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

[KenNM]

Even across a continent away, Tommen spreads his influence haha.

 

[iceknight90]

"Not me," Jon cut in, knowing Sam's words before he uttered them. "I'm not stupid enough to risk myself on such an unsure thing. Fetch Ser Alliser, will you?"

Sam stood still for a moment. "He'll think you're trying to get him killed for opposing you."

"He may well think that," Jon said. "But an order is an order all the same. He can face the snows or he can face my sword, as Slynt did. Now go."

Click to shrink...

Goddamn that's stone cold. I love it.

 

[Proman]

I mean given everything. Alisser always sorta asks to be shorter doesn't he?

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the chapter. Great story

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 39: The Threads of Fate

Beneath a wave of pleasure a snowy waste presented itself.

With the gusts of snowy wind buffeting me from all sides came little sounds. Human sounds. Grunts and groans and moans and whimpers. Pain? Fear? Maybe. Probably. In dreamworld the details were always inconsistent, everchanging. Like the sands of time sifting through your fingers, or a snowflake melting in your palm. The little details may have hidden some significance or meaning, but that meaning always seemed to elude me.

Nevertheless, not one of my trips into these dreams had been fruitless. They didn't grant me prophecy, per se, but rather a strange sort of emotional insight. Hidden truths, half-remembered passages from the book and scenes from the show. Predictions and theories made terrifyingly real. Once I saw the Wall crumble beneath an assault of wights, ice-dragons bursting forth from within, the unmistakeable blare of a horn above it all. Another time I saw a kraken rise from the depths, strange crab-peoples clambering up the shores to lead the Drowned God's invasions of Westeros. I saw the Others win time after time. I saw Daenerys's descent into madness. I saw Kings Landing aflame. Saw Highgarden. Saw Winterfell razed to the ground. Heard the terrified screams of the innocents trapped in the blaze, caught in the blizzard.

I had not been here even a year, and in my dreams I had seen more than I had ever expected I would - or could - ever see. It was a strange sort of torment, or perhaps a sick sort of entertainment. If one could stay detached, it was even possible to enjoy the spectacle. These weren't predictions, I quickly discerned, they were possibilities. And possibilities are, in the end, mostly meaningless.

Still, that didn't make what I saw any less real.

And right now, what I saw was an ocean of an army, an unstoppable mass of corpses rumbling onwards. Their feet kicked up clouds of snow. Behind me was the Wall, fire arrows streaking overhead and slamming into the ranks of the enemy. I kept my composure. This was a common enough dream. It even seemed optimistic. The presence of arrows meant that the Watch had not entirely fallen. Someone far up there was still left to resist the tide.

I watched them come, eerily calm. This was just a dream. The scent, the flush in my cheeks, my rapidly numbing fingers and toes, the wind brushing my hair and the sounds of human despair that came with the breeze itself. Just a dream. Just a scene in a play I'd seen a hundred times by now.

And then the scene changed.

Suddenly the snowy plain was gone, replaced by a wood. A tangle of branches caged me from overhead, the crooked white of weirwood meeting with the darker branches of other, lesser trees. Ironwood, among others. Gnarled and warped trunks hemmed me in from both sides. The blank faces carved into the weirwoods seemed to bleed from the eyes. And before me, a path emerged, a gap in the trees through which I was clearly meant to advance. Strange. Never before had I been thusly beckoned. Always I was ripped from one scene to the next, aware yet completely helpless. And now I was in control?

Warily, I took a step forwards, then another. The snow crunched underfoot, thick enough to bury me up to the knee. The air here was dead, the breeze banished, though the atmosphere still seemed to creak and moan. Crows started to appear on the branches, beady black eyes following me as I advanced. A smattering, at first, and then a veritable swarm. Every branch had one patiently perched atop it, little heads occasionally cocked in curiosity as they observed me. And then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they would slip away in a puff of black smoke.

"Come out, Bloodraven," I ventured. Only one figure would use such imagery. Only one figure would possess the capacity to peer into my dreams.

A swarm of crows gathered ahead of me, trailing smoke, merging in some cacophony of flesh and feathers. From within the storm a man emerged with long silver hair and a single red eye and a hood pulled over his head, weirwood longbow in one hand, the Targaryen sigil proudly shown on his surcoat atop his mail. One side of his face bore the characteristic scar, angry red marring his otherwise perfectly milk-white skin. His waist was girded with a thick leather belt, an ornate dagger in it's sheath at his side. A quiver of dragonglass arrows sat on his back, the leather strap crossing his shoulder and chest.

"Why am I here, Brynden?" I asked, in a softer, less assured, less demanding tone.

"Why, indeed?" Brynden asked, his lips moving just slightly out of sync with his voice. Utterly calm, that voice. Cold. Threatening, yet tentative, uncertain. "Why would a stranger from another world invade the mind of a little bastard boy?"

I shrugged. "I don't know," I said. "One moment I was in my old life, and the next..."

Brynden's calm expression suddenly became angry, cruel. "A victim of circumstance, are you?"

A jolt of pain throbbed through my head. My breath shortened in my chest. My heartrate began a slow ascent. My face hurt, my ears rushing with blood.

"Yes," I asserted, suddenly furious. I had been uprooted from my home, my family, everything I had ever known or loved. Any other man might have collapsed into despair. All things considered, I had done reasonably well not only for myself, but for Westeros as well. An attitude of detachment may have defined my decision-making, but the knowledge of stakes was omnipresent. Ruthless action was undertaken with consideration to the lives that could be lost or saved. And maybe, just maybe, a dream of advancement undergirded everything - the last strand of hope to cling to in the most desperate times. "This world is a shithole. You should consider yourself lucky I haven't been driven mad, or simply abandoned all my responsibilities. Most you people are cunts."

"Your intervention has tangled the threads of fate, boy," Bloodraven hissed. "In your foolish quest to save us you may well have doomed us all."

