming skin. A rose blush crept onto her cheeks, and yet she pulled her shawl further around her shoulders.
“She is pregnant.” It would have been a question if not for the glaring truth of it all strewn upon his face. “Heavily pregnant.”
There was a distinct hesitance in the words that passed his lips next. He wondered if she had known all along; perhaps he had not hidden his affairs to the extent of his thoughts. Anyone with eyes or ears would have known. Yet, he had convinced himself that out of everyone it would not be she who held disbelief in his alignment.
“My love,” his words died as her anger erupted and flowed slowly from the tenseness of her shoulders.
“Do not.” Bitter as a soured fruit, her words were cut from her tongue. He opened his mouth to speak but was hushed by her calm rage. “If those words should ever leave you again, you will not have a tongue. I have dedicated myself to you, my life, my cause, everything.” She wouldn’t meet his eye. “You have no right to speak to me in such a manner. So, I only implore you for this and this only. When is the child due and will it be you who claims it as your own?”
Their relationship had never been a tumultuous one. Often they sailed upon smooth waters, their portage was met with clear skies and an outlook on the vast openness that was their journey together. But something was always lurking just below its surface. While his anger came in outbursts and pointed attacks, hers was more subtle and subdued. Her ferocity slithered beneath her exterior, only showing itself in passive quips, sharp words, and the intense avoidance of her gaze.
In truth, she was never more than a passing glance. Her beauty was outshined by that of her mother or even that of her grandmother. While desirable, she was often overlooked in a room of people. She was an always present individual, even if it were only physical and not of heart and mind. Countless times she was given grandiose offers for her hand by the endless barrage of scrambling lords who wanted to better their position and house’s prestige. Countless times she would hear whispers of their denials and the subsequent mild rage that seethed from the men’s bodies who were often more than twice her age. Even those who had attempted to court her mother in her blooming years had thought it right to do the same to her, expecting a different outcome. But it was their mistake, for they did not realize she was promised to another.
“I cannot give you information I do not have.”
His fingernails, though cut short and clean, dug crescents into the palms of his hands.
“Then you will contest it? You will deny to me in this instant that her child is yours? You will tell me that you have not taken her to your bed?”
“I can tell you whatever you would like to hear, my love. But I cannot promise the truth to my word.”
“Then I do not wish to hear it.” She sighed, but in a way that oozed resentment opposed to one of defeat. “Leave me.”
The weight of his stare pushed harshly against the vibrancy of her being. It swirled around in the air like smoke and ash, threatening to envelop her whole and take her to darkness. “I will not.” He defied her demand, standing firm just steps away from where she had positioned herself to watch the burning wood that warmed the room.
“You will do as I demand and leave me.” His steps were heavy as he drew closer, halted by her speaking once more. “Leave me.” The veins of her neck were strained, pumping blood viciously to her face causing it to blush a shade of pink. Yet, she continued to not meet his eye.
Even when he laid his hands upon her shoulders and shook her body wholly, she flouted her vision and expelled him from her line of view. He gripped her frantically, grasping at her upper and lower arms as he searched her for a semblance of the woman he knew.
“Look at me!” He repeated, growing more and more discontented. The pupils of his lilac eye vacillated from a pin-prick to an endless abyss. “I command you to look at me!”
It was almost childish. The two of them battled in distinctly different ways. He let his anger bubble to the surface and spill from his edges, while she preferred to not give people the satisfaction of seeing her hurt. They were both terribly flawed in their processes.
“Look at me!” He was yelling now.
“You cannot command anything of me.” She refused, choosing to focus on the golden clasps of his tunic that had been marred in dried brown blood. Whose, she did not know, but the sight of it left a poor taste upon her tongue.
“I can. You forget your place in the hierarchy.” His gloved fingers burnt against her skin. “Allow me to remind you,” he lowered his chin to rest upon her shoulder where his words vibrated from his chest to hers, “I am your lord husband and you are my lady wife. I am prince regent, my word is law.”
She could feel his resolve softening slightly as the steady beating of her heart and the softness of her breasts soothed his rugged rage. She could give in. She could allow him to coax her back to the ground where his iron heart kept him planted to the solid surface. There were many things she could have done and she chose the worst of them. All the hurt he had put her through was festering in her stomach, twisting and turning her insides in a wild rage. He had killed her brother and cousin, waged war against her mother and step-father, and kept her concealed within the Red Keep until they could be sure of her alignment. To top it all off, he had defiled her trust in him as a partner. He had taken another woman to bed.
“You cannot command anything of me as your command comes from your false claim to the throne.”
A crack in her voice was the only emotion in her words.
“You wear the conqueror’s crown yet have conquered nothing except for a common whore.”
He pushed himself backward in a way that did not use her body to project him so. Her feet remained planted and firm, unswaying in the storm that brewed in his chest.
Thundering and electrifying below the surface, he writhed in the sheets she had laid out before him in the bed he had made himself. He aimed to hurt. Taunting was his warfare and striking words were his blade.
“At the very least, my Alys can bear me children whereas you have failed at your only responsibility to me.” He took a step backward and composed himself, lifting his jaw and peering at her from the top of his cheek. Only when she finally brought her eyes to his did he turn it back down to stare down the bridge of his nose. “A fortnight, then.”
He turned on his heel and left his wife alone with her thoughts. If he had stayed a moment longer, he would have seen her shoulders tremble and her hand coast along the bodice of her gown. All the pain of his words was on display in her glassy eyes. All the rejection of his movements slowly burnt the bridge that connected them.
On day thirteen she remained locked in her chambers, hiding amongst the quilted sheets of her bed. No handmaiden or guard dare bother her and any movement on her behalf would have been reported to the prince who lingered on the grounds.
She only saw the moonlight on days twelve and eleven, waking from fitful dreams to an empty bed. Aemond had not warmed her sheets for months, constantly gone to battle and in the arms of another.
She emerged from her silken cocoon on day ten, wrapping herself in a black shawl before lingering in front of the fire for the remainder of the day. Homely sounds of her nieces and nephews pattering feet, her grandmother's anxious words, and the general organized chaos of the castle were ghosts in her ears. The room where she stayed now was not home. It was a prison. At first she thought it loving of her husband to take her to safety, to conceal her away from the battles. But the longer she remained, the more she grew to resent him.
On day nine, she was served a brothy soup that smelled of fresh thyme and flavored oil. It settled uncomfortably in her stomach and the heart of her meal was left in the bowl to chill in the midnight air.
It wasn’t until day eight that she finally stepped back into the land of the living where nothing had changed from the way she left it days prior. A guard noted her exit and promptly left, likely gone to alert the prince of her movements. A handmaiden, no older than she, guided her through the corridors, careful to not lead her in the direction of her husband’s new chambers.
“My lady, the prince requests you join him in his study.”
She continued past the guard who had been sent to summon her, her feet carrying her in the opposite direction.
The gardens were mild and temperate with summer flowers in bloom that seemed to cascade like waterfalls down the sides of the castle’s old stone walls. Colors of vibrant blues and pearlescent white were sprinkled about, contrasted by the brilliant deep green of the growing ivy.
Her handmaiden kept two steps behind her, occasionally picking a fallen leaf or petal out of the dress’s train. Otherwise, the two walked in a calming silence until she returned to her chambers for the remainder of the night.
On the seventh day, a sennight until her husband's battle, she woke to a bouquet of fresh heliotropes. They were all shades of purple, some amethyst and others deep like obsidian. She did not need to ponder long who they had come from. They were the same flower that adorned the Red Keep’s great hall on the day they wed. Eternal love was symbolized in the flower’s petals, but the definition of eternal seemed to end in the sheets of Harrenhal.
On the sixth day, she again spent her time awake in the middle of the night. Her room in the Holdfast overlooked some of the gardens where only guards patrolled at this late hour. However, she was not in the Holdfast. Dragonstone had become her new home. She sat in the window, a velvet shawl draped over her shoulders, bathing in the moonlight. There was vastly more to see here. From her perch, she could see the grounds below, a small village, and the empty ocean that reminded her of her father.
She wondered what her mother was doing. After being locked within the Red Keep, she lost all contact with the outside world. Any news of the war was only fed to her though eavesdropping either on maids or her cousins. It was rare for her to think about the consequences of her family’s actions, but with nothing else to distract her, her mind wandered. When she arrived in Dragonstone it got worse. All news of the war stopped as if everyone had been instructed to keep it a secret from the princess.
She thought back to the day she was told she was to marry her cousin. Her mother had taken her into the gardens and walked with her for hours. The two walked endlessly through the ivy and wisteria, eventually making their way into the less traveled pathways. Rhaenyra told her that she was betrothed and from that day forward she took her duties as a wife very seriously.
Until the day Rhaenyra and Laenor left for Dragonstone, she was counseled by the Queen, her grandmother and soon-to-be mother in law. Alicent had taken to the girl like her own daughter. She instilled a deep sense of duty and honor into her moral code, encouraging her to age with grace and the makings of a royal. The young girl enjoyed her time with both her mother and grandmother, but especially the moments she spent with her future husband.
Deep in her heart, she knew the days of married bliss were mere memories she had built with rose-colored glasses. She wondered if they were ever truly happy together.
On the third day, she emerged from her chambers clad in a gown of black and gold. Thick brocade fabric formed soft pleats that barely grazed the ground beneath her feet as she walked. A necklace of gold and sapphire laid delicately against her collarbone. She was tired of playing the part of a broken woman. Whether she liked it or not, she was the first born daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. Laying down in defeat was not an option on the table.
Again, the prince regent called for his lady wife. Again, she did not heed his request, instead making her way through the halls of Dragonstone where she would eventually find herself standing at the edge of the cranberry bog where small pink flowers swirled together like a sunset sea. Come autumn they would be red fruits, ready to flavor the season.
“You have been avoiding me.”
The voice jostled her from her thoughts.
There, no more than ten feet back, stood her husband. He wore his usual attire, blackened leather with sleeves that came to his wrists. Platinum blonde hair was less tame than usual, wild strands framing his face in a delicate yet dangerous way. The sun glistened against his sapphire eye, matching the way it did against her necklace.
A simple nod in agreement was all she gave. It was easier to turn her back to him and let the past consume her.
“My,” he stopped himself. “I want to talk.”
“Then talk. Nobody is stopping you.”
His body pressed into hers in an intimate way it had not in ages. Long steps drew him near and the warmth of his waist was pressed into her side as he found his footing in the grass. His arms were latched behind his back with one hand cradling his other’s fingers.
“I remember the first time we properly met as betrothed children. You were a child of eight and I, nine. My mother had just denied a proposed betrothal between Helaena and Jacaerys.
My mother proposed a union between us. We were the leftover children, naturally we suited one another. You had just returned from the godswood and we were made to dine together.” The smallest smile tugged at his lips. “You hated every minute of it.”
“As did you.”
“I knew my duty was to you, to be a good husband for you, but I did not know you. Then you moved here. I had tried writing to you on multiple occasions, but the words never came to me naturally. I knew what to write, but without emotion it felt disingenuous. I wanted to be genuine.
However, at nine, I cared little for marriage. I wanted to be stronger, a better swordsman. I wanted a dragon, a true symbol of Targaryen power.
When Laena passed and we met again in Pentos, you were a different person. A year older and entirely different. You were the only one in your family to stand by my side when I was injured. I remember the way you screamed at your brother, telling him it was over and that violence was not the way. The sound of your screaming still rings in my ears as I tried to stop the bleeding. I can still feel your trembling hands as you tore the hems of your dress to give me the fabric. I can see the way your brothers seethed at the sight of it all.”
A breeze brought off the cliff side rustled the ruching of her gown. It had been many years since she thought back to that day. As a child of nine she was far beyond her years of maturity. Some would tell her she was the perfect bride for her husband-to-be. Calm in temper, she would tame the other who was constantly on edge.
“They loathed me for years afterward. My step sisters never quite forgave me.”
“And yet, you remain by my side.”
She laughed bitterly, tucking her chin to her chest as she angled her head away from him. “And yet, I do.”
Hesitancy was not a trait carried by the prince regent. In fact, there had rarely if ever been a time in which he had not displayed a self-assured attitude in every aspect of his life. But in that moment, with an outstretched arm, he hesitantly placed his ungloved hand to the small of her back.
A burst of uncomfortable tension crawled beneath her gown, spreading to her sides and shoulders in a crushing wave. She stiffened, eyes cast downward to the grass. It was only when his fingers, long and nimble, began to rub small circles of familiar softness. He had often done this since their union. Especially so when in the unforgiving presence of her step father and mother who grew to regret agreeing to wed the two.
“Do you regret it?” Aemond asked, his focus now shifted to the side of his wife’s face. He could see the turmoil in her creased brow in the way her eyes squinted and lip upturned. “For even a moment?”
The answer came with a surge of relief and confusion.
“No.”
How could she not regret it, he wondered. For all that he had put her through: the separation from her family, the loss of those closest to her, the grief of miscarriage, and the pain of intense heartbreak stemming from his adultery. He had stolen the comfortable life she lived from her and crumpled it beneath his shoe the moment she was promised to him.
A part of him wanted to shake her as he did a week prior. He wanted to scream and demand a reasonable answer as to why she does not resent the relationship. Every fiber of his being was set aflame with confusion.
“No?” He repeated. The hand placed on her side grasped at her waist to turn her body in his hold. Only when the tip of his finger coaxed her chin from her chest did she meet his gaze.
Wetness pooled at the rims of her eyes, clawing through her lower lashes to stream down her sunken cheeks. She was not one to cry. Even after the loss of her first, she did not publically shed a tear. “No.”
Aemond felt his betrayal, then.
The feeling bubbled in his stomach, churching uncomfortably in a wild whirlpool of emotion. It threatened to come up his throat, leaving long gashes of red hatred in his body. Each tear she shed was like a hole burst in his chest. The iridescent droplets were reminders of his sacred vow broken.
He choked on his response, leaving her an open stage to speak.
“Please, do not choose her over me. I have lost all, I cannot lose you too.”
Whatever was left of his heart shattered as he found his eye glassy, blurring with the same salted tears as hers.
He suddenly pulled her close, his hand smoothing down the back of her head to bring her to his chest. Horrible sobs racked through her body causing her shoulders to quake as his hands desperately tried to soothe her. “Never, my love.”
~*~
“I sent the whore away.” Aemond walked with purpose, coming to stand before his wife who was seated at a table with a steaming cup of tea. His fingers were latched behind his back.
It was two days until his battle was set to take place.
A slight nod was given, gradually turning into a full one as his wife placed her cup down onto the table. “That’s… good. That is good.”
Bile still rose in her throat every time she thought of the woman. Older and more mature than she, Alys Rivers was her name. A common bedwhore from Harrenhal was her occupation and she bore no name of any relevance as she was a bastard. What had been so enticing about her that he would break his sacred vow?
“Your happiness in the situation is lost on me.” The seat across from her was filled with Aemond’s presence as he quickly filled the empty space.
“No.” She interjected. “I am very happy. Truly.”
The storm of emotion in her features said otherwise.
“But something still ails you.”
She got lost in the plumes of steam that rose from her cup, floating into the stagnant air as if being pulled up by strings. “It is nothing. A simple insecurity, not a problem to breathe life into any longer.”
“It is my infidelity, is it not?”
Looking like a child who had been caught out of bed, she folded her hands in her lap and stared at her husband.
“She is a witch.” Aemond stated as if it were a common thing. “She has visions; she sees things in the clouds and flames. I cannot explain it. She used potions to cause my eye to wander.” Holding his wife’s gaze, he slumped his shoulders and let his back arch to rest his forearms on his thighs. “I should have been stronger. I should have seen through that witch-” he grew angrier but she was not sure if it was in truth, “that whore’s facade. I should not have let myself cause you, my beautiful wife, any pain.”
His head slipped into his palms, forehead cradled and fingers tangled in his platinum locks.
“How am I to know your words hold truth?” She watched as Aemond shook his head.
“It was a lapse in my rational judgment. I will always return to you, my love.” In a low strained tone he breathed his words. “She means nothing to me.” But his unwillingness to use her name, Alys, made her doubt his statement.
It did not take long for his wife to thrust herself from her seated position and move to kneel at his side. Her dress collected dust as she lowered herself to peer beneath the curtain of hair that blocked his face.
“She is not our problem now.” Assuring words were what his wife needed to hear, not him. But she could not resist the way he pulled at her heartstrings. “We will move forward together. The war will end and we can find peace in our lives. I am still young, we will find a way to bring healthy children into our lives.”
Conflict, she found, was not a flattering color to bathe in. There was nary a time that the Targaryen dynasty did not partake in one form of insanity or another. It was written in their fates to continually live in turmoil. Even those that tried to keep peace sprouted seeds of distress in their descendants or amongst their people.
Aemond and the princess were no exceptions.
They had wed hastily but were able to get through the evening without a duel or death. Viserys II’s health was failing him. Though able to walk still, he struggled in his everyday life. The princess was sent from Dragonstone to Kings Landing where she had a quick ceremony that her direct family did not attend. This attributed to her feelings for her husband. She found comfort in his presence. He was there when others were not.
Her life felt as if it were out of her control. From the moment she was brought into her cruel world others were planning her future and she was locked in her gilded cage. With Aemond, she felt like she was in control. Though the truth in that could be debatable.
They laid together that night for the first time in many and possibly the last. Memories of brighter times had been shared as they basked in the afterglow, lit by only the moon. He had more scars than she remembered. While still lean and pale, cuts of bright pink and burnt auburn were spliced across his torso. Distinct claw marks were marred into his shoulder blades, reminders of his infidelity.
It was almost as if they could talk to her as she counted them in the moonlight. Aemond had turned in his sleep, his back to her. Displayed like an open canvas, she couldn’t help but find her mind shrouded by hurt and anger again as the name burst into her ears. Alys Rivers, the whore, the bedmate, the bastard, and the woman who caught her husband’s wandering eye. She cringed as she tried to picture her. Surely she at least had wrinkles. There had to be a flaw to her appearance. As hard as the princess tried, she could only picture a woman of beauty.
Lost in her insecurities, she had not noticed that Aemond had turned over and now studied his wife’s face as it twisted and contorted. He knew what was troubling her. Instead of lying, telling her that Alys was a horrid woman, he said nothing and took her into his arms. Crushing her in his embrace, he held her like it would be the last time he could. He memorized her shape, her smell, her warmth and her love. His eyes closed and he rested his chin atop her head.
“I love you.” He whispered into the night, unsure if she heard him or not as her chest rose and fell like a metronome keeping a beat. “I love you.” He repeated, holding her tight as he willed himself to sleep knowing what was to come the next day.
~~~*~~~
“Stay.”
Her hand caught his as he made his way toward Vhaegar, dressed in his charcoal armor. The helm was down, concealing his face within.
“Aemond, please.”
The full grasp on his wrist halted him in his tracks. The beast let out a low grumble, growing impatient as its rider stood motionless on the cliff side. A gentle breeze blew in, bringing with it salted air that watered her tongue.
“I will return.” Assurance in the face of death was just words on the breeze, taken far away before they could drop like seedlings and plant themselves in her mind.
“Whole and alive with a beating heart or in memory?”
His hand, though covered in a thick leather glove, came to rest upon her cheek. The other pulled the visor of his shining helm up to reveal his contrasting eyes. “Do you doubt my abilities, my love?”
“Not for one moment.”
His palm pressed against her cheek, lingering longer than he intended as she leaned into his touch. Lashes fanned across her skin, fluttering softly as her lips pressed into a fine line, holding back whatever emotion was within.
“I will return. I vowed to protect you, until my very last day. That day will not be today.” Though he could not press his lips to hers, he drew her in close, holding her firmly against him. “Wait by the ocean until the sun dips below the horizon. I will be here by your side the moment the world is cast into darkness.” He held her back, staring deeply into her eyes. “I promise, my love. I will return.”
She cried as he turned and mounted Vhaegar. Tears streamed from her reddened eyes as he waved her off with another proclamation of his return. Even the frightful blasts of warm summer air could not dissuade the constant river that bled onto her cheeks.
It was late when her sobs ceased and the whisper of prayer died on her lips. The protective light of the day had fled from the sky leaving her cast in darkness and broken promises. Her knees had formed deep grooves in the fine sand where they landed hours before. Fists full of earth could not move the clock backward. Aemond was lost to the wind.
Grief kept her going in the deep midnight hours as she gazed into the distance where Westeros lied. Every speck in the sky had her heart beating faster than before. Each turned out to be nothing. It was only when the morning came and the world continued forward that she moved from her spot. The tide had brought water in around her thighs, soaking her dress through.
She ached like nothing else in the following days. It was as if she could feel every wound her husband had endured. Her dreams were haunted all the same. Blue eyes stared at her through the misty haze that rolled in. Aemond filled her thoughts. At night, she could see him in the darkness looming in the corner of her room.
Word of his death eventually made it to Dragonstone. Mention of his Alys occupying Harrenhal was floated by the guards. How he had brought her to the battle, kissed her passionately, and died in the skies only posed as daggers thrust into her heart.
It wasn’t until years later that Aemond returned to Dragonstone, to his wife. Though, she did not greet him on the beach. She met him in the crypts, sealed away in stone tombs left to collect dust.
She had died of a chill in 133 AC, taking her final breaths on that same sandy beach.
