The Good, the Bad, and the Surprisingly Competent - ASOIAF SI

[BreezyWheeze]

But I don't think anybody wants to her my ranting regarding the more emotional harm this might have caused our protag.

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Yeah it's supposed to be some caveman male desire to have a woman that'll mess around with another girl in front of you, but as someone who had two serious relationships in a row destroyed by my long-term girlfriend cheating on me with a girl, that shit dies NOT fly. Betrayal is betrayal. This chapter had me seething.

 

[BlueBerryExtreme11Zero]

Betrayal is betrayal. This chapter had me seething.

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That sucks, hopefully you have a healthy relationship now. But still, this wouldn't be Asoiaf if there was no hedonism, betrayal, and cheating.

 

[Gerstahl]

I found this chapters both incredibly interesting, and for the latter half infuriating. I sincerely hope that Arianne gets what's coming to her (still rooting against Cersei first make no mistake) in terms of the undoing of her schemes, and that Tommen doesn't pick up the idiot ball, not that I expect it to occur.

That said, as Dawnwalking said, this looks to be a cluster fuck of massive proportions for not only Margaery, but also Arianne and by extension the Tyrells and Dorne, the latter especially in both accounts.

I can't tell if this is a trap left by Tommen, a case of giving the foe enough rope to hang themselves with, or if this is an example of this apathy which seems present often, a case of "I can't be arsed to deal with this, I don't care about it enough to do anything that makes everything else more difficult" (I.e. punishing Arianne, this sparking a rift with Dorne, or publicizing the scandal this would cause, which would inflame relations with the Reach).
In any regard, I can't wait for the next chapter to see what occurs next.

 

[Solar_High_Tide]

Arianne not getting thrown out of King's Landing with an entirely unnofficial/unspoken threat to have her head on a pike if she ever comes back is wild to me.

The king getting cucked is the sort of thing that can destroy royal power for a generation. The king getting cucked by a woman is the sort of thing that can topple dynasties - especially with how precarious the Baratheon/Lannister hold is right now.

Her planning on inviting Tommen later is irrelevant. To approach the queen first is such a wild misstep.

Is she bored with her husband? Arianne knew she would have been bored, being married to a man like Tommen Baratheon. All his charm could not change the mundanity of the life he had seemingly chosen to lead.

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^Arianne herself is going through the exact same thought process that would destroy Tommen in the minds of everyone.

No one is gonna think "Oh cool, the queen is fucking a girl. Maybe the king is a cool-enough-cat to get in on that." No, they're gonna think "Oh wow, the king is such an emasculated cuck that his wife even prefers a woman over him."

Though admittedly, Arianne chasing what she wants without any thoughts in her empty little head about the wider consequences is entirely on brand for her I suppose.

 

[Dawnwalking_Soldier]

Arianne not getting thrown out of King's Landing with an entirely unnofficial/unspoken threat to have her head on a pike if she ever comes back is wild to me.

The king getting cucked is the sort of thing that can destroy royal power for a generation. The king getting cucked by a woman is the sort of thing that can topple dynasties - especially with how precarious the Baratheon/Lannister hold is right now.

Her planning on inviting Tommen later is irrelevant. To approach the queen first is such a wild misstep.



^Arianne herself is going through the exact same thought process that would destroy Tommen in the minds of everyone.

No one is gonna think "Oh cool, the queen is fucking a girl. Maybe the king is a cool-enough-cat to get in on that." No, they're gonna think "Oh wow, the king is such an emasculated cuck that his wife even prefers a woman over him."

Though admittedly, Arianne chasing what she wants without any thoughts in her empty little head about the wider consequences is entirely on brand for her I suppose.

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Normally I'd agree with you about the damage this getting out could cause. But there is a very good reason why that isn't a problem for Tommen, technically two.

One, Margery was originally set to marry Joffrey. People's opinion about her is already in question due to her remarrying the previous kings younger brother. That probably has them viewing her as either a power-hungry individual, or a social climber. So the smallfolk finding out about her getting handsy with Arianne, no matter how it happened, would probably have it be seen as her trying to secure more power. Or that it's the Queen of Thorn's orders that it happened.


The other being the fact that Tommen is the first "Good" King they've had in a long time. Sure Robert in the beginning was good, but given what came afterwards it was more of a interlude between shitty kings and Mad Princes.

Robert Baratheon, was a whoremomger, a drunk, a terrible father, and a shitty husband. He was always with either a whore, or attending a tourney. He ran the kingdoms finances into the ground with his constant tourneys right alongside Baelish.

He was than followed by Joffrey.

I don't particularly like Joffrey, so I'm not going to outline his many, many issues. But he was what followed.

Tommen, by comparison, is the dutiful King who is striving to bring peace, justice, and stability to the Seven Kingdoms. He's worked harder than anybody else to fix the state that the traitorous Baelish and Tommen's own father had driven them to. He is the first King that is an actually decent person too (Robert might have been good at the start, but the years weren't kind to him.) that anybody alive can remember.

If the Smallfolk find out, sure there may be a few that look at it as weakness, or that he's pathetic. But for those that are benefiting from his actions, and that's quite a few, he's the Good King brought low. Someone that works so hard to make things better, but is betrayed by the woman that was supposed to be the one he could trust.

Hell, I could see the minstrels across the kingdoms writing tragic does to this betrayal. Spurred on by a few whispers and coins into the right hands.

TlR: Tommen is ridding a wave of good faith that makes him practically bulletproof until he has his first scandal. If it's this one then that pristine image goes away. But he'll still probably walk away, if not spotless, almost untouched.

It's the next scandal after that, that he'll have to worry about.

 

[nomster]

Wait, Margery succumbing to Arianna's seduction wasn't a trap? Then that was an utterly disappointing development especially since Tommen did nothing to punish anyone. He can't even hold it over Arianna's head in the future since there weren't any other witnesses.

 

[Princess Celestia]

Margaery has struck me as being intelligent, at least she should be to realise how massively she's fucked up, I'm sure her Grandmother will be there to tell how stupid of a chit she is and admonish her, probably not in the way we think like what she did was bad but with how she was caught just out in the open. Personally I think Olenna and probably not long after Margaery might see this as sabotage on Ariannes part, I honestly think it could be a cause of overestimating Ariannes cunning if she is just unrepentant, Margaery might see this as Arianne intentionally damaging the trust between her and Tommem, she hasn't sired a heir, she's basically not in the clear just yet, that grain is very important but she could still be set aside and replaced.

If they have any brains this will seem more like enemy action, when it's not because Arianne isn't that clever.

 

[Brian the dor]

I'll be real disappointed if this turns into a shit harem story or he sleeps around at all, this should honesty turn into a divorce and huge scandal / war so he can further the crown and marry a dragon lord who has a large army, although the Dothraki would have to stay in Essos. Idk I'll probably drop this if he fucks the dornish girl or anyone besides his soon to be ex wife

 

[daoistnextchapter]

Feels wildly out of character for Margery

 

[Nisiris]

Hehe, not wanting to catch pox, who knows what Arianne has? Even if she slept with just highborns, who to say these who she slept with were healthy?

For all her beauty, never could get to like her, it's like she doesn't realize that her future husband won't need to share her openness, always thinking which of his knights or lords slept with his wife.

Loved that Tommem didn't think with his groin, it's refreshing.

 

[Jao]

Why does this have the "NSFW for safety" tag? If it might end up NSFW it shouldn't be in Creative Writing, it should be in NSFW Creative Writing.

(I haven't read the story yet)

 

[Xodarap]

Why does this have the "NSFW for safety" tag? If it might end up NSFW it shouldn't be in Creative Writing, it should be in NSFW Creative Writing.

(I haven't read the story yet)

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Well fix that first before looking for reactions
Whoops misread what you said

 

[ApiLol123123]

Story has been amazing so far, eager to read the next chapter!

 

[Xenokrates]

Why does this have the "NSFW for safety" tag? If it might end up NSFW it shouldn't be in Creative Writing, it should be in NSFW Creative Writing.

(I haven't read the story yet)

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Perhaps , author is unsure whether to add Lewd later . That's why

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 43: Jon V

Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower, Jon assumed, yet when he flipped it over the wax was gold rather than black. Stannis.

Jon cracked the seal and unfurled the parchment, casting his gaze over the script.

Stannis has taken Deepwood Motte. Though the Watch was sworn to take no sides in any conflict in the realm, Jon could not help but feel a swell of impotent satisfaction. The North is slowly warming to his cause, in spite the wildlings in his ranks, as they flee the Boltons and Greyjoys.

But for every bit of good news, there was bad. Lord Roose makes for Winterfell with all his strength.

Jon read the king's letter once more, then set the parchment down on his desk, watching it curl back up with trepidation as soon as he released it's edges. He could not be certain how he felt about what he'd just read. That a battle should be fought at the seat of House Stark without so much as a single Stark present felt wrong to him, almost tantamount to sacrilege. It was a painful prospect to entertain, that his childhood home might become the site of a bloodletting.

He wondered, for a moment, how many men Stannis could rally to his cause. Even ruined, Winterfell's walls and towers would confer a considerable advantage to any defender. Doubtless, Lord Roose would move to repair and reinforce his newfound redoubt, and Stannis's task would become harder still. If it were up to him, Jon might have changed his prior stance to advise speed and surprise over strength. Denying the Boltons the chance to rally and fortify was more important than matching their numbers, exhausted by a failed campaign in the south as they were. Else Stannis would have to raise a massive army, and spill an equally massive amount of northern blood.

Doubtless, that was the Boy King's intent. He must have known, as Jon did, that his uncle was a deliberate and careful commander, not given to the sort of daring boldness of his father. He must have known that such a battle would further deplete the north's already-limited capacity for war and peace alike, leaving it ripe for conquest.

A thinly-spread population scattered across rugged terrain might have shielded the North from any army lacking dragons, but it made the prospect of a peace enforced by grain and gold all the more likely. With much of the North's food stores depleted, and winter now doubtless looming large in the minds of many a northern lord, it did not take much imagination to see how the Boy King might make his approach. And if the tone of Tommen's letters were anything to go by, his lack of lingering resentments against the Stark name made his task all the more easier. His youth worked to his credit there. All around him were corpses and cripples and old men, ready to accept the blame for strife and slaughter.

No matter who won the Boy King would emerge stronger. An enfeebled House Bolton would not be able to resist his encroachment. Ironically, in their bid for independence from House Stark, the Boltons would wind up being slaves to an even more controlling master. Conversely, a weakened Stannis could not seriously threaten the south. And the northern lords - under threat of starvation - could be expected to betray Stannis with sufficient enticement. Some of them likely already had.