I sneered. "Prophecy is, and always was, a crock of shit. Self-fulfilling in most circumstances. Luck or the gods or fate may well decide to fuck with me, but in the end I make my own future. I won't let you, or anyone else, take that away from me."

Bloodraven met my sneer with a look of scorn. "And what does that future look like, hmm?"

"It looks like peace," I vehemently insisted. "Like prosperity. Like progress. I envisage a world with abundant harvests. A world in which war is a distant memory for most, where the majority of children are fated not to lead short, miserable, brutish lives but rather long lives full of possibility. A world with happy families and faithful marriages. A world of honest and dignified labour. A world of competent governance and human freedom and honour and wealth abound. A world in which the worth of a man is not merely in his name, but rather in the strength of his character and the sweat on his brow. It's a dream far beyond my reach for now, but mayhap I can pull us all a little closer towards it. Start the slow, unceasing march forwards that may in five-hundred years or perhaps a thousand yield fruit in a better future for everyone."

Listening to myself, I was struck by how cringe-inducingly earnest my words had been. Had I always been such a naïve sap? Obviously, I knew the world could be better, but the future seemed dim regardless. This was Westeros, after all. And even in my old life, I had never been a utopian. Never one to fall for the unrealistically grand and sweeping visions of the kind that I now espoused. And that instinct had served me well. Demagogues and god-heads are, as a rule, dangerous.

But hadn't Justinian secured the future of Byzantium for centuries to come? Hadn't Aurelian averted the crisis of the third century? Hadn't Augustus initiated the Pax Romana? Hadn't Khosrau Anushirawan essentially succeeded in his quest to remake Sasanian society? Hadn't Admiral Yi achieved the impossible in beating back Toyotomi Hideyoshi's Japan? Hadn't Metternich negotiated Austria's path to power by the ruthless application of power politics alone, and all after suffering defeat after defeat at the hands of Napoleon? Hadn't Bismarck united Germany from a dozen bickering principalities? Hadn't Adam Smith fundamentally changed the world forever for the better with just his writings alone? Hadn't Abraham Lincoln held his nation together in a time of extreme stress, and ushered it ultimately to a better future through his careful stewardship?

Great men are often unreliable, yes, but when they succeed they can work genuine miracles. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite. Maybe that makes me a gullible fool. Maybe that makes me a wannabe with delusions of grandeur. Nevertheless, I did not relent, meeting Bloodraven's gaze head-on, stern.

Brynden's scorn seemed to waver for a second, but quickly resolidified on his face. "You truly are a child," he spat. "Or else a desperate, addled fool."

I let the anger leak from my breast with a long-suffering sigh, though the physical sense of heightened anxiety did not leave me. "Maybe," I shrugged, slightly dizzy, my head now pounding. "Probably. But isn't it worth a try? Isn't it worth looking beyond the Long Night at what could be? You may think me a fool for it, but I don't agree. I'm no fool. I don't think the world will ever be perfect, but I do think it could be better. If you've been observing me for any length of time you'll know I am no stranger to the cynical games of power. I don't mind assassinations, manipulations, plots or any other such things. But I refuse to play those games purely for myself. Self-interest is surely a part of it, but it is not all. If it was I would have run off with a good chunk of the treasury to greener pastures a long while ago."

Bloodraven stared at me for a long moment, silent. Nothing moved, even as the pain in my head grew more intense, my concentration wavering. "What you are," he finally seemed to decide, "is another complication. Like the Red Woman lingering at the Wall, or the like the One-Eyed Crow setting off from his islands in the west, or like the shadowbinder Quaithe in the east. For a long while your presence in the south set the world into a state of flux. Certainties became mere possibilities, and the strands of fate tangled and untangled and obscured themselves from inspection. Even now you seem to me to hide yourself behind a cloak of shadows."

"Yet unlike the One-Eyed Crow," I retorted, "you and I don't have to work at cross-purposes. Fundamentally, we both want mankind to survive and thrive. Euron doesn't. You say my presence has disrupted the strength of prophecy, fate. Well enough. But with the uncertainty this creates comes the chance for something better."

Bloodraven laughed a bitter, cynical laugh. "Everyone seems to think they are the prophesied one. Without exception. The one fated to save the world. Or perhaps the one fated to destroy it and build anew in their own image."

"I don't," I retorted, though internally I suspected that Brynden may have been more correct than I was willing to admit. "I want to be great, I won't deny it, but I don't think I'm Azor Ahai or any such rot. I'm no saviour. I'm no champion. In my old world I was nobody special. And, frankly, I don't really want to be special. Bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders sounds dreadful. But to make good changes I don't need to be a saviour. I merely need to align the interests of others towards a common goal. And in that, I think you will agree, I have been doing well."

"So not a saviour but a schemer," Bloodraven surmised.

"Much like yourself," I agreed, now feeling faint. The pain was intense, the sensations confused. Pain, pleasure, fear. "There have always been Targaryens who dreamed of things to come, since long before the conquest. But Targaryens aren't the only ones who can have dreams."

"Hmm," Bloodraven said. "Well enough. I will accept you are not my enemy, though I know not whether you ought to be an ally. I would like to stay and discuss things further. Yet your mind... It's not like any other I've felt. Alien. Strange. Clearly of another world. Strained by this simple act of talking. Yet it is also malleable. Subject to change. Perhaps to improvement. So begone, stranger, before your mind breaks and all that potential is lost. We will speak again in future."

And, just like that, the real world returned. Every muted sensation I had experienced in the dreamscape exploded into reality with a stifled scream. My vision blurred and unblurred, my nerves alight with a haze of sensations. Yet the sounds, smells and sights were undeniably those of sex. I found myself atop my wife, who was flat on her back, her wrists pinned tightly to the bed by my hands, her bare breasts heaving and slick with blood, her face contorted with terror, whimpering, her body simultaneously frozen stiff and trembling.