Although not by his doings, he had kept his promise. Brought back in a box of black and red sealed tight with dark metal, Aemond was laid to rest at his wife’s side.
SPOILER WARNING!! This has A LOT of spoilers for the next season of the show.
Summary: Aemond informs his wife of his impending battle. (Sorry if it’s kinda bad, just an idea after I read the book and I mean, he’s dreamy in a troubled kinda way.)
“A fortnight, then.”
Flame-lit logs crackled within the stone hearth, answering her words like a captivated audience. The murmur of gossiped tripe ached in her bones the same way it had since the beginning of her husband’s family affairs.
“I thought it right to tell you.” He replied with mixed emotion in his tone.
Ignoring him, she focused herself on the fiery embers as they rose upward, disappearing beyond the chimney’s base. Shades of bursting orange and flickering crimsons cast dramatic shadows across the contours of her warming skin. A rose blush crept onto her cheeks, and yet she pulled her shawl further around her shoulders.
“She is pregnant.” It would have been a question if not for the glaring truth of it all strewn upon his face. “Heavily pregnant.”
There was a distinct hesitance in the words that passed his lips next. He wondered if she had known all along; perhaps he had not hidden his affairs to the extent of his thoughts. Anyone with eyes or ears would have known. Yet, he had convinced himself that out of everyone it would not be she who held disbelief in his alignment.
“My love,” his words died as her anger erupted and flowed slowly from the tenseness of her shoulders.
“Do not.” Bitter as a soured fruit, her words were cut from her tongue. He opened his mouth to speak but was hushed by her calm rage. “If those words should ever leave you again, you will not have a tongue. I have dedicated myself to you, my life, my cause, everything.” She wouldn’t meet his eye. “You have no right to speak to me in such a manner. So, I only implore you for this and this only. When is the child due and will it be you who claims it as your own?”
Their relationship had never been a tumultuous one. Often they sailed upon smooth waters, their portage was met with clear skies and an outlook on the vast openness that was their journey together. But something was always lurking just below its surface. While his anger came in outbursts and pointed attacks, hers was more subtle and subdued. Her ferocity slithered beneath her exterior, only showing itself in passive quips, sharp words, and the intense avoidance of her gaze.
In truth, she was never more than a passing glance. Her beauty was outshined by that of her mother or even that of her grandmother. While desirable, she was often overlooked in a room of people. She was an always present individual, even if it were only physical and not of heart and mind. Countless times she was given grandiose offers for her hand by the endless barrage of scrambling lords who wanted to better their position and house’s prestige. Countless times she would hear whispers of their denials and the subsequent mild rage that seethed from the men’s bodies who were often more than twice her age. Even those who had attempted to court her mother in her blooming years had thought it right to do the same to her, expecting a different outcome. But it was their mistake, for they did not realize she was promised to another.
“I cannot give you information I do not have.”
His fingernails, though cut short and clean, dug crescents into the palms of his hands.
“Then you will contest it? You will deny to me in this instant that her child is yours? You will tell me that you have not taken her to your bed?”
“I can tell you whatever you would like to hear, my love. But I cannot promise the truth to my word.”
“Then I do not wish to hear it.” She sighed, but in a way that oozed resentment opposed to one of defeat. “Leave me.”
The weight of his stare pushed harshly against the vibrancy of her being. It swirled around in the air like smoke and ash, threatening to envelop her whole and take her to darkness. “I will not.” He defied her demand, standing firm just steps away from where she had positioned herself to watch the burning wood that warmed the room.
“You will do as I demand and leave me.” His steps were heavy as he drew closer, halted by her speaking once more. “Leave me.” The veins of her neck were strained, pumping blood viciously to her face causing it to blush a shade of pink. Yet, she continued to not meet his eye.
Even when he laid his hands upon her shoulders and shook her body wholly, she flouted her vision and expelled him from her line of view. He gripped her frantically, grasping at her upper and lower arms as he searched her for a semblance of the woman he knew.
“Look at me!” He repeated, growing more and more discontented. The pupils of his lilac eye vacillated from a pin-prick to an endless abyss. “I command you to look at me!”
It was almost childish. The two of them battled in distinctly different ways. He let his anger bubble to the surface and spill from his edges, while she preferred to not give people the satisfaction of seeing her hurt. They were both terribly flawed in their processes.
“Look at me!” He was yelling now.
“You cannot command anything of me.” She refused, choosing to focus on the golden clasps of his tunic that had been marred in dried brown blood. Whose, she did not know, but the sight of it left a poor taste upon her tongue.
“I can. You forget your place in the hierarchy.” His gloved fingers burnt against her skin. “Allow me to remind you,” he lowered his chin to rest upon her shoulder where his words vibrated from his chest to hers, “I am your lord husband and you are my lady wife. I am prince regent, my word is law.”
She could feel his resolve softening slightly as the steady beating of her heart and the softness of her breasts soothed his rugged rage. She could give in. She could allow him to coax her back to the ground where his iron heart kept him planted to the solid surface. There were many things she could have done and she chose the worst of them. All the hurt he had put her through was festering in her stomach, twisting and turning her insides in a wild rage. He had killed her brother and cousin, waged war against her mother and step-father, and kept her concealed within the Red Keep until they could be sure of her alignment. To top it all off, he had defiled her trust in him as a partner. He had taken another woman to bed.
“You cannot command anything of me as your command comes from your false claim to the throne.”
A crack in her voice was the only emotion in her words.
“You wear the conqueror’s crown yet have conquered nothing except for a common whore.”
He pushed himself backward in a way that did not use her body to project him so. Her feet remained planted and firm, unswaying in the storm that brewed in his chest.
Thundering and electrifying below the surface, he writhed in the sheets she had laid out before him in the bed he had made himself. He aimed to hurt. Taunting was his warfare and striking words were his blade.
“At the very least, my Alys can bear me children whereas you have failed at your only responsibility to me.” He took a step backward and composed himself, lifting his jaw and peering at her from the top of his cheek. Only when she finally brought her eyes to his did he turn it back down to stare down the bridge of his nose. “A fortnight, then.”
He turned on his heel and left his wife alone with her thoughts. If he had stayed a moment longer, he would have seen her shoulders tremble and her hand coast along the bodice of her gown. All the pain of his words was on display in her glassy eyes. All the rejection of his movements slowly burnt the bridge that connected them.
On day thirteen she remained locked in her chambers, hiding amongst the quilted sheets of her bed. No handmaiden or guard dare bother her and any movement on her behalf would have been reported to the prince who lingered on the grounds.
She only saw the moonlight on days twelve and eleven, waking from fitful dreams to an empty bed. Aemond had not warmed her sheets for months, constantly gone to battle and in the arms of another.
She emerged from her silken cocoon on day ten, wrapping herself in a black shawl before lingering in front of the fire for the remainder of the day. Homely sounds of her nieces and nephews pattering feet, her grandmother's anxious words, and the general organized chaos of the castle were ghosts in her ears. The room where she stayed now was not home. It was a prison. At first she thought it loving of her husband to take her to safety, to conceal her away from the battles. But the longer she remained, the more she grew to resent him.
On day nine, she was served a brothy soup that smelled of fresh thyme and flavored oil. It settled uncomfortably in her stomach and the heart of her meal was left in the bowl to chill in the midnight air.
It wasn’t until day eight that she finally stepped back into the land of the living where nothing had changed from the way she left it days prior. A guard noted her exit and promptly left, likely gone to alert the prince of her movements. A handmaiden, no older than she, guided her through the corridors, careful to not lead her in the direction of her husband’s new chambers.
“My lady, the prince requests you join him in his study.”
She continued past the guard who had been sent to summon her, her feet carrying her in the opposite direction.
The gardens were mild and temperate with summer flowers in bloom that seemed to cascade like waterfalls down the sides of the castle’s old stone walls. Colors of vibrant blues and pearlescent white were sprinkled about, contrasted by the brilliant deep green of the growing ivy.
Her handmaiden kept two steps behind her, occasionally picking a fallen leaf or petal out of the dress’s train. Otherwise, the two walked in a calming silence until she returned to her chambers for the remainder of the night.
On the seventh day, a sennight until her husband's battle, she woke to a bouquet of fresh heliotropes. They were all shades of purple, some amethyst and others deep like obsidian. She did not need to ponder long who they had come from. They were the same flower that adorned the Red Keep’s great hall on the day they wed. Eternal love was symbolized in the flower’s petals, but the definition of eternal seemed to end in the sheets of Harrenhal.
On the sixth day, she again spent her time awake in the middle of the night. Her room in the Holdfast overlooked some of the gardens where only guards patrolled at this late hour. However, she was not in the Holdfast. Dragonstone had become her new home. She sat in the window, a velvet shawl draped over her shoulders, bathing in the moonlight. There was vastly more to see here. From her perch, she could see the grounds below, a small village, and the empty ocean that reminded her of her father.
She wondered what her mother was doing. After being locked within the Red Keep, she lost all contact with the outside world. Any news of the war was only fed to her though eavesdropping either on maids or her cousins. It was rare for her to think about the consequences of her family’s actions, but with nothing else to distract her, her mind wandered. When she arrived in Dragonstone it got worse. All news of the war stopped as if everyone had been instructed to keep it a secret from the princess.
She thought back to the day she was told she was to marry her cousin. Her mother had taken her into the gardens and walked with her for hours. The two walked endlessly through the ivy and wisteria, eventually making their way into the less traveled pathways. Rhaenyra told her that she was betrothed and from that day forward she took her duties as a wife very seriously.
Until the day Rhaenyra and Laenor left for Dragonstone, she was counseled by the Queen, her grandmother and soon-to-be mother in law. Alicent had taken to the girl like her own daughter. She instilled a deep sense of duty and honor into her moral code, encouraging her to age with grace and the makings of a royal. The young girl enjoyed her time with both her mother and grandmother, but especially the moments she spent with her future husband.
Deep in her heart, she knew the days of married bliss were mere memories she had built with rose-colored glasses. She wondered if they were ever truly happy together.
On the third day, she emerged from her chambers clad in a gown of black and gold. Thick brocade fabric formed soft pleats that barely grazed the ground beneath her feet as she walked. A necklace of gold and sapphire laid delicately against her collarbone. She was tired of playing the part of a broken woman. Whether she liked it or not, she was the first born daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon. Laying down in defeat was not an option on the table.
Again, the prince regent called for his lady wife. Again, she did not heed his request, instead making her way through the halls of Dragonstone where she would eventually find herself standing at the edge of the cranberry bog where small pink flowers swirled together like a sunset sea. Come autumn they would be red fruits, ready to flavor the season.
“You have been avoiding me.”
The voice jostled her from her thoughts.
There, no more than ten feet back, stood her husband. He wore his usual attire, blackened leather with sleeves that came to his wrists. Platinum blonde hair was less tame than usual, wild strands framing his face in a delicate yet dangerous way. The sun glistened against his sapphire eye, matching the way it did against her necklace.
A simple nod in agreement was all she gave. It was easier to turn her back to him and let the past consume her.
“My,” he stopped himself. “I want to talk.”
“Then talk. Nobody is stopping you.”
His body pressed into hers in an intimate way it had not in ages. Long steps drew him near and the warmth of his waist was pressed into her side as he found his footing in the grass. His arms were latched behind his back with one hand cradling his other’s fingers.
“I remember the first time we properly met as betrothed children. You were a child of eight and I, nine. My mother had just denied a proposed betrothal between Helaena and Jacaerys.
My mother proposed a union between us. We were the leftover children, naturally we suited one another. You had just returned from the godswood and we were made to dine together.” The smallest smile tugged at his lips. “You hated every minute of it.”
“As did you.”
“I knew my duty was to you, to be a good husband for you, but I did not know you. Then you moved here. I had tried writing to you on multiple occasions, but the words never came to me naturally. I knew what to write, but without emotion it felt disingenuous. I wanted to be genuine.
However, at nine, I cared little for marriage. I wanted to be stronger, a better swordsman. I wanted a dragon, a true symbol of Targaryen power.
When Laena passed and we met again in Pentos, you were a different person. A year older and entirely different. You were the only one in your family to stand by my side when I was injured. I remember the way you screamed at your brother, telling him it was over and that violence was not the way. The sound of your screaming still rings in my ears as I tried to stop the bleeding. I can still feel your trembling hands as you tore the hems of your dress to give me the fabric. I can see the way your brothers seethed at the sight of it all.”
A breeze brought off the cliff side rustled the ruching of her gown. It had been many years since she thought back to that day. As a child of nine she was far beyond her years of maturity. Some would tell her she was the perfect bride for her husband-to-be. Calm in temper, she would tame the other who was constantly on edge.
“They loathed me for years afterward. My step sisters never quite forgave me.”
“And yet, you remain by my side.”
She laughed bitterly, tucking her chin to her chest as she angled her head away from him. “And yet, I do.”
Hesitancy was not a trait carried by the prince regent. In fact, there had rarely if ever been a time in which he had not displayed a self-assured attitude in every aspect of his life. But in that moment, with an outstretched arm, he hesitantly placed his ungloved hand to the small of her back.
A burst of uncomfortable tension crawled beneath her gown, spreading to her sides and shoulders in a crushing wave. She stiffened, eyes cast downward to the grass. It was only when his fingers, long and nimble, began to rub small circles of familiar softness. He had often done this since their union. Especially so when in the unforgiving presence of her step father and mother who grew to regret agreeing to wed the two.
“Do you regret it?” Aemond asked, his focus now shifted to the side of his wife’s face. He could see the turmoil in her creased brow in the way her eyes squinted and lip upturned. “For even a moment?”
The answer came with a surge of relief and confusion.
“No.”
How could she not regret it, he wondered. For all that he had put her through: the separation from her family, the loss of those closest to her, the grief of miscarriage, and the pain of intense heartbreak stemming from his adultery. He had stolen the comfortable life she lived from her and crumpled it beneath his shoe the moment she was promised to him.
A part of him wanted to shake her as he did a week prior. He wanted to scream and demand a reasonable answer as to why she does not resent the relationship. Every fiber of his being was set aflame with confusion.
“No?” He repeated. The hand placed on her side grasped at her waist to turn her body in his hold. Only when the tip of his finger coaxed her chin from her chest did she meet his gaze.
Wetness pooled at the rims of her eyes, clawing through her lower lashes to stream down her sunken cheeks. She was not one to cry. Even after the loss of her first, she did not publically shed a tear. “No.”
Aemond felt his betrayal, then.
The feeling bubbled in his stomach, churching uncomfortably in a wild whirlpool of emotion. It threatened to come up his throat, leaving long gashes of red hatred in his body. Each tear she shed was like a hole burst in his chest. The iridescent droplets were reminders of his sacred vow broken.
He choked on his response, leaving her an open stage to speak.
“Please, do not choose her over me. I have lost all, I cannot lose you too.”
Whatever was left of his heart shattered as he found his eye glassy, blurring with the same salted tears as hers.
He suddenly pulled her close, his hand smoothing down the back of her head to bring her to his chest. Horrible sobs racked through her body causing her shoulders to quake as his hands desperately tried to soothe her. “Never, my love.”
~*~
“I sent the whore away.” Aemond walked with purpose, coming to stand before his wife who was seated at a table with a steaming cup of tea. His fingers were latched behind his back.
It was two days until his battle was set to take place.
A slight nod was given, gradually turning into a full one as his wife placed her cup down onto the table. “That’s… good. That is good.”
Bile still rose in her throat every time she thought of the woman. Older and more mature than she, Alys Rivers was her name. A common bedwhore from Harrenhal was her occupation and she bore no name of any relevance as she was a bastard. What had been so enticing about her that he would break his sacred vow?
“Your happiness in the situation is lost on me.” The seat across from her was filled with Aemond’s presence as he quickly filled the empty space.
“No.” She interjected. “I am very happy. Truly.”
The storm of emotion in her features said otherwise.
“But something still ails you.”
She got lost in the plumes of steam that rose from her cup, floating into the stagnant air as if being pulled up by strings. “It is nothing. A simple insecurity, not a problem to breathe life into any longer.”
“It is my infidelity, is it not?”
Looking like a child who had been caught out of bed, she folded her hands in her lap and stared at her husband.
“She is a witch.” Aemond stated as if it were a common thing. “She has visions; she sees things in the clouds and flames. I cannot explain it. She used potions to cause my eye to wander.” Holding his wife’s gaze, he slumped his shoulders and let his back arch to rest his forearms on his thighs. “I should have been stronger. I should have seen through that witch-” he grew angrier but she was not sure if it was in truth, “that whore’s facade. I should not have let myself cause you, my beautiful wife, any pain.”
His head slipped into his palms, forehead cradled and fingers tangled in his platinum locks.
“How am I to know your words hold truth?” She watched as Aemond shook his head.
“It was a lapse in my rational judgment. I will always return to you, my love.” In a low strained tone he breathed his words. “She means nothing to me.” But his unwillingness to use her name, Alys, made her doubt his statement.
It did not take long for his wife to thrust herself from her seated position and move to kneel at his side. Her dress collected dust as she lowered herself to peer beneath the curtain of hair that blocked his face.
“She is not our problem now.” Assuring words were what his wife needed to hear, not him. But she could not resist the way he pulled at her heartstrings. “We will move forward together. The war will end and we can find peace in our lives. I am still young, we will find a way to bring healthy children into our lives.”
Conflict, she found, was not a flattering color to bathe in. There was nary a time that the Targaryen dynasty did not partake in one form of insanity or another. It was written in their fates to continually live in turmoil. Even those that tried to keep peace sprouted seeds of distress in their descendants or amongst their people.
Aemond and the princess were no exceptions.
They had wed hastily but were able to get through the evening without a duel or death. Viserys II’s health was failing him. Though able to walk still, he struggled in his everyday life. The princess was sent from Dragonstone to Kings Landing where she had a quick ceremony that her direct family did not attend. This attributed to her feelings for her husband. She found comfort in his presence. He was there when others were not.
Her life felt as if it were out of her control. From the moment she was brought into her cruel world others were planning her future and she was locked in her gilded cage. With Aemond, she felt like she was in control. Though the truth in that could be debatable.
They laid together that night for the first time in many and possibly the last. Memories of brighter times had been shared as they basked in the afterglow, lit by only the moon. He had more scars than she remembered. While still lean and pale, cuts of bright pink and burnt auburn were spliced across his torso. Distinct claw marks were marred into his shoulder blades, reminders of his infidelity.
It was almost as if they could talk to her as she counted them in the moonlight. Aemond had turned in his sleep, his back to her. Displayed like an open canvas, she couldn’t help but find her mind shrouded by hurt and anger again as the name burst into her ears. Alys Rivers, the whore, the bedmate, the bastard, and the woman who caught her husband’s wandering eye. She cringed as she tried to picture her. Surely she at least had wrinkles. There had to be a flaw to her appearance. As hard as the princess tried, she could only picture a woman of beauty.
Lost in her insecurities, she had not noticed that Aemond had turned over and now studied his wife’s face as it twisted and contorted. He knew what was troubling her. Instead of lying, telling her that Alys was a horrid woman, he said nothing and took her into his arms. Crushing her in his embrace, he held her like it would be the last time he could. He memorized her shape, her smell, her warmth and her love. His eyes closed and he rested his chin atop her head.
“I love you.” He whispered into the night, unsure if she heard him or not as her chest rose and fell like a metronome keeping a beat. “I love you.” He repeated, holding her tight as he willed himself to sleep knowing what was to come the next day.
~~~*~~~
“Stay.”
Her hand caught his as he made his way toward Vhaegar, dressed in his charcoal armor. The helm was down, concealing his face within.
“Aemond, please.”
The full grasp on his wrist halted him in his tracks. The beast let out a low grumble, growing impatient as its rider stood motionless on the cliff side. A gentle breeze blew in, bringing with it salted air that watered her tongue.
“I will return.” Assurance in the face of death was just words on the breeze, taken far away before they could drop like seedlings and plant themselves in her mind.
“Whole and alive with a beating heart or in memory?”
His hand, though covered in a thick leather glove, came to rest upon her cheek. The other pulled the visor of his shining helm up to reveal his contrasting eyes. “Do you doubt my abilities, my love?”
“Not for one moment.”
His palm pressed against her cheek, lingering longer than he intended as she leaned into his touch. Lashes fanned across her skin, fluttering softly as her lips pressed into a fine line, holding back whatever emotion was within.
“I will return. I vowed to protect you, until my very last day. That day will not be today.” Though he could not press his lips to hers, he drew her in close, holding her firmly against him. “Wait by the ocean until the sun dips below the horizon. I will be here by your side the moment the world is cast into darkness.” He held her back, staring deeply into her eyes. “I promise, my love. I will return.”
She cried as he turned and mounted Vhaegar. Tears streamed from her reddened eyes as he waved her off with another proclamation of his return. Even the frightful blasts of warm summer air could not dissuade the constant river that bled onto her cheeks.
It was late when her sobs ceased and the whisper of prayer died on her lips. The protective light of the day had fled from the sky leaving her cast in darkness and broken promises. Her knees had formed deep grooves in the fine sand where they landed hours before. Fists full of earth could not move the clock backward. Aemond was lost to the wind.
Grief kept her going in the deep midnight hours as she gazed into the distance where Westeros lied. Every speck in the sky had her heart beating faster than before. Each turned out to be nothing. It was only when the morning came and the world continued forward that she moved from her spot. The tide had brought water in around her thighs, soaking her dress through.
