This is such a wonderful question, Juli! I am still working on the Small Council so there are a few vacant seats. So far we have:
• Hand of the Queen: Thomaryon Targaryen.
• Master of Coins: Mikael Targaryen.
• Master of Laws: Empty.
• Master of Ships: Empty.
• Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Orion Bolton.
• Grand Maester: Empty.
• Master of Whisperers: Aeva Martell.
Admittedly, I find it mildly amusing to fill the rest with my own characters so if you or another mutual would like to fetch a role for their OCs, please feel free to dm me and I’ll make it canon. 🖤
Natural Hair Color: Gold-Silver streaks through black hair
Hair Style: Kept close cut and dyed black.
Further Description: Burn on one side of his face. Piercings on his right eyebrow, his navel, his nasal septum, his upper lip, his lower lip and his tongue.
Outfit/Accessories/Jewelry: Wears fine clothes, mostly in black, and revealing, and traditionally expensive boots. Gold diamond bracelet shaped similarly to a snake with a 1960s style. Teardrop earring in Victorian style, colored lavender/purple, that he keeps on a backpack. Earring shaped like five apples, that he keeps on a backpack. A blindfold. Wooden ring. Upside Down teardrop shaped pin. Mask. Dark rose pendant. Almond shaped crystal pendant.
Personality:
Fears: Fear of snakes, Speaking publicly, Necrophobia, Fear of darkness,
Parent(s):
-> Father: A Son of Saera Targaryen (Alive)
-> Mother: Old Blood Volantis Noble Woman (Alive)
Sibling(s): 7 older siblings
Backstory/Background:
Visemon is the son of a bastard of Saera Targaryen, and her youngest grandchild. He was born in Volantis, in the Black Walls at a palace of his mothers Old Blood. Growing up there in the extreme heats Visemon grew interested in the old stories of Valyria. More importantly, he grew attracted to the stories of magics and dragons. Among his older siblings stories of his grandmother's family would often be shared with them, from Saera herself at times, whom the children would often spend their time with in her older age. While living in the Black Walls Visemon would learn sophistication and other noble or aristocratic behaviors. Though when the night came, he would rebel against this and sneak out into the nights, like his brothers or sisters before him, as well as his cousins.
By the time Visemon had reached twenty three he decided to set out on a ship of his own, toward Westeros, after completing the majority of his tutoring and other acolyte training, and such. As an acolyte Visemon has sought employment in King's Landing, soon being made into a guard for Dragonstone. There he has remained guard for much of the time, protecting the island and it’s inhabitants like the rest of the guards stationed there. Not however, sharing his other particular set of skills he has been gifted with and his true reasoning for coming to be on Dragonstone, as he has. Visemon however, for now, keeps to his duties and his secretive past, playing the part of observer and a guard till it is no longer interesting to him.
I love these GOT!dialover au you have going on in your blog
If you don’t mind do you have any GOT!shu headcanons to share? or GOT!dl in general?
If not you can delete this ask 💕 just wanted to say that i enjoy the content
ADMIN
Yeah, not gonna lie, I never actually stopped to look through it and actually come up with HCs myself ^^'' But I'd sure love to hear about'em as well :3
GOT!au anon here! do you think the sakamaki boys’ll get the same treatment as bastards? will they ever get to become king once shu and reiji pass away?
Admin:
A lot of things would be different in a world where the Sakamaki's belong to the GoT world.
First of all... Using the logic that Cordelia is Karl's first wife, I dare say only the Triplets are not "bastards", and... Funny enough... In this world, Laito would be the eldest of the triplets -, remembering that he was the firstborn after all, and since GoT does not happen with Japanese costumes like how DL does, then -, yes Laito is the older brother of the triplets...
And Karl wouldn't be allowed to marry more than one woman because, again, not something the world of GoT look at as normal...
So, Shu and Reiji are your usual bastards -, even if they are the first kids Karl ever had (Shu being THE first).
And Subaru would, probably, be that one kid Karl would hide with all his strength because of Subaru's mother and all the "Incestuous relationship" we know he came from, and we know how unkindly the GoT world treats people who live in an incestuous relationship...
So, the only ones able to be heir to the throne would be Laito, then Kanato, and last -, Ayato
Not gonna lie... I'd love to see Reiji struggling with the idea that he is worth nothing more than being just a bastard child of Karl... OwO
The one I see chill with all this is Shu, he would be just a wanderer, just him, his horse, his musical instrument, and vast lands for him to explore -, away from the noise, the agitation, the drama from within the wall of a city
Reiji would probably try and climb in life to be something "worth" and prove it to others, his goal? Probably be, at least, the King's hand (but being THE king would be the goal) while hiding his origins, a thing he sees as a weakness... Hmm... That would probably lead him to kill his mother anyway. Reiji definitely hates Beatrix, we all know in GoT worse than being a "commoner", is being a bastard kid.
Subaru... I imagine Subaru staying with his mother while blaming his father for everything, taking care of her...
Jon x Sansa in a Hogwarts AU, particularly inspired by your recent dips into Draco x Hermione.
Pt. 1 of 3 [ pt. 2 is here ]
...
Jon never forgets about the expectations the Starks have for Sansa.
He’s never been given a chance to forget about it, to be honest, and neither has she.
When she came home from St. Mungo’s, Old Nan had called her shock of red hair a sign of good things to come. There’s a tree in the apple orchard with “GG + SS” carved into the trunk; her first burst of romantic whimsy after spending a summer sighing through Edwina Undermoss’s historical radio drama. Her tenth birthday cake was a red velvet with a yellow buttercream icing, topped with golden-fizzing candles that had made her blue eyes go round with wonder.
Despite Sansa’s clear aptitude for Potions and Charms as early as eight years old, when she’d nursed the whole household through a bout of Ringer’s Posy by making advanced medicinal draughts on the hour, every hour, Robb teases her relentlessly about being a Squib the summer ahead of her first year at Hogwarts. He tells Jon, his cousin, his partner in crime, that it’s something all little siblings have to go through: the fear and trepidation of being left at home with their parents while their siblings return to Hogwarts for classes and Quidditch.
Her Hogwarts letter arrives on the morning of July First, at 8:00 on the dot, delivered by a prissy red owl Jon says he recognizes as belonging to Professor Longbottom.