With the Riverlands subjugated, and the Reach and the Redwyne fleet under the Boy King's thumb by means of his wife, the prospect of aid from the south or from across the narrow sea for Stannis dwindled into nothingness. Short of the interference of the gods themselves, his cause was all but doomed.

It was only a matter of time.

In one effortless stroke Tommen Baratheon would subjugate an entire kingdom and eliminate a rival claimant to his throne. A feat worthy of the histories indeed.

When Jon had been a young boy, his hero had been another boy king. The young dragon, Daeron Targaryen, who at the age of fourteen had had the courage to launch and complete a conquest of Dorne. In his games with Robb, Jon had always been the young dragon, leading men to glory. Yet now he was a man, leading the Wall itself, and there was not an ounce of glory or daring to be seen. Only the dull, difficult reality. How did power do that? Suck the daring from one's soul? Suck the defiance, leaving only a cold, exhausted determination in it's wake?

Had Daeron conquered Dorne as Tommen planned to conquer the North? With cynical schemes and trickery? By sowing division and doubt? Had the histories lied?

Jon rubbed his eyes tiredly. The cold had intensified in recent weeks, and even the flames in his hearth seemed to shrink away from it. The snowfall had at least been mercifully light, even as the wind blustered past the Wall and through Castle Black, whistling between the gaps in the stonework. He had worked his way roughly through half the stack on his desk, writing out replies to most letters with orders or suggestions or supplications. His wrist ached. His head swam with bitter secrets and sweet lies.

Salvation came only in the form of more work. A knock on the door, three sharp raps in sequence.

"Come in," Jon called out.

In shuffled the steward, the septon and the maester-to-be. Bowen Marsh looked cautious, Jon could tell, perhaps a tad irritated. Septon Cellador simply seemed dishevelled; confused and unbalanced with his vestments rumpled. Only Sam had a friendly look about him, marred somewhat by a little frown.

"King Stannis has taken Deepwood Motte," Jon began.

Bowen's lips pursed with displeasure. "On your advice, my lord?"

Jon cocked his head in thought. "I offered a suggestion."

"Need I remind you who feeds us, my lord? The Iron Throne surely will not like this. And what of our neutrality?"

"You need not remind me of our neutrality. I know it well. And, I assure you, the Iron Throne knows and does not care." Bowen did not seem convinced by that half-truth - more confused, if anything - but at least he seemed to be willing to let the matter drop for the moment. "Now, why are you lot here?" Jon asked, eyeing Sam, who could only shrug.

"The men have concerns, my lord," Bowen began.

"The corpses?" Jon guessed.

"They make us all uneasy, I think," the septon said. "Some of the rangings you sent out have already come back with live wildlings - and we all understand why you elect to keep them. But to keep two wildling corpses locked up? And to keep them guarded besides? Surely that is a waste of good steel, unless..." Septon Callador trailed off, pale at the thought.

"Unless you mean to make them rise into wights," Sam finished for him.

Jon could only nod.

"Seven save us," the septon muttered, trembling, incredulous. "These wights are abominations, cursed in the eyes of the gods, both Old and New. Did the Red Woman put this mad notion in your head? You... you cannot mean to speak with them? Like she does with her flames?"

"Can they speak?" Jon asked, directing the question to Sam.

"Not so far as I know," Sam answered with a grimace. "Not the wights, at least. Not according to the annals. The walkers themselves..." Sam could only shrug.

"Hmm," Jon nodded. "In any case, Septon Callador, I do not intend to converse with these corpses. You might have noticed the Iron Throne's support for our cause in recent months. They have wizened to the threat posed by the walkers. But the Boy King is clear that his power is limited. Lord Tywin still governs much of the martial power in the south, and he will not be budged by words and stories. The same is true of all the other lords. They require proof before they will be moved. Especially after war has bled their coffers and killed many of their knights and levies. They need to be convinced the threat is imminent and sufficiently dire. The need to be convinced the threat is real."

"His Grace needs a wight," Bowen realised. "A live wight."

Jon nodded. "And unless you want me to send out men to go and catch one, the Ice Cells are the best solution I have." Stunned silence followed his statement. Not even the septon seemed to have a response to that. Only Sam seemed unsurprised - and that was because he already knew. "Anything else?"

"Is it on the king's advice you wrote Cotter Pyke?" Bowen abruptly asked.

Jon studied his steward's face. "Who told you?"

"I guessed when I heard the ships had set sail, my lord," Bowen said. "Cotter's focus has been to the south for some time now, my lord. Protecting the waters from pirates and raiders from both sides of the narrow sea. For him to go north is not unheard of, but it would require good reason when our ports are so busy with southern ships laden with food, men, and dragonglass. And to make for Hardhome, of all places." Bowen shook his head.

His emphasis on the name was hardly unjustified. Hardhome had gone halfway to civilisation - the only settlement north of the Wall truly worthy of the word - till calamity had struck some six-hundred years ago. The tale was always murky, and changed with every retelling. It's people had either been sold into slavery across the narrow sea or slaughtered for meat by other wildlings or - more worryingly - killed to fill the ranks of the army of the dead. Only devastation tied each version of the story together.

That, and the fire. Whoever or whatever had wrecked the place had decided to leave nothing behind. The ensuing blaze had been so bright that it was said to have looked like a second sun had risen over the horizon from the north to the men patrolling the Wall. Ashes had fallen with the snows for months afterwards - some said as long as a year. Traders reported only a hollowed-out ruin, charred with blackened corpses choking the waterways and entire woods reduced to cinders.

The wild had long reclaimed the place, but it was still considered cursed. Haunted by ghouls and demons of all-too-familiar descriptions, or so it was said.

If the ice cells failed to bear fruit, then perhaps Hardhome might.

Jon licked his lips. "More interesting news came with the live wildlings than with the dead ones. They speak of a woman - a witch. One blessed or perhaps cursed with visions of salvation. Word is she thinks that the wildlings will find salvation where they once found slaughter. Thousands seem to think so too."

The good septon seemed to have regained some of his constitution. "Salvation comes only with the Seven. This witch has led them to ruin."

"And we will lead them away," Jon retorted. "Hardhome sits on a sheltered bay and has a natural harbour deep enough to float the biggest ships. Wood and fish are plenty there. There are caves nearby, Cotter tells me. Caves that might shelter the wildlings long enough from the winds and snow for salvation to arrive. Who knows, septon, you might even have the chance to save some souls?"

Septon Callador bristled, but ultimately kept his peace. Bowen did not seem best pleased, but he at least seemed to defer to Jon's judgement. They both knew that the alternative - that these wildlings would die and join the ranks of the dead - was worse. "At least we can feed them," he finally said, in a gruff tone. "If only barely."

"It gets worse," Jon said. "I didn't just send Cotter north, I plan to send Val as well."

"King Stannis's prize princess?" Sam asked. "Why?"

Jon nodded. "She promises to bring back Tormund, and any he has managed to rally to his cause."

"And you believe her?" Bowen asked, almost incredulous, his tone bordering on outraged.

"I do," Jon said. "She knows better than most that to stay beyond the Wall is to wither and die. Her prospects are better down south with us."

"And if she meets with misadventure?" Bowen pressed. "I can't imagine King Stannis would be best pleased if his prisoner dies."

"If she falls or falters, and if Stannis succeeds in his campaign through the north and returns to the Wall in good enough time, then you might well wind up with a new Lord Commander. Till then, my decision stands. I trust you will all be good enough not to share this information with any of Stannis's people till after Val has departed."

"If she succeeds... That's hundreds, maybe thousands more wildlings," Bowen warned.

"That's thousands less wights," Jon corrected him.

Bowen's face soured. "Some might call it treason. We release a king's hostage to get back wildlings we can barely afford to feed and scarcely afford to house. Rapers, raiders, and savages barely capable of speech."

"Tormund Giantsbane is none of those things," Jon said. "I can vouch for that much."

Bowen met Jon's words with impudent silence.

"And as for housing them," Jon said, turning his gaze on Sam, "I trust the repairs to many of our derelict keeps and forts are proceeding at an appropriate pace."

Sam nodded. "Most of the keep at the Nightfort has been restored. Queen Selyse and her men ought to be moving in soon. And, from what some of the builders tell me, Long Barrow is ready to be manned. Greyguard is coming along, though it'll be years before it's fully repaired. Not ready for a large permanent garrison yet, but perhaps soon. The garrison at Westwatch-by-the-Bridge report the fort is serviceable. If my lord permits, I would expand it. Same for Icemark, Sentinel Stand, Stonedoor, Greenguard, Rimegate, and the Torches. Each keep has only between twenty and thirty men as of now. Enough to keep watch, perhaps, but not enough to defend."

"And the rest are not serviceable?" Jon asked.

"Deep Lake, Sable Hall, Queensgate, and Oakenshield all lie in ruins. They could be garrisoned, but to repair them fully would be a life's work. From what I can tell, among the keeps, the only remaining that might be quickly repaired into a useful state are Hoarfrost Hill and Woodswatch-by-the-Pool. Yet we lack the builders to even start this work, much less complete it in a timely manner."

"My lord," Bowen interjected, worry furrowing his brow, "surely you cannot mean to stuff our ranks with wildlings? To cede more than half our forts to them?"

"Some, or perhaps many, wildlings will join our ranks. This I won't deny. But most those numbers, I expect, will come from the south. King Tommen's gifts to us. Small companies of them, led by veterans of the Watch. Hard men, who can be trusted to keep order among the newcomers."

"Southerners and wildlings will struggle to work together," Bowen warned. "And we might well be lacking in such men, after losing so many to rangings and Mance's assault."

"We'll make do," Jon rebuffed him, though internally he knew Bowen was likely right. "As for builders," Jon said, turning to Sam, "might I suggest using the wildlings? They have hands and can follow orders. And it would certainly be safer than giving them weapons, or else leaving them alone to stir up trouble. The Lord of Bones is my vassal among them. I think he can be trusted to keep those more unruly of his fellows in line."

Sam inclined his head in thought. "I don't know if the builders would be happy with that. It might cost us more time to have them watch over unskilled labourers than to just let the builders work on their own. But I'll be sure to speak them, ask if anyone needs an extra pair of hands."

Jon nodded in understanding. "If that is all, then you have my leave to go."

The trio arose from their seats, and left the way they came without another word. Jon sat in his seat for a long moment, just staring at the door. He waited till the ache in his hand had subsided, then continued with his letters, letting the hours pass. That night Jon slept fitfully, having taken dinner alone. His head pounded. His gut writhed with nervous serpents.