She ached like nothing else in the following days. It was as if she could feel every wound her husband had endured. Her dreams were haunted all the same. Blue eyes stared at her through the misty haze that rolled in. Aemond filled her thoughts. At night, she could see him in the darkness looming in the corner of her room.
Word of his death eventually made it to Dragonstone. Mention of his Alys occupying Harrenhal was floated by the guards. How he had brought her to the battle, kissed her passionately, and died in the skies only posed as daggers thrust into her heart.
It wasn’t until years later that Aemond returned to Dragonstone, to his wife. Though, she did not greet him on the beach. She met him in the crypts, sealed away in stone tombs left to collect dust.
She had died of a chill in 133 AC, taking her final breaths on that same sandy beach.
Although not by his doings, he had kept his promise. Brought back in a box of black and red sealed tight with dark metal, Aemond was laid to rest at his wife’s side.
Summary: The Hand of the King spends years vying for the princess's affections. Only fate would have it that the two cannot be. As Aerys Targaryen II slowly descends into madness, can their love survive his instability and the war to come?
Warnings: General Game of Thrones violence later on, death and stuff, shitty characterizations, eh age differences, Ser Barristan being a lovely darling ✨
Everyone dined separately that night following the tournament. Aerys had sequestered himself to his provided chambers and ordered Ser Lewyn and Ser Grandison to keep guard through the darkness into the safety of the daylight. He feared for his life in such a densely Lannister place, but he came out of principle. The crown has no fears, he would tell himself repeatedly in his mind as he jittered at the slightest of foreign sounds. Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur had drank with Rhaegar, with none of the men falling to the full temptation of their fiery liquids. Laughter rang into the evening air as the three found amusement in the results of the joust. But once the Rock quieted and a sleepy hush fell over the people, only the euphonious notes of a despondent song lingered in the thin air.
The musical tune echoed through the emptied hallways, jumping off of the cold stone of the passages and climbing down from the many balconies that extended throughout the Rock. Rhaegar’s long fingers plucked at the strings of his harp and his lips buzzed with the constant hum of his sorrowful ballad. A lean leg hung from an open windowsill, stretching downward toward the waters that waved their white-capped hands skyward. His head hung down, closing off the space between his chin and chest. If his fingers had not been moving, one would have assumed him to have fallen asleep.
“Farewell, my brother.” The princess stepped from her position in the hallway. After she and Ser Barristan navigated the winding corridors that led to doors in all directions, she bid him goodnight at her chambers and promised to lock the doors from the inside. Her mind could not sleep, even as her body beckoned her to the bed. It raged with vigor from the eventful days and coming nights as the court eventually set off for King’s Landing. She wondered what her father would say about her leaving. She thought of Viserys, the poor babe, who could not even attend a tourney thrown in his honor. But she mostly thought of Tywin.
She eventually found herself pacing the corridors until her weary feet brought her to Rhaegar’s side. “A ballad about the Cargyll brothers' plight in the Dance of the Dragons.” Adjusting the draping of her dress, she joined him on his perch and listened as the crashing waves of the Sunset Sea harmonized with the hypnotic flow of his eloquent playing. “A sad choice of song for such a joyous event. Is this your projection of your loss to Ser Arthur?”
Ignoring his sister’s coltish jab, he plucked a few more notes. The cobalt effervescence of the glowing moon cast shadows across her softened features. Despite being out of line in leaving King’s Landing and having the anticipation of her father’s wrath looming overhead, she felt an acute calmness that stretched further than any consequence could. Footsteps bounced from the walls, shaking Rhaegar from his thoughts as the glint of a necklace he had not seen before flashed under the sapphire irradiation.
“A new necklace? It is not difficult to imagine where that has been sourced, sister dearest.” He kicked his leg out, blithely jabbing it against her hip. The footsteps did not amount to anything, as whoever they belonged to never exited onto the outlook. Still, Rhaegar lowered his voice.
“It would be an insult to not accept a gift when you are a guest in someone’s home.”
He snorted, “it is not often that a gift is made to conceal whom it stemmed from.”
“It was left in my room. For all I am aware it could be from another lord.”
“Another lord?” Rhaegar mused, closing his eyes in a playful flutter as he rested the crown of his head against the pillar he sat against. “Lord Addam Marbrand, perhaps?” He leveled his head to cast his sister a knowing look. “I heard you made acquaintance with him before bursting into my tent… I also heard you had been escorted away from Addam on Tywin’s arm.”
“Word travels at an alarming pace.”
“It does.” Rhaegar hummed in agreement as he became enamored with the gold plating of his harp with intricately spun designs pressed into its sides. “Father harbors a growing disdain for his Hand.” He peered over his shoulder and around hers, ensuring they were alone. “He could not keep his focus off of you during the joust.” There was a strange severity in his tone that she had not heard often from her genial brother. “Lord Tywin brings you happiness like no other, I understand that… He commands a crowd and holds great power.” Leaning forward, he muted his volume so that she had to strain to hear him. “But to a king, he is powerless.”
His insinuation was clear as the waters that flowed from the gardens in Dorne. Whatever she and Tywin had built could easily be disassembled brick by brick whether it be by Aerys himself or his growing court of people ready to please. They were willing to do anything to climb their way to the king’s side. Yet, she debated whether it was a place people truly wanted to reside.
“All I ask is that you remain ever cautious.”
She wet her lips, unable to comprehend the twisted web of dangers she had been playing in for the past three years. Then, reassuringly, she took Rhaegar’s hand in hers and cradled it in her other. “Worry is not a suiting expression on you, brother.” Her lighthearted ability to brighten his mood was a gift. “I assure you that I will approach the future with vigilance.”
The return to King’s Landing was done without Tywin as he and Cersei followed a few days behind. Aerys had instructed Ser Barristan to keep a close watch on the princess so as to not have her wander off again. Formally henceforth, he was assigned as her personal guard. No true punishment had been enacted from her actions and she was more than happy to have the company.
Strolling down the Blackwater, she relaxed in the midday sun. It shone down brightly from the cloudless sky, warming her chilled skin with its golden rays. The entourage had stopped for lunch at the behest of the king who, despite his unease with his distance from the Red Keep, much preferred dining when it was not an in-motion affair. This allowed the princess to venture from the rear room of the carriage house to the freedom of the outdoors.
“Do you foresee your new assignment being satisfactory?” She chided to Ser Barristan who walked in step with her nearest to the water’s edge. “Royal nursemaid to the princess who by happenstance does not appear to be an infant… at least as far as I am aware.”
He chuckled. “It is my duty to protect the royal family, princess. By definition, that would include all the royals.” Casting a glance outward to the flowing water, he watched as a lone log floated fastly downward, carrying on the harsh current. “I have always enjoyed my time in your company. I do not believe that will change in the coming days, weeks, months, even years.”
“You think that I will be watched this closely for years?”
“It could be a possibility.”
“By the gods, you will be guarding me even once father sends me away.” She brushed her fingers against the necklace draped on her breastbone. “Your life will soon be overflowing with boredom. You will be begging him to station you elsewhere.” Everything she said was in jest, but the undertones to her overcast words was clear to the man who had watched her grow.
“You underestimate yourself, princess. Kingsguard or not, I would follow you to the end of the earth.”
She considered his words for a moment, allowing the sounds of nature to overtake their conversation. Birds wings flapped together, crafting a harmonious buzz of feathers and wind as they spiraled through the open sea of blue that hung overhead. The water splashed against the eroding river banks, ripping away at the tearing and fraying grass that clung to the dry dirt. Chatter erupted from the small camp of knights and Kingsguard who hung around the wheelhouse, waiting for the king to give his approval on the move forward.
“I will keep you honest to your word then, Ser Barristan.”
“I would not expect anything less.”
Upon their official return to the Red Keep and Kings Landing, the king Aerys II confined himself to the spaces of his chambers. Her mother, Rhaella, had been quartered into the Holdfast with no provisions to leave and very few to keep her company. At times, she would seek her mother’s audiences but would often be met with the septa’s that trailed behind her much like Ser Barristan had taken to following the princess. Though, even before, she rarely saw her mother.
The birth of Viserys caused Aerys II to plummet in his state of mind. His nails grew longer in line with his unwashed and unkempt hair. Fear began to strike his heart as his beliefs of conspiratory behavior struck his veins and seized his waking moments. When he did sit the throne, he returned to the Holdfast with cuts littering his fingers and clothes. All needed to be treated by Pycelle, who would also attempt to calm him with medicinal treatments but nothing would put a halt on his increasing paranoia.
When Tywin returned to Kings Landing he brought with him his daughter to continue living at court as she daydreamed of the life she intended for her and the crowned prince. News of the young Melara Heatherspoon’s death swam through the halls of the Red Keep for a short time before it disappeared all together and she became nothing more than a faded memory. It was a tragic death, a mere accident, that started in the woods and ended at the base of a dried well.
The princess took to her lifestyle prior to her short-lived rebellion. Attending frequent lessons with her septa, strolling silently through the gardens, and slowly rebranding herself as the royal’s diligent princess was part of her routine. The king did not name her a husband, nor did he seek for one.
She met infrequently with Tywin, mostly enjoying his company on days when the sun was the brightest and the inhabitants of the Red Keep flocked to the outdoors to enjoy the sunlight in the midst of a chilling winter. It was often said that she was most striking in the frozen weather. Her gowns became more ornate and crafted of richer silks, her skin flushed with a soft rose that spread from her ears to her nose, and the cloaks that covered her shoulders in the outdoors were delightfully ethereal in the way they glittered against the snow.
The colors she opted for in the winter were of a deep red or rich green. Contrasting against her silken skin, the luxuriant fabrics made her appear like a shining star in the glittering snowfall. She radiated a phantom aura of her ghostly complexion and everywhere she stepped seemed to sing.
There was something about the cold of winter that seemed to wake the fire that burnt within.
“Lord Tywin.” Ser Barristan, who did not appear to mind the cold that blew through the skyward towers of the Red Keep, welcomed the figure to their company. Though guarded and ever scrutinizing of their relations, he recognized that the princess required some light in her often-dim life. With a respectful nod, he side-stepped away from the lord and retreated to a spot a comfortable distance away.
Tywin assumed the emptied spot next to the princess. She could not feel the warmth that lingered on the surface of his clothing, the light brushing of his arm against her cloaked shoulder was enough. “I often wonder how the Northerner’s withstand the winter when we struggle here in the south.” He could see the plushness of her lips and redness of her nose past the hood of insulated furs draped softly over her immaculate hair.
From their comfortable viewpoint, they could look down into the streets of King’s Landing. Plumes of white smoke rose from each active chimney, emanating life in such a desolate landscape. The people moved like ants in the crowded streets, barely visible among the stone walls of their homes and shops. The city was bursting at the seams with people clamoring from outside the walls to the interior for the safety of the crown. Peasants begged on the streets while others died in the alleys. The bodies were carted outside the walls to be discarded in pits.
“How do they ensure little loss of life in times such as these?” She pondered aloud as Tywin shifted from one foot to the other.
He looked commanding in his choice of fabrics. Summer tunics made of brocade and silk were quickly exchanged for wool and leather. His shoulders appeared broader and strengthened by the cloak of black wool and tanned fur that hung from golden clips securing the fabric to his body. She liked the way he looked in the winter.
“The Northerners understand winter better than any of us ever will.” Tywin turned his attention to the streets. “That is not to say that they do not suffer casualties in the same capacity.”
“We have an abundance of barley and wheat in storage. Can we not utilize it to keep the people fed?”
“You have a good heart but lack the mind for politics, princess.”
“You have a mind for politics,” she turned her head to face him, “but lack a good heart, Lord Tywin.” Any other would never dare speak to him in such a manner, but the princess found herself among the very few exceptions. Not only was she heavily protected as the daughter of the king but she also held a part of his heart that had only been open to one other in his lifetime. “Each child who perishes in the winter storm is not given the opportunity to prosper in the spring rains. I wish to see to it that they may open their eyes to the summer sun and bloom as the gardens here do.”
“How is it that you intend on seeing to this?”
She scrunched her nose and narrowed her eyes in thought. Thus far, she held no true power in Westeros. She acted as a symbol of regality among the other royals who roamed the halls. Rhaegar had made contributions to the prosperity of their father’s reign, but she had not been given the chance. “I am not sure.”
“Perhaps should you find yourself in the good graces of the Hand, he would assist in fulfilling your wishes.”
A smile was brought to her lips as her infectious grin somehow spread to the sullen man. Ser Barristan had told the princess that he had never seen Tywin in such a light before he was assigned as her personal guard. The lady Joanna was the only one to pull the old lion out of his stone-faced and serious mood until the princess started harboring feelings for him.
“What must I do to find myself in such a situation?”
Tywin’s hand was warm against her skin as he reached out and cradled the necklace between his fingertips. The back of his palm rested against her collarbones. He had distinctly removed the moleskin glove that covered his fingers before, holding it in his other hand. A fingernail popped open the clasp that held the large ruby to the center of her necklace. “Never remove this.”
It was the herringbone-linked necklace, crafted with gold from the Lannister mines, that had been left in her chambers during the tourney at Casterly Rock. Rich and heavy, it was connected with large ruby embellishments that had been cut into trillion shapes for the outer links and three fine navette jewels that were framed in gold at the center. To anyone else, it appeared as fine jewelry with the red signifying the Targaryen dragon. But to them, it was a wordless promise and an act of a Lannister marking his claim.
“I do not feel it is often that men request a lady to keep her clothing on, my lord.” The princess joked, burning a beet red as his fingers grazed over base of her neck.
An amused chortle passed by the scruff of his upper lip. Yet, no smile or even small tug of the corners of his mouth followed. He was solemn and serious, holding true to the face he showed the rest of the world. The smile that had lit his face moments prior was now nothing as the hardened lines of his softened skin became clear.
He had always been a thoughtful man. Not in nature, as the man did not do favors or deeds for glory, but in mind. Like his son, his inner monologue never ceased. Every move he made was calculated and propelled him further toward some unknown goal that tingled in the back of his head.
Because in the end, no matter what he must do, Tywin would get what he wanted.
~~~*~~~
“Do not be nervous, princess.” Ser Barristan stood at the castle’s gates with a small armada of escorts and servants carrying overflowing carts of supplies. A deep mahogany palanquin waited in the courtyard with four men ready to depart.
“I am not nervous.” The young woman feigned, tugging at the skirts of her dress as she pushed fallen hair from her face. “I just am not accustomed to public outings.”
“Your only official trip was on the wind.” He added, providing a hand for her to grasp as she stepped inside. “You have the finest knights in all of Westeros at your aid. When the people understand why you are walking amongst them, they will rejoice in your presence.”
“I do hope you are right.”
The cart jostled and shook as the men carried it dutifully down the steps from the high hill to the streets of King’s Landing. She watched as the people looked on with curiosity, wondering why someone was venturing onto their streets.
Lord Tywin Lannister had discreetly set aside the minuscule funding required to purchase a ten room building located on the edge of Flea Bottom nearest to Rhaenys’s Hill on the northeastern portion of town. The building was run down and leaning slightly to one side. Old tattered curtains hung from the broken windows and moss covered the outermost stone that cradled the cracked street.
When she had stepped out from the palanquin, the sunlight burst through the skyline that stretched overhead. She could hear the inquisitive murmur of whispers as a group of young men watched her enter the building. The stone floors were packed full with cement made of mud and clay, large smooth rocks were crammed together within to form an uneven surface.
“Princess.” A familiar voice called out from the doorway. Ser Alliser Thorne was a man loyal to the Targaryen household. He was older than the princess, nearly a decade to be exact. With striking and sharp features, the man presented himself as a hardened soldier with great respect for those in authority. “The crone.”
Stepping aside, he presented her with a frail old woman of an age she could not imagine. She walked like she was in her early eighties but appeared as if she was alive during the Dance. The skin of her face sagged into her neck and her nose was pimpled with sunspots.
“That is no way to address a woman, Ser.” The princess scolded lightly as the woman swatted her wrinkled hand in the air to dispel the tension in the young girl’s shoulders.
“Nonsense!” Her voice was ragged and raspy but held a certain tune that filled her with loving joy. “No woman is insulted by her own name.” She shortly nodded her head to the princess in lieu of a courtesy. “Apologies, my dear. The years have not been kind. My knees do not bend as they once did. The young boy was simply calling me what I am. The Old Crone. You should do well to follow suit.”
The princess looked to Ser Barristan for any form of assistance only to find his shoulders shrugged.
“Very well then.” She watched as men and woman piled through the doors and began fortifying the various areas of the house that needed improvement. “I am very glad you have accepted the responsibility of running this home for me, my lady. I believe it will prosper under your eye.”
“Under my eye?” The woman let out a garbled laugh that sounded disgusting to most but warmed the princess’s heart. “Can’t see much out of this one,” her overgrown nail pointed to her left eye, “the other will have to do what it can. Been searching for proper housing for years, my dear. Any roof is better than the god’s one… this one won’t rain on this old head.”
Stifling a laugh, the princess nodded. “We should hope so at the very least. I want this to be more than a shelter.” A man passed by, loading beams inside that would soon hold the floors up higher. “I want this to be a home for you and anyone else should they need it.”
“A home would be nice.” The Crone mused, hiking her skirts to her lap as she sat ungracefully upon one of the many stools that littered the boundaries of the room. “Well then, let us get to work.”
The princess hesitated as she cast a security glance to Ser Barristan. As she turned her head back to the Crone, a pile of cotton was thrust into her arms along with a needle and thread. “A home isn’t much of a home without blankets for the beds, deary. You know how to sew, right? You haven’t been skipping your lessons, have you?”
Ser Barristan smiled as the princess frantically ruched the fabric in her arms and followed the Crone as she made for a back room. “Never, my lady.”
“You!” The Crone hollered back at Ser Alliser who stood awkwardly in the room nearest to Ser Barristan. “Start a fire in the hearth, would you?”
The fluttering of her skirts was the last thing the older knight saw before he too joined them in the old rickety room. Her footsteps were followed by the scratchy voice of the Crone as she dismissed the proper title once more.
The winter was in its midst as Lord Steffon Baratheon was sent across the Narrow Sea to Essos with the intention of finding the crowned prince Rhaegar a wife of Valyrian blood. The princess had found herself busied with the nonsense work of finding and maintaining sufficient funding for the shelter house while also looking to local craftsmen for apprenticeships to aid the residents in starting new lives.
“Lord Steffon searches day and night to find a bride befitting a crowned prince.”
“Yes, but that was not my question, sister dearest.” Rhaegar pat his hand on hers as they walked through the gardens together with her arm laced through his. “Who do you think they’ll match me with?”
Rhaegar and his sister walked amongst the gardens, framed beautifully by the soft blooming winter flowers. Talk of finding him a wife was in circulation. Many tried to get on the king’s good side by finding Aerys as much information as they could that would cast someone else in a bad light. The majority of the talk seemed to revolve around the Hand of the King.
“Someone who is not of your own blood.”
Brushing a stray hair from his face, he noticed the group of women who whispered amongst themselves and turned quickly when they made eye contact. “He should have matched us.”
Her feet stopped moving as the back of her skirt hit her legs. “You’re mad, brother.”
“No.” Swatting away her disapproval, he gathered her hands in his and pulled her forward to one of the overlook balconies. Snow frosted ivy grew up the sides of the two large white pillars that held up dark wooden beams.. “You’re mad that you did not think of it before I.” He sat himself down on a stone bench and guided her down by his side. “We wed, fulfill our duties, but still seek our own happiness. You found yours with,” his voice lowered, “our Lord Hand. I should be allowed to find mine also.”
“I don’t dispute that you deserve happiness, but our lineage does not bode well for the future of our house. One can only marry brother and sister for so long before madness ensues. Perhaps, if you were so in love with me you should have bid this idea to father many years ago.”
“I thought it was I who was deemed the more interesting of the king’s children.” Rhaegar found great amusement in the princess’s relaxed state as their father became absent in their lives. “You are developing too much personality, sister. I would bet a hundred golden dragons that it is solely derived from your extended company of Ser Barristan.” He joked, poking fun of the Kingsguard who only tilted his head backward for a fleeting second to display the painted smile on his lips.
Cold winds blew in off Blackwater Bay, carrying their silver hair in its gentle breeze like a loose piece of silk hanging on a clothes line. The smell of the capitol was more pleasant in the chilled months. The summer sun could not bake the filth and grime to the streets. Smells that did rise on the air were carried for many more leagues than before. From the highest tower in Maegor’s Holdfast, even the worst of noses could smell the steaming freshly baked goods on the street of flour.
“I think you would have made a fitting bride.” Rhaegar commented as he released the strained tenseness that riddled his pointed shoulders.
“You do not believe the words you speak.” The princess placed her hands on the stone wall that separated the siblings from the sea. Her fingers chilled atop its frozen surface, but she found comfort in its uncertain ease. “You fear that Lord Steffon will return with a woman you will not love.” His eyes were suddenly empty and hollow. Playful jolts of electric energy died down as a palpable hesitancy clawed its way down his dried throat.
After a passing moment filled with the static of silence, Rhaegar let out a pume of hot breath into the open air. “How can one love another when they are not certain in the prospected changing of the tides?”