“Head of Hufflepuff? With the greenhouses?” Cat whispers under her breath, aghast. “Oh, Ned, I’m not sure Sansa will do well with so much...dirt.”
“Aren’t they a soft sort, Hufflepuffs?” Old Nan rasps from the corner. It’s 8:12, and Sansa is still exulting over her letter upstairs with Arya. The joy and relief is still fresh, and there’s none of the self-important pride she’s been indulging in lately, Jon notices. Nan’s still grumbling on about stereotypes. “Too chummy with the house elves, too, in my day. Spent their afternoons skiving off sports practice for tarts and candies.”
Cat turns to Ned with panic in her eyes. “She does love pastries, Ned. Do you think they--Professor Granger--know that about her? Already?”
Ned sighs heavily and folds up his copy of the Daily Prophet. “My dear Old Nan, Hufflepuffs are loyal and reliable friends. Kitty, my love, there’s worse things in the world than a love of gardening.” His eyes snag on Jon at the far end of the breakfast table, and his mouth mouth twitches into a small smile. “In fact, it’s thanks to our loyal, faithful Lyanna that we have apples and peaches for snacks and jam each year.”
Hufflepuff would’ve been fine. Ravenclaw, a delightful surprise.
But none of them had expected-- anticipated-- contemplated--
“Oh, yes, I see. No question here, love. It must be....SLYTHERIN!”
To maintain the fragile peace between north and south, Clarke of House Tyrell is sent to live in Winterfell as an act of faith between the two kingdoms. There, she is put under the protection of the first queen in the north, Queen Lexa of House Stark, Daughter of Wolves. A woman draped in steel and silver, wolves at her heels and rumoured to be a manifestation of the fury of the old gods; Clarke refuses to be awed be her quiet violence and cold smile. Instead of fostering unity, the meeting of the wolf and the rose lights a spark that spreads through the rest of Westeros, threatening to burn it to the ground.
31/33
clexa game of thrones au
read on ao3
Book Three: Chapter 10
---
For as long as she has known it, the Great Hall in the Red Keep has been filled with sound and celebration. In her time there she has seen many things: births and deaths, coronations and weddings, but only once before has she seen a trial.
In her fifteenth year, when the winter clutched the capital so closely that beggars froze in the streets in Flea Bottom, and war in the north waged on, she saw her father take his place as Hand of the King and try Lord Geoffrey Seagard for selling state secrets to Lord Stark’s army. The Great Hall had felt much as it does now, though the sun is already hot today and instead of watching from the galleries, it is Clarke who takes her place on the Iron Throne.
Silence reigns supreme among the watching lords and ladies. They fill the hall and the galleries above, but not one of them has dared to say a word since Lord Pike was led into the hall, his chains clanking, and directed into the pulpit that waited for him before the dais. Clarke gazes down at him, taking in every inch of his smug, certain expression, and thinks back to that day she watched her father dole out the King’s Justice. He had been forgiving by nature, and sent Lord Geoffrey to the wall to atone for his crimes. Clarke knows that Lord Pike will get no such forgiveness from her- by tomorrow evening the man will not have a head.
Slowly, she stands, and the waiting crowds hurry to follow her lead. In them she sees lords and ladies she knows must be convinced by this, doubters who look at her with suspicion and fear, and she tries to ignore the nerves swirling in her stomach. Her eyes catch emerald green ones, looking up at her from a place of impartiality, close to the throne but separated from the crowds, and the smile that Lexa offers her is fleeting but settles her nerves.
She fixes her gaze to the waiting man, and draws herself to her fullest height. “In the Light of the Seve, today justice will be done. Lord Pike of House Lannister, you are charged with the murder of Lord Jacob Tyrell, and you are charged with treason of not one king, but two: King Thelonious and King Finn. Today your guilt will be judged before the realm and the gods. As Queen of the South and Protector of the Realm, I appoint Lord Marcus Kane, the hand of the queen, and Lord Robert Mertyn, the master of laws, to stand witness to your trial. Between us, we shall decide upon your innocence or guilt, do you understand?” The two men take their places in the seats either side of her.
Pike’s lip curls, but he gives a cursory bow of his head and says, tone syrupy. “I do.”
“And how do you plead?” Lord Marcus asks.
Pike’s eyes trail lazily over them all. “I plead innocent, of course.”
“Of course,” Clarke echoes, unable to keep the venom from her voice. “Then let us begin. The crown calls its first witness, Captain Miller of the City Watch.”
Captain Miller takes his place at the stand set up for the witnesses with a straight back and set jaw. He looks to all the world like the paradigm of all the City Watch should be, strong and serious, his gold cloak shining in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. A small part of Clarke wants to scan the room and find Monty, try to reassure him, but she doesn’t take her eyes off Captain Miller as he bows to her.
“Captain Miller of the City Watch, know that you stand before the judgement of the Seven, who will forgive no lies. Please tell us what you know of Lord Pike’s guilt.” Lord Mertyn asks gruffly, his heavy eyebrows set in a frown.
“Yes, my lord,” He nods his head, his eyes flickering uncertainly to Lord Pike. The accused seems utterly unaffected by his presence, lounging to one side of the pulpit to watch on with lazy arrogance. “Lord Pike paid off many members of the City Watch, including Lord Commander Trent Copper.”
From the side of the room there is an outraged gasp, and Lord Commander Trent steps forwards from his place at the front of the crowd.
“Your majesty, this is proposterous!” He takes a part stride forwards, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
“Stand down, Lord Commander,” At her words, Ser Roan, Octavia and Princess Emeline all step forwards, reaching for their own weapons, and the Lord Commander stutters at the sight. “If you are innocent you have nothing to fear.” Her eyes go back to Captain Miller. “Captain, what proof do you have?”
“I was charged to guard the door to his solar during their meetings several times, your majesty.” Captain Miller admits, “And later several of my men told me that they had been offered a generous reward for turning a blind eye to Lord Pike’s dealings within the City Watch.”
“To what end did Lord Pike infiltrate the Watch?” Lord Marcus asks, and when Captain Miller hesitates he encourages him. “Speak true, Captain.”
“I believe,” Captain Miller says, “That Lord Pike had King Thelonious killed the night of the riots. He was sent into the city with the Watch to protect him, including Lord Commander Trent Copper.”