I felt my face twist with revulsion almost as soon as I came to awareness. I withdrew, lifted my hands off her wrists and dismounted her. "Gods." I blinked in shock, eerily calm. A quick once-over seemed to suggest that the blood was not hers. The only visible injury I could see was the hand-shaped bruising around her wrists where I had pinned her. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Margaery seemed on the verge of tears. She opened her mouth, but failed to produce any words. "Your Grace..." she finally managed, her voice marked by a tremor.

Blood dripped on the sheets below me. I lifted a hand to my face. My fingers came away wet with the stuff. My eyes, nose were bleeding profusely. Licking my lips revealed the tell-tale metallic taste. My face ached something fierce, as did my chest. My heartrate was only now beginning to settle, the effects of adrenaline only now beginning to abate. Muted sensations gradually grew in intensity. The white of the sheets had been stained red in many places. No wonder I felt faint. How much blood had I lost?

"What happened?" I asked her, my head spinning.

Margaery gathered some of the bedsheet up in her hands to guard her modesty, her hands trembling. "You... We had gone to bed, and then... It started nice enough, but then you seemed to lose control, Your Grace. You became stiff. It was unlike you - you're always so careful, considerate. Yet men have been known to succumb to the throes of lust before, or so I thought at first, but then..."

"Then I started bleeding," I filled in for her, wiping some of the blood off my cheeks.

"I couldn't see your eyes," she said, her voice shaky. "They'd gone all white by the time you started weeping blood. I thought about calling one of the guards, yet... The sight of you like that struck me dumb with shock. Had... it, lasted any longer I likely would have found my voice again."

I could only sigh and nod. So much for small mercies. If the guards had found me like that... Well, it probably would not have ended well for me.

Had Bloodraven tried to warg into me? Is that what had caused our meeting? Is that why my visions appeared to have started whilst I was still awake, instead of after I had gone to sleep as they usually did? Or had my exploration of the dreamworld merely intersected with his? The former seemed more likely than the latter, but I couldn't be sure. Certainly, none of my previous nightmares had led to such visible consequences. There was usually some sweating, some disorientation and some panic but until today no blood. And yet, even if that was the case, what could I do? I could only hope any future meetings we had would prove less... messy.

"Your Grace," Margaery ventured, hesitant, "you need to go see the Grandmaester."

"No," I quickly overrode her. "This stays between us. Nobody else is to know. This one was worse than the last ones, that's all. I'm sorry you had to see it, truly, but I cannot have you speaking of this."

"What... What is this?" Margaery asked.

"The gods dole out their curses and blessings how they please," I reluctantly said, summoning up a suitable explanation in my exhaustion. "Daenys Targaryen was gifted with foresight, and cursed with madness. Or perhaps the foresight was her curse, and the madness her blessing. Her escape from the horrible realities of prophecy. Nevertheless, I have a little of that same blood in my veins. Joffrey got the Targaryen madness, the penchant for cruelty. I got the dreams. The nightmares. The fits."

Margaery reached out to me, tentative, still trembling slightly, her face twisting with sympathy. "Your Grace..."

Suddenly, my mood changed at Margaery's refusal to simply let the matter drop. The mental exhaustion and blood-loss were getting to me. My mind felt frayed, as though someone had decided to stress-test it, simultaneously stretching and compressing every synapse. I needed to rest more than anything. To sleep. Irritation flooded my skull, coloured with impatience and indignation. Who was she to offer me pity? To look at me like I was some sort of stray kitten?

"Forget it," I snapped, my voice unnecessarily harsh. "None of this is your concern. You continue enjoying the privileges of being a queen. I've always dealt with such problems on my own. No need for that to change. Just don't tell anyone what you saw tonight."

Margaery reared back at my tone, as though I had just slapped her. Instantly, the irritation I felt was supplanted by guilt.

"I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." I fell back onto my side of the bed, collapsing flat onto my back with a heavy sigh, feeling myself deflate. "My mind isn't quite right. The visions are often taxing. But don't worry, I just need to rest, to gather myself. Then I'll be all back to normal."

Margaery loomed overhead, uncertain, and I extended a little of the bedsheet for her to use to clean herself. A peace offering. These sheets would need to be disposed of. And discretely. I couldn't afford any inconvenient questions being asked by the wrong people. Margaery wiped her face with the sheet and eyed me cautiously. Much of the panic had left her by now, but there was still an underlying wariness about her. The distance of a just a few inches between us suddenly felt like a gaping chasm.

Still, to her credit, the girl nodded and lowered herself to lie uneasily beside me. "Of course, Your Grace."
--------------
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. Sorry if quality was sub-par. This one was a bit of a rush job. Will try to refine when life permits.

 

[Nathaniel Carrion]

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. Sorry if quality was sub-par. This one was a bit of a rush job. Will try to refine when life permits.

Click to shrink...

"Forewarned, forearmed; to be prepared is half the victory." —
Miguel de Cervantes
"Thus, what enables the wise sovereign and the good general to strike and conquer, and achieve things beyond the reach of ordinary men, is foreknowledge." — Sun Tzu, The Art of War.
Okay, so we all know Bloodraven was going to eventually talk to the SI. But did he have to do so at the most inconvenient of times? Also, will Margaery actually keep her mouth shut? She and Arianne seem to be getting close lately. Also, I always did wonder if Lann the Clever was a skinchanger or not. FYI, I am loving this rewrite so far, author. And when will you continue to write more chapters for one of your other stories like the Dune SI fic. Have you seen the new movie?