The next morning he awoke early, before the first light. Jon hauled himself from his bed, his stomach rumbling, and donned his furs. Down the steps he went, till he emerged into the darkness. Most of the men would still be asleep at this hour, save the unlucky few charged with watching Castle Black through the night. Yet the quiet afforded to him at this hour was best not wasted. The sun would soon loom over the horizon, and Val would be forced to wait another day to make her escape.

He mounted his horse and set off on the ride north to the Wall, casting eyes around before he did so. The Red Woman had a habit for wandering around in the dark and cold, appearing in unexpected places at oft-inconvenient times. He rode hard and made quick time, running his mount at a canter. The daylight had not yet fully begun it's advancement by the time he arrived, just a purple smudge on the horizon.

She awaited him by the gate in the cold, wrapped in a bearskin so large it made her look rounder than Sam. A half-blind horse was beside her, shaggy-grey and not quite yet dead. Both gelding and girl had breath that frosted in the air, filling it with mist.

"You have enough food?" Jon asked.

Val patted a saddlebag with a gloved hand. "Hard breads and cheeses, oat cakes, all sorts of salt-meats, and some wine. I'll not starve, even if times may turn lean." She eyed Jon warily. "I swear, Lord Snow, that I will return. With Tormund or without him."

"I should hope so," Jon said. "Else it'll be my head."

Val nodded, and together they set off. The road beneath the wall was winding, narrow and cold enough to freeze one's feet. The gates opened one by one, the guards offering a curt bow to Jon but openly gawking at Val. When they emerged on the other side, Val paused to gaze at the land before her. There was the snow-covered plains that just a few months ago had played host to Mance's army, and then the haunted forest beyond. Jon turned to look at the girl.

Val's golden blonde had turned silver in the dying light. Her cheeks had turned the colour of milk in the cold. Her gaze looked worried. Scared, almost.

"You need not do this, my lady," Jon said. You staying might save my head, Jon thought, though he knew that was not the real reason.

Val laughed. "You take me all this way before the light of the morning and then offer me mercy here." She shook her head, taking a bracing breath, letting a chuckle blend into a stoic courage. "No. I will not leave Tormund to die. It is not so bad, anyways. I know those woods better than any black-cloaked ranger. It holds no ghosts for me. And the air tastes sweet besides."

Jon's tongue felt numb and dry. "All I can taste is cold."

"This is no cold," Val said. "When the Others come, when it hurts to breathe, then it will be cold."

Jon nodded, sobered by the thought.

"You have my thanks, Lord Snow. For the supplies, the blades beneath my fur - both the steel and the dragonglass - and for the taste of free air. It is good to be away from the Red Woman." Val's look soured. "I don't trust her. Fire is a fickle thing. Nobody can know which way it'll blow."

"I'll be sure to keep an eye on her," Jon said. "And you don't need to thank me - bring me the Giantsbane and I'll consider us even,"

Val smiled and cast her eyes again out to the forest. "This is farewell, then." She looked back at Jon, their breaths mixing into mist in the air between them.

Jon felt the temptation, the urge there. Not since Ygritte had he looked at a woman this way. He could not help but note her features. Had Stannis made his offer here and now, Jon didn't know if he would have been able to refuse. Winterfell and this woman. But that notion lay buried beneath dark thoughts and the stiff chill and the hunger growing in his belly. He let the moment slip away, not trusting himself, and simply nodded his assent. "I'll watch for your return."

Val almost seemed disappointed. She nodded back, mounted her horse, wheeled it's nose north, and set off at a trot.

Jon watched her go, letting the worries leave his mind for a moment.

He watched her shrink in the distance.

He watched as the woods swallowed her whole.

And before he turned back, he offered the Old Gods a silent prayer for her safe return.
---------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[Dawnwalking_Soldier]

Your teasing us with the fallout to last chapter.

.... Alright, I have a smidgen of respect for the build up, but I really want to see Arianna's comeuppance, and every chapter away from Kings Landing pushes that further back.

On the topic of the chapter though.

White Walkers always struck me as horrifying, feeling the air in your lungs freeze as a horde of animated corpses shambles towards you.

All that to say, I respect going into a wild land where those monsters are a very real threat.

 

[BlueBerryExtreme11Zero]

If no Southerner Ladies could be trusted, Val would do. I do wonder what would Tommen's reaction to Val's beauty that even his no nonsense uncle recognize Val's beauty. Cersei's mouth would be frothing lmao.

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the chapter

 

[Nisiris]

Love it's updated, the problem?

You really are teasing us, I still hope for Margeary pov, just to see how scared she of the fallout.

Thanks for chapter!

 

[ShadowPay301]

Love it's updated, the problem?

You really are teasing us, I still hope for Margeary pov, just to see how scared she of the fallout.

Thanks for chapter!

Click to shrink...

Are you still writing your Game of thrones or is it dead now?

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 44: Sansa III

Sansa could not help but flinch when the blade fell.

That Petyr would be executed had not been in doubt for days. His trial had been swift, and his conviction unanimous. Not even his supposed allies dared stand with him. His attempts at convincement fell on deaf ears. One by one, all those whose favour he'd worked so carefully to win turned around to condemn him. Neither Nestor nor Lothor spoke up to object on behalf of their employer. The murder of a Vale lady could not be so easily forgiven, would not be so easily brushed aside.

Not by the Vale lords. Not by her.

Yet his more desperate pleadings of innocence still rung in her ears. He's a liar. A liar. A liar and a murderer. Not that she'd minded when he'd murdered Joffrey. Not that she'd even really minded when he'd killed Lysa. Aunt Lysa was going to push me through the Moon Door. Both times, Petyr had acted to protect her.

Sansa felt sick. Shame and rage and fear and sorrow swirled within her.

Yet she was too far gone now for regrets. Even as her gut clenched and writhed and her heart raced so fast she thought it would run out her chest, Sansa stood fast and joined the chorus in condemnation. She had no choice. She had committed herself the moment she'd uttered those first tearful, thoughtless words. It was him. Even as she secretly wept in her chambers till it felt like her eyes would fall out. Even as she kept Arya's letter tucked tight to her breast like an invaluable treasure. Hoping with all that she had that the last bit of family she had left in this world wasn't a well-crafted trick.

When she closed her eyes, she saw Petyr, gaze chock full of longing, eyes red with the pain of betrayal, rage bubbling in his gut, heavy irons about his wrists. He only wanted to fuck you, Sansa reminded herself. Because you looked like your mother. He wanted to make you a whore. To rape you. Like Jeyne.

It was that thought that allowed her to keep her stomach as they dragged Petyr off into the cells, a doomed man.

Yet the method of his demise was hotly debated. Many advocated for the Moon Door, for him to suffer the traditional fate of scoundrels in the Eyrie. The same fate he had condemned Lady Lysa to. But the letter, arrived by exhausted raven at the eleventh hour, had sealed his fate. The king demanded his head.

The task fell to Lord Yohn. It was his hand that did the deed. The head was quickly collected and buried away in a wicker basket, out of sight of Sansa's churning stomach, and the discussions promptly began as all the Lords Declarant retired to the solar. The chattering began as soon as the men were seated, and Sansa listened half in a daze as she tried to force the image of Petyr's head from her mind.

He's not father, she had to remind herself, though for a while he'd been as good as one to her. He's not father. And Lord Yohn is not Joffrey. It was no use. Only a distraction could quell her unease.

"Are we agreed on the issue of succession?" Lord Yohn asked.

"Of course," Lord Belmore wheezed. "We all knew you'd be Lord Protector in any case."

Lord Yohn nodded gratefully. "Till Lord Robert comes of age."

"And you'll have the privilege of raising our young lord, eh?" Lord Hunter cracked a smile. "Any luck and the young Lord Robert Arryn will think of you the same way Robert Baratheon thought of his foster father."

"That brings us neatly enough to the issue of the crown," Lady Anya interjected.

Lord Horton Redfort huffed, shook his head and scowled. "What of it? We ought not be bending the knee to that boy on the Iron Throne. Stannis is the one true king."

"Stannis is all but beaten," Anya said, shaking her head. "Winter will hit the North harder than anywhere else. Even if Stannis is victorious against the Boltons, it doesn't mean his cause is hopeful. The Iron Throne has Arya Stark-"

"And we have her sister," Horton pressed.

"Aye," Yohn ground out. "But the Iron Throne has food and supplies as well. Enough to avert famine. When he offers the northern lords a choice, who do you think they'll choose? We might have avoided the worst rigours of war, and our stores may be full to bursting enough to feed us, but add the burden of another kingdom's worth of mouths to that and I think you'll find our larders quickly run dry. And the northerners get a Stark either way. No. The Boy King offers us forgiveness. We would be wise not to spurn it. That does not mean we need make common cause with Lannisters, but we are better off not making them our enemies yet."

Lady Anya nodded sagely. "Glad to see you've got some sense."

"And then there's the question of how he knew," Sansa spoke up, the words bubbling up to her lips. She had been preparing for this moment the second she had laid eyes on the letter.

All eyes turned to her. "Knew what, dear?" the Lady Anya Waynwood asked.

"That Petyr killed her. Only I, Marillion and Petyr were there when it happened. We told nobody else. Petyr made certain of it. So how did he know?"

The lords shared an uneasy look. "You mean you think he has spies? Someone else, who saw?"

Sansa shrugged. "If he has reach enough to know such a tight secret, I'd think he'd have reach enough to know whatever plans you all make."

"Do you think King Tommen capable of such a thing?" Lady Anya asked, leaning forwards with interest.

"I think Lord Tywin, or else Lord Tyrion, capable of such a thing," Sansa said. "I know not if Tommen is their puppet or another of their ilk. We got along well enough when I was at the capital. He seemed the quiet type to me. A little childish. Not entirely unlike Lord Robert. Good-hearted, I thought. Kind."

Lord Yohn lifted a gnarled hand to scratch his beard and nodded. "All the better we should make overtures whilst we have the advantage."

Sansa took a deep breath and steeled herself. "And you have the perfect envoy, too."

Lady Waynwood's look turned incredulous as she caught Sansa's meaning. "Have you gone mad, girl?"

"Tommen knows me," Sansa put in for her defence. "He likes me. And he has my sister. I have to go back."

"They could kill you," she retorted.

"Then let them," Sansa said. "Better House Stark should die with me than live on a shadow of it's former self. And I am more use to you as an envoy than a hostage. You all have fairly good relations with the North through my late aunt in any case. Holding me hostage won't give you much more. But sending me back could smooth over relations with Lord Tywin, which I know you all want."