“This is madness!” The Lord Commander argues, hotly. “The king was pulled from his horse that night!”
“The rioters should never have been able to get that close!” Captain Miller snaps back, “And there is no one to question, since you killed the men you claimed to have done it!”
“They killed my king!” Trent looks around for support and a murmur ripples through the crowd. “I was doing my duty by killing him.”
“And disposing of loose ends,” Captain Miller adds, darkly and Clarke claps her hands once for silence.
“Thank you for your testimony, Captain Miller. Please take Lord Commander Copper into custody until these proceedings are over.”
The Lord Commander begins to argue angrily, pulling his sword, and she talks over his protests as two of the the castle guards disarm him, dragging his arms behind his back. “If you are innocent you have nothing to fear, Lord Commander.” She settles her gaze on Lord Pike. “The same could be said for you, my Lord.”
“Do I seem scared, my lady?” He asks, meeting her eyes unflinchingly.
She purses her lips, looking away from him as Lord Marcus calls out for the next witness to take the stand. Her eyes widen when she sees Monty taking his place on the stand, his back straight and his eyes so very serious. He is trembling just slightly, but he meets their eyes with confidence when Lord Marcus addresses him.
“What is your name?”
“Monty, my lord.”
“And what do you do, Monty?”
He swallows just once and Clarke follows the bob of his throat, her own dry with fear and surprise. “I’m a whore.”
His words cause a flurry of gasps through the watching crowd. Several ladies reach for their handkerchiefs or their husbands, and the men seem angry and mortified, but Lord Marcus hushes them all.
“And where do you work, Monty?” There is a kindness to his voice and to his eyes that seems to warm Monty to him and the boy relaxes just a little as he speaks.
“The Red Door on the Street of Silk, my lord.”
From the corner of her eye Clarke can see that Lord Pike is watching Monty with some interest. There is no fear to his eyes, but there is a curiosity, and Clarke wishes she could rip Monty away from his slimy gaze.
“Who did you entertain there, boy?” Lord Robert interrupts, gruffly.
Monty shifts from foot to foot uncertainly. “All manner of men and women, my lord. But several of my clients were… men of importance in the city.”
“Men of importance,” Lord Marcus echoes. “Did you ever learn anything of Lord Pike’s wrongdoings while you were with these men?”
“I did, my lord.” Monty shoots a glance at Lord Pike, but the Lannister only offers him an unsettling smile in return. “It isn’t worth my life to tell you who I was entertaining, but they told me things about Lord Pike’s business with them. They said he had weapons from the castle sent to some of the most heinous villains in the city and instructed them to stir up unrest and cause trouble.” The watching crowd look between each other, but Lord Robert fixes Monty with a suspicious gaze.
“Why would they tell you these things?”
Monty flushes, but squares his jaw and answers. “Men like to talk when they’re happy, my lord.”
A louder outcry follows his words, and Lord Robert turns puce. A low, lazy laugh escapes Lord Pike, and Clarke fixes him with a contemptuous gaze.
“What is so amusing, Lord Pike?”
Pike smiles up at her, bowing his head mockingly. “Excuse me, Lady Clarke, I am just surprised that any self respecting lord would believe the word of a common whore over the word of an honoured lord.”
“It seems to me, Lord Pike,” Lord Marcus addresses him coldly, “That this boy has far more honour than you do.” He turns back to Monty, his tone softening. “Can anyone vouch for you?”
“Ask anyone,” There is a shadow to Monty’s voice, “They’ll tell you I’ve worked there since I was a boy.”
“Thank you,” Lord Marcus waves his hand. “Thank you for your honesty Monty, you are excused.” As Monty gladly steps off the witness stand, Lord Marcus continues. “The crown would call its next witness, Grand Maester Orrin.”
The waiting crowd rustle as they turn to watch the old maester push himself from his seat and walk to the witness’s stand, leaning heavily on his cane. The long chain that he wears around his neck, bearing the many links of his status, jangles softly, the only noise in the otherwise silent hall, and it seems as if every eye in the room is upon him as steps onto the witness stand.
“Thank you for joining us today, Grand Maester,” Clarke begins, trying to shake away the shock that still lingers with her after Monty’s testimony. “You treated all three of the men Lord Pike is accused of murdering, isn’t that right?”
“I did, your majesty,” Maester Orrin casts a hard glance at the accused, who does not seem concerned by his presence.
“Could you tell us how they died, please Grand Maester?”
“Of course your majesty,” With some shuffling, Maester Orrin pulls a sheaf of parchment from inside his robe and smooths them out, peering down at his own scrawling handwriting. “To begin with the easiest case, King Thelonious died after he was pulled from his horse and beaten to death by rioters in the streets.”
“And how could I have caused that, Grand Maester?” Lord Pike challenges, “Ask anyone, I was in the castle throughout the riots, protecting the women and children, like Lady Clarke.”
Clarke bristles, fighting against her temper to say something, but Lord Marcus beats her to it, saying coolly, “Your involvement with the riots has already been established, Lord Pike.”
“By a whore and a lying, upstart Captain,” He shoots back.
“You are only worsening the case against yourself, my lord,” Clarke answers, shortly. “Please continue, Grand Maester.”
Maester Orrin nods, clearing his throat. “His majesty was clearly killed by injuries with heavy, sharp weapons, the sort which you would not imagine ordinary peasants to have. Now King Finn,” The words send a shot of pain through her heart, and Clarke has to swallow heavy when he says. “King Finn was killed by an assassin in his bedchamber,” He hesitates, glancing at Clarke. “As of course, you already know, your majesty.”
The memory of Finn’s cold body lying beside hers, her finger slippery with his blood, swims before her, momentarily so vivid she feels she might retch.
“I do,” She agrees, and her voice shakes just slightly.
“Finally, it was the first murder, of your father Lord Jacob, which puzzled me the most your majesty.” Maester Orrin continues, “He was a generally healthy man, so when he began to complain of stomach pains I thought nothing of it and prescribed him a remedy. Little did I know that that remedy was being tampered with, and he was in fact poisoned by Tears of Lys, an expensive and rare poison indeed.”
“Poison and assassins,” Lord Pike says, sharply mocking. “Terrible things, but how am I to be blamed for them?”