“Certainty is not afforded to those who carry the name Targaryen… Lord Steffon is a reasonable man. He will not bring back anyone who is not fit to hold the title of ‘queen.’”
“With personality came wisdom.” He snickered, turning fastly as his uncertainty faded into nothingness. “You should be sent away to the Citadel to assemble your chain.”
Shaking her head, she pushed her hand against his arm and rolled her eyes. “Ser Barristan would grow bored surrounded by such a group. Perhaps I should instead be sent North. I can shed the wisdom and replace it with bravery.”
“The Targaryen princess banished to The Wall.” Rhaegar chided. “You can fight with the brothers in black against The Others.”
“The prince is to come of your lineage, not mine.”
“Oddities of the world are not set in stone. The prince could be a princess.”
“I was right.” The princess smiled with her teeth and tucked her chin to her chest as she looked down at her hands. “You are truly mad.”
Rhaegar’s hand shook her shoulder as he clasped it firmly over her cloak. “Madness is a disease we are rather prone to, sister. At the very least my form will not turn the realm to ash and dust.”
Warnings will remain vague and be for the work as a whole as opposed to each part individually: violence, death, assault, my shitty characterizations, explicit language, sexual content (will be noted), and having too good of a time reading this.
Masterlist
“She follows me around all day.” Arya angrily threw her arms into the air, then regained her footing and threateningly stared down the blade of her sword. “Lunge. Lower right.” She called out, lunging forward as you blocked her with your acquired weaponry.
Her castle-forged sword was masterfully crafted compared to the shortsword you had stolen on the last leg of your journey. Clanging against one another, the sweet sound of slick steel hung in the air. “Upper left.” You announced, swinging your sword high in the air as Arya blocked it with an easy movement. It was a fairly equal match but considering she was years younger, she would likely far surpass you in skill by the time she was your current age. “Do you have no common interests?” You asked, stalling as she prepared to lunge forward.
“Common interests?” Arya repeated, taking the opportunity to swing her sword downward to rest gently against your calf. “Dead.” The declaration was followed by a beaming smile and a skip in her step. “Not at all.” She carefully sheathed Needle in her belt. “She likes dolls and silly stories.”
Leaning your sword against a nearby tree trunk, you wiped your hands down the front of your shirt. “You like stories.”
It was less about defending Sally and more about appeasing Arya. As the days passed, she grew more and more agitated that the three of you had not continued on with your journey. She did not want to go to her aunt, but she insisted that she was miserable with you and Sandor despite everything you tried to do to get her to settle.
“Yeah.” Arya childishly mocked you and rolled her eyes. “She wants to hear about princes and love like Sansa always did.” Throwing her hands up, they landed on her hips. “I don’t care about that.” The disgust that laced into her voice was accompanied by the crossing of her arms dramatically over her chest in a guarded motion. “Knights should be fighting… not picking roses for ladies. Don’t you have any more stories like that one you told me?” She tapped her finger against her arm. “That Antonian knight, the woman…” Her eyes lit up as she recalled the name, “The Great Stone Knight.”
Laughing it off, you swept your hair back from your flushed face. “There are many tales from my home, but we can save them for when we’re traveling again.” She huffed upon hearing your dismissal. “There has to be some common ground. Sally was raised without friends, she is just excited to have someone.”
“I don’t want to be that someone.” The beginning of a wicked blaze was erupting in her ears. “I could work in the field with you and Sandor.” Arya turned her head to Sandor who sat atop a cobblestone wall, resting from a long morning. “We could get the work done faster and leave.”
“It’s hard work.” Sandor commented.
As Arya’s disquiet sprouted leaves and extended high above the clouds, Sandor had mellowed. While always still on guard, he had found himself casting glances over his shoulder less. The farm had seen no visitors since your arrival days ago. Sally and her father had left for the town once, and returned the same day after selling their goods.
Waking the first morning after your moment in the rain, it had been incredibly difficult to get him to shed his armor and work in just his cottons. Reluctancy poured from his increasing attitude as the sweat from the beating sun shone down harshly against the warming leather. It was not until the second evening that he finally relented. Leaving his armor in the barn gave you the opportunity to finally wash the dried blood from its grates. He had absentmindedly wiped it off after each battle, but the scent still lingered with the spirits of those that had fallen to his sword.
Living within the barn was far different from the spaces you occupied in your youth. From ship cabins with feather beds to plush and lavish beds in castles, you were used to having the best and most comfortable sleeping quarters. On occasion you had slept on the ground, but not to the point that you were used to it. Inns were few and far between on the road and more often than not you slept on the cold ground each night. Stringy and scratchy straw plunged themselves into the soft flesh of your arms, leaving you to wake each day with blotches of red disturbed skin. But it was better than nothing, and with Sandor at your side now he acted as a cushion between the earth and your body.
All things considered, life was good.
Sally and her father had been immensely welcoming to the three of you. Always referring to you by your fake names, they quickly took to the added security and helping hands on the farm.
“I can work hard.” Arya argued, stomping to the plow that dug its way into the sown dirt. Fumbling with the heavy equipment, Arya turned from side to side. Her feet planted themselves into the ground as she caked mud against her shoes. Leaning forward comically, she urged it to move but could not get the wood to move an inch. Exasperated and full of defeat, she slumped forward propped only by her arms and let out a flummoxed sigh as she stared angrily at the tool. “I’ll be in the barn.”
The storm that raged over Arya followed her to the barn and thundered as she opened and slammed the door in a theatrical display of her dismay. Retreating from the world of the living, she would stay there for hours and only emerge once prompted by the growl of her stomach.
“Why didn’t you tell her that it hooks to the cattle?”
Crossing the remaining space between you and the wall, you leaned against its side. The exhale of amusement that pressed past his lips was short. “Why didn’t you?” Leaning forward slightly, Sandor slipped his arms under yours and swiftly hoisted you onto the wall by his side. A surprised squeal jumped from your mouth. As many times as he had unexpectedly picked you up, you never got used to it.
“I yield.” You replied.
Each day of work would usually conclude this way. Arya had an impeccable ability to find something to distract her for half the day. Once she grew bored with whatever she was doing she would find you with swords in hands putting a stop to your work. Afterward, she retired to the barn until Sally and her father either brought dinner or informed you that it was ready.
“Meya?” Sally came meekly from the cottage with a woven basket bearing fresh fruit and a hollowed gourd filled with water and capped with a cork. The first day she had told you all about how it came from the previous year’s harvest and her entire process in cleaning it for use. “Father sent me with this.”
Raising the basket over her head, she tried to balance it on the wall’s side for you to take. Relieving her of her plight, you grasped it by the handle and sat it on Sandor’s lap. “This is lovely, thank you Sally.”
Sandor had begun sifting through its contents, quickly finding an apple that he bit into. Distracted, he didn’t catch the look cast in his direction as you beckoned him to thank the girl. Finally you elbowed him, earning a miffed grunt and a grumbled “thanks.”
“Do you know where Arlenna is?”
Raising your brows, you faked ignorance as you turned your head from side to side, searching for Arya in spite of you knowing her location. “She’s around here somewhere.”
Returning back down the worn path leading to the cottage, she had the slightest skip in her step with the new quest of finding Arya on her mind.
Sally’s interest in Arya was amusing. She was roughly the same age, maybe slightly younger, but the two were so vastly different. It was almost how you imagined her and Sansa to be - night and day, an odd couple, two sides of a coin. Except there was an intense innocence that Sally oozed that had been lost to both of the Stark sisters. Whisked away in the night, never to return.
“I’m finding myself enjoying farm work much more than I expected.” You commented, nudging your shoulder against Sandor’s. “I could see us having something like this.”
Handing the apple off to you, you cradled it in your palms, looking down at the way his single bite nearly took a fourth of the fruit. The apples in Westeros tasted better than the ones in Antonia, you thought. It was possible that was true, but it was more likely that it was so intensely refreshing from your poorly diet. The smooth skin punctured easily with the points of your teeth, instantly filling your mouth with a perfect bite of the juicy flesh. Chewing happily, you handed it back to Sandor.
“We could.” A crisp crunch signaled Sandor’s second bite. “Only fun because you haven’t lived like this forever.” He glanced toward the house where the farmer stood on a short ladder repairing a door with Sally near his feet. “For them it’s survival, princess.”
Sally stood on her toes as she handed her father a mallet. Taking it from her hand, he ruffled the top of her head earning a lighthearted giggle that carried on the air. “I suppose you’re right.” Looking over the field the two of you had been working in all morning, you could still visualize building a life in a setting like this. A small cottage, a farm, and a few horses would make for a peaceful existence. “What will our survival be, then? Shall we traverse the seas to live up to my title? Or perhaps pay a visit to those Braavosi sellswords you mentioned?”
Tossing the core of the apple into a tuft of browning grass, he craned his neck from side to side and shrugged his shoulders. “Second Sons like to share their belongings. I don’t.”
A breeze snuck in from the distance mountaintops, bringing a cover of gorgeous puffy clouds that provided a never ending shade to quell the burning heat of the sun. Peering downward to his hand that now rested lazily against the wall’s edge, you slowly lowered yours next to his. Noticing the movement, he stilled and waited for you to take the lead. When you stalled, he realized you were waiting for his approval.
“You want this?” He jerked his chin outward to the farmer’s fields and took your hand in his. “We can have this.”
“Would you get bored?”
Squeezing softly, he placed your hand in his lap eclipsed by his. “Could manage.”
“Managing isn’t living.” You leaned your shoulder against his and rested your head against his arm. “What about where you’re from?”
The gentle flow of air tried to part the two of you, prying its way through the thin cloth of your shirt but finding no reprieve. You had never felt closer to the giant guarded man seated at your side. Each passing day since your admissions, his features seemed to soften ever so slightly. The harshness that he concealed within his irises was not as pointed, dulling marginally. Despite his change, there were moments. The mystery that was his mind remained clouded as he was unwilling to let you fully in. His feelings were not spoken as freely as yours, but were instead sung through the electricity of his fingertips, the playful tug at his lips, and the bouldering position of his chest that always stayed protectively guarding you.
You knew little about his past. Sansa had warned of him while in the Red Keep, Petyr Baelish had tried to scare you with stories, and Ser Lorric had prohibited you from speaking to him, but nobody explicitly stated anything that made you stray from his touch. Only Arya had presented a good argument to his misdeeds, but even she stayed in his company.
“It can burn.”
He held an abundance of hatred for his family, that much was clear. Whenever he spoke of his brother in a serious stance, his eyes would darken and the muscles in his face would tense.
Guiding his gaze to meet yours, you rubbed your thumb gingerly against the faint scarring of his cheek. The softness of your smile shrouded in the twinkling rays of golden sunlight peeking through the clouds relaxed his shoulders. “Then we will go elsewhere.”
~~~*~~~
“High left, low right.” Arya had pulled you from your work after another morning in the field. Demanding you train with her as she exclaimed she was about to kill Sally, you decided that her hitting you was better than a child. Swinging roughly toward you, she began her onslaught of fast cuts through the air. Tilting her blade, she redirected her focus from your upper left to the lower. Inches from striking your calf, she froze and repositioned her stance with the end of her sword at your left leg. “Dead.”
Dropping your guard, you tilted your head and watched as a genuine and elated smile formed on her lips. “You said low right, not left.”
Regaining her focus and returning to the offense, Arya moved her hands in a sweeping motion to hurry you back into position. She waited until you were ready to spar again before she finally said, “my tongue lied, my eyes shouted the truth.” Bouncing her weight from one foot to the other, she kept you on your toes as you waited for her call.
“Low left, high left, lunge.”
Swinging Needle low, you blocked her first assault with the dull clack of a sword against the stick she had given you. One inch forward brought with it her blade as she raised it high. You blocked her again, catching the steel between grooves in the wood. Her lunge signaled your step backward as the two of you rounded one another in her coordinated dance. Never once did her stiff hand leave the small of her back. The call of your planned movements never came to fruition as she spun on her heel. The action caught you off guard, giving her the perfect opportunity to hold Needle to your chest. “Dead.”
“You’re not playing very fair today.” You dropped your arm and let the stick fall to the ground with a thud.
“I’m fair.” She defended. “I could have done this.”
Before you could protest her statement she swept your legs out from beneath you, with the hook of her ankle. Then, as if she had not dealt enough damage to your pride, she lightly poked the end of her sword against your chest. “Dead.”
You wanted so badly to be mad at her when she stepped backward to allow you to rise to your feet, but you could not find it in you. This is how parents must feel, you thought. An exceptional sense of pride thundered through your chest. Despite you not having anything to do with her childhood growth, it filled you with confidence in her survival instinct. She was a truly remarkable young lady.
“Tell me, did you do this to your brothers?”
“Yes.” She sneered. “Not Robb… or Jon. But I could beat Bran and Rickon.”
“... and how much younger were Bran and Rickon?”
“Bran is one year younger than me.” She retorted. “... Rickon is five years younger. But at least they put up a fight.”
“Not all of us were afforded a swordsman to train us.” You quipped, stretching your arms from side to side and ignoring the throb of pain that bleated in your thigh.
“I beat them on my own.” Arya insisted, gathering her wits about her again as she prepared for your call. “I’m a good shooter - Bran couldn’t line a shot up, and Rickon couldn’t lift a bow.”
You planted your feet on the ground and sighed, growing tired from her continued beating. “High right, low left, lunge.”
Parrying the swing of your sword, Arya hit every mark as she successfully evaded your blade. “Are you a good shooter?” She wondered loudly before calling out her next attacks and going on the offense. “Low right, low left.”
“Well, I-” You replied as she took advantage of your distracted state and knocked you from your stance.
Triumphantly, she announced. “Dead.”
~~~*~~~
“When are we leaving?” Arya paced back and forth across the barn floor. Her feet wore into the dirt, leaving a track of flattened ground. “We’ve been here for two weeks. I thought we were heading to the Eyrie.”
“Traveling isn’t cheap.” Sandor commented, not particularly paying attention to anything she was specifically saying.
The night had set in bringing with it the frigid air of a nearing autumn. Sandor had been given a couple of silver stags for the two weeks of work which he pocketed with the rest. Over dinner, the two men discussed their plans moving forward as Arya simmered in her seat. Sally had taken to following Arya less and following you more, which came with no complaints. Almost daily she would ask for stories, most of which were heavily falsified and tailored to her as you did for Arya and Sansa. Her mother used to tell her stories like that, her father would say as you hushed the young girl to sleep.
“Got traveling gold?”
She huffed. “You do.”
“This is silver.” Sandor jingled the pouch. “In a hurry to get to your loving aunt, that it?”
“You said she’ll pay you heavily in gold. Is that not what you want?” Practically steaming, she cringed as she plopped down on her spot. “You’re so busy playing house that you can’t even think logically.”
“You want to leave that badly? Get back out on the road so you can watch another family member get their fucking head cut off?”
“Sandor.” You scolded from your position near the door. Gliding from the entrance of the barn to the middle where Arya sat, you dropped to your knees and held a covered basket out to her. “With all our work they bought some honey from the market.” Uncovering the warm breads sent the aromas of sugar and floral honey wafting into the air. “Eat.”
“Thanks.” Her gratitude was not readily apparent to anyone who had not been in her presence for an extended period of time. But to you, it was visible in the way her shoulders relaxed as she savored the fresh fragrant bread. All her irritation with the young girl dissipated at the sweet sugar connected with her dormant taste buds.
Moving to Sandor’s side, you pulled another out for him and held it out.
Arya began her retort with a full mouth. “Why can’t you take me to my brother Jon? I don’t even know my aunt, never met her.”
“You think Jon has gold at Castle Black? Bunch of rapists and murderers. It’s no place for you.” He stretched out, extending his arms above his head as the hem of his shirt bunched at his midsection. Like most foods, it didn’t take him long to consume his fill.
“She just wants to be with family.” You defended, dropping to his side.
“Only one here who does.” He grumbled, closing his eyes. “We’ll leave tomorrow at first light.”
Arya perked at his announced plan, sitting straighter as she swallowed hard and took in a deep breath. “Really?”
“Not much of a liar.” He responded, turning on his side to face you. You set the basket aside and adjusted the blanket that cushioned your bodies from the hay. “Collect the silver, then leave.”
“Really?” She repeated, earning an annoyed huff from Sandor.
“Yes really. The sooner you’re out of my hair, the better.”
The slats in the roof looked out to the shimmering stars that were suspended in the cold night’s air. Steady and even breaths filled the barn along with puffs of smoke from Arya and Sandor’s warm breath challenging the blue creature that froze the landscape. While they slept soundly, you laid awake.
Crystals of ice formed on the surfaces of your eyes, prompting them to remain wide as your mind traveled a thousand leagues a minute. Each star that kept you company disappeared as the night grew deeper and turned to an early morning. Your travels had sent you on a journey into the unknown. Each time you found yourself lost, Ser Lorric would be there as the guiding light to reposition you back on track. It had been nearly two years since his death and still your mind wandered to the many things he would say that seemed like nonsense at the time.
But things had changed, and he was gone. Lost to the winds of Westeros. His final place of rest was disturbed, likely thrown into the Blackwater to swim amongst the bodies of those who perished in the battle. He was nothing but a memory at this point, one that you held dearly to your chest whenever you inevitably thought of home.
Sandor was much different than those you had found interest in before. He was as large as the mountains protecting The Hill and just as sturdy. Gruff and frayed at the edges, he had managed to wriggle his way into your heart. Your father would be perplexed. You could imagine the look on his face if he were to ever meet Sandor. His bushy brows would raise into his forehead, he would grab at his belt buckle and belly laugh as he would make a comment about how well he would fit into the family lineage. “Your children will be giants!” He would exclaim whilst grasping at Sandor’s arms. “She is so reluctant to marry. What did you promise her to win her heart?” Yes, he would like Sandor. You were sure of it.
Although, his approval mattered not any longer. As the sun and moon danced around the sky, the chances of seeing him lessened with each passing day. Each hour was another away from home, away from the comfort of your family and people.
While wandering through the memories of easier times, the brush became too thick. Vines and leaves tangled, engulfing your form entirely as your mind slipped into a calm darkness. The dreamless sleep was shielded by the man at your side. Memories of Antonia melted into new ones of your adventures and future in Westeros.
~~~*~~~
Sandor’s voice roused you from your sleep. The softness in his tone permeated every waking space of your mind, encouraging the morning’s hold to begin. It was a sunny day, the golden rays crept through the few cracks that remained in the barn. Light breaths echoed from where Arya lay still sleeping soundly.
A garbled groan left your lips, pushing hot breath against Sandor’s chest where your head had landed somewhere through the night. One arm stretched lazily over his stomach to attach to his side, the other hooked around the arm where the majority of your body rested. Though it buzzed and filled with an uncomfortable static, he had left you to rest awhile longer after he initially woke. His fingers gripped at yours, prying you from his touch much to your annoyance.
“It’s time to go.”
Your grumble was taken lightheartedly as you rubbed your cheek into his shirt, ignoring the faint scent of a hard day of work. “Our last day to rest and you wake me early?”
“Only so many hours of sunlight.” He defended, nudging you off his chest to land on your back at his side. “We can rest once we get rid of her.”
Unsteadily sitting up, your arms stretched high above your head as your body shook with a euphoric pop as your muscles woke. Left and right, you cracked your neck, releasing the tension that built from another night without the comfort of a mattress. The white rays of light that swept through the cracks in the roof highlighted the clouds of dust that floated through the stagnant air. Sandor had risen to a sitting position following suit as he more harshly got his limbs moving.
“I’ll wake Arya.”
On the other side of the room, Arya had begun to stir. She kicked her legs out from their fetal position as you approached. Placing a warm hand against her clothed shoulder, you were surprised to find her already awake. The contact had her eyes opening immediately and her body thrusting upward to take in her surroundings. Your fingers laced through her hair, pushing the stray hairs from her vision. “Our journey continues.”
Without answering, she nodded and rose to her feet. A lion’s yawn forced her mouth wide as she went through the motions of jostling herself to activity. All the while, her focus remained entirely on Sandor as he worked at the clasps of his armor. The sense of apprehension and annoyance she held for him compared to the more friendly relationship she had formed with you was amazing. Any onlooker could tell from her surface that something was brewing beneath. Maybe it was the way she peered at people from a lowered chin or her closed shoulders and guarded stance. Maybe it was her calculated choice of wordage and the way she always looked like a wolf hunting its prey. Either way, she was different from most children. In her short time, many things had been stolen from her. Aging came naturally to most, but she was forced to grow up ten paces ahead.
You couldn’t blame her for having a potent anger with the world.
“I'm going to see Sally before we go.”
Sandor waved his hand as you left the barn, calling after you to saddle the horses afterward and that he was going to collect the silver owed for the last few days of work.
Great plumes of fresh white smoke rose from the crackling chimney. Sally could be heard within, her voice growing stronger and louder as each day passed. You hoped that she would continue on that road, but feared your departure would be a hindrance. She bounded from the door carrying a make-shift cloth bag that jostled from its heavy contents as she skipped in your direction. Upon setting her sights on your nearing figure she walked a little faster to meet you on the dirt path.
“Here!” She thrust her arm out in front of her body, offering the bag. “Barley and apples for today.”
“Thank you,” you stopped her from handing it off, “but you should keep this. I was coming to say goodbye.”
Her brow furrowed. “Goodbye?”
“We have to go.”
“Why?”