Furthermore, here are some military analysis links that I'd love for you to check out. Whenever you are writing the battles that the SI will inevitably be involved in against the Mannis, Aegon, and that psychopath Euron in the future. Also, is Jon the Azor Ahai? The SI has clearly taken Baelish off the geopolitical board. So, who knows which side the Valish lords will join. For now. And Tywin is still alive. All in all, I believe you're doing an excellent job, Morph-Writing.

https://warsandpoliticsoficeandfire.wordpress.com/essays/
https://warsandpoliticsoficeandfire...or-upcoming-battles-from-the-winds-of-winter/
https://warsandpoliticsoficeandfire...s-of-the-upcoming-siege-of-winterfell-part-1/
https://warsandpoliticsoficeandfire...s-of-the-upcoming-siege-of-winterfell-part-2/
https://warsandpoliticsoficeandfire...08/blood-of-the-conqueror-part-4-the-exile-2/
https://warsandpoliticsoficeandfire...ueror-part-5-a-conquest-that-lasted-a-summer/
https://warsandpoliticsoficeandfire...would-be-kings-of-westeros-stannis-baratheon/
https://warsandpoliticsoficeandfire...of-stannis-baratheon-as-a-military-commander/
https://warsandpoliticsoficeandfire...military-analysis-of-euron-greyjoy/#more-5073
https://www.reddit.com/r/asoiaf/comments/3n8kq3/spoilers_all_the_grape_feint_an_analysis_of_the/

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the chapter. Great story

 

[DKottar]

Nicely done. Would be interesting to see what others make of Tommen's abilities.

 

[James Archer]

Interesting chapter. I would like to see where this revelation to margery will go. Keep up the awesomeness and stay safe.

 

[daoistnextchapter]

Maybe I have forgotten but this seems like a complete departure. I don't ever remember him mentioning dreams beyond the lies/excuses to Cersei to cover for his book/show knowledge.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 40: Victarion II

The Iron Victory swept forwards, her ram cutting clean through the choppy green waters. Oars slapped the sea. Salt sprayed his face.

And ahead, the horizon lay clear.

Victarion felt his fist clench around the handle of his axe. The Drowned God had not fashioned him for fighting with words at Kingsmoots; nor had he fashioned Victarion for hunting furtive foes who'd disappear into reeds and bogs after the first strike. They had fashioned him for war, for the true battle between men. To cross blades with great warriors like the Kingslayer; that was his destiny.

And then the Drowned God denies me that destiny, Victarion thought.

To either side of him, the sea was seething with ships. The Iron Fleet in its fullest glory. Between the hulls the water was white, frothing like a bubbling stew. In the distance, though, was nothing. Have the roses wilted? he wondered. Or do they merely mean to hide their thorns?

Victarion growled in frustration. They had spent months organising their forces, gathering enough ships for a raid on the Shields. Part of him was pleased by the quiet, he could not deny. If they took the isles without a fight Euron's fallibility would be exposed. Euron's wizards aren't quite what he claimed.

Yet part of him knew better. Plunder is plunder, he thought scornfully. Most reavers would choose gold before glory. A bloodless victory might prove worse for Euron, undermining his authority, but it could just as easily serve his ends even better, cementing the loyalty of the Ironborn to the Crow's Eye. They might actually begin to believe his lunatic lies about dragons. Obedience came naturally to Victarion, as it did to most of them. He'd grown up knowing it was all he could do to serve Balon dutifully in everything. And later he'd come to accept that one day he would be forced to kneel before one of Balon's spawn.

But the Crow's Eye... Kneeling before him brought bile bubbling up from the base of his throat. The wind was raging in his ears, his loins stirring, and the bitter taste of resentment on his tongue refused to abate. Absent a battle, Victarion surrendered his place at the prow of the Iron Victory to Nute to clamber belowdecks. He needed a drink to wash his mouth of the taste. In his cramped cabin he found Euron's gift to him wet and ready; the dusky girl was always naked for him.

Victarion unbuckled his belt and pulled off his gauntlet, letting the armour clatter on the wooden floor. He slapped the girl, once, twice, then grasped her by the throat as he plunged roughly into her. The girl let out a choked, tongueless moan - all Euron's pets had had their tongues pulled out once aboard the Silence. Her breasts shook as he fucked her, small dark nipples bobbing back and forth on rolling hills of tan flesh. He had her once, filling her, then again, pulling out to paint her.

The bed creaked beneath them. Victarion handled the girl roughly, though never enough to damage her beauty. No need to be nice to Euron's leavings, he told himself. He had never liked having to share his things. His thoughts turned briefly to his old wife, his salt wife, who'd shared her bed with Euron. "She came to me wet and willing," Euron had said, though she had claimed rape. I beat her to death with mine own hands, even as she begged and pleaded for mercy, Victarion thought. But I didn't kill her. The Crow's Eye killed her when he shoved himself inside her. I had no choice.

But whilst he had contemplated doing the same to the girl beside him now, he had ultimately decided against it. She was ever so pretty. No more than twenty by the look of her, pliant and obedient to a fault. Euron said he had stolen her from the Lyseni, who had kept and trained her in their pillow-houses when she was just a young slave-girl. It showed. She was skilled in love, ever willing, never refusing him anything. And when Euron had told him that if he did not take her off his hands she would be killed, he knew he could not let his pride stop him from getting such a delicious prize. I took her from him, he told himself, though the thought rang hollow.

He pushed her off him. "Wine!" he bellowed. Obediently, silently, the girl stood, still dripping with his seed, and fetched him his skin. Victarion gulped the sour liquid down, sweating. He pulled the girl into his lap and kissed her, pushing some wine into her mouth with his tongue. She swallowed, some dribbling down her chin, and then he pushed her head down to his groin. Tongueless, she could not help her ineptitude, though he could not deny that she still put in a valiant effort with her lips alone, gagging and slobbering on his cock, taking it all the way down her throat. Victarion pulled her head off him and dragged her by her hair, throwing her back on the bed before plunging back into her for a third time, his fingers sinking into her breasts.

But even buried in her flesh, he could not distract himself from thoughts of what lay ahead. Euron had sent a dozen longships up the Mander to lure out the patrols into open waters, where the Iron Fleet could do proper battle. Those ships had yet to return. No word had come. Hell, for all Victarion knew, they may well have vanished. Yet Euron had still ordered the main force to sail ahead to the Shields, convinced they would still be able to conquer the isles. He had not been wrong. The wind was at their backs, billowing their sails, as it had been all the way from Old Wyk.