“A good question, my lord.” Maester Orrin answers, “I would like to bring another witness out, your majesty.”
“By all means, Grand Maester,” She gestures, and watches on as he beckons forwards Glenn.
The boy had been astoundingly easy to find- it seems he had taken her threat seriously- and now he appears, pale and shaking, to stand before them. He looks as if he’s about to be sick, sweat on his brow and darkening the pits of his tunic, and he cannot draw his eyes from the floor. Her fingers pick at a loose piece of thread unravelling from the sleeve of his tunic so habitually that Clarke is sure that he will have unravelled the entire thing by the end of the trial. For a moment she feels a flash of sympathy for him- before her is only a boy, utterly terrified and alone in the world, and her heart softens until Grand Maester prompts the boy to speak.
“Tell the queen and her lords what you told me, boy.”
Glenn opens his mouth, but for a few awful seconds no sound comes out. Clarke risks a glance at Lord Pike and feels a thrill to see that his brows have tightened just a little, the corners of his mouth twisting downwards in displeasure as he watches Glenn stumble and fumble for words.
“Speak, boy.” Lord Robert, clearly displeased with all of the hesitation and uncertainty, snaps.
The words seem to jolt Glenn from his frightened stupor, because he sets his gaze to the steps of the dais, unable to meet their eyes, and says, voice low and shaking. “I poisoned Lord Tyrell, your majesty.”
An eruption of outrage comes from the crowd watching in the stands. Lord Tyrell had been much loved throughout the land and his death had been so mysterious that these words send a spark through them. Furious curses are sent Glenn’s way and the sound of swords being drawn makes the boy quiver where he stands, his eyes widening with fear. He sends an anxious glance at his old master, but Grand Maester Orrin offers no sympathy.
“How is that possible?” Lord Robert asks, his eyes narrowing, “Lord Tyrell was well protected.”
“I- I worked as Maester Orrin’s apprentice and delivered Lord Tyrell has medicine every day. When the time came, I swapped the vials for the ones given to me.” Glenn confesses, tripping over his words.
“Vials of poison,” Lord Marcus clarifies, and Glenn nods fearfully.
“And who gave you these vials?” Clarke asks, and her voice is so cold that she barely recognises it.
There is a moment of silence, so dense that it feels like a humming in her ears, as the whole hall holds its breath.
“Lord Pike,” Glenn speaks as quickly as possible, almost rigid with fear. “Lord Pike gave them to me, I swear it.”
All eyes turn to the accused lord, and when Clarke’s join them, she finds that any sense of unease has been wiped from the Lannister’s expression. If anything he looks amused by proceedings, like he’s watching a mummer’s farce from overseas.
“Thank you for your honesty Glenn,” She looks down on him and tries to summon the empathy she knows her father would have, but the forgiveness that came so easily to him is hard to reach for when she thinks of his dead body lying in state in the Great Sept. “You have confessed to the murder of a great lord, a great man. For this the punishment should be death.” Glenn’s knees seem to shake, his mouth dropping open in protest, but she cuts through him before he can say anything. “But for your part in proving Lord Pike’s villainy, you will be sent to the Wall, to serve your queen for the rest of your life.”
Glenn seems to slump with relief, and Clarke settles back upon the Iron Throne to watch as he is escorted from the hall by two guards. Her gaze is caught by movement, and she watches, pressing her lips together with irritation, as Lord Pike straightens himself out and turns to address the room.
“Is this what justice is under Clarke Tyrell’s rule? A parade of phony witnesses brought before the crowds to fool them into compliance?” He lifts his hands, gesturing to the room and then to himself. “Can a man no longer defend himself? Is justice merely a farce in our new land?”
No one dares to speak, but as people begin to exchange looks Clarke knows that she must do something before Pike can ruin all of her carefully laid plans.
She plasters her most benign, innocent smile to her face and says, lightly. “Of course not, Lord Pike, you will be given the chance to speak.”
He turns to look at her slowly, like a hunter laying its eyes upon its prey. “May I speak now, Lady Clarke?” He asks and his tone reflects hers so perfectly that she feels as if she is looking in a mirror.
There is nothing she can say but: “Of course, Lord Pike.”
Lord Pike turns, placing his hands behind his back and looking out upon the people of the south. While he is the one in chains, it is they who are the captive audience now. Surely this trial will be remembered for years to come, and written down by thousands of maesters. One thing they will remember is that when the time came to plead his innocence Lord Pike turned to look at the people of the city, rather than the woman he did not acknowledge as his queen.
“Lords and ladies,” His eyes roam across the hall, seeming to pause on every person there. “Some of you are friends, some of you would surely like to see Lady Clarke put my head on a spike… but I am sure you all would like to see justice done for the deaths of our two beloved kings and Lord Tyrell. Unfortunately I cannot offer you that.” He turns to glance back at the throne and his expression is soft with sympathy and pity.
“Lady Clarke may have been a good woman once, but she is a woman nonetheless. Her head can be easily swayed by the whisperings of snakes in her ear, especially when she is weak with grief.” The words bring fury rushing to her heart like a firestorm, consuming everything in its wake, and she fights to keep her expression as impassive and cool as possible. “The claims put forward here today could only be believed by something touched by evil or manipulated by those around them.”
He gestures to the Grand Maester who is still at the stand. “Assassins and poisons you say Grand Maester. What proof do you have that it was I who sent these assassins? And poison… it seems to me that you have instructed your boy- who I have never seen before- to name me as the culprit when in fact it was you who had access to Lord Tyrell’s drafts.”
“Glenn swore before the gods.” Grand Maester Orrin reminds him sharply and Lord Pike gives half a shrug.
“I believe in the gods as much as any Septa, Grand Maester, but I may forsake them if I was asked to speak against the queen before her entire court, army, and Queensguard.”
The watching crowd murmur softly, glances exchanged, and it is as if Clarke can see the persuasive power of Pike’s words drifting through them like smoke.
“And who corroborates these lies?” Pike gestures broadly to where Captain Miller and Monty stand, “An upstart captain from Flea Bottom and a cheap whore from the Street of Silk. You would not want your wives or daughters near these men and yet today their word is treated as sacred.”
Glances are cast in the direction of the two witnesses, and Clarke sees Monty shrink back under the attention. Anger blushes through her, and it is all she can do not to stand and order Pike beheaded there and then.