“We’re heading north. Lorric will be by to see your father shortly.”
“Do you have to go?” Sally pleaded with sad eyes that reflected her downturned lips. “I want you to stay.”
Cupping the puffiness of her reddening cheek, you gave her a soft smile. “Sometimes the beginning of a new journey starts with a goodbye.” The clasp of your hair clip popped as your hair flowed freely from its hold, brushing against your shoulders as the wind carried south. While on the farm, you had pried out the gemstones, pocketing them along with the few pieces of copper that you had scavenged off of the deceased. “Perhaps our paths will meet again.” Tucking her thin hair behind her ear, you secured it with the pop of the clip. “Take care of your father, okay?”
Her fingers grazed the metal in her hair, bringing a smile to the curve of her lips. Nodding, she tugged at your waist, squeezing you in a crushing hold.
“Here.” She pushed the bag against your stomach. “You should still take it.”
“You and your father need it.”
“Please? I want you to have it.” The cloth clashed against your leg as she moved out and back toward you to emphasize herself. “Please come back some time.”
“I will.” You said, though you knew it unlikely.
With the morning sun came a glistening layer of twinkling dew drops that flashed in a spiraling show of the earth’s beauty from each viewpoint. Temperate and calm, the day was perfect for riding. Stranger and Arya’s steed were grazing in the pasture, enjoying their time of leisure after weeks of nonstop travel. It was a good break from their fast galloping that tired the animals at a quick rate. Both the riders and horses all looked healthier than any of them had in their months of travel.
Your fingers brushed through the coarse hair of Stranger’s mane, detangling a knot that had formed from the blowing breeze. Gathering a handful of barley in your palm, you held it out to him and offered the rest to the other steed.
Taking one last look around the farm you had called home for an uneventful and relaxing fortnight, the vision was disturbed by a flaming girl stomping toward you. Fumes rose off the top of her head, steaming the air above her head in a cloud of sauna smoke. Her eyes burnt brighter than they had when she had first seen you caring for Sandor.
“He’s a monster!” Arya approached with her fists balled at her sides, driving her uncut nails into the skin of her palms. “How can you love him?” An accusatory finger was pointed in your face as you tried to focus on Sandor who was trailing behind with a coin bag in his opened palm.
Their usual argumentative demeanours were back. Returning in full, they were at one another's throats again. “What happened?” You tried to calm her with the easy touch of your hands, but she jerked away and roughly took her horse’s reins.
“He’s a thief. Stole all their silver and is leaving them for dead.” She kicked her foot into the stirrup and hoisted her leg over the top of the seat, steading herself with the horn. “If you can love him you’re no better.”
Seizing that moment as her final words on the matter, she tugged her horse to turn it in another direction and started on her way. Quizzically, you looked back to Sandor who had tucked a pouch into his side. He wordlessly hoisted you onto Stranger’s back and sat behind you. Your legs hung off one side and your arm braced against his chest and another round his back.
“Go on, scold me.” His statement wasn’t exactly what you had expected out of his mouth. In fact, it wasn’t at all what you expected.
“You stole from them?” You asked, trying to make full sense of what happened.
“It’s the way of life. Told her that, I’ll tell you the same. Be mad all you like, doesn’t change a damn thing.”
He was so fast to jump to conclusions. That was one trait he retained astutely assuming himself to be the villain. “I’m not mad at you.” You resigned. Truthfully, your chest clenched at the idea that he had left Sally and her father to fend for themselves like that. For any family it would be difficult, but for them especially so. “It’s how things are. You’ve told me that many times.” A placating hand palmed his cheek as you stretched to lay a kiss to his tense skin. “It has taken me time, but I understand. We do what we have to for our survival… did you leave them unharmed?”
They had plenty of harvested goods in storage that they could sell to replenish the silver that now jingled in Sandor’s pocket. Wounds, though, were less likely to mend.
Sandor set his jaw in place as he gathered the reins in his hands, staring forward intensely at the sprawling landscape. He would tell you the truth, but not in entirety, for some things were best left unsaid.
“I don’t hurt little girls.”
Stranger began moving, following after Arya who had a lead on the two of you. The plumes of white puffy smoke from their chimney faded behind you. Slowly, but surely, they would become a memory. A memory that you would revisit often with fondness of the connection their humble cottage built. If things were different, if you had your kingdom behind you, maybe you could give them a better alternative. But that was not an option and they, as kind as they were, were not your priority.
Writers note: apologies for the long wait, I was all up in my feelings
Warnings will remain vague and be for the work as a whole as opposed to each part individually: violence, death, assault, my shitty characterizations, explicit language, sexual content (will be noted), and having too good of a time reading this.
Masterlist
“She follows me around all day.” Arya angrily threw her arms into the air, then regained her footing and threateningly stared down the blade of her sword. “Lunge. Lower right.” She called out, lunging forward as you blocked her with your acquired weaponry.
Her castle-forged sword was masterfully crafted compared to the shortsword you had stolen on the last leg of your journey. Clanging against one another, the sweet sound of slick steel hung in the air. “Upper left.” You announced, swinging your sword high in the air as Arya blocked it with an easy movement. It was a fairly equal match but considering she was years younger, she would likely far surpass you in skill by the time she was your current age. “Do you have no common interests?” You asked, stalling as she prepared to lunge forward.
“Common interests?” Arya repeated, taking the opportunity to swing her sword downward to rest gently against your calf. “Dead.” The declaration was followed by a beaming smile and a skip in her step. “Not at all.” She carefully sheathed Needle in her belt. “She likes dolls and silly stories.”
Leaning your sword against a nearby tree trunk, you wiped your hands down the front of your shirt. “You like stories.”
It was less about defending Sally and more about appeasing Arya. As the days passed, she grew more and more agitated that the three of you had not continued on with your journey. She did not want to go to her aunt, but she insisted that she was miserable with you and Sandor despite everything you tried to do to get her to settle.
“Yeah.” Arya childishly mocked you and rolled her eyes. “She wants to hear about princes and love like Sansa always did.” Throwing her hands up, they landed on her hips. “I don’t care about that.” The disgust that laced into her voice was accompanied by the crossing of her arms dramatically over her chest in a guarded motion. “Knights should be fighting… not picking roses for ladies. Don’t you have any more stories like that one you told me?” She tapped her finger against her arm. “That Antonian knight, the woman…” Her eyes lit up as she recalled the name, “The Great Stone Knight.”
Laughing it off, you swept your hair back from your flushed face. “There are many tales from my home, but we can save them for when we’re traveling again.” She huffed upon hearing your dismissal. “There has to be some common ground. Sally was raised without friends, she is just excited to have someone.”
“I don’t want to be that someone.” The beginning of a wicked blaze was erupting in her ears. “I could work in the field with you and Sandor.” Arya turned her head to Sandor who sat atop a cobblestone wall, resting from a long morning. “We could get the work done faster and leave.”
“It’s hard work.” Sandor commented.
As Arya’s disquiet sprouted leaves and extended high above the clouds, Sandor had mellowed. While always still on guard, he had found himself casting glances over his shoulder less. The farm had seen no visitors since your arrival days ago. Sally and her father had left for the town once, and returned the same day after selling their goods.
Waking the first morning after your moment in the rain, it had been incredibly difficult to get him to shed his armor and work in just his cottons. Reluctancy poured from his increasing attitude as the sweat from the beating sun shone down harshly against the warming leather. It was not until the second evening that he finally relented. Leaving his armor in the barn gave you the opportunity to finally wash the dried blood from its grates. He had absentmindedly wiped it off after each battle, but the scent still lingered with the spirits of those that had fallen to his sword.
Living within the barn was far different from the spaces you occupied in your youth. From ship cabins with feather beds to plush and lavish beds in castles, you were used to having the best and most comfortable sleeping quarters. On occasion you had slept on the ground, but not to the point that you were used to it. Inns were few and far between on the road and more often than not you slept on the cold ground each night. Stringy and scratchy straw plunged themselves into the soft flesh of your arms, leaving you to wake each day with blotches of red disturbed skin. But it was better than nothing, and with Sandor at your side now he acted as a cushion between the earth and your body.
All things considered, life was good.
Sally and her father had been immensely welcoming to the three of you. Always referring to you by your fake names, they quickly took to the added security and helping hands on the farm.
“I can work hard.” Arya argued, stomping to the plow that dug its way into the sown dirt. Fumbling with the heavy equipment, Arya turned from side to side. Her feet planted themselves into the ground as she caked mud against her shoes. Leaning forward comically, she urged it to move but could not get the wood to move an inch. Exasperated and full of defeat, she slumped forward propped only by her arms and let out a flummoxed sigh as she stared angrily at the tool. “I’ll be in the barn.”
The storm that raged over Arya followed her to the barn and thundered as she opened and slammed the door in a theatrical display of her dismay. Retreating from the world of the living, she would stay there for hours and only emerge once prompted by the growl of her stomach.
“Why didn’t you tell her that it hooks to the cattle?”
Crossing the remaining space between you and the wall, you leaned against its side. The exhale of amusement that pressed past his lips was short. “Why didn’t you?” Leaning forward slightly, Sandor slipped his arms under yours and swiftly hoisted you onto the wall by his side. A surprised squeal jumped from your mouth. As many times as he had unexpectedly picked you up, you never got used to it.
“I yield.” You replied.
Each day of work would usually conclude this way. Arya had an impeccable ability to find something to distract her for half the day. Once she grew bored with whatever she was doing she would find you with swords in hands putting a stop to your work. Afterward, she retired to the barn until Sally and her father either brought dinner or informed you that it was ready.
“Meya?” Sally came meekly from the cottage with a woven basket bearing fresh fruit and a hollowed gourd filled with water and capped with a cork. The first day she had told you all about how it came from the previous year’s harvest and her entire process in cleaning it for use. “Father sent me with this.”
Raising the basket over her head, she tried to balance it on the wall’s side for you to take. Relieving her of her plight, you grasped it by the handle and sat it on Sandor’s lap. “This is lovely, thank you Sally.”
Sandor had begun sifting through its contents, quickly finding an apple that he bit into. Distracted, he didn’t catch the look cast in his direction as you beckoned him to thank the girl. Finally you elbowed him, earning a miffed grunt and a grumbled “thanks.”
“Do you know where Arlenna is?”
Raising your brows, you faked ignorance as you turned your head from side to side, searching for Arya in spite of you knowing her location. “She’s around here somewhere.”
Returning back down the worn path leading to the cottage, she had the slightest skip in her step with the new quest of finding Arya on her mind.
Sally’s interest in Arya was amusing. She was roughly the same age, maybe slightly younger, but the two were so vastly different. It was almost how you imagined her and Sansa to be - night and day, an odd couple, two sides of a coin. Except there was an intense innocence that Sally oozed that had been lost to both of the Stark sisters. Whisked away in the night, never to return.
“I’m finding myself enjoying farm work much more than I expected.” You commented, nudging your shoulder against Sandor’s. “I could see us having something like this.”
Handing the apple off to you, you cradled it in your palms, looking down at the way his single bite nearly took a fourth of the fruit. The apples in Westeros tasted better than the ones in Antonia, you thought. It was possible that was true, but it was more likely that it was so intensely refreshing from your poorly diet. The smooth skin punctured easily with the points of your teeth, instantly filling your mouth with a perfect bite of the juicy flesh. Chewing happily, you handed it back to Sandor.
“We could.” A crisp crunch signaled Sandor’s second bite. “Only fun because you haven’t lived like this forever.” He glanced toward the house where the farmer stood on a short ladder repairing a door with Sally near his feet. “For them it’s survival, princess.”
Sally stood on her toes as she handed her father a mallet. Taking it from her hand, he ruffled the top of her head earning a lighthearted giggle that carried on the air. “I suppose you’re right.” Looking over the field the two of you had been working in all morning, you could still visualize building a life in a setting like this. A small cottage, a farm, and a few horses would make for a peaceful existence. “What will our survival be, then? Shall we traverse the seas to live up to my title? Or perhaps pay a visit to those Braavosi sellswords you mentioned?”
Tossing the core of the apple into a tuft of browning grass, he craned his neck from side to side and shrugged his shoulders. “Second Sons like to share their belongings. I don’t.”
A breeze snuck in from the distance mountaintops, bringing a cover of gorgeous puffy clouds that provided a never ending shade to quell the burning heat of the sun. Peering downward to his hand that now rested lazily against the wall’s edge, you slowly lowered yours next to his. Noticing the movement, he stilled and waited for you to take the lead. When you stalled, he realized you were waiting for his approval.
“You want this?” He jerked his chin outward to the farmer’s fields and took your hand in his. “We can have this.”
“Would you get bored?”
Squeezing softly, he placed your hand in his lap eclipsed by his. “Could manage.”
“Managing isn’t living.” You leaned your shoulder against his and rested your head against his arm. “What about where you’re from?”
The gentle flow of air tried to part the two of you, prying its way through the thin cloth of your shirt but finding no reprieve. You had never felt closer to the giant guarded man seated at your side. Each passing day since your admissions, his features seemed to soften ever so slightly. The harshness that he concealed within his irises was not as pointed, dulling marginally. Despite his change, there were moments. The mystery that was his mind remained clouded as he was unwilling to let you fully in. His feelings were not spoken as freely as yours, but were instead sung through the electricity of his fingertips, the playful tug at his lips, and the bouldering position of his chest that always stayed protectively guarding you.
You knew little about his past. Sansa had warned of him while in the Red Keep, Petyr Baelish had tried to scare you with stories, and Ser Lorric had prohibited you from speaking to him, but nobody explicitly stated anything that made you stray from his touch. Only Arya had presented a good argument to his misdeeds, but even she stayed in his company.
“It can burn.”
He held an abundance of hatred for his family, that much was clear. Whenever he spoke of his brother in a serious stance, his eyes would darken and the muscles in his face would tense.
Guiding his gaze to meet yours, you rubbed your thumb gingerly against the faint scarring of his cheek. The softness of your smile shrouded in the twinkling rays of golden sunlight peeking through the clouds relaxed his shoulders. “Then we will go elsewhere.”
~~~*~~~
“High left, low right.” Arya had pulled you from your work after another morning in the field. Demanding you train with her as she exclaimed she was about to kill Sally, you decided that her hitting you was better than a child. Swinging roughly toward you, she began her onslaught of fast cuts through the air. Tilting her blade, she redirected her focus from your upper left to the lower. Inches from striking your calf, she froze and repositioned her stance with the end of her sword at your left leg. “Dead.”
Dropping your guard, you tilted your head and watched as a genuine and elated smile formed on her lips. “You said low right, not left.”
Regaining her focus and returning to the offense, Arya moved her hands in a sweeping motion to hurry you back into position. She waited until you were ready to spar again before she finally said, “my tongue lied, my eyes shouted the truth.” Bouncing her weight from one foot to the other, she kept you on your toes as you waited for her call.
“Low left, high left, lunge.”
Swinging Needle low, you blocked her first assault with the dull clack of a sword against the stick she had given you. One inch forward brought with it her blade as she raised it high. You blocked her again, catching the steel between grooves in the wood. Her lunge signaled your step backward as the two of you rounded one another in her coordinated dance. Never once did her stiff hand leave the small of her back. The call of your planned movements never came to fruition as she spun on her heel. The action caught you off guard, giving her the perfect opportunity to hold Needle to your chest. “Dead.”
“You’re not playing very fair today.” You dropped your arm and let the stick fall to the ground with a thud.
“I’m fair.” She defended. “I could have done this.”
Before you could protest her statement she swept your legs out from beneath you, with the hook of her ankle. Then, as if she had not dealt enough damage to your pride, she lightly poked the end of her sword against your chest. “Dead.”
You wanted so badly to be mad at her when she stepped backward to allow you to rise to your feet, but you could not find it in you. This is how parents must feel, you thought. An exceptional sense of pride thundered through your chest. Despite you not having anything to do with her childhood growth, it filled you with confidence in her survival instinct. She was a truly remarkable young lady.
“Tell me, did you do this to your brothers?”
“Yes.” She sneered. “Not Robb… or Jon. But I could beat Bran and Rickon.”
“... and how much younger were Bran and Rickon?”
“Bran is one year younger than me.” She retorted. “... Rickon is five years younger. But at least they put up a fight.”
“Not all of us were afforded a swordsman to train us.” You quipped, stretching your arms from side to side and ignoring the throb of pain that bleated in your thigh.
“I beat them on my own.” Arya insisted, gathering her wits about her again as she prepared for your call. “I’m a good shooter - Bran couldn’t line a shot up, and Rickon couldn’t lift a bow.”
You planted your feet on the ground and sighed, growing tired from her continued beating. “High right, low left, lunge.”
Parrying the swing of your sword, Arya hit every mark as she successfully evaded your blade. “Are you a good shooter?” She wondered loudly before calling out her next attacks and going on the offense. “Low right, low left.”
“Well, I-” You replied as she took advantage of your distracted state and knocked you from your stance.
Triumphantly, she announced. “Dead.”
~~~*~~~
“When are we leaving?” Arya paced back and forth across the barn floor. Her feet wore into the dirt, leaving a track of flattened ground. “We’ve been here for two weeks. I thought we were heading to the Eyrie.”
“Traveling isn’t cheap.” Sandor commented, not particularly paying attention to anything she was specifically saying.
The night had set in bringing with it the frigid air of a nearing autumn. Sandor had been given a couple of silver stags for the two weeks of work which he pocketed with the rest. Over dinner, the two men discussed their plans moving forward as Arya simmered in her seat. Sally had taken to following Arya less and following you more, which came with no complaints. Almost daily she would ask for stories, most of which were heavily falsified and tailored to her as you did for Arya and Sansa. Her mother used to tell her stories like that, her father would say as you hushed the young girl to sleep.
“Got traveling gold?”
She huffed. “You do.”
“This is silver.” Sandor jingled the pouch. “In a hurry to get to your loving aunt, that it?”
“You said she’ll pay you heavily in gold. Is that not what you want?” Practically steaming, she cringed as she plopped down on her spot. “You’re so busy playing house that you can’t even think logically.”
“You want to leave that badly? Get back out on the road so you can watch another family member get their fucking head cut off?”
“Sandor.” You scolded from your position near the door. Gliding from the entrance of the barn to the middle where Arya sat, you dropped to your knees and held a covered basket out to her. “With all our work they bought some honey from the market.” Uncovering the warm breads sent the aromas of sugar and floral honey wafting into the air. “Eat.”
“Thanks.” Her gratitude was not readily apparent to anyone who had not been in her presence for an extended period of time. But to you, it was visible in the way her shoulders relaxed as she savored the fresh fragrant bread. All her irritation with the young girl dissipated at the sweet sugar connected with her dormant taste buds.
Moving to Sandor’s side, you pulled another out for him and held it out.
Arya began her retort with a full mouth. “Why can’t you take me to my brother Jon? I don’t even know my aunt, never met her.”
“You think Jon has gold at Castle Black? Bunch of rapists and murderers. It’s no place for you.” He stretched out, extending his arms above his head as the hem of his shirt bunched at his midsection. Like most foods, it didn’t take him long to consume his fill.
“She just wants to be with family.” You defended, dropping to his side.
“Only one here who does.” He grumbled, closing his eyes. “We’ll leave tomorrow at first light.”
Arya perked at his announced plan, sitting straighter as she swallowed hard and took in a deep breath. “Really?”
“Not much of a liar.” He responded, turning on his side to face you. You set the basket aside and adjusted the blanket that cushioned your bodies from the hay. “Collect the silver, then leave.”
“Really?” She repeated, earning an annoyed huff from Sandor.
“Yes really. The sooner you’re out of my hair, the better.”
The slats in the roof looked out to the shimmering stars that were suspended in the cold night’s air. Steady and even breaths filled the barn along with puffs of smoke from Arya and Sandor’s warm breath challenging the blue creature that froze the landscape. While they slept soundly, you laid awake.
Crystals of ice formed on the surfaces of your eyes, prompting them to remain wide as your mind traveled a thousand leagues a minute. Each star that kept you company disappeared as the night grew deeper and turned to an early morning. Your travels had sent you on a journey into the unknown. Each time you found yourself lost, Ser Lorric would be there as the guiding light to reposition you back on track. It had been nearly two years since his death and still your mind wandered to the many things he would say that seemed like nonsense at the time.
But things had changed, and he was gone. Lost to the winds of Westeros. His final place of rest was disturbed, likely thrown into the Blackwater to swim amongst the bodies of those who perished in the battle. He was nothing but a memory at this point, one that you held dearly to your chest whenever you inevitably thought of home.
Sandor was much different than those you had found interest in before. He was as large as the mountains protecting The Hill and just as sturdy. Gruff and frayed at the edges, he had managed to wriggle his way into your heart. Your father would be perplexed. You could imagine the look on his face if he were to ever meet Sandor. His bushy brows would raise into his forehead, he would grab at his belt buckle and belly laugh as he would make a comment about how well he would fit into the family lineage. “Your children will be giants!” He would exclaim whilst grasping at Sandor’s arms. “She is so reluctant to marry. What did you promise her to win her heart?” Yes, he would like Sandor. You were sure of it.
Although, his approval mattered not any longer. As the sun and moon danced around the sky, the chances of seeing him lessened with each passing day. Each hour was another away from home, away from the comfort of your family and people.