Euron and his wizards again, Victarion thought. Men whispered when they thought he was not around. Victarion was no fool. He knew what they thought. Euron had ordered the fleet to sail straight south instead of hugging coasts as was custom, and it had worked. The men had been awed by it. It was thought that the Crow's Eye had somehow curried favour with the Storm Gods as well as the Drowned God, offering up sacrifices to somehow appease them both.

The entire venture had been a stunning success. Greenshield, Greyshield, Oakenshield, and Southshield had all fallen with only a handful of losses. The keeps had either been surrendered by cowering septons or else been found entirely deserted. He had received no reports of slain knights or ravaged ladies. No reports of ships sunk or damaged in battle. There was something unsettling about that. Something vaguely sinister. It felt like a trap, like the Tyrells were using the Shields as bait.

But if this is a trap, Victarion asked himself, then who am I to stop the Crow's Eye from wandering in? He had contemplated killing his older brother after the Kingsmoot, after all. If I do not strike him myself, am I still accursed in the eyes of the Drowned God? Victarion feared the wrath of no man, but the gods... He had considered sending a killer after the Crow's Eye, but again he was struck in terror of the Drowned God. But this... was this indirect enough?

And yet, if Victarion suspected a trap, Euron likely already knew. It was his plan, after all. No, Victarion could not rely on the roses to dispose of his problems for him. He would have to find some other way. "Euron's blasphemies will bring down the Drowned God's wrath on us all," Aeron had told him, back on Old Wyk. Victarion remembered Lord Blacktyde's words. "Balon was mad, Aeron is madder, and Euron is maddest of them all."

Lord Blacktyde had tried to sail home after the Kingsmoot, refusing to respect Euron's claim. Victarion, with his damned habit for obedience, had cut off his exit with the Iron Fleet at Euron's orders, and the young lord's ship was seized, even as he was dragged naked before Euron and his mongrels and cut into seven parts. That was the service that had won Victarion the dusky woman as his thrall. The killing of his fellow Ironborn. The killing of his fellow captain.

Victarion finished with a grunt, pulling out at the last second, hauling her off his bed and pushing her to her knees on the floor, spraying the inside of the dusky woman's mouth with his seed, taking another gulp from his wineskin and spitting it into her mouth immediately after. She tried to get the doubtless vile mixture down, but a substantial amount of the murky liquid spilled out again onto the floor, staining her breasts and stomach. Victarion forced her head down, vengeful. "Lap it up," he ordered. "Not a drop of my seed is to go to waste." The girl obeyed, lips sucking and teeth scraping at the dirty floor, trying to lick without a tongue. For a moment Victarion imagined her humiliation as Euron's, imagined his elder brother on his knees, begging before him, kissing the earth he trod on. The image made his heart sing.

Victarion buckled his belt, lowering himself down to his haunches beside her. "I could kill him," he told her as she fruitlessly rubbed her face on the floor. His hand came down hard on her behind, leaving the beginnings of a deep bruise on her supple flesh. "I could kill your former master. Though to an Ironborn it is a great sin to kill your king, and a greater one to kill your brother. I could kill him with these very hands." He spanked her again, hard. She let out a little yelp of pain, eyes prickling with unshed tears. He spanked her savagely again and again, fingers probing her cunt and arse periodically between slaps as she worked.

Asha should have supported me when I'd asked, Victarion suddenly thought. With her voice behind him, he would be the one wearing the driftwood crown, not Euron. What had she been thinking? Even though she was Balon's spawn, and even though she had the Boy King's seal of peace, she must have known a woman stood no chance of sitting the Seastone Chair. Mercifully, she had at least had the good sense to flee after the Kingsmoot, slipping away with her meagre group of ships. Victarion shuddered to think what Euron would have ordered his mongrels to do to her had she stayed. The Crow's Eye spits on the gods, Victarion thought, just as I spit on his gift. He would think nothing of raping his own niece. Nothing of having her ripped apart like young Lord Blacktyde.

"Up!" Victarion commanded. The girl jumped to her feet. "You will clean yourself," he said, his hand grasping her roughly by the cunt and pulling her close. "I'll have you again as soon as I'm back," he told her, his other hand grabbing her face and making her gaze meet his. She nodded sharply, eyes wide with fear, and Victarion grinned and stroked her hair soothingly, almost lovingly, before letting her go. He snatched himself up a second skin of wine, then turned sharp on his heel, departed his cabin and clambered up the steps back onto his deck.

"Where are we?" he asked Nute, spying land in the distance.

"Lord Hewett's Town, Lord Captain," Nute answered. The castle loomed in the distance, scores of longships already moored in the harbour. At a quay were three great cogs and a handful of smaller ones for transporting back the plunder and storing provisions for the rest of the fleet.

"Drop anchor and get a boat ready," Victarion commanded. The men worked quickly and before he knew it he was ashore, the Iron Victory standing still in the sea behind him, rocking gently side to side, waiting patiently for his return like a leal wife. Ahead was Lord Hewett's Town, oddly still and silent. Smoke trailed up from some burning buildings, but most of the place looked unchanged. Doors had been broken down, to be sure, and the occasional corpse dotted the streets, but far less than Victarion would have expected from a settlement of this size.

Again, his gut twisted in anticipation. Victarion took another swig of wine to calm his nerves.

Lord Hewett's castle sat atop a small hill, the crest of the island, with thick walls and heavy oaken gates. Atop the towers the kraken of House Greyjoy flew, banners cracking against the stone as the wind flapped them. On the ramparts wandered ironborn with spear in hand, in the yard sparred ironborn with spears, axes, and swords. A feast was well underway by the time Victarion got to the hall.

Ironborn filled the tables, drinking and shouting and japing with each other. They boasted of the prizes they had won, seemingly so easily, and loudly wondered as to what conquests the future would hold for them. Every man was bedecked in stolen plunder. Long necklaces of pearls, tapestries torn off the walls and worn as cloaks, rings, armour, and all the like. They ate off plates of solid silver; glorious platters bedecked with only the finest that Lord Hewett's larders had to offer. Only the Reader sat unadorned, unmoved by the revelry, quiet in his corner with his little circle of followers.