An uproar of objections started, swiftly silenced by Lord Yohn. No matter how much it stung the pride of the Vale lords to admit, the Old Lion inspired a sense of fear in them all. A slight fear, perhaps, but fear all the same. A fear intensified by the prospect of spies in their midst. "What you're suggesting is very dangerous, my lady," Lord Yohn said once the last of the noise had settled.

Sansa nodded, feeling a lump rise in her throat, her hands trembling. "I know."

"You could die."

I wanted to die, just a few days ago. "I know."

"I can't allow you to wander into danger," Lord Yohn said after a second's thought. "Yet I also won't keep you prisoner if you truly wish to leave."

Horton seemed horrified. "You can't be serious, my lord. To send a daughter of Lord Stark into Lannister custody?"

"I want to go," Sansa insisted.

Horton turned his old head to look at her. "Forgive me, my lady, but you've been through a quite the ordeal, and are young besides. Your judgement may not be the most sound as of now."

"I know I want to see my sister."

"All you have is a letter," Lord Belmore cut in. "Lies can be written by any hand. Think of the danger you're putting yourself under. You say you don't fear death. Well enough. But what of torment? Joffrey beheaded your lord father on a whim. And as I understand it your treatment at the hands of the court was most unkind."

"Joffrey's dead," Sansa insisted as she clenched her fists beneath the table and fought to keep her composure. "And I met Tommen when I was in the capital. He's nothing like his brother."

"What of his mother, then?" Lord Redfort said. "Or Lord Tywin? How are we to ensure your safety, my lady?" He turned to face the newly-made Lord Protector. "It's all well and good to try and improve relations with the crown - much as I might disapprove - but this is too much."

"Worry not, my lords. She won't go alone," Lord Yohn said, looking her in the eyes. "Nestor will accompany you down to the capital with a company of Valemen and keep watch over your stay. When you are done with your business, you will return."

Sansa nodded, but before she could offer her gratitude Nestor interjected himself.

"You're sending me down with her?" he asked, eyes burning with outrage. He shook his head, beard flowing. "No, I won't go."

Yohn's gaze settled slowly on Nestor. "You closed the Gates of the Moon on us on the orders of the last Lord Commander. I know you to be a dutiful man. You'll go to the capital on the orders of this one. You'll deliver Littlefinger's head. And you'll bring back the Lady Sansa. Alive."

Nestor's objections caught in his throat. He could scarcely admit to selling his loyalty to Petyr. Not before all his fellow Lords. Yet if he left there was every chance Lord Yohn would act to weaken his hold over the Gates of the Moon. That seat had only recently become his by right. All at Petyr's behest. His hold over it, in spite his years faithful stewardship under Jon Arryn, was tenuous at best and prone to challenge.

Nestor's outrage twisted into a bitter scowl as he slowly swallowed his pride, the reality of his new position settling in. She was his punishment.

"I'll take Ser Lothor as well, if it please my lords," she said. She didn't trust the look on Lord Nestor's face. And Lothor Brune was as good as trustworthy as she was likely to find. Loyal to Petyr - and thus to her. Strong, quiet, and in need of a new benefactor.

Lord Yohn cocked his head in thought a moment, then accepted Sansa's choice with a nod. Another former loyalist of Baelish's he'd not have to deal with, doubtless. And ridding himself of her would serve his purposes nice enough. Many of the Vale lords were eager for war, still smarting over Lady Lysa's refusal to join the war on the Stark side. Lords Redfort, Belmore, and more. Sending her south would quieten their voices. Yohn may once have joined their call to arms, but now he needed peace more than war if he was to tighten his hold over the Vale, over those last few areas whose loyalty remained questionable. Gulltown, the Fingers, Heart's Home.

Petyr had underestimated him, she knew. She would not make the same mistake.

"And if Lord Nestor and Ser Lothor fail?" Lady Anya asked.

Yohn pursed his lips and let silence linger for a moment. "Lord Tywin would not be so foolish as to start a war now," he finally declared. Beneath his beard and stern expression, she couldn't tell if he was eager or afraid at that prospect.

She kept that thought in her mind even as the lords meeting wound down to a close and she left the solar, wandering through the halls and passages of the Eyrie half in a daze. The thought of facing Cersei again terrified her. But Joffrey's dead, she told herself. And Tommen was kind. Tyrion didn't rape me. Fear and doubt wrestled in her mind, the ache from their struggle spreading across her skull. I'm doing this for Arya, she thought, struggling to marshal herself.

Even as her head fell to her bed, she was still struggling. The next few days passed achingly slowly, as preparations were made for their departure. One by one, the Lords Declarant slowly left. First went Lady Anya, then Lord Belmore, then Lord Redfort. The castle was abuzz with activity. Soon enough, it would be her turn.

Then one morning, she was woken by a knock on the door.

Sansa readied herself in a hurry, made herself decent, and opened the door to find Ser Lothor behind it. "Ser Lothor," she greeted him.

The knight bowed his head slightly. "M'lady," he said. "The little lord asks your presence. He won't leave his bed." Asks. It had only been a few days ago that he would have commanded her presence.

Sansa sighed, nodded, gesturing for Ser Lothor to lead. As he went, she found the courage to speak. "How have you been, Ser Lothor?"

The knight shrugged. "Well enough, m'lady. Busy. Have a lot of work ahead, preparing for the journey. But it's nothing I can't handle."

"That's good," she said. It wasn't long before they had arrived at Lord Robert's doors. She turned the iron ring and pushed open the door a crack. "Sweetrobin?" she called.

Someone sniffled in the darkness. "Are you alone?"

She looked back at Lothor, who shrugged and went off on his way. "I am, my lord."

"Come in, then. Just you." She crept through the door and shut it tight behind her. "Did the Maester send for you?"

"No," she shook her head. "Are you hungry, my lord? Should I send one of the girls for some food?"

"I don't want food," the little lord said in a petulant tone. As she advanced on him she saw his eyes were red, puffy. "I want to stay in bed today."

"You can't stay in bed," she said. "Today we have to leave."

"I don't want to leave," he said. "You can read me a story."

"We have to go," she chided the boy. "Here, take a bath and I'll read you two stories. I'll call some of the serving girls up."

The boy scowled. "I don't like the serving girls. They always scrub too hard. It hurts. My mommy never scrubbed me so hard it hurt."

"I'll tell them to be gentle."

"I want three stories," Sweetrobin said.

Sansa felt a flash of annoyance. Sweetrobin was a greedy, spoiled child. Whatever you gave him, he wanted more. But he'd at least been afraid enough of Petyr to not give her too much cheek. "Take a bath, eat your breakfast, and I'll read you three stories. The mules are waiting."

Sweetrobin scowled again. "No bath, it gives me a headache. And no mules, either. They stink. One tried to bite me once." He looked like he was about to cry. "Tell them I'm staying here. The Eyrie is safe. Nobody can bite me here."

He is afraid, she thought. And with good reason. "Who would want to hurt you, my lord? The lords all love you. Lord Royce will care for you well."

He shivered. "I'll have to go down... In that cage."

Sansa nodded. Ever since his mother's death, Sweetrobin had not even strayed near a ledge. She could see how the thought of descending from the Eyrie might scare him. "You eat your breakfast, get dressed, and I'll go down with you. It'll be perfectly safe, I promise."

Sweetrobin seemed to consider it. "I want a hundred lemon cakes!"

Sansa grit her teeth and forced herself calm. "All the lemon cakes you like," she promised him. "But nothing before you're washed and dressed and away."

It took a little more than that to cajole the little lord from his bed, but eventually he was up and in the hands of the serving girls and Sansa could retreat from his chambers and make her way down the steps. Ser Lothor had already packed for her, she'd found. She fished out a cloak from the collection kept in her chambers and wandered out. Up at the height of the Eyrie, the courtyard was draped in old snow, deep enough to sink someone to the ankle. The wind blustered about her knees from beneath her skirts, her legs trembling only partly from the cold.

This place is as good as a prison, she thought. Yet the notion of leaving it terrified her. High up, the Eyrie was impregnable. Impregnable against armies, she reminded herself, not against assassins and spies. She wandered the Eyrie one last time, taking in the feel of keep. The seven slender towers above her, the rattling of the Moon Door, the beautiful views. Yet there was something utterly desolate about that beauty. The Eyrie had no sept, no heart tree. Nobody here answers prayers.

Eventually Sweetrobin had finished his bath, and midday had come. She returned to her rooms and donned a scarf, some heavy leather gloves, some heavy woollen hose beneath her skirts for her legs. Within the heated walls of the Eyrie she sweltered, but when she emerged again into the cold she was grateful for the extra clothes. Lothor was in the chain room when she arrived, sending down a load of saddlebags.

"The boy ready yet?"

"Washed and dressed and on his way. Has anyone gone down yet?"

"Lord Nestor," he said. "And some guards."

"Is the wind bad?"

Lothor shrugged. "Not too strong, but bloody cold. It'll be worse if we wait much longer though."

Thankfully, they were spared by the arrival of the little lord, and without delay they were bundled up into wicker baskets. Remembering her promise, Sansa joined Robert in his wicker basket as the chains were hooked on and they were slowly lowered. They were lucky. The baskets themselves had walls that stretched up above Lord Robert's head, denying him a view of what lay below. Even still, as the bucket lurched down, slowly swaying with the wind, the boy clutched her tighter, shivering.

"My lord is brave," she said.

"Of course I'm brave," he shot back. "I'm an Arryn."

It took them an agonisingly large amount of time, but finally they were down, and Sansa helped Lord Robert from the basket to the mules. Lord Nestor stood waiting, holding the basket containing Petyr's head, twenty mules behind him, casting his gaze up as the chain was drawn up for the next load of people. "My lady," he said gruffly, gesturing behind him.

Sansa looked down. "Which one would my lord like to ride?"

Sweetrobin scrunched his nose. "They're all stinky."

"Choose anyway," she said.

"That one, then. But only if you come with me."

She nodded and helped him mount his mule, joining him side-saddle. It took another half-hour before their party had formed and the rest of the men were down. The lords and ladies had mostly already left. Now it was just them. But soon enough they were off, riding through the castle Sky and down the precariously narrow path that had once taken her to the Eyrie. The winds blew them from the side, her cloak flapping loudly. But there was no risk. Even as the path turned crooked and uneven, the mules sauntered down without a care in the world. They'd made this journey dozens of times.

And so they went, with surprisingly little fuss, strolling down in single file, Lord Robert's whimpers drowned by the wind.

She was lucky. Though at a few moments he seemed as though he might succumb to one of his shaking fits, he never did. And soon enough they were through Snow and Stone as well, leaving the waystations to the Eyrie behind and winding their way down the Giant's Lance, where the path widened and flattened and the little lord's shivering began to diminish. Exhausted from the trip, Sweetrobin promptly fell asleep in the saddle, and Sansa offered a silent thanks to the gods for that.