“I have always been loyal to this realm,” Pike continues, “It is why I was named Hand of the King to both King Thelonious and King Finn. They knew that I would put the realm over all else.” Here his voice rises with passion, and even Clarke feels inclined to believe him. “This land is where my ancestors first sewed the fields and fished the seas. When King Thelonious asked us to fight against the northern uprising the Lannisters were proud to go into battle and my sons laid down their lives for their king, as so many others did.” There is a rumble of agreement, and here he turns to face Clarke again. There is a slant of something like fury and desperation in his eyes which turns her blood cold. “I am loyal to this land, Lady Clarke, and the good people of Westeros will see that, even if you do not.”
Voices, their owners invisible in the crowds, shout out their agreement, and the rumbling conversations rise to a full hubbub of debate and conversation, as people argue amongst themselves. The hall descends into chaos, and when Clarke glances at Lord Marcus, she sees that he too is alarmed at how quickly this has tumbled out of their careful grasp. They had underestimated the power of Pike’s words, and even when Clarke stands to call for attention there is no quiet.
Finally, Clarke glances at Octavia, who nods once and takes the staff of the waiting footman to bang against the floor so loudly that most people are startled into silence. Lord Pike watches these proceedings with the smug expression of a cat who has caught a mouse, and when he meets Clarke’s gaze there is no fear in his eyes any more.
“The council will take a brief break to consider all that Lord Pike has said.” Clarke calls above the noise, and with a nod of her head Pike is seized by the arms by Roan and Emeline, and dragged back to the Black Cells.
---
Bellamy has never before been to the Black Cells. He had heard whispers in his time in Kings Landing that the cells were so cold they would freeze a man to death, but not before the blindness sent him into madness. When he died, rats the size of fat pigeons would scurry from the walls and feast on his corpse, so that by the time the door was next opened there was nothing left of him for the guards to carry away. He thinks of these stories as he sits in his cell, his back pressed up against the cold wall and his feet tucked beneath him. Every time he hears the scurry of tiny feet, he flinches away, certain that sharp teeth are about to sink into his flesh. He has been in utter darkness since he was dragged down to his cell by one of the Queensguards. Time moves strangely in the darkness, and it feels as if he has been here for days, though he’s sure that cannot be true because he feels no hunger or thirst, only dread.
What will the southern queen do with him now he is here, so firmly in her grasp? Bellamy has never been a man for wild dreams and fantasies, and his sensible, soldier’s mind tells him that if he ever sees the light of day again, it will only last for as long as it takes to get to the hangman’s noose. He has always been a Lannister man and done his duty for his house. He tries to tell himself that this is only the same, and that Pike will surely find a way to save him, one of his most loyal men, once he is found innocent, but there is a wriggling uncertainty that burrows in his gut.
When keys rattle in the door, he bolts upright as far as he can with the chains attaching him to the wall. Outside, the hallway is lit with blazing torches, so when the door swings open the crack of light that shines in is painfully blinding. He squints, turning his head away a little, and through bleary eyes he can make out the two white cloaked forms. One is the hulking, broad shouldered man who had nearly caught him trying to free Lord Pike, and the other, to his horror, is Octavia, her expression cold and distant. The man places a torch in the sconce in the wall, casting the dank, ugly little cell in its light, and Octavia steps back to allow the queen into the room.
Queen Clarke looks down upon him and gives a small, soft smile which sits utterly incongruously to her sparkling crown and the stench of death that lingers around them.
“Bellamy,” She greets him, with a nod, “I hope your stay here hasn’t been too unpleasant so far.”
“Do you?” He manages to ask, his voice hoarse, and he thinks he sees something slip away in her expression, a note of real humour in her words.
“Not really. The Black Cells aren’t supposed to be a pleasure house, after all.”
“Why are you here?” He scowls up at her, struggling uselessly against his bonds. His eyes flicker to Octavia. “Are you just here to taunt me?”
“Of course not Bellamy,” Queen Clarke shakes her head, “I have far more important things to do with my time.”
“Then what?” He snaps, and the hulking knight glowers down at him, his hand going to his sword.
“Show some respect, boy.”
“No, no,” Queen Clarke holds up a delicate hand, “I understand his question, I would want to know as well.” She steps further into the cell and Octavia swings the door shut behind her.
While the darkness had made this cell seem overwhelmingly cavernous, with the light of the torch bouncing from the four walls, and the three imposing figures stood above him, it seems to Bellamy like the smallest space in all of Westeros.
“You’re a smart man Bellamy, and a soldier too, so I’m sure you’re under no illusion that I will allow you to leave this cell alive.” Ice runs through Bellamy’s veins at her words, but he fights to keep the fear from his face. “But you’re young yet, your whole life is ahead of you,” She looks down at him, considering, “You’re a fair looking man, I’m sure many a pretty girl would like to be your wife. She could give you strong sons to take care of you as you grow old. And you must have some skill with a sword to be so trusted by Lord Pike, with talent and hardwork you could rise up far, have a nice home and lands of your own. Do you really want to give all of that up for a man as evil as Lord Pike?”
“He is not evil, he’s a good man,” Bellamy bites back and she nods, considering his words carefully.
A moment of silence passes between them, and then she speaks again, more softly.
“What about your sister?” The words send a bolt to Bellamy’s heart and he can’t help but glance at Octavia. He thinks he sees a twitch in her expression as well, a momentary heartbreak flickering across her face, and has to shut his eyes as pain washes through him. “Your only family, who you’ve been searching for all of your life. Do you really want to lose her now? Have you thought about what this will do to her, your little sister?”
He opens his eyes and meets Octavia’s gaze again, only to find her looking at him with a sheen of tears to her eyes.
“Bellamy,” Her voice breaks over his name, “Please…”
“I-” Bellamy’s breath catches in his throat and for a moment all he can see is Octavia, with bare feet and long, tangled hair, chasing him along the Flint Cliffs and squealing when he lifts her into the air and spins her round. He squeezes his eyes shut again, shaking his head. “No, no I can’t. Lord Pike lifted me from the dirt, he made me a man.”
“ You made you a man, Bellamy!” Octavia explodes, furiously. “Lord Pike doesn’t care about what happens to you, he’s a monster!”