I shall have to keep an eye on him, Victarion resolved. If he cannot be swayed by the Euron's conquests then he might well be willing to help me overthrow the Crow's Eye.

Women served the food, wandering from place to place with platters in their arms. They wore the clothes of servants, one and all; not a single highborn maiden to be seen. Many were red in the face. The rowdy ironmen had little regard for their modesty, no matter the age. Women as old as forty and girls as young as ten got the same treatment. Bottoms were pinched and groped and spanked, dresses pulled down to reveal ample bosom. One man was bold enough to cut away a girl's dress completely with his blade, leaving her bare. The men laughed and jeered as she was forced to stand and take it, squirming, eager hands wandering wantonly over her flesh, pulling and twisting and kneading.

Euron sat at the head of the hall, a cup of wine held loosely in one hand. He sat alone, without hostage. Lord Hewett, it seemed, was absent. He lifted himself from his seat as Victarion arrived, commanding silence as he rose. "I swore to give you Westeros," he said to the assembled captains, "and here is your first taste. Oh, a morsel for now, nothing more, but with much to come! What the kraken grasps it does not let go... These isles were once ours, long ago, and now they are again. The whole of the Reach lies before us! Yet we must not be sure to get ahead of ourselves. To hold our current conquests we will need strong men," Euron shot Victarion a look. "Men like Andrik the Unsmiling, Harras Harlaw, and... Nute the Barber!"

Nute's eyes grew wide as he balked. "Me...? A lord?" he asked, as though it was a cruel jape.

Victarion stood stunned. He had expected the Crow's Eye to give these isles over to his own creatures, but as he thought on it the horrible reality became clear. Andrik was the right arm of Dunstan Drumm. Harras the chosen heir to Harlaw. And Nute was - had been - Victarion's best man. His most trustworthy. Euron was consolidating his power.

A round of cheers went up for the newly appointed lords, cups banged on the table surface. When the tumult died, Euron spoke again. "We will sail again on the morrow, our fleet newly-laden with every scrap of provision we can strip from this land, and we will head east to win our dragons, leaving behind only those needed to hold these isles and secure our conquests. When we return, Westeros will be ours!"

"And when exactly is that, Your Grace?" the Reader asked, his tone cutting. He eyed his prospective heir balefully. "Your dragons are a world away, and autumn is already upon us, and winter not too long after that. The Redwyne fleet still guards the Reach coasts from the Arbor, the Dornish coasts are high and barren and lacking in many suitable landing sites and even less places where we might quickly plunder and take succour to replenish ourselves. And then sit the Stepstones, and the Free Cities, who are no friends to us. If a thousand ships set sail, no more than three-hundred might make it that far, and that will leave us dangerously weak. And that's just from depletion. What if we are struck by a storm, or run across an unfriendly fleet along the way?"

Euron smiled a thin smile, blue lips stretching disconcertingly wide. "I have taken the Silence on far longer voyages than this, and ones more dangerous. Or have you forgotten that I have sailed to Valyria, to the Smoking Sea?"

"Have you?" the Reader questioned, and the hall fell still at his gall.

"You would do well to keep your nose in your books, Lord Harlaw," Euron retorted, his tone dangerous at the insult. "As for the journey, you will note the women who walk between the tables in this hall. The price of flesh is rising, on account of Daenerys Targaryen's conquests in Slaver's Bay. Lys lies on our way, and the Lyseni are always willing to trade for slaves. From there we could replenish the holds of our ships. After thoroughly tasting the women we mean to trade, of course." His words were accompanied with a lecherous grin that was returned by many of the captains in the hall.

"So we are slavers now?" Victarion interjected. They took thralls, of course, but thralls were not slaves. They could not be bought or sold, only stolen. And the children of thralls were born as ironmen, free men. The ironborn were not slavers.

"Highgarden's close," one man suddenly said, half-drunk. "Slaver's Bay is far. Seems to me if we want gold we should go there."

"And Oldtown is richer, the Arbor richer still," another man chimed in. "With more beautiful girls than here."

"And better defended, too," Euron pointed out. "Much better defended. Already, ships mass in the Mander. It would be a foolish fight to pick, less quick conquest and more grinding siege. A fight more taxing on our fleet than any voyage east."

"A fight well worth it for the ripest fruit in all of Westeros!" one man bellowed. "If not Oldtown or Highgarden than at least the Arbor! We want the Arbor! The Arbor!" The other captains took up his call. "The Arbor! We want the Arbor! The Arbor!"

Victarion could not help the smile that came to his face at seeing Euron so thoroughly rebuffed. Almost every man seemed to agree with the sentiment that the Reach lay open to more raids. Victarion did not know if he was with them - Euron was likely right about the rest of the Reach itself being far better defended than the Shields, and the Shields themselves had been suspiciously poorly defended - but he wasn't about to gainsay them. The Crow's Eye let the cries wash over him, teeth clenched. Then he shook his head, arose from his seat, his smiling eye more black than blue, and departed the hall in a huff.

Victarion joined the feast with a grin, suddenly eager to sup with his fellow captains. They might have placed him on the Seastone Chair, he thought, but they will not follow him to Slaver's Bay. He shared a cup with Nute, showing that he did not begrudge the man his lordship, even though he had been improperly elevated above his captain. Victarion drank and drank, making merry with his fellow ironmen, harassing the girls. None of them compared in beauty or skill to the dusky woman waiting in his cabin aboard the Iron Victory, of course, but teats were teats.

Even as he sank into his cups, Victarion regarded the Reader with a close eye. Aye, he decided, a good ally indeed. Lord Harlaw had utterly humiliated the Crow's Eye with just a few softly spoken words. And whilst he was now old, and quickly becoming frail, the Reader's strengths matched perfectly with Victarion's weaknesses. The Drowned God may not have fashioned me for fighting with words, but perhaps he didn't need to.