Nightfall was upon them by the time they'd sighted the Gates of the Moon, their rest-stop for the night. This last part of the journey was the most peaceable, the mules growing sluggish below them, the breeze far gentler. But still by the time they'd arrived Sansa was grateful for the apartments she was given and the bed she slept in. They were greeted at the gates by the men of Runestone, Lord Yohn awaiting his ward.

The next morning they ate and readied themselves for the next leg of the journey. Lord Robert naturally threw a fuss when he discovered she would be leaving him, but she managed to calm him with the promise of more lemon cake, and they were away again, into the bracing cold.

At the crossroads they finally parted. Lords Robert and Royce to Runestone, and Sansa Stark to Old Anchor.

And then, to Kings Landing.
-------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. May be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future
P.P.S. Tommen chapter up next

 

[Red~]

And so concludes the Reach Vale~

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thank for the chapter. Great story

 

[Raven Aelwood]

Thanks for the chapter.
TBH, personality-wise, Sansa would have made a better wife than the current Queen.

 

[Xenokrates]

You really are teasing us

 

[Prognostic Hannya]

Huh, can't wait to see the Margaery/Sansa reunion.

 

[Nisiris]

Huh, possible Sansa/Tommen? I mean, she could mend his heart, not that he is probably that much upset with Margaery, but Sansa and Tom getting close, even if on platonic level could make her realize her fuck up.

And with all Sansa gone through, I don't think she would by so easily swayed be that Dornish doormat.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 45: Turning the Page (Retcon)

The horn was bigger than I had expected.

Onyx-black and made from the bone of what must have been a truly enormous dragon; it was banded with Valyrian steel and red gold, studded with strange Valyrian glyphs that I had to remember to get the Grandmaester to take a look at, its surface host to an unsettlingly reflective sheen. The whole thing was some odd six feet long from mouthpiece to spout, and doubtless capable of creating a bone-meltingly intense wail; though whether that wail could tame dragons was more doubtful.

If nothing else, it certainly looked the part.

"What is that?" Tyrion asked as he settled his papers onto the desk. He'd been hard at work, dismantling Baelish's web.

I shrugged, feeling cryptic. "A trinket or a tool, depending on who you ask."

"I'm asking you," he replied, eyes narrowing as he observed the thing. It must have seemed a strange addition to my chambers.

"Consider it a bit of both, then," I answered. "Onto business."

Tyrion nodded as he hopped into his chair, his feet dangling off the edge. "Our expenses - discounting one-off or unique items - have fallen below our incomes. Our total spending still far exceeds collected taxes, but we have a healthy enough reserve to manage it."

"The main items?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"The biggest by far has to be the grain. The Reachlords may have cut their prices at Lord Mace's behest, but not enough to avoid making a dent in our coffers. Mercifully, most the grain in the current shipment's already been bought, so we don't have to do much more business with them for a little while. Next comes the Iron Bank. The costs of servicing our debt and the added charge." Tyrion shot me a look.

"The Faceless Men, you mean," I supplied.

"Yes," he nodded, shooting me a side-eyed look. "We've done well in dealing with our other debts. Our debts to the Faith have almost been completely paid off, thanks in no small part to the High Septon's generosity." I smiled. "Repayments to House Lannister have been reduced. Then there's the city itself. Rebuilding the gates, removing and disposing of the wildfire, building granaries, purging the gold cloaks, building scorpions for the city walls - all costly measures in their own right. And your wider ambitions as well. Expanding the ports, rebuilding the royal fleet, repairing the major trade roads into and out of the capital, expanding the newly-reformed gold cloaks to patrol the Kingsroad against bandits, and all the other myriad things you seem to want to do."

"Where are we with our reserves?" I asked.

"Of the two million House Tyrell so generously gifted us, I would say we have a little less than one-and-a-half million left in our coffers."

I let a low whistle slip through my lips. "At that rate I'll beggar the realm faster than my father. I'm spending almost as much coin per day as he did."

"And having far less fun, too," Tyrion japed.

I couldn't help but snort. "That too," I agreed. "Though for you I reckon that might soon change. Once Baelish is dealt with his brothels will be yours for the taking."

"Mine?" Tyrion asked, a lone brow quirked. "Not the crown's?"

"Gods, no," I said, putting on an air of offence. "I'll take everything else worth half a groat to fill the crown's coffers, just not the brothels. All those whores, in need of instruction and management..." I shook my head. "The crown could never be seen to be indulging in such shameful flesh-peddling."

"Ah," Tyrion said, as he caught my meaning. "But the crown's lecherous uncle could. All while paying some elevated tax, I presume."

I couldn't help the grin on my face. "In any case, what would be your assessment?"

Tyrion quirked a lone brow. "Of what, nephew?"

"Of my reign thus far."

Tyrion scratched his beard a moment in thought. He knew better than to flatter - I had little tolerance for such things in my inner circle. "Some measures are working better than others," he finally decided. "I don't know how much worth your grain shipments will be in staving off famine. Given the seasons there are risks some of the seeds won't take or will be stolen or the yields may not be as we hope - though I am more hopeful for the livestock we are sending to the war-stricken areas. Yet the measure has managed to draw people away from the cities. Kings Landing reeks less today than it did a few months ago. It's less decrepit, less overfilled. Safer, too. Less robberies, less rapes, less hunger. The grain has also worked to curry favour with the lords. The Stormlords and Riverlords and Reachlords all like you more for it. And I imagine the Northerners must be looking down on them with envy."

"All in all a good showing, then?"

Tyrion shrugged. "You need not worry, I think. You're better than your predecessors, in any case."

"You damn me with faint praise, I say. Who wouldn't be better than Joffrey?"

Tyrion snorted impudently.

I shook my head in mock exasperation. "You can go, then. Good work so far."

Tyrion nodded as he gathered up his things and made to leave, waddling out the door. I leaned back in my seat once he was gone, contemplative. The big issue remained. My wife and the princess. I could not help the smile on my face as I thought of them.

I called in the guards, and sent for my wife. Though I had been lucky, and the rumour-mill of court had been quiet on any mention of Arianne, there were whispers about the king and queen fighting. Murmurs of weakness. A chink in the regnal armour. Troubling to some. Unacceptable to others. Yet inevitable, as I refused to allow her to grace my bed. No matter. If all went well, I would have a way to fold the rumours into a satisfying truth, to cement my authority. Some new gossip to overwhelm all the rest.

Margaery entered, looking appropriately contrite, her head bowed. I gestured for her to sit, and she claimed a chair. She stayed that way till the sound of the door closing came and I had confirmed that the guard had left us alone - at which point she relaxed into her seat and her frown turned upside down.

"How did I do?" she asked.

"Very well, Margaery. Very well. You could have put the finest mummers of Braavos to shame!" I let my tone turn suggestive, teasing: "Had I not known better, I would have honestly thought you... drunk."

Margaery blushed prettily. "It was nothing, Your Grace. Had it not been for your show of outrage, I think the princess might well have developed suspicions."

I could only shrug at that. "In any case, it gives me what I need."

Margaery frowned. "Are you really going to expel the princess from court? I understand rebuking her father, but might it not be wiser to keep her close?"

"She's too much trouble," was my reply. "With Myrcella, my ties to Dorne are secure. But the longer the princess stays here, the more havoc she can wreak - and I cannot really stop her. Thus, I would rather she work her wiles elsewhere. Not that I intend to rid myself of her immediately, of course. That would set too many tongues wagging! Yet you know as well as I do how easy it was to bring her to cause offence to a king. A few weeks around a queen was all it took."

"In fairness," Margaery argued, "we did bait her."

"In fairness," I countered, "the little cock-tease has been flaunting herself the moment she arrived. Trying to sow chaos. A pleasant distraction, perhaps - but a distraction all the same. A lesser man might well have fallen for it."

"A lesser man might have," she agreed, the corners of her mouth twitching up into a knowing half-smile. "Yet you were not distracted, were you?"

Of course not. After the shock of revelation had passed, Margaery had redoubled her efforts to involve herself in my work. Checking for whatever paths my dreams had laid before me. In a sense it was a relief. My head was a swimming ball of secrets, lies, and half-finished plots. The lack of sleep and injury had not helped matters. Yet as it became clear I was spiralling, having something resembling a confidant - even if I could not completely trust her - was useful. Someone to share the burden with. It was at her suggestion that my regular circadian rhythm had been restored - with ample assistance from some of the Grandmaester's dreamwine, of course.

That first night's sleep had been dreamless, almost eerily so, but it had been restful, and my head felt clearer, calmer than it had in weeks. The subsequent nights had also been better, if not quite so restful. Doubtless, a lack of Bloodraven's voice in my head had only helped matters, as had the fact that my injuries were close to healing. In spite myself, I almost felt in a cheerful mood. Some of the stresses of power had retreated enough to allow me to relax - if only for the moment.

Yet still the knowledge of impending disaster remained - the truth of which I struggled to both discern and divulge, even as it dominated every conscious decision I made. And even as I worked to avert it, I also worked to divert my attentions to other things. Brooding accomplished little. I was doing what I could. And though everything was moving frustratingly slowly, things were moving. Or so I had convinced myself.

I just need to be more patient. More distracted.

"Well, perhaps a little," I acknowledged. "Even I will confess the princess is pretty. But a snake with a pretty pattern on its back is no less poisonous than one without. The gall! Prince Doran thought he could slip one by me, eh?"

"A mistake he'll pay dearly for, I'm sure."

"Oh, certainly. But something tells me the concessions we planned to extract simply won't suffice. Arianne has her part of the blame to bear. She's too outrageous, too unsubtle. Hells, she's been all but shoving her teats into my face since the moment she arrived! I get the feeling Doran ought to have disciplined her more as a child."

Margaery quirked a lone brow, bemused. "And you mean to make up for this?" she guessed.

"I have always wondered what it would be like to have two women," I confessed. "I am my father's son, after all. And I saw how eager you were with her, when I arrived. That offer you made... I haven't been able to put it out of my mind."

Margaery cocked her head in thought, her voice taking on a playful lilt. "How do I know she won't steal you away?"

I snorted. "What was it you said, after Joffrey was buried? When we become married I become yours..."

"Forever," she finished for me.

I allowed the playfulness to drop for a moment in favour of a touch more earnest approach. "Our marriage is ours. So long as our final loyalties are to one another, then what does it matter if we choose to invite the odd outsider?" I shrugged. "Consider it even, if you must. You got to play with the princess - at my request, I'll grant. But you enjoyed it all the same. So why shouldn't I? I tire of being tempted. We've both been good. We deserve a little fun now and then, no?"

