Two men bend the knee to their Queen, and each other.
Warnings: Mature language and themes. Sexual content.Violence.
Chapter One
Chapter Two: No Prisoners
Hours later into the darker evening, the Queen stormed through the halls of the palace, uninterested in what any of her council members had to say. Her resolve was unwavering.
“My Queen, I will not allow you to visit the prisoner unaccompanied,” Ser Jorah insisted.
“You do not ‘allow’ me to do anything,” Narcissa said harshly.
Jorah sighed at her natural combativeness, looking to Ser Barristan for support.
“Ser Jorah is right, Your Grace,” he chimed in patiently. “I’ve been close enough to the whoremonger to count his lashes, he is duplicitous, and without scruples. He’s as poisonous as they come. Trusting him will only do you as much good as it did Ned Stark.”
“And who said I intend to trust him, Ser Barristan?” Narcissa debated. “You know my strategies better than anyone else.”
There was a pang of hurt in Jorah Mormont’s expression, before he buried it in a show of strength for his Queen.
“Baelish will be a useful tool, especially after his acquisition of the Vale. I will not have any of my council members questioning my foresight again, now go,” she ordered, mind made up as she approached the door at the end of the hall.
The two men glanced at each other uneasily, before they ultimately left her to her own devices. Narcissa, hard as steel, allowed Grey Worm to open the door for her as her loud, resolute footsteps sounded across stone, one by one. It was dark as she picked up a torch, making her way all the way down to the darkest cell, the only one inhabited. The flame emitted a bright light into the empty space as Grey Worm unlocked the cell without a word, ambivalent to the Queen’s decisions. He nodded to the Queen, before respectfully taking his leave.
Petyr Baelish looked up, chained to the wall as he squinted to peer at his visitor.
“Ah, Your Grace,” he spoke. “I was beginning to think you intended to let me stew.”
Narcissa smirked at the title. “Something told me you’d be more cooperative by now.”
“I haven’t come here with any intention other than to be cooperative,” Baelish pointed out with a knowing smile.
“And yet you test me,” she remarked stiffly. “Have the dungeons taught you nothing?”
“You really are quite the volatile sort,” he told her brazenly, surveying the dark and empty prison that surrounded him. “You’d think this place would be filled with wailing masses.”
Narcissa looked at him, completely stone cold. “I don’t take prisoners,” she answered simply.
Petyr stopped, meeting her gaze. He would have attributed this to all manner of unfounded boasts and facetious hyperbole if she were anyone else, but she wasn’t anyone else. She took no prisoners.
“You know, Your Grace,” Petyr regarded her with a certain respect, “Many men say they would choose death over bondage, but I hardly see what all the fuss is about,” he said pleasantly.
Narcissa rolled her eyes.
Baelish continued, “It’s much better to be alive, wouldn’t you say? To still have opportunity. To still be connected to sensation, to life. There are many things I’ve yet to explore here in Essos,” he expressed conspiratorially.
Narcissa studied him critically. “You’re quite bold for a man stripped into rags.”
He looked down at his attire, unable to suppress a smile. “Yes, that I am. I will say, my Queen, beauty like yours often brings out the worst in natural politicians.”
“Flattery,” she nodded. “Quite an interesting strategy for someone being punished for his disrespect.”
“Punish me all you like, Your Grace,” Petyr invited charmingly, face and chest gleaming with sweat beneath the dirty gray rags. “Either way, I am at your service.”
Her ego seemed satiated. For now.
“That you are,” she agreed. “Tell me, what exactly is your aim, in marrying me and securing the title of King? Will you assassinate me? Siphon my funds, perhaps?”
“Your Grace,” he reasoned charmingly. “You and I both know I couldn’t sneeze without your little lapdogs having swords at my throat before I wipe my nose.”
Narcissa snorted at the idea. “They are rather temperamental, aren’t they?”
“Like women tend to be,” Petyr agreed.
“I suppose I am the man of my house,” she admitted thoughtfully.
“Then you see what heights you and I could reach, if we only helped one another,” he whispered. “If you marry me, you will be marrying one of the most powerful men of Westeros. The Knights of the Vale, they’d be yours,” he promised.
“Provided you didn’t kill me first,” Narcissa stated dryly.
“I have no intention of killing my strongest ally, my Queen,” Petyr rationalized. “So long as I need you, you know that you’re safe.”
“A counteroffer, then,” she said with finality.
“I’m listening,” he accepted eagerly.
“I name you Hand of the Queen,” she concluded. “You advise me and serve by my side, and if time goes by, and I am not dead or some dungeon, I will consider your marriage proposal.”
“‘Consider’?” Baelish marveled.
“Do we have a deal, or not?” she demanded.
He took a moment to think about it. He was in no position to negotiate further. The more he thought about it, this was actually the ideal scenario he’d imagined before this conversation.
“Very well, then. I accept your terms,” he looked at her through glimmering eyes. “I will be your Hand. Your most trusted advisor. I do hope I’ll prove myself worthy of you, my Queen.”
“Believe me, you’ll have to,” she warned, stepping back out of the cell. “They’ll release you later tonight,” she informed him coldly.
Petyr paused for a moment realizing he didn’t actually have any idea what he’d just gotten himself into. But it was too late now. He watched as the Queen left, fearful for his life as Grey Worm escorted her from the dungeons. He knew he had to play the game especially safe with this powerful Queen from Asshai. She took no prisoners.