While wandering through the memories of easier times, the brush became too thick. Vines and leaves tangled, engulfing your form entirely as your mind slipped into a calm darkness. The dreamless sleep was shielded by the man at your side. Memories of Antonia melted into new ones of your adventures and future in Westeros.
~~~*~~~
Sandor’s voice roused you from your sleep. The softness in his tone permeated every waking space of your mind, encouraging the morning’s hold to begin. It was a sunny day, the golden rays crept through the few cracks that remained in the barn. Light breaths echoed from where Arya lay still sleeping soundly.
A garbled groan left your lips, pushing hot breath against Sandor’s chest where your head had landed somewhere through the night. One arm stretched lazily over his stomach to attach to his side, the other hooked around the arm where the majority of your body rested. Though it buzzed and filled with an uncomfortable static, he had left you to rest awhile longer after he initially woke. His fingers gripped at yours, prying you from his touch much to your annoyance.
“It’s time to go.”
Your grumble was taken lightheartedly as you rubbed your cheek into his shirt, ignoring the faint scent of a hard day of work. “Our last day to rest and you wake me early?”
“Only so many hours of sunlight.” He defended, nudging you off his chest to land on your back at his side. “We can rest once we get rid of her.”
Unsteadily sitting up, your arms stretched high above your head as your body shook with a euphoric pop as your muscles woke. Left and right, you cracked your neck, releasing the tension that built from another night without the comfort of a mattress. The white rays of light that swept through the cracks in the roof highlighted the clouds of dust that floated through the stagnant air. Sandor had risen to a sitting position following suit as he more harshly got his limbs moving.
“I’ll wake Arya.”
On the other side of the room, Arya had begun to stir. She kicked her legs out from their fetal position as you approached. Placing a warm hand against her clothed shoulder, you were surprised to find her already awake. The contact had her eyes opening immediately and her body thrusting upward to take in her surroundings. Your fingers laced through her hair, pushing the stray hairs from her vision. “Our journey continues.”
Without answering, she nodded and rose to her feet. A lion’s yawn forced her mouth wide as she went through the motions of jostling herself to activity. All the while, her focus remained entirely on Sandor as he worked at the clasps of his armor. The sense of apprehension and annoyance she held for him compared to the more friendly relationship she had formed with you was amazing. Any onlooker could tell from her surface that something was brewing beneath. Maybe it was the way she peered at people from a lowered chin or her closed shoulders and guarded stance. Maybe it was her calculated choice of wordage and the way she always looked like a wolf hunting its prey. Either way, she was different from most children. In her short time, many things had been stolen from her. Aging came naturally to most, but she was forced to grow up ten paces ahead.
You couldn’t blame her for having a potent anger with the world.
“I'm going to see Sally before we go.”
Sandor waved his hand as you left the barn, calling after you to saddle the horses afterward and that he was going to collect the silver owed for the last few days of work.
Great plumes of fresh white smoke rose from the crackling chimney. Sally could be heard within, her voice growing stronger and louder as each day passed. You hoped that she would continue on that road, but feared your departure would be a hindrance. She bounded from the door carrying a make-shift cloth bag that jostled from its heavy contents as she skipped in your direction. Upon setting her sights on your nearing figure she walked a little faster to meet you on the dirt path.
“Here!” She thrust her arm out in front of her body, offering the bag. “Barley and apples for today.”
“Thank you,” you stopped her from handing it off, “but you should keep this. I was coming to say goodbye.”
Her brow furrowed. “Goodbye?”
“We have to go.”
“Why?”
“We’re heading north. Lorric will be by to see your father shortly.”
“Do you have to go?” Sally pleaded with sad eyes that reflected her downturned lips. “I want you to stay.”
Cupping the puffiness of her reddening cheek, you gave her a soft smile. “Sometimes the beginning of a new journey starts with a goodbye.” The clasp of your hair clip popped as your hair flowed freely from its hold, brushing against your shoulders as the wind carried south. While on the farm, you had pried out the gemstones, pocketing them along with the few pieces of copper that you had scavenged off of the deceased. “Perhaps our paths will meet again.” Tucking her thin hair behind her ear, you secured it with the pop of the clip. “Take care of your father, okay?”
Her fingers grazed the metal in her hair, bringing a smile to the curve of her lips. Nodding, she tugged at your waist, squeezing you in a crushing hold.
“Here.” She pushed the bag against your stomach. “You should still take it.”
“You and your father need it.”
“Please? I want you to have it.” The cloth clashed against your leg as she moved out and back toward you to emphasize herself. “Please come back some time.”
“I will.” You said, though you knew it unlikely.
With the morning sun came a glistening layer of twinkling dew drops that flashed in a spiraling show of the earth’s beauty from each viewpoint. Temperate and calm, the day was perfect for riding. Stranger and Arya’s steed were grazing in the pasture, enjoying their time of leisure after weeks of nonstop travel. It was a good break from their fast galloping that tired the animals at a quick rate. Both the riders and horses all looked healthier than any of them had in their months of travel.
Your fingers brushed through the coarse hair of Stranger’s mane, detangling a knot that had formed from the blowing breeze. Gathering a handful of barley in your palm, you held it out to him and offered the rest to the other steed.
Taking one last look around the farm you had called home for an uneventful and relaxing fortnight, the vision was disturbed by a flaming girl stomping toward you. Fumes rose off the top of her head, steaming the air above her head in a cloud of sauna smoke. Her eyes burnt brighter than they had when she had first seen you caring for Sandor.
“He’s a monster!” Arya approached with her fists balled at her sides, driving her uncut nails into the skin of her palms. “How can you love him?” An accusatory finger was pointed in your face as you tried to focus on Sandor who was trailing behind with a coin bag in his opened palm.
Their usual argumentative demeanours were back. Returning in full, they were at one another's throats again. “What happened?” You tried to calm her with the easy touch of your hands, but she jerked away and roughly took her horse’s reins.
“He’s a thief. Stole all their silver and is leaving them for dead.” She kicked her foot into the stirrup and hoisted her leg over the top of the seat, steading herself with the horn. “If you can love him you’re no better.”
Seizing that moment as her final words on the matter, she tugged her horse to turn it in another direction and started on her way. Quizzically, you looked back to Sandor who had tucked a pouch into his side. He wordlessly hoisted you onto Stranger’s back and sat behind you. Your legs hung off one side and your arm braced against his chest and another round his back.
“Go on, scold me.” His statement wasn’t exactly what you had expected out of his mouth. In fact, it wasn’t at all what you expected.
“You stole from them?” You asked, trying to make full sense of what happened.
“It’s the way of life. Told her that, I’ll tell you the same. Be mad all you like, doesn’t change a damn thing.”
He was so fast to jump to conclusions. That was one trait he retained astutely assuming himself to be the villain. “I’m not mad at you.” You resigned. Truthfully, your chest clenched at the idea that he had left Sally and her father to fend for themselves like that. For any family it would be difficult, but for them especially so. “It’s how things are. You’ve told me that many times.” A placating hand palmed his cheek as you stretched to lay a kiss to his tense skin. “It has taken me time, but I understand. We do what we have to for our survival… did you leave them unharmed?”
They had plenty of harvested goods in storage that they could sell to replenish the silver that now jingled in Sandor’s pocket. Wounds, though, were less likely to mend.
Sandor set his jaw in place as he gathered the reins in his hands, staring forward intensely at the sprawling landscape. He would tell you the truth, but not in entirety, for some things were best left unsaid.
“I don’t hurt little girls.”
Stranger began moving, following after Arya who had a lead on the two of you. The plumes of white puffy smoke from their chimney faded behind you. Slowly, but surely, they would become a memory. A memory that you would revisit often with fondness of the connection their humble cottage built. If things were different, if you had your kingdom behind you, maybe you could give them a better alternative. But that was not an option and they, as kind as they were, were not your priority.
Writers note: apologies for the long wait, I was all up in my feelings
What are y’all up to today? Me? I’m making the most time consuming excel file of GoT data possible so I don’t have to look up birth and death dates anymore... lol...
Summary: The Hand of the King spends years vying for the princess's affections. Only fate would have it that the two cannot be. As Aerys Targaryen II slowly descends into madness, can their love survive his instability and the war to come?
Warnings: General Game of Thrones violence later on, death and stuff, shitty characterizations, eh age differences, Ser Barristan being a lovely darling ✨
Masterlist
“He may enter.”
With granted permission the guard swung the door open to reveal Tywin dressed in a tunic of red and black. The leather was spotted with holes that revealed more fabric beneath holding a slick sheen to its texture. His hair was combed back without a single strand falling loose to frame his aristocratic physique. Upon spotting the princess in her chosen attire, he did not shroud the look of pride from his profile.
“The dress is fitting.” He tipped his head in an approving fashion, giving her a knowing look at her second choice of gowns. The alluring gaze he held on the definitions of her figure instinctively had her smoothing down the bodice once more. “Lannister red is quite flattering. Though, I am in disbelief that anything would look otherwise.”
An attractive rose tinged at the bridge of her nose and to the heights of her cheekbones as his words resonated in her system like the bass of a song. She brought a delicate finger up to tuck a loose strand of porcelain hair behind her flushing ear and peered at him through the curtains of her eyelashes. “Your words are most appreciated, my lord.” Playing with her fingers in front of her body she hesitated to speak in the presence of her guard, but did so anyway. “You look rather dashing yourself. After all, Lannister red suits a Lannister best.”
He allowed his eyes to linger a moment longer. Then, casting her an astute expression, Tywin nodded and outstretched his arm for her to take. “Come. The tournament waits.”
Made of a white-painted wood and designed to intricately display the Lannister wealth, the carriage waited for its passengers at the base of the Rock. For anyone else it would be vastly improper to sit concealed within the hiding walls of the cart, but as the Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock nobody would dare question his choices. That is, nobody except for the king.
Jostling back and forth as the wheels started turning, the two settled into their respective spots sitting opposite one another. Despite having the space for two more, they chose to sit knee-to-knee. Brushing against each other on occasion was no mistake as the princess situated herself on the edge of her cushion. They had all the secrecy they could ever hope for in such a public environment. Though the population looked on, none could truly tell what was happening within.
After entering the city on horseback, open for the world to see, it felt strange venturing out concealed by the plush walls of the cart. When they arrived, she was tired and not meant for any sort of outing. Her hair had been ditsy, unbraided and flying in all directions. She looked more like a land worker than a royal. Now she was bathed and fashioned in a more suiting way to uphold her title.
Lannisport’s energy was extravagant, too. The unbridled curiosity that bled from the villager’s prying eyes had melted away into a subdued and exotic buzz of anticipation and excitement for the day’s events. Reaching out into the air, the princess was sure she could feel it thick with suspense.
Leaning forward, she let herself fall into a trance as she watched the city pass by. As they ventured further into the heart of Lannisport, the smells and sounds marinated and held more depth. “I anticipate that Ser Arthur will be besting my brother in the joust today.” She commented offhandedly, folding her arms at her stomach as she turned her neck to look upward to an inquisitive Tywin.
A curious hum bombinated from his lips. Squared shoulders pressed into his backrest, heightening his stance even in his seated position. One could find it intimidating, but she was more so amused by his always-perfect posture. Rather than move his head to show he was granting her his full attention, his pose remained solid, but this attention was there nonetheless. “Why is that? Prince Rhaegar has garnished a reputation when it comes to his performance in jousts.”
An ardent laugh brought his chin tucking downward. “He wins because people fear that knocking a prince from his horse will put an end to their family line.” She nudged her knees against his. “Also, I asked Ser Arthur to win.”
“Is there a reason?”
Sitting to her full height, which was still considerably shorter than the towering man before her, she flitted with the draping of her skirts. “Rhaegar was not exaggerating when he said that my journey was full of complaints.”
“You are a princess.” Tywin argued in his remarkably calm tone. “Traveling by horseback is hardly an appropriate means.”
“And how do you presume I’ll return to King’s Landing, my lord? Shall I walk so as to not dishonor myself by riding?”
“I’ll be returning to court at the conclusion of the tournament.” Using the muscles in his stomach, he pushed himself from the backrest to lean closer to the princess. “There is an abundance of space in the Lannister wheelhouse.”
Gasping dramatically, she placed a hand over the exposed skin of her chest. “What will my father think, Lord Tywin?” She shook her head. “He already believes me to be conspiring against him. Should I be seen in your private quarters, I think that he will think you are a conspirator, too.” Her coy demeanor evanesced as she spoke the words out. They struck her harder than she expected, falling from the cliff tops of her mind and tumbling downward like the disturbed snow of an avalanche. Where a soft smile had once been planted, a strange intensity grew. “My father thinks that I am conspiring against him.” She admitted with slumping shoulders. “You must be aware of that saying regarding the Targaryens. A coin is to choose our fates. Madness or greatness. We are only afforded the two, there is no gray water to wade in.”
“The saying is commonspeak tripe.” Tywin cut her thought from the root. “It was a coping mechanism created to explain the complicated to the simple.”
“Still.” Her fingers rubbed at the smooth fabric that laid upon her legs. “I have done nothing warranted of greatness in my time, nor am I set for it. Does that mean that I am destined for the opposite side of the coin?”
Soothing warmth covered her chilled hands. “There is no coin that can determine your future. You are young. You have many years to pursue greatness.” Slipping her hand into his, he covered it comfortingly with the other. “Let us not focus on that today. Today, we worry not what others think of us.” Trying to lighten her mood, he batted at the clouds that formed over her head. “Today, we will watch Ser Arthur best the prince.”
~~~*~~~
The marketplace was astir with the ingredients of a lively tourney on the way. Bakers rushed from their bakeries to line the streets with fresh goods situated on cooling racks. Jewelers set up lush and vibrant canopies to attract the eye to their precious gemstones. Smiths of all kinds beckoned upon their soapboxes, loudly proclaiming that any highborn lord who wields their weaponry will be granted great strength in their future endeavors. All swarmed like flies to the list where the tourney was to take place.
Rolling to a stop, the carriage holding Tywin and the princess opened with a small army of guards from the city watch squaring the two in.
“What are we doing in the market?” Her head could not move fast enough as she tried to view everything in a single second.
“The list is not far from here. As the princess of the Seven Kingdoms, I think it appropriate that you see firsthand what one of its great cities offers.”
Happy to take any opportunity to see more of Westeros, she nodded as they made their way away from the cart. Although, some would question his true intentions with walking the princess down the market street. Some wondered whether the two were betrothed, deciding against it when they could not recall any formal announcement. Others thought it to be a display of the power he held over the ruling family. The majority were just happy to see their ruling lord walking the streets.
As they strolled down the textured cobblestone walkway, smoothed from years of activity, a crowd gathered on the sidelines to throw praise to Lord Tywin. “Seven blessings, m’lord!” One yelled from a balcony above, gathering her child as she pointed him out. “May the gods smile upon you, Lord Tywin!” Another hollered, this time from behind a growing host of onlookers. As word spread of the princess walking amongst the people, many more flocked to the streets to see if she was truly the “hag” her reclusivity had named her.
The princess was awestruck by the love and adoration the city seemed to hold in their hearts for Tywin. He continually nodded and waved to varying members of their audience, each time earning more kind words from those compelled by other’s displays.
While the princess was concerned with the people, Tywin’s true focus was solely on her. She primarily led the group as her eyes guided her from one side of the street to the other. Warm breads filled with cinnamon and ground cloves nipped at her nose, followed by strong scents of freshly baked apples and lemon zest. Fennel and cardamom wafted from a nearby tavern’s opened window. Purchasing an apple crisp from a trusted merchant who often supplied gourmet goods to the Lannister’s household, Tywin handed it to the princess only after one of the guards tested it.
A particularly interesting merchant caught her eye, situated just past the baker. Tucked between his steaming racks and another table sat a young boy, no older than seven. With smudges of dirt covering his rounded reddened cheeks, he appeared far underfed and weary from crafting his wares. His shoes were thin, likely not protecting his feet from the ground given the blisters and calluses that coated the bottoms. Blonde hair had turned brown with oil and sweat. His eyes were downcast almost appearing as though he were asleep.
When the shadow of her figure covered his face, he sat up and brushed his hands down his face, dragging the dirt further across his skin. He had a torn yellowed blanket at his feet. Frayed edges held years of memories as it was more than likely his nursing blanket from when he was born. Tiny wooden statues that could fit in the palm of one’s hand were meticulously laid out, lined in rows of five with three rows total. Each was different from the other despite some being the same animals, but all were equally charming. “Did you make these?” She asked with the welcoming tilt of her curious head.
“Yes!...” He sucked his bottom lip between his large bucked teeth and took a deep breath to calm his heart as it beat from his chest. “Yes, m’lady.” He corrected.
The grooves and edges of one of the carvings bit into her skin, but she paid it no mind. A small lion with a crooked nose was the focus of her interest. Its mane was lopsided, heavy and bushy on the right side but practically nonexistent on the left. In no way was it intimidating like the beautifully crafted Lannister lions that decorated the Rock. Nonetheless, she found herself charmed by his efforts as he clearly put time into each. As she flipped the statue around in her hand, the merchant to his right nudged his shoulder with her sandal and whispered something in his ear. At her news, he straightened his back more and went wide-eyed. “Y-you can have it, princess (Y/n)... m’lady… your grace! If you want it. Free of charge for the princess, m’lady.”
“Nonsense.” Tywin interjected, regarding the young boy who immediately recognized him and grew another foot. “A man should never sell himself short.”
Looking to the merchant next to him seeking guidance, the boy found none. “I-”
“I believe this should cover the cost.” Holding a silver stag with the likeness of Aerys II pressed into its surface, Tywin extended his hand out to the child who took it and examined its edges with the surface of his thumb.
“Thank you, m’Lord!” He exclaimed, pocketing the coin in a concealed flap on the interior of his pants.
“Have you eaten yet today?” The princess rubbed her finger over the lion’s nose as the boy shook his head. Unintentionally, his eyes flitted to the still-steaming bun in her other hand. “Here.” She lowered it to where he could reach. “Freshly baked. Enjoy it while it’s warm.”
The boy looked again to the merchant who he seemed to know. She nodded her head forward and beckoned the boy to take the offering from the princess. Examining it, his mouth watered at the sickeningly sweet sugar that frosted the exterior of the golden pastry. Looking upward to the princess, a wide childish smile spread from one side of his face to the other and he lurched forward to wrap his arms securely around her waist. His cheek pressed into her side, leaving a reminder of his presence in the form of a small tan smudge in the red and white fabric.
Unknowing of the boy’s intentions, the guards of the city watch stiffened and began to grasp at the child’s clothing. Bubbly laughs stopped them along with the halting of her hand. Instead of ripping him from her side, she embraced the boy and ruffled her fingers through the top of his head, uncaring of the sleek oil left behind.
“Thank you, m’princess!” He stepped backward and stumbled as the excitement jolted through his system like lightning.
Bidding him farewell, she and Tywin continued on with their progression toward the list. As they got closer, the street became more densely packed and louder than it was before. Tywin’s hand found permanent residence on her shoulder, ensuring to him that she was always with him even when his head was focused elsewhere.
“I cannot believe this is only one part of the city.” The princess excitedly placed her hand against Tywin’s bicep, gripping slightly as she channeled the innocent naivete that had been trapped within her since birth. Beyond the castle’s walls was an entire world to experience, and she had barely scratched its surface.
“If you wish to venture through the entirety of Lannisport, I will personally see it so.” Tywin mirrored her elation in a more refined approach.
The wall of armored guards parted as a young man approached. “Lord Tywin.” He called as he stopped with a jump in his step. “Princess.” From his attire, she could conclude that he was a squire. Young in age and unarmed, he was likely the child of a western lord. “The king has arrived. He waits in the viewing stands.”
Nearly the entire population of Lannisport that wasn’t taking advantage of heightened traffic were seated on platforms of sturdy wood or perched on any rooftop that would merit even the smallest glance at the action. Men and women, boys and girls, all flocked to the streets as the exhilaration invigorated the air. Young women swooned at the idea of catching a fleeting tick of the prince’s attention. Young men were dazed and could only hope to be like him.
The princess arrived with Lord Tywin, an unexpected move but one that was unavoidable as they had already been traveling together. Entering beneath a tented pitch of red velvet and golden tassels, he was announced loudly by the middle-aged bellman who rallied the joyous cries of his people for their lord. Tywin did not bask in the cheer like Aerys had when he entered previously. Instead he held his composure by nodding to a few, giving a curt wave, and then using his hand to sweep the attention back to the king. The princess sat nearest to the action, blocked from it by the waterfall blockade that protected the royalty and highborns within. She watched and listened in utter awe as the masses roared with intense acclaim for Tywin. Praises were sung on the highest of clouds as the moment seemed to slow. Women waved their scarves and men shouted loudly with boasts of their lord. Turning her attention from the field to her rear, she could see the clear upset on her father’s face.
They should cheer louder for me, Aerys thought selfishly as he gripped his fingers tightly against the wooden chair he slouched in. His focus flickered from the people to Tywin, then downward to where Cersei sat next to his daughter. Before he left King’s Landing he had been informed that she had left with Rhaegar, Ser Barristan, and Ser Arthur, but seeing her here with his own eyes made his blood boil over. She was to be kept within the Red Keep, sealed away from the public’s view, safe within its suffocating walls. Rhaella, his wife, was kept under lock and key. He wondered if she would have to meet the same fate. He forced a smile - one of the first fatherly actions he had made since returning from Duskendale. Returning the gesture, he noted the way she reclined into herself and tore her gaze from his to engage in conversation with Cersei. The two started laughing with Jeyne Farman at something Melara Hetherspoon had said before turning their attention to the entry of Prince Rhaegar.