"The princess is rather fun," Margaery conceded. "When I was little, I stumbled across Loras with one his lovers. The sight stuck with me, the thought of another woman... It has always intrigued me, I'll admit. Yet there are still risks."

"Of course," I agreed. "But I don't plan on siring a bastard - you can be certain I'll take precautions. And, in any case, this affair will not last long. Just a few weeks, maybe a month or two - enough time to bend her a little more to my will - and then she's gone. And if you're uncomfortable, you only need to say the word and it'll stop. I intend to invite another to our bed, not to stray from it."

Now it was Margaery's turn to snort. "Most kings have kept mistresses. Most lords visit brothels and whores without a second thought. Even Jaehaerys the Conciliator strayed from the Good Queen Alyssane's bed from time to time. I knew - and expected - as much when I wed you. And though you have held up valiantly till now, it was inevitable that some girl or another would catch your eye. But how many wives can say it took a princess - that no lesser woman would suffice?"

"Not many, I'd wager. Truly, my wife is no ordinary woman."

Margaery nodded proudly. "Nor is my husband any ordinary man."

I gazed at her, observing the way she held herself. Till now, she had been mostly sweet, pliant. Playing very much into her innocent look. Yet this was not the first time that I was getting hints of Olenna lurking beneath it all. The same shrewdness lingered in her eyes. In her mouth, I suspected, was hidden a similarly witty tongue. And though she had not yet adopted the blatant cynicism that was her grandmother's mark, it seemed she had long ago shed her naivety.

I had always known Margaery was a clever girl, but this was new. I could already see her, hunched and wrinkled in fifty years time, sat knitting on some terrace in the keep as she watched the world below do her bidding. I couldn't help but laugh at the image. Margaery shot me a confused look.

"Ever full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Only a few, Your Grace. And only good ones, I hope."

I smiled. "Oh, the best. Now you sit there and look chastened. After so much effort I don't want the princess to see through our ploy."

And with that, I again called in the guards. Arianne would be awaiting my summons, I knew. She was, after all, privy to what she believed the true cause of my weeklong estrangement from Margaery. But I was still curious. She had kept her distance, hadn't used the time to spread any rumours. Had she realised her mistake, or was she soon to saunter into this room with the same overconfident expression plastered onto her face?

The answer arrived before me in short order, with a brief introduction from Ser Loras and a shallow curtsy. With a single finger I granted her a seat. Arianne lowered herself down into a confident posture, clad in even more confident attire, but there was an undeniable air of caution about her. Sensible for anyone, but unusual for one as typically careless as her. My refusal to so much as acknowledge her existence in the past week must have helped make room for the seeds of doubt in her mind.

"What you did was unacceptable," I began, allowing my previous mirth to morph into cold iron.

Arianne did not respond, merely meeting my gaze and waiting. Trying to appear confident.

I leaned back in my seat and sized her up, irritated by her apparent impertinence. "You will no longer attend small council meetings," I declared. "Assuming I don't dispose of your seat entirely, I'll have one of your cousins take your place. And soon enough, you'll be gone too. Back to Sunspear you'll slink with your tail tucked between your legs, like the bitter disappointment Doran always knew you to be."

Arianne's confidence began melting away, aghast.

"With Quentyn overseas, rallying the Golden Company to his side..." I clicked my tongue, playing up the false fears I knew still lingered in her mind. "Whatever concerns you may have had about your inheritance, princess..." I allowed myself to trail off.

"Your Grace," she croaked, bewildered, seemingly unable to believe what she was witnessing. Beside her Margaery sat quiet, the briefest flash of confusion crossing her features before the corners of her lips quirked up into a shade of a smile as she nodded along to my words.

"It was a bold plan, princess," I continued. "You knew I would never accept the subtle approach. You knew you needed to surprise me, to do something to lower my resistance and render me vulnerable to your charms. And what better than the sight of two willing women wrapped in passionate embrace, beckoning for a third to join? Not even Ned Stark could resist that, surely. Yet you overplayed your hand. With my sister in your father's hands, you know I can't arrest you. But that doesn't mean I can't ruin you." I stroked my chin as though in thought. "Let's see, I can't tell the truth about your dismissal - that would hardly reflect well on me, now would it? But all the best lies have a grain of truth, don't they?" I let a slow grin split my lips. "You tried to seduce Tywin Lannister, tried to win him over into supporting your claim to Sunspear, and failed. And thus, you were banished."

A look of horror crossed her face.

"I wonder how the lords of Dorne would react to the news of you trying to fuck the man who they deem guilty for killing your aunt? Or perhaps you succeeded in taking him to bed, but failed to win his affections? Who knows? I can only guess."

"I'll deny it," she immediately replied. "I'll tell the truth."

I shrugged. "And you are free to do so. Not that it'll help your case, of course. Your reputation is well-known throughout Dorne. Your refusal to be wed in spite your age certainly hasn't helped. When did you lose your maidenhead - thirteen, fourteen? To the Bastard of Godsgrace, of all people. And you haven't stopped since."

"They're more likely to believe me than you, the son of the Usurper," she spat, her eyes angry.

"I am a Baratheon, yes. I am that Baratheon who, out of his own sense of honour, helped your uncle slay the Mountain. Helped your uncle get justice for the senseless killing of his sister. In light of that, I think you'll find my word holds a good deal of water with your people. Even still, princess, some may choose to take your side. But not enough. And others would be all too eager to see the back of you. The Yronwoods, for one. And a great many others besides. All they need is an excuse. All of whom would doubtless find a great deal of support in the Iron Throne, should they require it."

"You would plunge a whole kingdom into civil war over this?" Arianne asked, anger giving way to incredulity.

"I could," I said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "Not that it would be necessary. Given sufficient pressure, your father could be convinced to set you aside in favour of your brother for fear of bloodshed. You and I both know he already has his doubts about you. But I am as capable of being kind as I am of being cruel. That you will leave my counsel, and my city, is not in question. But whether your retreat will be graceless or graceful is your choice." I withdrew from my desk a scrap of parchment I had prepared for this moment. "This is a letter, addressed to Prince Doran. With this one letter, I guarantee your succession."

"...How?" she asked, her gaze locked on the letter, eyes gleaming with interest.

I tutted and shook my head. "That is the wrong question to ask, Princess."

Arianne's stance stiffened. "What do you want?"

"I am a man of my word, princess. I don't make promises I don't intend to keep," I said. "Do you remember what you said, girl?"

Arianne swallowed, repeating her own words in a flat tone, speaking as though her tongue were coated with ash. "You can punish me another way, if you'd like."

I smiled. "You should congratulate yourself, Arianne. Your ploy worked."

"And if I refuse?" she asked. "You'll rape me?"

"Perish the thought, princess," I said, feigning offence. "I am not one for such things. No, I'll just send you home."

Arianne's look turned bitter as she slowly deflated in her seat. "What a wilful foolish girl I must seem to you, playing at the game of thrones like a drunkard rolling dice."

"Take this for a learning opportunity, then." I stood from my seat and rounded my desk, settling myself on it's edge and cupping her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw down to her chin, tilting her eyes up to meet mine. In spite myself, I felt a pang of pity for her. "And don't worry overmuch. Now that you know better than to displease me, better than to take such foolish risks, you won't go far wrong. In enough time, I'm certain you'll make a fine Princess of Dorne."

"So long as I play the whore for you," she sulked.

"As you were all too eager to do just a few days ago, I might remind you. The most noble whore in the world. A princess. A fitting paramour for a king."

Arianne licked her lips. "What about your honour? Your duty?"

I smiled, reached down, and kissed her. She offered no resistance. It was a fleeting kiss, but a promising one. "As far as I'm concerned, princess, you are my duty for the next few weeks. Dispensing justice is one of my burdens, after all." I cocked my head as I let my hand fall away. "Besides, I'm not merely securing the affections of a simple Dornish girl, but rather a princess. One who will doubtless serve me as a sensible, loyal vassal once she claims her rights. For she knows that what I can give away today I can most certainly take back tomorrow."

Arianne snorted and sighed, quietly conceding the point.

"You can go now," I said, returning to my original place and settling down in my seat with aplomb. "I'll see you tonight, in my chambers. Make sure you've taken some Moon Tea. Ask the Grandmaester if you have none. You'll need it."

She nodded as she lifted herself from her seat. And then she was gone. Margaery looked at me. "Why didn't you tell me...?"

"You didn't truly believe that I'd have her deposed?"

"Well... no. But why promise to guarantee her succession? Wouldn't holding her in suspense would grant you even more sway?"

"Mere punishment without the promise of redemption breeds resentment. And though I probably could, I don't really want to plunge Dorne into civil war. It would make far too much work for me. No. Better to display my power with a false show of kindness than a true show of cruelty. It'll help to win her compliance, to impress upon her that she is beneath me. Smallfolk don't show mercy or generosity to their lords, now do they? They can't. Only the powerful can afford such graces. Besides, this way it's more fun for the both of us."

"And the letter?"

"What about it?"

"How is it going to guarantee her succession?"

I smirked. "A clever trick, that. Arianne's inheritance was never in any serious doubt. But the princess doesn't know that. All the letter was supposed to do was to get Doran to tell his daughter as much. To tell her the truth."

"I see."

Silence hung awkwardly in the air for a long moment. Margaery slowly lifted herself from her seat, awaiting my permission to leave. I looked at the sheaf of parchments piled high on my desk, then back at her. "You know," I said, "it strikes me now that our estrangement has ended that I've yet to give my thanks for your help."

"It's nothing, Your Grace."

"It's everything. You've shown yourself to be reliable - to be trustworthy. And coming from me, that is high praise indeed. Our marriage may have been one of political convenience - a union more between houses than people - but that doesn't mean there is no place for passion between us. For lust. For love."

Her brows slowly crept up her forehead at my words, features shifting ever-so-slightly in emotion.

I arose from my seat, rounded my desk to face her. Without words I pulled her into a kiss. "I know I shouldn't," I told her as I spun her around, pressing her back against my desk. Margaery yelped at the abruptness of my movements. "But there's just something about you I can't resist." I pushed some papers aside, hauled my wife up onto the freshly-exposed wooden surface, lifted her skirts and spread her legs; tracing little patterns as I inched up her thigh, fingers sinking into her heat.

Margaery gasped, grinned, pulled me closer.

"Is that so?" she asked, urging me on between kisses.

"It is," I asserted. "You think I find the princess enticing? She's nothing compared to you."

My lips drifted from hers down her chin and to her neck, my spare hand tugging at her bodice to free her breasts. Her hands mussed my hair, fingers working. "Oh?" she breathed, voice catching in her throat, shivering slightly.