“He does care about me!” Bellamy argues, “I’m his right hand man, he trusts me to-” he almost bites his tongue off, hesitating over his words, but it’s enough to catch Queen Clarke’s attention.
“Trusts you to do what, Bellamy?” When he shakes his head she sighs, a note of frustration in her voice. “Alright, we’ll do this the difficult way.” She nods to the other Queensguard, but when he approaches Bellamy, he doesn’t strike him as expected.
Instead, he frees Bellamy from the wall, dragging him to his feet and holding him up when he stumbles. His hands are cuffed behind him back, and at Clarke’s nod, a thick gag is stuffed into his mouth. He bites down around the leather and cloth, bracing himself for what’s to come as he is dragged from his cell.
“You don’t need to speak for this, only listen.” Queen Clarke throws over her shoulder as she leads the way down the winding corridors.
Bellamy peers around for an escape, but the walls are thick, with no windows and no door to the outside world in sight. They pause outside a cell that seems identical to his, and the hulking Queensguard holds him firmly in place, the sharp press of a dagger appearing at his neck.
“Remember,” Clarke says lightly. “You don’t need to speak, just listen.”
He watches on with wide eyes as she fishes a chain from her cleavage, on the end of which hangs a key. As she unlocks the cell door he knows that this, if nothing else, means that he will either join her or not live to see another morning. She wouldn’t risk showing him this secret if she weren’t sure he wouldn’t be a liability in the future. The thought makes the blade against his throat seem suddenly sharper.
Queen Clarke steps into the cell, and out of sight, Octavia following with her hand on the pommel of her sword. “My lord, I hope you’re well after the morning’s excitement.”
“Perfectly well, Lady Clarke,” Lord Pike’s voice comes from the cell and Bellamy’s brows tighten, wondering what Lady Clarke is playing at. “I would be obliged if you would unlock my cuffs though.”
“And allow you to put your hands around my neck?” She counters, lightly. “I think not, although…” She pauses, as if considering, “That isn’t really your style, is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Lord Pike does not sound as fervent as Bellamy would have expected. “I’m no killer.”
“Our witnesses say differently,” She counters.
“Your witnesses?” He hears Lord Pike laugh once, a harsh, sarcastic sound. “As I so easily proved on the stand, your witnesses are nothing but a mad old man and two low lives. Rest assured, when I get out of here I will make sure that your two little Flea Bottom friends are found at the bottom of the Bay of Blackwater.”
The words send a shiver through Bellamy’s spine, and he listens more closely as Lady Clarke answers.
“I thought you were no killer?”
“Of course I’m not, they’ll slip and fall one day, with rocks tied to their ankles.”
“Accidents and assassins and poison,” Lady Clarke’s voice has taken on a hard line. “Is that how you rose to the top, Pike? Not off your own merit, I’m sure.”
“I got where I am today because I’m loyal to my house and the people of Westeros,” Lord Pike answers and for the first time he seems aggravated. “Your fool father was too fair, Thelonious too soft after his wife died. And your beloved husband…” Here he laughs, “Little more than an empty head to be filled with ideas. It’s a shame you recognised that too, or maybe he would still be alive now.”
“So you did kill them?” Clarke asks, and her voice is shaking just a little. “When they got in your way or became too difficult to manipulate? You did all of this for the throne?”
“The throne?” Pike laughs again, “You think that ugly iron chair gives you power, girl? It doesn’t, the true power is always behind the throne.” He pauses, “Although I think the person controlling you has a throne of her own. I should have seen that earlier.”
“So, this was for power?” Clarke ignores his accusation. “You wanted to take back the north and have control over all seven kingdoms?”
“We are weaker apart,” He answers, seriously, “And that Stark girl has no right to sit on her own throne. You want to talk about power for the sake of power, look only to them. Her father couldn’t stand being controlled by southerners, so he started a war that killed thousands of good men, good soldiers.”
“Including your sons,” Lady Clarke’s voice has dropped, and Bellamy has to strain to hear her, “That’s why you wanted to take back the north.”
“For the good of the land.” Lord Pike says, shortly.
“And the Iron Bank helped you because they saw you had the most money to offer them, they sent assassins to kill me and kill the king, on your orders.”
“I was impressed when you escaped.” Pike admits, “You seem to have something to you Lady Clarke, an innate skill for surviving, though it won’t help you when I put your head on a spike.”
The words send a rush of sickness through Bellamy’s body, shivering down his spine and settling in his gut.
“You seem convinced you’ll survive,” She observes, “If you confess to your crimes now, I may consider sparing your life.” “
And why would I do that?”
“I have Bellamy Blake, for starters.” Bellamy’s eyes widen at the sound of her admission.
There is a moment of silence, and Bellamy wishes more than anything else that he could see Pike’s expression. Finally, he speaks.
“Bellamy Blake.” He rolls the words over his tongue, weighing them up. “Why would I care about him?”
“From what I hear he’s one of your most trusted men. Surely you wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.” Lady Clarke returns and when Pike laughs again, the sound that will follow Bellamy to his grave, he feels like he might vomit.
“Oh, Lady Clarke, I ridded myself of my weaknesses long ago. Do what you want with Blake, I don’t care.”
The words are like a strike to the stomach, and he is mortified to feel tears rising at the back of his throat. They continue to speak, but he doesn’t hear what they say. Behind his eyes, every interaction he has ever had with Lord Pike floods through him, and he sees them all so differently now. Did Lord Pike truly think nothing of him? When Bellamy crossed half the world on his orders, keeping himself hidden and risking his life in the process, was there nothing in Pike’s congratulations, his friendly welcome on his return and the goblet of mead they shared? Bellamy slackens in Roan’s grip, dread and despair and fury warring in his heart. When Lady Clarke steps from the cell and meets his eyes, he nods just once.
---
“Lady Tyrell, thank you for joining us today,” The tone that Lord Marcus uses with Clarke’s mother is just a touch too soft for the current proceedings, and based on the glance that Clarke shoots him, Lexa knows that Clarke must think so too.
The trial is stretching on into the afternoon, after an arduous two hour break which seemed to go on forever to Lexa. The castle is so filled with nobles, here to witness the trial, that she was forced to retire to her chambers for even an ounce of peace, where she had paced the room like a caged beast. The expression on Clarke’s face when they had recessed told her that the southern queen did not need her company, but she still longs to be at Clarke’s side, longs to know what is going on.