The people’s welcome for the Lord of Casterly Rock was great, but far different from the welcome the crowned prince received as he rode onto the list adorned in full Targaryen armor. Black metal shone with the sunlight beating down upon his shoulders. Red accented steel whipped around the track as he prompted the crowd to continue with their cheers. Cersei grabbed at (Y/n)’s hand, holding it tightly as she watched adoringly. Exemplified screams came from each corner of Lannisport, all loudly rolling over the fields for miles around. It only got louder as he removed his pointed helmet and gave a haughty bow to his father who merely stared back with an emptied haze hovering over his head.
“You seem rather taken by my brother.” The princess lent over to whisper in the ear of Tywin’s daughter. Though she attempted to remain quiet, her words carried over the crowd to the ear of Melara who sat at Cersei’s other side. Dressed elegantly in a gown of muted yellow resembling that of aged gold, Melara was a thin young girl. She styled her hair simply on either side of her shoulders, allowing the cascading brunette locks to fall to her waist.
“He is quite handsome.” Melara earned herself a harsh glare from the side of Cersei’s eye. “He has not taken a wife yet, and…” she feigned shyness by the curtain of her lashes, “excuse my ignorance, but is it not tradition to marry siblings in the Targaryen house?”
She was bold, clearly bolder than Jeyne who shrunk into herself, and it could even be said that she was bolder than Cersei. “That is the tradition.” The princess folded her hands in her lap, covering the lion figurine, watching as Tygett Lannister came trotting out onto the list mounted on a pure white horse. “I do not know my father’s plans.”
Unbeknownst to her, Tygett was another potential suitor for the princess. In fact, Tygett and Gerion had both been considered at a time, but were dismissed as quickly as they were presented. The only one that the king had let weigh on the table was the proposition of Jaime Lannister, and eventually he too was denied. He rode out to the roar of the people.
“I think there are many men who vye for your hand in marriage, your grace.” Melara said loudly, catching Tywin’s ear. “You will be a beautiful bride.”
A breathy laughing exhale was pushed from the princess’s lungs as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear and relished in the newfound attention of a highborn lady. “You are most kind, lady Melara.”
At the sound of a horn, the riders were ready to start. Both men took a side of the list and prepared their lances beneath their arms. Each member of the audience lent forward in their seats as their steeds tore through the dirt with their furious hooves. In the matter of seconds, Rhaegar had defeated Tygett. Left with a broken lance and lowered enthusiasm for the sport, Tygett made his round, congratulated the prince, and left the list on horseback. Soonthereafter, he found himself joining the rest of the Lannister family beneath the covered tent.
Rhaegar defeated many others that day. Westerland knights fell in various fashions, some breaking lances and others simply being thrust from their saddles. Gerion followed in his younger brother’s footsteps after his match, sitting in the stands nearest to Tywin. Ser Barristan had the princess smiling as he made his round, throwing a wave high in the air. Though his spirits were high, his chances of winning when Rhaegar was on a roll were not. He, too, fell to the crowned prince.
It wasn’t until Ser Arthur rode out onto the list that Rhaegar’s streak was broken. Falling to Ser Arthur’s lance, Rhaegar found himself unhorsed and at a loss for the winning title he had been fighting for all day. The crowd cheered as Rhaegar stood and motioned to the winner, giving him an animated clap.
Excusing herself from Cersei and her friend’s company, the princess slipped from the tent before anyone else could notice. She had hoped to avoid her father’s audience, pleading and begging with the gods to allow her to slide by without notice. With a soft push of the curtain, she made her exit whilst her father engaged in conversation with Tywin.
Traipsing through the crowds of highborns, she traversed the mass audience of curious eyes. For most, this had been their first encounter with the princess. Many moved from her path, allowing her by. Others actively blocked her way, hoping to catch her for a conversation. Some were bold enough to propose betrothals with their sons, and others followed her as she went.
“Your grace!” One woman yelled from an unknown direction as the people grew dense. “Princess (Y/n)!” Another tried to get her attention. Bunching her skirts in her hands, she continued forward toward the tents where the knights had prepared earlier in the morning. “My lady!” A man, around her age, pushed through the crowd. Unruly hands pushed at her back as the composed lords lost their manners and began forcing their way through one another to get closer. Stumbling on the uneven surface, she would have lost her balance if not for the sturdy arms she fell upon.
The sunlight was eclipsed by a charming smile and soft eyes. “This is not how I envisioned our first meeting, your grace.” Copper hair hung to his shoulders and draped against the stiff shoulder pads of his gray tunic. “We have not been afforded an audience with one another.” Steadying her on her feet, he bowed deeply and took her hand gently in his. His lips pressed a chaste kiss to her flushing skin. “Addam Marbrand.”
“Of Ashemark.” She finished, retracting her hand politely and holding it in front of her body. “Tales of your gallantry are often told in Kings Landing.”
“I am honored to hear that my name has fallen on the ears of the most beautiful woman in the realm.” Blushing, the princess fidgeted with her fingers. Noticeably her figurine was missing. His kind eyes bore into her subdued features, taking in his first sight of the hidden princess. Upon catching her searching the ground, he followed suit, quickly finding the imperfect lion. “Charming.” He flipped it over in his hand before offering it back to her.
“A boy in the market was selling them.”
“And a supporter of the local economy, princess. The west is forever grateful.”
Flushing again, she timidly took the carving back. “Have you the chance to visit the capitol, Lord Addam?”
“I have,” he confirmed, finding his focus drawn to her rear where an approaching figure neared. “...many times. It seems that each visit I find myself leaving without having met you.” An airy chuckle outlined his next words. “I must say, I believe it was worth the wait. Your beauty is far beyond what my imagination could craft.”
Shyly looking elsewhere, she continued to grow redder by the second. “You flatter me. I-”
Feeling the presence of another, she turned her head to the side to find Tywin with his arms connected at the small of his back. “Princess.” His hand moved to press against her side. “Prince Rhaegar requests an audience in his tent.” Sliding from her waist to her shoulder, Tywin’s hand landed protectively over the loose-fitting fabric that covered her arm.
“I was on my way to see him when the crowd grew too dense.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Lord Addam saved me from a rather embarrassing fall to the dirt.”
Cutting back into the conversation, Addam spoke. “I would be most pleased to escort the princess, my lord.”
“That will not be necessary.” Tywin nonchalantly looked over his shoulder back toward the list. “Addam, your father was searching for you. You should see to it.”
Straightening his back, his shoulders set widely to display the strength in his upper body. “Of course.” Addam’s eyes met the princess’s. “I hope that we can meet again, my lady.” Then, without another word, he disappeared into the wall of people.
“What did Rhaegar want with me?” She wondered aloud as Tywin’s guiding hand maneuvered her through the maze of bumping shoulders.
Nearing the edge of the sea that seemed to swallow all those who entered, the faint whisper of green grass could be seen swimming amongst the pool of vibrant fabrics. Beyond that were stable boys guiding armored horses, waving flags atop high tents, and the low hum of conversations mixing into a concoction of a tourney’s delight.
Pacing their way toward Rhaegar’s quarters, she stalled as she considered Tywin’s silence as a very telling answer to her question. “Rhaegar did not summon me.” She concluded, finding a smug grin on her rose lips. “You simply did not enjoy watching me converse with Lord Marbrand.” Sliding past a group of competing knights, the two separated slightly.
“He is a fine young man.” Tywin defended. “Well respected in Ashemark and the west. He would make a fine suitor should your father deem him so.” Though the words fell from his lips, Tywin knew it not to be. Aerys already had plans in motion for his daughter.
“Fear not, my lord. Only one man has captured my eye.”
Fluttering playfully by, she attracted the focus of each man and boy. There was something intensely alluring about the Targaryens that no other house had. It was not in their Valyrian features. They shared the same colorless hair and lilac eyes with the Velaryons. The pull of their gravitational hold on others came from their resolve. Many Targaryen’s who achieved the famed “greatness” all shared traits that blended into a cocktail of pursuance in their climb for grandeur.
She, the princess, was a particularly notable royal. For she was more or less a blank slate. No glory came from tournaments like it did for Rhaegar. Madness nor prosperity had been bestowed upon her from her father. Her future was yet to be told, and something about that intrigued those who watched and waited to hear of what she planned to do with her canvas.
Tywin watched as she skirted past more men blissfully ignoring their gawking mouths and wandering eyes. Only when she disappeared through the drapes of Rhaegar’s tent did he adjust his shoulders back and return to his duties.
“Myles, a pleasure as always.” The princess walked through the curtained entrance of the tent where Rhaegar dressed. The room was spacious for its temporary structure; holding a stand for his armor, a desk with two tables, a chaise lounge covered in burgundy velvet, and a small closet for his normal attire.
Myles Mooton wandered about the room, focused on nothing in particular as he set about tidying and preparing Rhaegar’s clothing. As a younger man, he served as Rhaegar’s squire. Bold and brass, he had earned himself a positive place in the prince’s circle of friends. “Princess.” He regarded her with an over-the-top bow and sauntered out.
“The people really love you, brother.” Her skirts hooped as she swung around to face Rhaegar. Sitting on a padded bench, he forced his feet into his boots and tucked the excess cloth into the sides.“Is father as angered with my presence here as I assume him to be?”
His cotton undershirt matched the black tunic he often wore. “I avoided his eye.” Pressing his hands against his cheeks, he refocused himself. Fingers combed through his colorless hair, sweeping it backward to fall over his shoulders. Buttoning his dragon-embroidered outer coat, he patted the clasps and let out a sigh.
There was a clear tension in his build. Shoulders that often laid slack and relaxed were tight in an almost cringing fashion. A crinkle in his nose creased his skin like a page in a book. Something was on his mind, and it only weighed him down further with his sister standing in close proximity.
“We will talk later.”
Before she could say anything else, Rhaegar disappeared past the brush of the tapestry leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of sweat clinging to his armor.
~~~*~~~
“Lord Tyrion.”
Casterly Rock was a fairly difficult place to roam. Easily finding oneself at a crossroads with one direction leading upward and another to the sea, without a map the princess was lost. Ser Barristan had accompanied her, but found himself as lost as she as they humorously wandered aimlessly hoping to find a familiar area. Pushing past two great doors lined with jagged rock, they were surprised to have found a library.
Leather-bound books lined the walls. Some held notable titles easily recognizable to the princess and others were extremely foreign. Lit lanterns were ablaze, keeping the entirety of the room lit despite it having no exposed areas to the outside. Alone below a table sat the missing Lannister of whom she had not seen since her initial arrival at Casterly Rock: Tyrion Lannister.
Born five years after the twins, Tyrion’s entrance to the world was his mother’s exit. He was a notably lonely child, having spent much of his childhood thus far alone with no company from his immediate family. Aunts and uncles who ran Casterly Rock in Tywin’s absence did their best to entertain his whimsical thoughts and ideas, but nothing could fill the yearn for a comforting soul in his abysmal existence. Tales of Tyrion fastly spread upon his birth with some calling him a monster. Others feared that he was an omen of what was to come. Even the king disparaged the child by considering him to be a punishment for Tywin’s arrogance.
Though sitting on the floor surrounded by books and a burning candle, Tyrion looked no different than any other child.
“Princess.” Tyrion made to stand, but resituated himself as soon as she held a halting hand out to him.
“There is no need to rise.” The bounding skirts of her dress pooled around her as she lowered herself onto the frigid stone floor. “I am the one disturbing you, afterall.” Thumbing across his mountain of literature, she found many pertaining to Targaryens, and more concerning dragons. “Black Wings, Swift Words.” She tilted her head to read its title. “I quite like this one. Interesting notion, wasn’t it? Replacing ravens with doves. The skies would surely be more beautiful, but how would we be notified that winter is coming?” Leaning her elbows against her knees, she hovered just below the table’s top. “Maester Pycelle always made sure to show me the white raven sent from the Citadel to declare summer’s end. Do you enjoy reading?”
Tyrion was ambivalent about answering the princess. He had seen her with his father and his sister on multiple occasions in her short time visiting, but his thirst for knowledge and interest in the Targaryen’s eventually outweighed any skepticism. “I’m reading this one now.” Pushing the opened book toward the princess, he sat higher as she looked over the writing.
“The Rogue Prince. He lived quite the life, a true warrior of his time.”
“He wielded Dark Sister.” Tyrion adjusted the edges of the book to face him once more. “His dragon, Caraxes, was red.” His eyes twinkled with delight as he displayed his knowledge. “I’m not far yet, only to his second marriage. He lived in Pentos with Laena Velaryon and Vhagar.”
“That is very true.” She was gladdened by his enthusiasm. “You know so much about the Targaryens, I think you should have taught me lessons instead of my septa.”
“I want to write a book someday.” The remnants of a smile formed at his lips. “About the Targaryens… an entire history from Valyria to now.”
“I would love to read it… a great mind such as yours should not go to waste.” She pushed her hands against the floor to push herself to her knees. “I will be the first to request a copy in King’s Landing when it is completed.”
She and Ser Barristan continued to wander the halls, blissfully lost as they experienced Casterly Rock as it should be. Initially he had questioned why she didn’t ask Tyrion’s help, but as they turned corners and the twinkle in her eye burned brightly he understood.
Freedom was fleeting as her return to King’s Landing fastly approached.
Summary: The Hand of the King spends years vying for the princess's affections. Only fate would have it that the two cannot be. As Aerys Targaryen II slowly descends into madness, can their love survive his instability and the war to come?
Warnings: General Game of Thrones violence later on, death and stuff, shitty characterizations, eh age differences, Ser Barristan being a lovely darling ✨
Masterlist
“He may enter.”
With granted permission the guard swung the door open to reveal Tywin dressed in a tunic of red and black. The leather was spotted with holes that revealed more fabric beneath holding a slick sheen to its texture. His hair was combed back without a single strand falling loose to frame his aristocratic physique. Upon spotting the princess in her chosen attire, he did not shroud the look of pride from his profile.
“The dress is fitting.” He tipped his head in an approving fashion, giving her a knowing look at her second choice of gowns. The alluring gaze he held on the definitions of her figure instinctively had her smoothing down the bodice once more. “Lannister red is quite flattering. Though, I am in disbelief that anything would look otherwise.”
An attractive rose tinged at the bridge of her nose and to the heights of her cheekbones as his words resonated in her system like the bass of a song. She brought a delicate finger up to tuck a loose strand of porcelain hair behind her flushing ear and peered at him through the curtains of her eyelashes. “Your words are most appreciated, my lord.” Playing with her fingers in front of her body she hesitated to speak in the presence of her guard, but did so anyway. “You look rather dashing yourself. After all, Lannister red suits a Lannister best.”
He allowed his eyes to linger a moment longer. Then, casting her an astute expression, Tywin nodded and outstretched his arm for her to take. “Come. The tournament waits.”
Made of a white-painted wood and designed to intricately display the Lannister wealth, the carriage waited for its passengers at the base of the Rock. For anyone else it would be vastly improper to sit concealed within the hiding walls of the cart, but as the Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock nobody would dare question his choices. That is, nobody except for the king.
Jostling back and forth as the wheels started turning, the two settled into their respective spots sitting opposite one another. Despite having the space for two more, they chose to sit knee-to-knee. Brushing against each other on occasion was no mistake as the princess situated herself on the edge of her cushion. They had all the secrecy they could ever hope for in such a public environment. Though the population looked on, none could truly tell what was happening within.
After entering the city on horseback, open for the world to see, it felt strange venturing out concealed by the plush walls of the cart. When they arrived, she was tired and not meant for any sort of outing. Her hair had been ditsy, unbraided and flying in all directions. She looked more like a land worker than a royal. Now she was bathed and fashioned in a more suiting way to uphold her title.
Lannisport’s energy was extravagant, too. The unbridled curiosity that bled from the villager’s prying eyes had melted away into a subdued and exotic buzz of anticipation and excitement for the day’s events. Reaching out into the air, the princess was sure she could feel it thick with suspense.
Leaning forward, she let herself fall into a trance as she watched the city pass by. As they ventured further into the heart of Lannisport, the smells and sounds marinated and held more depth. “I anticipate that Ser Arthur will be besting my brother in the joust today.” She commented offhandedly, folding her arms at her stomach as she turned her neck to look upward to an inquisitive Tywin.
A curious hum bombinated from his lips. Squared shoulders pressed into his backrest, heightening his stance even in his seated position. One could find it intimidating, but she was more so amused by his always-perfect posture. Rather than move his head to show he was granting her his full attention, his pose remained solid, but this attention was there nonetheless. “Why is that? Prince Rhaegar has garnished a reputation when it comes to his performance in jousts.”
An ardent laugh brought his chin tucking downward. “He wins because people fear that knocking a prince from his horse will put an end to their family line.” She nudged her knees against his. “Also, I asked Ser Arthur to win.”
“Is there a reason?”
Sitting to her full height, which was still considerably shorter than the towering man before her, she flitted with the draping of her skirts. “Rhaegar was not exaggerating when he said that my journey was full of complaints.”
“You are a princess.” Tywin argued in his remarkably calm tone. “Traveling by horseback is hardly an appropriate means.”
“And how do you presume I’ll return to King’s Landing, my lord? Shall I walk so as to not dishonor myself by riding?”
“I’ll be returning to court at the conclusion of the tournament.” Using the muscles in his stomach, he pushed himself from the backrest to lean closer to the princess. “There is an abundance of space in the Lannister wheelhouse.”
Gasping dramatically, she placed a hand over the exposed skin of her chest. “What will my father think, Lord Tywin?” She shook her head. “He already believes me to be conspiring against him. Should I be seen in your private quarters, I think that he will think you are a conspirator, too.” Her coy demeanor evanesced as she spoke the words out. They struck her harder than she expected, falling from the cliff tops of her mind and tumbling downward like the disturbed snow of an avalanche. Where a soft smile had once been planted, a strange intensity grew. “My father thinks that I am conspiring against him.” She admitted with slumping shoulders. “You must be aware of that saying regarding the Targaryens. A coin is to choose our fates. Madness or greatness. We are only afforded the two, there is no gray water to wade in.”
“The saying is commonspeak tripe.” Tywin cut her thought from the root. “It was a coping mechanism created to explain the complicated to the simple.”
“Still.” Her fingers rubbed at the smooth fabric that laid upon her legs. “I have done nothing warranted of greatness in my time, nor am I set for it. Does that mean that I am destined for the opposite side of the coin?”
Soothing warmth covered her chilled hands. “There is no coin that can determine your future. You are young. You have many years to pursue greatness.” Slipping her hand into his, he covered it comfortingly with the other. “Let us not focus on that today. Today, we worry not what others think of us.” Trying to lighten her mood, he batted at the clouds that formed over her head. “Today, we will watch Ser Arthur best the prince.”
~~~*~~~
The marketplace was astir with the ingredients of a lively tourney on the way. Bakers rushed from their bakeries to line the streets with fresh goods situated on cooling racks. Jewelers set up lush and vibrant canopies to attract the eye to their precious gemstones. Smiths of all kinds beckoned upon their soapboxes, loudly proclaiming that any highborn lord who wields their weaponry will be granted great strength in their future endeavors. All swarmed like flies to the list where the tourney was to take place.
Rolling to a stop, the carriage holding Tywin and the princess opened with a small army of guards from the city watch squaring the two in.
“What are we doing in the market?” Her head could not move fast enough as she tried to view everything in a single second.
“The list is not far from here. As the princess of the Seven Kingdoms, I think it appropriate that you see firsthand what one of its great cities offers.”
Happy to take any opportunity to see more of Westeros, she nodded as they made their way away from the cart. Although, some would question his true intentions with walking the princess down the market street. Some wondered whether the two were betrothed, deciding against it when they could not recall any formal announcement. Others thought it to be a display of the power he held over the ruling family. The majority were just happy to see their ruling lord walking the streets.
As they strolled down the textured cobblestone walkway, smoothed from years of activity, a crowd gathered on the sidelines to throw praise to Lord Tywin. “Seven blessings, m’lord!” One yelled from a balcony above, gathering her child as she pointed him out. “May the gods smile upon you, Lord Tywin!” Another hollered, this time from behind a growing host of onlookers. As word spread of the princess walking amongst the people, many more flocked to the streets to see if she was truly the “hag” her reclusivity had named her.
The princess was awestruck by the love and adoration the city seemed to hold in their hearts for Tywin. He continually nodded and waved to varying members of their audience, each time earning more kind words from those compelled by other’s displays.
While the princess was concerned with the people, Tywin’s true focus was solely on her. She primarily led the group as her eyes guided her from one side of the street to the other. Warm breads filled with cinnamon and ground cloves nipped at her nose, followed by strong scents of freshly baked apples and lemon zest. Fennel and cardamom wafted from a nearby tavern’s opened window. Purchasing an apple crisp from a trusted merchant who often supplied gourmet goods to the Lannister’s household, Tywin handed it to the princess only after one of the guards tested it.