"Don't just take my word for it. Here, let me prove it to you..."

---

This rewrite is perhaps not the most elegant - and definitely not my best work. But though I will probably come back later to touch up the more clunky prose, the major story changes made are here to stay. The original, in retrospect, was a chapter rushed out with improper thought. The draft plan for that chapter was intended to kick-start a Kings Landing arc that, in hindsight, feels like pointless padding, and should have been cut on revision, but wasn't. And though I can't promise to never make such an error again (I am very much still an amateur, prone to stupid mistakes) I can try and be more prudent with my character-work in future. Thanks.

---

Chapter 45: Turning the Page (Original)

The horn was bigger than I had expected.

Onyx-black and made from the bone of what much have been a truly enormous dragon; it was banded with Valyrian steel and red gold, studded with strange Valyrian glyphs that I had to remember to get the Grandmaester to take a look at, its surface host to an unsettlingly reflective sheen. The whole thing was some odd six feet long from mouthpiece to spout, and doubtless capable of creating a bone-meltingly intense wail; though whether that wail could tame dragons was more doubtful.

If nothing else, it certainly looked the part.

"What is that?" Tyrion asked as he settled his papers onto the desk. He'd been hard at work, dismantling Baelish's web.

I shrugged, feeling cryptic. "A trinket or a tool, depending on who you ask."

"I'm asking you," he replied, eyes narrowing as he observed the thing. It must have seemed a strange addition to my chambers.

"Consider it a bit of both, then," I answered. "Onto business."

Tyrion nodded as he hopped into his chair, his feet dangling off the edge. "Our expenses - discounting one-off or unique items - have fallen below our incomes. Our total spending still far exceeds collected taxes, but we have a healthy enough reserve to manage it."

"The main items?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"The biggest by far has to be the grain. The Reachlords may have cut their prices at Lord Mace's behest, but not enough to avoid making a dent in our coffers. Mercifully, most the grain in the current shipment's already been bought, so we don't have to do much more business with them for a little while. Next comes the Iron Bank. The costs of servicing our debt and the added charge." Tyrion shot me a look.

"The Faceless Men, you mean," I supplied.

"Yes," he nodded, shooting me a side-eyed look. "We've done well in dealing with our other debts. Our debts to the Faith have almost been completely paid off, thanks in no small part to the High Septon's generosity." I smiled. "Repayments to House Lannister have been reduced. Then there's the city itself. Rebuilding the gates, removing and disposing of the wildfire, building granaries, purging the gold cloaks, building scorpions for the city walls - all costly measures in their own right. And your wider ambitions as well. Expanding the ports, rebuilding the royal fleet, repairing the major trade roads into and out of the capital, expanding the newly-reformed gold cloaks to patrol the Kingsroad against bandits, and all the other myriad things you seem to want to do."

"Where are we with our reserves?" I asked.

"Of the two million House Tyrell so generously gifted us, I would say we have a a little less than one-and-a-half million left in our coffers."

I let a low whistle slip through my lips. "At that rate I'll beggar the realm faster than my father. I'm spending almost as much coin per day as he did."

"And having far less fun, too," Tyrion japed.

I couldn't help but snort. "That too," I agreed. "Though for you I reckon that might soon change. Once Baelish is dealt with his brothels will be yours for the taking."

"Mine?" Tyrion asked, a lone brow quirked. "Not the crown's?"

"Gods, no," I said, putting on an air of offence. "I'll take everything else worth half a groat to fill the crown's coffers, just not the brothels. All those whores, in need of instruction and management..." I shook my head. "The crown could never be seen to be indulging in such shameful flesh-peddling."

"Ah," Tyrion said, as he caught my meaning. "But the crown's lecherous uncle could. All while paying some elevated tax, I presume."

I couldn't help the grin on my face. "In any case, what would be your assessment?"

Tyrion quirked a lone brow. "Of what, nephew?"

"Of my reign thus far."

Tyrion scratched his beard a moment in thought. He knew better than to flatter - I had little tolerance for such things in my inner circle. "Some measures are working better than others," he finally decided. "I don't know how much worth your grain shipments will be in staving off famine. Given the seasons there are risks some of the seeds won't take or will be stolen or the yields may not be as we hope - though I am more hopeful for the livestock we are sending to the war-stricken areas. Yet the measure has managed to draw people away from the cities. Kings Landing reeks less today than it did a few months ago. It's less decrepit, less overfilled. Safer, too. Less robberies, less rapes, less hunger. The grain has also worked to curry favour with the lords. The Stormlords and Riverlords and Reachlords all like you more for it. And I imagine the Northerners must be looking down on them with envy."

"All in all a good showing, then?"

Tyrion shrugged. "You need not worry, I think. You're better than your predecessors, in any case."

"You damn me with faint praise, I say. Who wouldn't be better than Joffrey?"

Tyrion snorted impudently.

I shook my head in mock exasperation. "You can go, then. Good work so far."

Tyrion nodded as he gathered up his things and made to leave, waddling out the door. I leaned back in my seat once he was gone, contemplative. The big issue remained. My wife and the princess. Even as I remembered the incident, I could scarcely believe my passivity. Yet it was for the best. I had been sleep-deprived, emotional, angry. Prone to making rash decisions bound to backfire spectacularly. As royalty, this was more a political than personal issue. The loyalty of the Reach, and the availability of its bounty, depended on my marriage. And if that bond broke, then there was every chance the web of alliances I had worked so hard to build could be cut apart. And that might well cost me my life. I needed in this case to put my own feelings aside.

Not that my feelings were all negative.

Still, the incident did bear a little fruit. Lacking for sleep, wallowing in my own exhaustion, I finally set my pride aside and opted to go to the Grandmaester asking after some dreamwine. That night's sleep had been dreamless, almost eerily so, but it had been restful, and my head felt clearer, calmer than it had in weeks. The subsequent nights had also been better, if not quite so restful. Doubtless, a lack of Bloodraven's voice in my head had only helped matters, as had the fact that my injuries were close to healing. In spite myself, I almost felt in a cheerful mood.

Almost.

I called in the guards, and sent for my wife. Enough waiting. I had to confront this head-on. Though I had been lucky, and the rumour-mill of court had been quiet on any mention of Arianne, there were whispers about the king and queen fighting. Murmurs of weakness. A chink in the regnal armour. Troubling. Unacceptable. Yet inevitable, as I refused to allow her to grace my bed. The excuse of allowing my injuries from the yard to fully heal hadn't quite worked. Or rather, it had gone awry. I needed a way to fold the rumours into a satisfying truth, something to cement my authority. Some new gossip to overwhelm all the rest.

Hell, how was it that Cersei wasn't the biggest of my troubles?

Margaery entered, looking appropriately contrite, her head bowed. I gestured for her to sit, and she claimed a chair. I eyed her up and down, still puzzled by it. "Care to explain yourself?"

"Your Grace," she began, "I... The only way I could explain it was to say I'd had a moment of weakness. The sight of you bleeding from the eyes is still seared into my brain. It shook me. And the wine had not helped matters. And so when Arianne appeared, offering comfort that quickly turned into something else, I found myself less resistant than usual."

I felt my look turn sour. "That's... disappointing." Somehow, I had expected more method to her madness. Yet if her dalliance with Arianne had been part of a larger plot, why should she confess to it now? Better to keep her secrets and play the helpless maiden.

"I know, Your Grace. Yet I must remind you that whatever temptations you may have felt around the princess... were far more fleeting. You found yourself away from her, away from me most of the time, busy with the work of the realm. She focused her attentions on me. And the princess can be... insistent."

"And eventually, you succumbed."

Margaery nodded. "When I was little, I stumbled across Loras with one his lovers. The sight stuck with me, the thought of another woman..." She shook her head. "I can only apologise. I lack your strength of will. I failed you."

"Why'd you let her get that close in the first place?" I asked. "If you felt the temptations too?"

"Arianne extended an arm of friendship," Margaery said. "I'd hardly wish to offend the Dornish sensibilities. To make an enemy of an ally. To endanger Myrcella. And... I trust you know your mother's attitudes towards me?" I nodded. "The princess's seat on the small council gave me cause enough to keep her close."

"You wanted to build an alliance against the Lannisters," I finished for her. At Olenna's behest, perhaps? Or was I just being paranoid?

"Against your mother, Your Grace. Not the Lannisters at large. Just the one not too fond of me. And just to show her I could hold my own, that I was a worthy woman to be your wife. I hold no ill will to her, I swear it."

I sighed. "You don't need to swear anything. My mother can be a tetchy sort. I reckon I'll never have a wife she won't hate to some extent. That much I can understand. But what about the offer? To share?"

Margaery blushed slightly. "When you arrived, Your Grace, I suddenly came to my senses. It was like you'd said, I'd broken my vows."

I nodded in understanding. "You never thought you'd be caught. But you were. And knowing my father, you hoped to blunt my anger."

"I panicked. I know you're not him."

"Yes," I agreed.

"I pray you can forgive me," she said, her eyes meeting mine. I didn't know quite what to think, how to square the image of a politically savvy woman with that of an emotional teenager thrust into an unfamiliar and dangerous world. How to decide which one she was? She could be telling me the truth, making an honest appeal to her husband, or else a half-truth, attempting to extract some secret concession. If nothing else, it was a testament to her skill that I couldn't tell.

"What was it you said, after Joffrey was buried? When we become married I become yours..."

"Forever," she finished for me.

"You're in luck," I finally said after an intentionally long moment. "I'm in a forgiving mood. But I'm not in the habit of offering something for nothing."

"Anything, Your Grace."

I studied her face, her wide, bright eyes; the curve of her brow and the crease in her forehead when she frowned; the minute twitches of her nose; the way she set her hands in her lap and the stiff formality of her posture. Apprehension intermingled with a certain self-assuredness. "That offer... I haven't been able to put it out of my mind."

Margaery seemed troubled by my words, perhaps a tad disappointed. "Your Grace?"

"I've always wondered what it would be like to have two women," I pressed. "I am my father's son, after all."

Margaery chewed her lip, either genuinely uncertain or else feigning it expertly. "The princess?"

I nodded. "The princess."

Margaery cocked her head in thought, seemingly warming to the notion. "What of our vows?" she asked. "As you said when you caught us?"

I dismissed her objection with a careless wave of my hand. "I don't much mind if you want to bring beautiful women - and only women, mind you - to our bed. So long as you bring them to me first. Of course, it's true enough that some vows are not so easily broken. But where an old bridge has been burned a new bridge might be built, I say. Our marriage is ours. So long as our final loyalties are to one another, then what does it matter if we choose to invite the odd outsider? Consider it recompense, if you must. You got to play with the princess. So why shouldn't I?"