Instead, she is stuck watching from the crowds like the rest of the nobles in the city, waiting with baited breath as Lady Tyrell clears her throat and nods.
Lexa has only seen Lady Tyrell once since she arrived in Kings Landing, a cursory meeting in which they exchanged pleasantries and very little else. Perhaps Clarke’s mother was always a serious woman, but Lexa expects that the events of the last few months have made her more serious, and more cautious still, her eyes hard and her heart harder.
“You watched your lord husband’s health deteriorate, is that right?” Lord Marcus asks, some of the softness gone from his words now. “And it was you who seeked Grand Maester Orrin’s help on his behalf?”
“I did,” Lady Tyrell nods once, and the shadow of grief on her face says more than her words ever could. “My husband was not a man who sought help easily, so I asked Grand Master Orrin to speak to him.”
“Was Lord Tyrell prone to illness?”
“Not at all,” She shakes her head, “I have some knowledge of healing, from my own mother, and I know that my husband was a well man.”
“And it was this that made you first suspect your husband had been poisoned,” Lord Marcus supplies. “This was why you sought my help in the Eyrie?”
“It was,” Lady Tyrell confirms, “I knew that something had happened to Jacob, I knew his death was suspicious, so I sought help where I knew I would be safe.”
“Why didn’t you tell others of your suspicions, Lady Tyrell?” Lord Robert Mertyn cuts in, and Lexa watches as Clarke’s expression pinches a little with frustration.
Lady Tyrell hesitates, her eyes flickering to Clarke for just a moment. Lexa can see that she is considering her words carefully, “I… am like any other mother, my lord, I cannot help but worry for my child’s safety. The queen was here in Kings Landing, within Lord Pike’s grip, and I feared what he would do to her if I told anyone else.”
“May I ask the witness a question, my lord?” Lord Pike interjects. He has come back to the stand still buoyant on his previous victory, and now he lounges against the stand as if he does not have chains around his wrists.
Lord Marcus fixes him with a hard stare, and a pregnant pause passes, before finally he allows, grudgingly. “You may, Lord Pike, but mind your tongue.”
“I always do,” He smiles wanly. “Lady Tyrell, did you ever see your husband and I fight? Outside of the arguments and debates of the King’s Council, of course.”
Lady Tyrell’s lips press together in an expression eerily reminiscent of her daughter. “No, though I knew you were not fond of each other.”
“That does not make a murderer, Lady Tyrell.” Lord Pike looks out at the watching nobles. “I would dare say many of us have men we are not fond of, but we wouldn’t take their life.”
“And yet it is you who has most prospered from my husband’s death.” Lady Tyrell answers, sharply.
“Enough.” It is Clarke who cuts through their words, “You have badgered the witness enough, Lord Pike. Thank you, Lady Tyrell, you may step down.”
It is clear from the frustration in Clarke’s expression that this trial is not going as smoothly as she had hoped. Lexa is quietly impressed at Lord Pike’s charms, which she had previously underestimated. She realises now, belatedly, that a man such as him could not have done all that he has without a tremendous amount of skill and cunning, and when she thinks of Lord Bolton sitting at her table, all while plotting against her, her skin crawls. Soon, she knows, she will have to return to Winterfell and ensure that the north is firmly in her grip. Now, she looks up as Clarke herself calls forwards their next witness, and her eyes widen when a man steps through the doors, flanked by two guards.
He looks familiar, though she is sure she doesn’t know him, and the red and gold lion on his surcoat draws all eyes in the room. Judging by Lord Pike’s reaction she is not the only person who is surprised; the Lannister lord’s brows crease darkly, a shadow of fury and fear passing over his expression.
Beside her, Anya stiffens, and when Lexa glances to meet her gaze curiously, Anya murmurs. “That is Octavia’s brother. I met him only last night.”
Lexa’s eyes only widen further, and when she looks back to the man she can see the similarity to Octavia in the colour of his eyes and the press of his lips.
Before she can ask anything more, Clarke says. “Bellamy Blake, you are Lord Pike’s man’s, are you not?”
“I am, your majesty,” Blake agrees, after a moment of hesitation, but he does not spare a glance for his former master.
“And you are choosing to break his trust now?” Lord Robert asks, suspicion in his tone.
Bellamy Blake swallows uncertainly, “Lord Pike has shown himself to be a villain, my lord.”
Lord Pike makes a soft sound, close to a scoff, but Clarke ignores him completely.
“Bellamy, what do you know of Lord Pike’s treachery?” Bellamy Blake takes a deep breath, and Lexa knows that everyone is waiting to hear what he will say; even Lord Pike seems to be watching with baited breath, though Bellamy does not spare him a glance.
“Lord Pike,” He says at last, “Plotted to kill both King Thelonious and King Finn, and poisoned Lord Tyrell.”
“And how do you know this?” Lord Marcus asks into the deafening silence that follows his words.
“Because I helped him, my lord.”
The uproar that follows Bellamy’s words is enough to make Honour growl at her side, and send Liberty and Patience pacing forwards, their hackles raised. Clarke holds her hand up, and Lexa watches as the hall falls into silence again.
“I know this is distressing,” Clarke speaks, her voice more soothing now. “But we must hear what Bellamy Blake has to say.” She turns back to him. “Bellamy, how did you help Lord Pike?”
“I-” Bellamy stumbles and for a moment Lexa thinks he will cower and revoke his statement, but then he squares his shoulders and his hands clasp behind his back, like the soldier she is sure he is. “I did many things, your majesty, but the most important I think is my business in Braavos.”
“In Braavos?”
“I took large sums of Lannister gold to the Faceless Men in Braavos, and paid them on Lord Pike’s behalf to kill King Finn. Before that, I went to Braavos on Lord Pike’s command to buy Tears of Lys to poison your father.”
“I see, and were you aware of your crimes, Bellamy?” Clarke asks, severely, and Bellamy hangs his head.
“I knew that the Faceless Men could not be used for any good purpose, your majesty, but I didn’t know that Lord Pike would dare to kill the king.”
“Two kings!” Lord Robert interjects, and there is a murmuring of agreement from the crowds which Clarke allows to run its course before speaking again. Bellamy’s words prick at Lexa’s mind, needling at her brain, and her brows crease just a little as she considers them.