But before Victarion could think on it any further, he was broken from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. It was one of Euron's bastard mongrels, with skin the colour of mud. "My father wants words with you."

Victarion rose reluctantly from his seat. He followed the boy warily through the halls and up stone steps, the sounds of rape and revelry diminishing behind him. The chamber Euron had chosen likely belonged to Lord Hewett, at least judging by the elegant designs on the door. Victarion dismissed the boy, pressed his hand up against the patterned oak and pushed.

What greeted him on the other side of the door was unsightly, to say the least. Euron lay in bed, slouched against the headboard, insensate, bathed in moonlight that streamed in from the open window. There were two crossbow bolts lodged deep in his eyes, one going straight through his eyepatch, blood trailing down both his cheeks like tears and matting his beard.

Victarion took a tentative step forwards, a strange mix of dread and delight roiling his stomach, looming over his elder brother and reaching out to touch him, to confirm what he already knew.

The Crow's Eye is dead, Victarion thought.

And the Seastone Chair is mine for the taking.
------------
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

 

[BlueBerryExtreme11Zero]

Save Falia Flowers. Hopefully Falia will be spared.

 

[DKottar]

Faceless men do good work!

 

[Lord vivec]

Cheers for the faceless men!

 

[IrrelevantlAlex]

What nice glasses you have.

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thanks for the chapter. Great story.
Glad that whole arc of Euron is not going to happen, it was stupid plot to take a dragon away.

 

[Prognostic Hannya]

Huh, Tommen's doing? Smart.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 41: Reek

He would not run. He could not run.

I will deliver my lord that castle, Reek resolved. I will. I must.

The ruins of Moat Cailin were visible at a distance, obscured by mist. His horse jostled between his legs, rubbing his thighs. Reek did not mind it. He observed himself. For the first time in weeks, he did not stink. Lord Ramsey had gifted him not only fresh clothes, but the rare luxury of a bath in preparation for this task. But Reek could never forget how the past few weeks, months, or years had gone. Years? It can't be years, can it? Yet when he looked at himself he did not recognise what he saw. His hair had gone white. His cheeks were hollow to the touch, his forehead creased with wrinkles. He was missing his toes, forced to hobble when on his feet. I have an old man's hands, he thought. More skin and bones and half-healed scars than flesh.

Reek looked away from himself. He was too hideous to bear, well and truly worthy of his name. Fit only to inhabit the dungeon that he had called home for so long, drowning in darkness, with only Lord Ramsey and his games for company. Instead he turned his eyes ahead, to his task.

I've come this way before, a traitorous part of his mind thought, but Reek quashed it. That part of him had come to Moat Cailin atop a mighty steed, an army at his back, raging and ready to make war against the Starks, the banner of the kraken to back him in battle. The part of him that approached Moat Cailin now was on a sickly mule, carrying the standard for peace, not worthy of the title man. He was not even a dog. He was a worm; a worm in human skin, graciously given a new lease on life as a servant to Lord Ramsey.

The air was wet and heavy as Reek rode, little puddles dotting the patchwork of snow and dirt on the ground. Reek proceeded carefully between the puddles; already, he could tell he was being watched. He could feel the eyes prickling against his skin. He cast his gaze up from the ground, taking in the collapsed wall that was supposed to ring the fortress and the towers lying beyond. They were no much better: one straight with it's top shattered; another whole but crooked, threatening to topple; the third slimy with moss and infested with vines that had wormed their way into the mortar, cracking the stonework.

Pale faces peered down at him from all three. The faces of my people, the treasonous part of him again interjected. As he drew closer the road began to become lined with rotting corpses half sunken into the bog. Crows picked at their flesh, flies buzzed above. The corpses had long since bloated, pale and swollen. The sight reminded Reek of himself, of what he had become. The garrison won't recognise me, he thought. They knew Theon. But Theon was dead now, no better than those bodies slowly sinking into the bog. There was only Reek.

And yet, he thought, I must be a prince again.

"Stop!" a voice rang out, with a familiar accent. "What do you want?"

"Words!" Reek answered, his voice scratchy and uneven from disuse. "Peace."

Inside, Reek knew, the ironmen was likely discussing whether to admit him entry or to fill with arrows. It made no difference to him. A death like that would be a thousand times better than returning to Lord Ramsey a failure.

Then the gatehouse doors flung open.

"Inside!" a low voice hissed. "Hurry! Before they get you." It belonged to a lone ironman, half-dazed and crazed, hair wild about his head. A hand grabbed him and pulled him off his mule, then pulled him to his feet again. The familiar cold of steel was on him again before he knew it, a knife on his throat. "Who are you?" the man asked, sleep-deprived eyes wandering across Reek's face, red.

"I am ironborn," Reek lied, the words acid on his tongue. "Look at my face. I am Lord Balon's son. Theon."

"Lord Balon's sons are dead," the man said.

"My brothers, not me," Reek answered. "Lord Ramsey took me captive after Winterfell. I've been sent to treat with you. Who commands here?"

There was a moment's hesitance, then the blade was withdrawn. "Lord left Ralf Kenning in command, but he took an arrow in the belly and the bloat got him. Dagon Codd rules us now."

Codd... The name rang a bell in Reek's head. The Codds were not well regarded amongst the ironborn. The men were said to be swindlers and thieves; the women so wanton they spread their legs for their sons and fathers. It did not surprise him that Uncle Victarion had chosen to leave them behind.

"Take me to him," Reek commanded, affecting his best manners as prince. It felt forced, unfamiliar. Like a worm squirming in a man's shoes.

The man shrugged and sheathed his dagger. "This way, m'lord." The guard led him through a door and up a spiral stair, dusty black stone reminiscent of the walls of the dungeon in which Reek had been born. Hell, the only things missing were the rats scurrying across the floor. Moat Cailin was in the middle of a marsh, and from the stench in the air one could tell. The floor was damp; not quite slick but certainly rotted in places.