A particularly interesting merchant caught her eye, situated just past the baker. Tucked between his steaming racks and another table sat a young boy, no older than seven. With smudges of dirt covering his rounded reddened cheeks, he appeared far underfed and weary from crafting his wares. His shoes were thin, likely not protecting his feet from the ground given the blisters and calluses that coated the bottoms. Blonde hair had turned brown with oil and sweat. His eyes were downcast almost appearing as though he were asleep.
When the shadow of her figure covered his face, he sat up and brushed his hands down his face, dragging the dirt further across his skin. He had a torn yellowed blanket at his feet. Frayed edges held years of memories as it was more than likely his nursing blanket from when he was born. Tiny wooden statues that could fit in the palm of one’s hand were meticulously laid out, lined in rows of five with three rows total. Each was different from the other despite some being the same animals, but all were equally charming. “Did you make these?” She asked with the welcoming tilt of her curious head.
“Yes!...” He sucked his bottom lip between his large bucked teeth and took a deep breath to calm his heart as it beat from his chest. “Yes, m’lady.” He corrected.
The grooves and edges of one of the carvings bit into her skin, but she paid it no mind. A small lion with a crooked nose was the focus of her interest. Its mane was lopsided, heavy and bushy on the right side but practically nonexistent on the left. In no way was it intimidating like the beautifully crafted Lannister lions that decorated the Rock. Nonetheless, she found herself charmed by his efforts as he clearly put time into each. As she flipped the statue around in her hand, the merchant to his right nudged his shoulder with her sandal and whispered something in his ear. At her news, he straightened his back more and went wide-eyed. “Y-you can have it, princess (Y/n)... m’lady… your grace! If you want it. Free of charge for the princess, m’lady.”
“Nonsense.” Tywin interjected, regarding the young boy who immediately recognized him and grew another foot. “A man should never sell himself short.”
Looking to the merchant next to him seeking guidance, the boy found none. “I-”
“I believe this should cover the cost.” Holding a silver stag with the likeness of Aerys II pressed into its surface, Tywin extended his hand out to the child who took it and examined its edges with the surface of his thumb.
“Thank you, m’Lord!” He exclaimed, pocketing the coin in a concealed flap on the interior of his pants.
“Have you eaten yet today?” The princess rubbed her finger over the lion’s nose as the boy shook his head. Unintentionally, his eyes flitted to the still-steaming bun in her other hand. “Here.” She lowered it to where he could reach. “Freshly baked. Enjoy it while it’s warm.”
The boy looked again to the merchant who he seemed to know. She nodded her head forward and beckoned the boy to take the offering from the princess. Examining it, his mouth watered at the sickeningly sweet sugar that frosted the exterior of the golden pastry. Looking upward to the princess, a wide childish smile spread from one side of his face to the other and he lurched forward to wrap his arms securely around her waist. His cheek pressed into her side, leaving a reminder of his presence in the form of a small tan smudge in the red and white fabric.
Unknowing of the boy’s intentions, the guards of the city watch stiffened and began to grasp at the child’s clothing. Bubbly laughs stopped them along with the halting of her hand. Instead of ripping him from her side, she embraced the boy and ruffled her fingers through the top of his head, uncaring of the sleek oil left behind.
“Thank you, m’princess!” He stepped backward and stumbled as the excitement jolted through his system like lightning.
Bidding him farewell, she and Tywin continued on with their progression toward the list. As they got closer, the street became more densely packed and louder than it was before. Tywin’s hand found permanent residence on her shoulder, ensuring to him that she was always with him even when his head was focused elsewhere.
“I cannot believe this is only one part of the city.” The princess excitedly placed her hand against Tywin’s bicep, gripping slightly as she channeled the innocent naivete that had been trapped within her since birth. Beyond the castle’s walls was an entire world to experience, and she had barely scratched its surface.
“If you wish to venture through the entirety of Lannisport, I will personally see it so.” Tywin mirrored her elation in a more refined approach.
The wall of armored guards parted as a young man approached. “Lord Tywin.” He called as he stopped with a jump in his step. “Princess.” From his attire, she could conclude that he was a squire. Young in age and unarmed, he was likely the child of a western lord. “The king has arrived. He waits in the viewing stands.”
Nearly the entire population of Lannisport that wasn’t taking advantage of heightened traffic were seated on platforms of sturdy wood or perched on any rooftop that would merit even the smallest glance at the action. Men and women, boys and girls, all flocked to the streets as the exhilaration invigorated the air. Young women swooned at the idea of catching a fleeting tick of the prince’s attention. Young men were dazed and could only hope to be like him.
The princess arrived with Lord Tywin, an unexpected move but one that was unavoidable as they had already been traveling together. Entering beneath a tented pitch of red velvet and golden tassels, he was announced loudly by the middle-aged bellman who rallied the joyous cries of his people for their lord. Tywin did not bask in the cheer like Aerys had when he entered previously. Instead he held his composure by nodding to a few, giving a curt wave, and then using his hand to sweep the attention back to the king. The princess sat nearest to the action, blocked from it by the waterfall blockade that protected the royalty and highborns within. She watched and listened in utter awe as the masses roared with intense acclaim for Tywin. Praises were sung on the highest of clouds as the moment seemed to slow. Women waved their scarves and men shouted loudly with boasts of their lord. Turning her attention from the field to her rear, she could see the clear upset on her father’s face.
They should cheer louder for me, Aerys thought selfishly as he gripped his fingers tightly against the wooden chair he slouched in. His focus flickered from the people to Tywin, then downward to where Cersei sat next to his daughter. Before he left King’s Landing he had been informed that she had left with Rhaegar, Ser Barristan, and Ser Arthur, but seeing her here with his own eyes made his blood boil over. She was to be kept within the Red Keep, sealed away from the public’s view, safe within its suffocating walls. Rhaella, his wife, was kept under lock and key. He wondered if she would have to meet the same fate. He forced a smile - one of the first fatherly actions he had made since returning from Duskendale. Returning the gesture, he noted the way she reclined into herself and tore her gaze from his to engage in conversation with Cersei. The two started laughing with Jeyne Farman at something Melara Hetherspoon had said before turning their attention to the entry of Prince Rhaegar.
The people’s welcome for the Lord of Casterly Rock was great, but far different from the welcome the crowned prince received as he rode onto the list adorned in full Targaryen armor. Black metal shone with the sunlight beating down upon his shoulders. Red accented steel whipped around the track as he prompted the crowd to continue with their cheers. Cersei grabbed at (Y/n)’s hand, holding it tightly as she watched adoringly. Exemplified screams came from each corner of Lannisport, all loudly rolling over the fields for miles around. It only got louder as he removed his pointed helmet and gave a haughty bow to his father who merely stared back with an emptied haze hovering over his head.
“You seem rather taken by my brother.” The princess lent over to whisper in the ear of Tywin’s daughter. Though she attempted to remain quiet, her words carried over the crowd to the ear of Melara who sat at Cersei’s other side. Dressed elegantly in a gown of muted yellow resembling that of aged gold, Melara was a thin young girl. She styled her hair simply on either side of her shoulders, allowing the cascading brunette locks to fall to her waist.
“He is quite handsome.” Melara earned herself a harsh glare from the side of Cersei’s eye. “He has not taken a wife yet, and…” she feigned shyness by the curtain of her lashes, “excuse my ignorance, but is it not tradition to marry siblings in the Targaryen house?”
She was bold, clearly bolder than Jeyne who shrunk into herself, and it could even be said that she was bolder than Cersei. “That is the tradition.” The princess folded her hands in her lap, covering the lion figurine, watching as Tygett Lannister came trotting out onto the list mounted on a pure white horse. “I do not know my father’s plans.”
Unbeknownst to her, Tygett was another potential suitor for the princess. In fact, Tygett and Gerion had both been considered at a time, but were dismissed as quickly as they were presented. The only one that the king had let weigh on the table was the proposition of Jaime Lannister, and eventually he too was denied. He rode out to the roar of the people.
“I think there are many men who vye for your hand in marriage, your grace.” Melara said loudly, catching Tywin’s ear. “You will be a beautiful bride.”
A breathy laughing exhale was pushed from the princess’s lungs as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear and relished in the newfound attention of a highborn lady. “You are most kind, lady Melara.”
At the sound of a horn, the riders were ready to start. Both men took a side of the list and prepared their lances beneath their arms. Each member of the audience lent forward in their seats as their steeds tore through the dirt with their furious hooves. In the matter of seconds, Rhaegar had defeated Tygett. Left with a broken lance and lowered enthusiasm for the sport, Tygett made his round, congratulated the prince, and left the list on horseback. Soonthereafter, he found himself joining the rest of the Lannister family beneath the covered tent.
Rhaegar defeated many others that day. Westerland knights fell in various fashions, some breaking lances and others simply being thrust from their saddles. Gerion followed in his younger brother’s footsteps after his match, sitting in the stands nearest to Tywin. Ser Barristan had the princess smiling as he made his round, throwing a wave high in the air. Though his spirits were high, his chances of winning when Rhaegar was on a roll were not. He, too, fell to the crowned prince.
It wasn’t until Ser Arthur rode out onto the list that Rhaegar’s streak was broken. Falling to Ser Arthur’s lance, Rhaegar found himself unhorsed and at a loss for the winning title he had been fighting for all day. The crowd cheered as Rhaegar stood and motioned to the winner, giving him an animated clap.
Excusing herself from Cersei and her friend’s company, the princess slipped from the tent before anyone else could notice. She had hoped to avoid her father’s audience, pleading and begging with the gods to allow her to slide by without notice. With a soft push of the curtain, she made her exit whilst her father engaged in conversation with Tywin.
Traipsing through the crowds of highborns, she traversed the mass audience of curious eyes. For most, this had been their first encounter with the princess. Many moved from her path, allowing her by. Others actively blocked her way, hoping to catch her for a conversation. Some were bold enough to propose betrothals with their sons, and others followed her as she went.
“Your grace!” One woman yelled from an unknown direction as the people grew dense. “Princess (Y/n)!” Another tried to get her attention. Bunching her skirts in her hands, she continued forward toward the tents where the knights had prepared earlier in the morning. “My lady!” A man, around her age, pushed through the crowd. Unruly hands pushed at her back as the composed lords lost their manners and began forcing their way through one another to get closer. Stumbling on the uneven surface, she would have lost her balance if not for the sturdy arms she fell upon.
The sunlight was eclipsed by a charming smile and soft eyes. “This is not how I envisioned our first meeting, your grace.” Copper hair hung to his shoulders and draped against the stiff shoulder pads of his gray tunic. “We have not been afforded an audience with one another.” Steadying her on her feet, he bowed deeply and took her hand gently in his. His lips pressed a chaste kiss to her flushing skin. “Addam Marbrand.”
“Of Ashemark.” She finished, retracting her hand politely and holding it in front of her body. “Tales of your gallantry are often told in Kings Landing.”
“I am honored to hear that my name has fallen on the ears of the most beautiful woman in the realm.” Blushing, the princess fidgeted with her fingers. Noticeably her figurine was missing. His kind eyes bore into her subdued features, taking in his first sight of the hidden princess. Upon catching her searching the ground, he followed suit, quickly finding the imperfect lion. “Charming.” He flipped it over in his hand before offering it back to her.
“A boy in the market was selling them.”
“And a supporter of the local economy, princess. The west is forever grateful.”
Flushing again, she timidly took the carving back. “Have you the chance to visit the capitol, Lord Addam?”
“I have,” he confirmed, finding his focus drawn to her rear where an approaching figure neared. “...many times. It seems that each visit I find myself leaving without having met you.” An airy chuckle outlined his next words. “I must say, I believe it was worth the wait. Your beauty is far beyond what my imagination could craft.”
Shyly looking elsewhere, she continued to grow redder by the second. “You flatter me. I-”
Feeling the presence of another, she turned her head to the side to find Tywin with his arms connected at the small of his back. “Princess.” His hand moved to press against her side. “Prince Rhaegar requests an audience in his tent.” Sliding from her waist to her shoulder, Tywin’s hand landed protectively over the loose-fitting fabric that covered her arm.
“I was on my way to see him when the crowd grew too dense.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Lord Addam saved me from a rather embarrassing fall to the dirt.”
Cutting back into the conversation, Addam spoke. “I would be most pleased to escort the princess, my lord.”
“That will not be necessary.” Tywin nonchalantly looked over his shoulder back toward the list. “Addam, your father was searching for you. You should see to it.”
Straightening his back, his shoulders set widely to display the strength in his upper body. “Of course.” Addam’s eyes met the princess’s. “I hope that we can meet again, my lady.” Then, without another word, he disappeared into the wall of people.
“What did Rhaegar want with me?” She wondered aloud as Tywin’s guiding hand maneuvered her through the maze of bumping shoulders.
Nearing the edge of the sea that seemed to swallow all those who entered, the faint whisper of green grass could be seen swimming amongst the pool of vibrant fabrics. Beyond that were stable boys guiding armored horses, waving flags atop high tents, and the low hum of conversations mixing into a concoction of a tourney’s delight.
Pacing their way toward Rhaegar’s quarters, she stalled as she considered Tywin’s silence as a very telling answer to her question. “Rhaegar did not summon me.” She concluded, finding a smug grin on her rose lips. “You simply did not enjoy watching me converse with Lord Marbrand.” Sliding past a group of competing knights, the two separated slightly.
“He is a fine young man.” Tywin defended. “Well respected in Ashemark and the west. He would make a fine suitor should your father deem him so.” Though the words fell from his lips, Tywin knew it not to be. Aerys already had plans in motion for his daughter.
“Fear not, my lord. Only one man has captured my eye.”
Fluttering playfully by, she attracted the focus of each man and boy. There was something intensely alluring about the Targaryens that no other house had. It was not in their Valyrian features. They shared the same colorless hair and lilac eyes with the Velaryons. The pull of their gravitational hold on others came from their resolve. Many Targaryen’s who achieved the famed “greatness” all shared traits that blended into a cocktail of pursuance in their climb for grandeur.
She, the princess, was a particularly notable royal. For she was more or less a blank slate. No glory came from tournaments like it did for Rhaegar. Madness nor prosperity had been bestowed upon her from her father. Her future was yet to be told, and something about that intrigued those who watched and waited to hear of what she planned to do with her canvas.
Tywin watched as she skirted past more men blissfully ignoring their gawking mouths and wandering eyes. Only when she disappeared through the drapes of Rhaegar’s tent did he adjust his shoulders back and return to his duties.
“Myles, a pleasure as always.” The princess walked through the curtained entrance of the tent where Rhaegar dressed. The room was spacious for its temporary structure; holding a stand for his armor, a desk with two tables, a chaise lounge covered in burgundy velvet, and a small closet for his normal attire.
Myles Mooton wandered about the room, focused on nothing in particular as he set about tidying and preparing Rhaegar’s clothing. As a younger man, he served as Rhaegar’s squire. Bold and brass, he had earned himself a positive place in the prince’s circle of friends. “Princess.” He regarded her with an over-the-top bow and sauntered out.
“The people really love you, brother.” Her skirts hooped as she swung around to face Rhaegar. Sitting on a padded bench, he forced his feet into his boots and tucked the excess cloth into the sides.“Is father as angered with my presence here as I assume him to be?”
His cotton undershirt matched the black tunic he often wore. “I avoided his eye.” Pressing his hands against his cheeks, he refocused himself. Fingers combed through his colorless hair, sweeping it backward to fall over his shoulders. Buttoning his dragon-embroidered outer coat, he patted the clasps and let out a sigh.
There was a clear tension in his build. Shoulders that often laid slack and relaxed were tight in an almost cringing fashion. A crinkle in his nose creased his skin like a page in a book. Something was on his mind, and it only weighed him down further with his sister standing in close proximity.
“We will talk later.”
Before she could say anything else, Rhaegar disappeared past the brush of the tapestry leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of sweat clinging to his armor.
~~~*~~~
“Lord Tyrion.”
Casterly Rock was a fairly difficult place to roam. Easily finding oneself at a crossroads with one direction leading upward and another to the sea, without a map the princess was lost. Ser Barristan had accompanied her, but found himself as lost as she as they humorously wandered aimlessly hoping to find a familiar area. Pushing past two great doors lined with jagged rock, they were surprised to have found a library.
Leather-bound books lined the walls. Some held notable titles easily recognizable to the princess and others were extremely foreign. Lit lanterns were ablaze, keeping the entirety of the room lit despite it having no exposed areas to the outside. Alone below a table sat the missing Lannister of whom she had not seen since her initial arrival at Casterly Rock: Tyrion Lannister.
Born five years after the twins, Tyrion’s entrance to the world was his mother’s exit. He was a notably lonely child, having spent much of his childhood thus far alone with no company from his immediate family. Aunts and uncles who ran Casterly Rock in Tywin’s absence did their best to entertain his whimsical thoughts and ideas, but nothing could fill the yearn for a comforting soul in his abysmal existence. Tales of Tyrion fastly spread upon his birth with some calling him a monster. Others feared that he was an omen of what was to come. Even the king disparaged the child by considering him to be a punishment for Tywin’s arrogance.
Though sitting on the floor surrounded by books and a burning candle, Tyrion looked no different than any other child.
“Princess.” Tyrion made to stand, but resituated himself as soon as she held a halting hand out to him.
“There is no need to rise.” The bounding skirts of her dress pooled around her as she lowered herself onto the frigid stone floor. “I am the one disturbing you, afterall.” Thumbing across his mountain of literature, she found many pertaining to Targaryens, and more concerning dragons. “Black Wings, Swift Words.” She tilted her head to read its title. “I quite like this one. Interesting notion, wasn’t it? Replacing ravens with doves. The skies would surely be more beautiful, but how would we be notified that winter is coming?” Leaning her elbows against her knees, she hovered just below the table’s top. “Maester Pycelle always made sure to show me the white raven sent from the Citadel to declare summer’s end. Do you enjoy reading?”
Tyrion was ambivalent about answering the princess. He had seen her with his father and his sister on multiple occasions in her short time visiting, but his thirst for knowledge and interest in the Targaryen’s eventually outweighed any skepticism. “I’m reading this one now.” Pushing the opened book toward the princess, he sat higher as she looked over the writing.
“The Rogue Prince. He lived quite the life, a true warrior of his time.”
“He wielded Dark Sister.” Tyrion adjusted the edges of the book to face him once more. “His dragon, Caraxes, was red.” His eyes twinkled with delight as he displayed his knowledge. “I’m not far yet, only to his second marriage. He lived in Pentos with Laena Velaryon and Vhagar.”
“That is very true.” She was gladdened by his enthusiasm. “You know so much about the Targaryens, I think you should have taught me lessons instead of my septa.”
“I want to write a book someday.” The remnants of a smile formed at his lips. “About the Targaryens… an entire history from Valyria to now.”
“I would love to read it… a great mind such as yours should not go to waste.” She pushed her hands against the floor to push herself to her knees. “I will be the first to request a copy in King’s Landing when it is completed.”
She and Ser Barristan continued to wander the halls, blissfully lost as they experienced Casterly Rock as it should be. Initially he had questioned why she didn’t ask Tyrion’s help, but as they turned corners and the twinkle in her eye burned brightly he understood.
Freedom was fleeting as her return to King’s Landing fastly approached.
1. Im still working on the next parts of all my fics whilst also writing a few different one shots. I’m hoping to have something content-wise before Christmas or shortly after as my gift to you 💕
2. GOD I HATE MY BOSS. So, he’s just gross, right? Smells all the time, stands too close to you, doesn’t respect boundaries, mouth breather, old and slow. I schedule stuff on my calendar and he schedules over the top of it. I tell him what my plans are for this week given I’m only working 3 days and he acts like I just told him I killed his wife. He doesn’t approve my time off and often pulls the whole “well we have to get X done before I’ll approve that.” He moves slower than a snail and insists I sit in his office while he works. It’s so awful that I’ve almost fallen asleep because of it before. He stares at people with this look on his face that feels like he wants to kill you. Once when he looked at me that way I finally snapped and just went “what!?” to which he replied, “I just look at people like that, I can’t help it.” Uhhh yes you fucking can you stupid boomer. You can work on yourself and the way you present to others. It’s called self improvement. He also takes one day a week off every week under the guise of being sick. Like dude, I wonder why you take every Monday off. Also, when i take a day off sick he announces it to the entire company. He sends out an email to our nearly 50 workers letting them know I’ll be out today because I’m sick. LET MY BUSINESS BE MY BUSINESS. He’s the slowest most incompetent accountant I’ve ever seen and I hate everything about him. When we lost my old boss (who was an angel and honestly the manifestation of Jesus in his work ethic and outward look) my new boss insisted we didn’t need any extra help in the department. Guess what? We haven’t even fucking finalized our financial statements from OCTOBER. OCTOBER?!? ITS DECEMBER. ALMOST THE END. WE HAVENT FINISHED OCTOBER YET. IM DROWNING IN THE INCOMPETENCE. He has gone bankrupt like 5 times and the company I work for still thinks it’s a good hire? The dude can’t handle his own finances, what makes you think he can handle someone else’s???? I mentioned his smell right? He reeks. He smells like he hasn’t showered in days and everywhere he walks it follows. He comes and stands in my cubicle for a second and it stinks up the entire space to the point that I’ve now kept a bottle of frbreeze at my desk that I spray once he’s left. AND IT STILL DOESNT GET RID OF THE SMELL.
Rant over. I want to die. Thanks.
Now back to our regularly scheduled content.
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