"That seems just," she agreed, though I could tell some reluctance remained. Her voice took on an almost playful lilt. "Yet how do I know she won't steal you away?"

I snorted and rolled my eyes. "She's been all but shoving her teats in my face from the moment she set foot in the keep. If I'd intended on running away with her, I'd have done it already." I shrugged. "She's too much trouble for me. Too outrageous. Altogether too Dornish. Her father ought to have disciplined her more as a child."

Margaery's expression was almost devious. "I'm sure you'll make up for it."

And with that, I called in the guards and sent for the princess. Arianne would be awaiting the call. She was, after all, privy to the true cause of my weeklong estrangement with Margaery. But I was still curious. She had kept her distance, hadn't used the time to spread any rumours. Had she realised her mistake, or was she soon to saunter into this room with the same overconfident expression plastered onto her face?

The answer arrived before me in short order, with a brief introduction from Ser Loras and a shallow curtsy. With a single finger I granted her a seat. Arianne lowered herself down into a confident posture, clad in even more confident attire, but there was an undeniable air of caution about her. Sensible for anyone, but unusual for one as typically careless as her. My refusal to so much as acknowledge her existence in the past week must have helped make room for the seeds of doubt in her mind.

"What you did was unacceptable," I began, allowing my previous mirth to morph into cold iron.

Arianne did not respond, merely meeting my gaze and waiting. Trying to appear confident.

I leaned back in my seat and sized her up, irritated by her apparent impertinence. "You will no longer attend small council meetings," I declared. "Assuming I don't dispose of your seat entirely, I'll have one of your cousins take your place. And soon enough, you'll be gone too. Back to Sunspear you'll slink with your tail tucked between your legs, like the bitter disappointment Doran always knew you to be."

Arianne's confidence began melting away, aghast.

"With Quentyn overseas, rallying the Golden Company to his side..." I clicked my tongue, playing up the false fears I knew still lingered in her mind. "Whatever concerns you may have had about your inheritance, princess..." I allowed myself to trail off.

"Your Grace," she croaked, bewildered, seemingly unable to believe what she was witnessing. Beside her Margaery sat quiet, the briefest flash of confusion crossing her features before the corners of her lips quirked up into the slightest hint of a smile as she nodded along to my words. She may well have played along with my request in an effort to win back my favour, but in all likelihood she was happy to hear of the princess's departure.

"It was a bold plan, princess," I continued. "You knew I would never accept the subtle approach. You knew you needed to surprise me, to do something to lower my resistance and render me vulnerable to your charms. And what better than the sight of two willing women wrapped in passionate embrace, beckoning for a third to join? Not even Ned Stark could resist that, surely. Yet you overplayed your hand. With my sister in your father's hands, you know I can't arrest you. But that doesn't mean I can't ruin you." I stroked my chin as though in thought. "Let's see, I can't tell the truth about your dismissal - that would hardly reflect well on me, now would it? But all the best lies have a grain of truth, don't they?" I let a slow grin split my lips. "You tried to seduce Tywin Lannister, tried to win him over into supporting your claim to Sunspear, and failed. And thus, you were banished."

A look of horror crossed her face.

"I wonder how the lords of Dorne would react to the news of you trying to fuck the man who they deem guilty for killing your aunt? Or perhaps you succeeded in taking him to bed, but failed to win his affections? Who knows? I can only guess."

"I'll deny it," she immediately replied. "I'll tell the truth."

I shrugged. "And you are free to do so. Not that it'll help your case, of course. Your reputation is well-known throughout Dorne. Your refusal to be wed in spite your age certainly hasn't helped. When did you lose your maidenhead - thirteen, fourteen? To the Bastard of Godsgrace, of all people. And you haven't stopped since."

"They're more likely to believe me than you, the son of the Usurper," she spat, her eyes angry.

"I am a Baratheon, yes. I am that Baratheon who, out of his own sense of honour, helped your uncle slay the Mountain. Helped your uncle get justice for the senseless killing of his sister. In light of that, I think you'll find my word holds a good deal of water with your people. Even still, princess, some may choose to take your side. But not enough. And others would be all too eager to see the back of you. The Yronwoods, for one. And a great many others besides. All they need is an excuse. All of whom would doubtless find a great deal of support in the Iron Throne, should they require it."

"You would plunge a whole kingdom into civil war over this?" Arianne asked, anger giving way to incredulity.

"I could," I said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "Not that it would be necessary. Given sufficient pressure, your father could be convinced to set you aside in favour of your brother for fear of bloodshed. You and I both know he already has his doubts about you. But I am as capable of being kind as I am of being cruel. That you will leave my counsel, and my city, is not in question. But whether your retreat will be graceless or graceful is your choice." I withdrew from my desk a scrap of parchment I had prepared for this moment. "This is a letter, addressed to Prince Doran. With this one letter, I guarantee your succession."

"...How?" she asked, her gaze locked on the letter, eyes gleaming with interest.

I tutted and shook my head. "That is the wrong question to ask, Princess."

Arianne's stance stiffened. "What do you want?"

"I am a man of my word, princess. I don't make promises I don't intend to keep," I said. "Do you remember what you said, girl?"

Arianne swallowed, repeating her own words in a flat tone, speaking as though her tongue were coated with ash. "You can punish me another way, if you'd like."

I smiled. "You should congratulate yourself, Arianne. Your ploy worked."

"And if I refuse?" she asked. "You'll rape me?"

"Perish the thought, princess," I said, feigning offence. "I am not one for such things. No, I'll just send you home."

Arianne's look turned bitter as she slowly deflated in her seat. "What a wilful foolish girl I must seem to you, playing at the game of thrones like a drunkard rolling dice."

"Take this for a learning opportunity, then." I stood from my seat and rounded my desk, settling myself on it's edge and cupping her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw down to her chin, tilting her eyes up to meet mine. In spite myself, I felt a pang of pity for her. "And don't worry overmuch. Now that you know better than to displease me, better than to take such foolish risks, you won't go far wrong. In enough time, I'm certain you'll make a fine Princess of Dorne."

"So long as I play the whore for you," she sulked.

"As you were all too eager to do just a few days ago, I might remind you. The most noble whore in the world. A princess. A fitting paramour for a king."

Arianne licked her lips. "What about your honour? Your duty?"

I smiled, reached down, and kissed her. She offered no resistance. It was a fleeting kiss, but a promising one. "As far as I'm concerned, princess, you are my duty for the next few weeks. Dispensing justice is one of my burdens, after all." I cocked my head as I let my hand fall away. "Besides, I'm not merely securing the affections of a simple Dornish girl, but rather a princess. One who will doubtless serve me as a sensible, loyal vassal once she claims her rights. For she knows that what I can give away today I can most certainly take back tomorrow."

Arianne snorted and sighed, quietly conceding the point.

"You can go now," I said, returning to my original place and settling down in my seat with aplomb. "I'll see you tonight, in my chambers. Make sure you've taken some Moon Tea. Ask the Grandmaester if you have none. You'll need it."

She nodded as she lifted herself from her seat. And then she was gone. Margaery looked at me. "Why didn't you tell me...?"

"Did you really think after all she did that I'd allow her to stay?" I asked. "Given the risk she represents?"

"Well... no. But why promise to guarantee her succession?"

"Mere punishment without the promise of redemption breeds resentment. And though I probably could, I don't really want to plunge Dorne into civil war. It would make far too much work for me. No. Better to display my power with a false show of kindness than a true show of cruelty. It'll help to win her compliance, to impress upon her that she is beneath me. Smallfolk don't show mercy or generosity to their lords, now do they? They can't. Only the powerful can afford such graces. Besides, this way it's more fun for the both of us."

"And the letter?"

"What about it?"

"How is it going to guarantee her succession?"

I smirked. "A clever trick, that. Arianne's inheritance was never in any serious doubt. But the princess doesn't know that. All the letter was supposed to do was to get Doran to tell his daughter as much. To tell her the truth."

"I see."

Silence hung awkwardly in the air for a long moment. Margaery slowly lifted herself from her seat, awaiting my permission to leave. I looked at the sheaf of parchments piled high on my desk, then back at her. "You know," I said, "it strikes me now that we don't know each other very well. Ever since I wed you I've always been distracted by something. Some urgent matter in need of attending to. Some new nightmare to mull over. And most of what time I do spend with you that isn't in our bed is in public. Where you are my queen more than my wife, and our true feelings and thoughts are rarely free to be heard."

"You are only doing your duty," she assured me, rather tepidly.

"Consider our lives a book, Margaery. This is an opportunity to turn the page. To leave this ugliness behind. So, sit. You already know a great deal of me, though I would wager not as much as you think. Yet it is clear to me that I know even less of you. Tell me something of yourself I don't know. Anything."

Margaery shot me a strange look, her eyes drifting down to the clutter of my desk. "Truly?"

"Truly. My work can wait a few moments."
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Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

P.S. Will probably be subject to a rewrite or edits in the future

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the chapter. Great story

 

[Dawnwalking_Soldier]

..... While not the payback I was expecting (And Hoped for), I do admit a part of me feels a sort of satisfaction with this brand of retaliation. Arianne is suitably cowed, those first few opening sentences from Tommen showed that very well. She was still expecting him to be naive regarding the smaller politics, and possibly swayed by puberty. But this isn't the Boy who is King, but the King who is a Boy. Well that and the fact our hero isn't entirely a boy in mind.

While I wish she'd be more harshly dealt with I can be satisfied with what we've recieved.

Margaery, on the other hand, should know she must tread carefully. She fucked up, by the numbers really, and is only getting her second chance due to the benefit she brings to the table. He's given her both a chance, and tacit permission to bring another women into their bed as long as she brings the perspective to him first. This is by far the best case she could hope for, but she should also remember she's on her second chance, a chance that might very well be her last.

Personally, and this is due to my hang-ups regarding loyalty so it might just be me, I think she got off easy. Letting her stew in her fuck-up, for a few days? If my guess on Tommen's healing time is right, is a good start. But I would have liked to see Olena's reaction to her granddaughter fucking up, possibly letting her know exactly how close she came to running everything, really letting the monumentallity of her mistake set in, before Tommen graciously gives her the second chance. But again that's just me.

I will however state that my opinion on Margaery will remain low, next to non-existent really, until she shows that she's truly sorry for the betrayal she committed.

All told however, I really did enjoy the chapter. My own hang-ups aside the story is really well written and I can't wait for more, the scene in the beginning with Tyrion was great, and I like how the plans for the kingdom are slowly coming together.