“You are wise to come before us now Bellamy, and your testimony is very valuable.” She considers him for a moment, gazing down at him thoughtfully. “But you did aid in the killing of three great men.”
Bellamy tenses at her words and his eyes dart up to her nervously. “I did,” He finally admits, reluctantly.
“You have proven yourself loyal and reliable, Bellamy.” Clarke looks out at her watching populace and offers them a smile as soft as sunshine. “And the Mother and the Maiden teach us to forgive those who have wronged us. Therefore, I am pardoning you of your crimes and naming you a Gold Cloak.” There is a rumble of disagreement from the crowds, but this time Clarke speaks above them, her voice hardening. “You will report directly to Captain Miller, and work to protect the city that you have betrayed. Mark my words, if you place a toe out of line you will find your head up on the battlements beside your old master’s.”
Bellamy seems to almost shrink with relief, his shoulders slouching and his breath leaving him in one long sigh. “Yes, your majesty. Thank you.”
“How can you allow this man to go free if you truly believe what he says?” Lord Pike demands, and Lexa watches, her eyes widening, as Clarke fixes him with a furious gaze. In this moment she looks everything like the fearsome queens of old, and Lexa feels her skin prickle at the sight.
“You will be silent, Lord Pike. I will not have a traitor and a murderer questioning my justice.”
“An accused traitor,” Lord Pike fires back, “You have not yet proven me guilty.”
“But we soon will.” Clarke answers him, her voice low with promise, and Lexa watches on with bated breath as she nods to a waiting Queensguard.
The man bows his head, and then ushers forward a figure from the shadows. A gasp ripples through the crowd as Prince Wells steps into the light and makes his way up to the dias. The city knew, of course, that their beloved prince had returned, but no one has caught a glance of him since he stepped foot through the castle doors. Even Lexa has yet to meet the man formally, though she has heard tell of him from Clarke, and her eyes venture over him as hungrily as the rest of the watching audiences’.
She has not seen Prince Wells since before the war, before she became queen of her own lands. She had only met him a handful of times, when she had accompanied her father down to Kings Landing for summits and celebrations, and always she had seen him as a quiet and serious boy, content to listen and watch rather they force himself to the fore as so many of his contemporaries had. Now, he seems much changed, still thin from his time in captivity, with longer hair and darker eyes.
“Prince Wells, thank you for joining us.” Clarke welcomes him, ignoring the murmurs and muttering from the watching nobles, but noting the way that Pike’s brows narrow furiously. “Please tell us what you know of Lord Pike’s treachery.”
Prince Wells nods once, and then, barely sparing a glance at Pike, recounts his story of blackmail and kidnapping in a clear, strong voice that rings through the otherwise silent hall. Lexa watches the nobles glance at one another in astonishment, sees women reach for handkerchiefs and smelling salts when Prince Wells speaks of his hasty marriage, his child and his doomed love for a girl from Flea Bottom, and men reach for their swords when he tells of blackmail and imprisonment. By the time he has finished speaking Pike is shaking his head, his expression one of pity and sadness.
“Wells, my dear boy,” He makes as if to reach out and though the man is chained and they are yards apart, Prince Wells flinches back. “You cannot know how happy I am to see you, I knew it was odd that you fled the capital but I never thought…” He trails off. “If only your father could see you now.”
“Don’t say a word about my father,” Prince Wells’ voice is tight with anguish, and even Lexa feels her heart twinge for the boy.
“Wells, I wish you had asked to see me before you came up here,” Pike sighs, like a woebegotten father, “I cannot say how Lady Clarke has tricked you into believing this, but her feminine wiles have proven themselves against stronger men.”
“I have not been tricked,” Wells answers, forcefully. “I may have been drugged but I remember the dungeons, I remember you pressing that quill into my hands and forcing me to sign away my life.”
“Thank you for your testimony, Prince Wells,” Clarke stands, and the crown upon her head sparkles in the light of the sun. “We have heard all of our testimonies, unless anyone would like to step forward to speak in Lord Pike’s defense?” There is a deafening silence, and Lexa thinks she sees the corner of Clarke’s mouth twitch with amusement. “I thought not. Lord Pike, is there anything you wish to say?”
Pike’s resentful, furious gaze is pounding into Clarke, his lips curled with disgust, and when he finally turns to face the waiting crowd it is a different man who speaks.
“You are all fools if you think this rein will come to anything good.” He warns them all, his voice heavy with emotion. “Your queen, your virgin mother, is not the woman you think she is. The darkness of the Crone follows her and it will come for all of you if you allow her to stay on the throne. She will lead you into times as never seen before- already she is in cahoots with the northern queen! She will not rest until what is left of the south is destroyed, and you all with it!”
He breaks off, his breath heaving, and Clarke intones cooly.
“As riveting as that is, Lord Pike, we have yet to decide on your guilt.” Pike turns to face her, almost snarling with his fury. “Lord Marcus, your decision?”
“Guilty, your majesty.”
“And you, Lord Robert?”
“Born guilty, your majesty!”
“I too find you guilty, Lord Pike.” Clarke gazes down upon him and it is as if she is seeing him from a great height, far away from his lies and terror. “I sentence you to death.”
Robert was dead, and Armand wasn’t taking it well. He was the firstborn son, and that meant the duty of the throne now fell on his lap. But it was more than that. He was close with Robert; as close as a son could be, anyway. Losing his father wasn’t something Armand was prepared for. Not so soon.
He wanted to refuse the throne, but Joffrey was next in line, and Armand knew what a disaster that would be. Joffrey was cruel and spoiled. Armand had his moments, sure, but he had much better self-control most of the time. But Joffrey was their mother’s favorite!
He couldn’t grieve back at home. There was too much judgment. He couldn’t particularly grieve in public either, but at least it was easier to get drunk. He was on his fifth... sixth... seventh? tankard. He’d lost count a while ago, and he didn’t care. “Another!”
I just finished the GOTau and i was wondering if you were gonna come back to it anytime soon? I really love it and I’m dying to know what happens next!
Thank you so much for reading it and enjoying it! I’ll probably update this weekend, I have some free time to read through the chapter. I seem to remember this is a chapter I really like 😍