"How much of the garrison is left?" Reek asked as he hobbled after the man.

"Some, but not many," the man said. "Two of three towers is now unmanned. Most of us are dead and gone. If not from the fighting than by the disease. The water here isn't good, tainted. But that's why we have the ale."

Moat Cailin has already fallen, Reek realised. One more assault by Roose or Ramsey and it's all over.

The hall they eventually arrived it was high-ceilinged, drafty and made of dark stone. Only a single dull fire graced it with light, filling a hearth meant for much bigger flames. A dozen drinkers sat around a massive stone table, used in days past for grander feasts and gatherings than this sorry lot. The seat at the head was mine, once. His mind drew a blank as they turned to look. They were all strangers to him. The sons of thralls and salt-wives, most of them.

"Dagon Codd?" Reek asked.

"Who's asking?"

"Lord Balon's son," Reek answered. "Theon Greyjoy. Here at the behest of Lord Ramsey, who captured me at Winterfell. I'm here to treat. Lord Ramsey is prepared to be merciful if you offer your surrender before sundown." He pulled out the letter they'd given him and tossed it onto the table.

A man - presumably Dagon - scoffed. "Ironborn do not surrender."

"My lord's army lies to the north, his father's to the south. Even Lord Balon bent the knee when Robert Baratheon came. He knew if he did not he would have died. As you will if you do not accept my lord's terms." Reek gestured to the parchment on the table. "Give up now and my lord will grant you safe passage to Stony Shore. Read it."

Dagon rose to his feet and spat on the table. "I'm no craven. Dagon Codd yields to no man."

Reek felt his breath clench in his chest. If I fail now... The thought of what Lord Ramsey would do to him was enough to send piss running down his legs. "Is that your answer?" Reek asked through clenched teeth. "Does this one speak for you all?"

"Lord Victarion commanded us to hold, he did," one man said. "Hold here till I return, he told Kenning."

"Kenning's dead," another retorted.

Yes, yes! Reek leapt at the chance. "And my uncle is distracted elsewhere. He will not be returning. The kingsmoot crowned his brother, Euron, and the Crow's Eye has other wars he'd rather fight. You're on your own. My uncle won't come back for you. If he cared he wouldn't have left you behind. He thinks of you as the shit on his shoe. He scraped you off as soon as he could, and left you behind to fester."

The words struck home, Reek could tell. Perhaps a little too well. Dagon keened with wounded pride, a sneer stretching his face. "Liar," he said. "Liar, I call you. Why should we believe you?"

"Read the parchment," Reek retorted. "It's still sealed."

"If we yield, we walk away?" a man asked, leaning heavy on a crutch.

Reek nodded. "Lord Ramsey treats his hostages honourably, so long as they keep faith." He is kind, Reek thought. Kind to take my fingers and leave me my hands, kind to take my toes and leave me my feet. Kind to take my cock and not my balls. Kind to take off only little bits of skin, a piece at a time.

"Enough," Dagon snarled. "You are ironborn! Why are you all behaving like cravens? Begone now. Before I gut you and hang you by your entrails. Before-"

Dagon did not get to finish his threat. His words caught in his throat, then he toppled over, an axe jutting out of his back. Blood leaked from his mouth for a moment, bubbling on his lips with his breath, then he was dead. The man responsible merely shrugged. "I want to live," he said.

Reek afforded himself a painful smile. Lord Ramsey will be pleased with me. "Leave your weapons here," he told the men. "Anyone armed will be shot on sight."

With only a little grumbling their scabbards came off. Then they were down the steps, through the gates. Nearly sixty, all told. Nearly sixty of his men all behind him. Reek led them out the same way he'd come in, the path winding and narrow through the bog. The going was slow, and even Reek was painfully aware of how exposed they were. Even still, this was better than the alternative. Sixty men saved, Reek thought.

A rider came down to meet them. "Is this all?" he asked.

"All that are still alive."

"I thought there would be more," the man said, frowning. "We launched three assaults. They were all repelled."

We are ironborn, Reek thought, in a impetuous burst of pride that he quickly smothered. He was a worm, only a worm. Worms were not proud.

They arrived at camp with the barking of Lord Ramsey's hounds to announce their presence. Reek stumbled off his saddle and took a knee. "Moat Cailin is yours, my lord."

"So few," Ramsey said, shaking his head. "I had hoped for more. Stubborn folk. They must all be starved." Lord Ramsey gestured to one of his madmen with a cruel glint in his eyes. "Fetch some food and ale for them, will you? And show their wounded to the maester."

The gathered men quickly dispersed, and Lord Ramsey's gaze landed on Reek. Reek bowed his head and shivered. Ramsey's hand came to his neck, lifted Reek's gaze gently to meet his with fingers on his chin. He tutted. "Did they really take you for their prince?" He snorted. "What bloody fools these ironmen are. The gods laugh."

Reek felt a strange compulsion to defend them. "They just want to go home, my lord."

"And what of you, hmm?" Lord Ramsey asked. "What do you want? To be free, to go home like them?"

Reek shivered. "I am your Reek," he answered. "My place is by your side. If I must have a reward I would ask for wine, the strongest skin's worth that you have, my lord."

"Good," Ramsey softly intoned, patting his cheek. "You are my Reek. Don't worry, you'll get your wine. I'll even give you a special treat. We'll move you from the dungeon to the kennel, so you can sleep with my hounds. Would you like that, hmm? To be a dog instead of a worm?"

Reek nodded, and so it was. A collar was made for him, sharp leather with a trailing leash. That night a skin was thrown in with his dinner, a scrap of chicken the dogs got to before he did. But Reek did not care. The wine was sweet and sour and strong as promised. Even with the howling of the hounds beside him and the sounds of men screaming outside it was best night's sleep Reek had gotten in... months, most likely. By morning Reek was finally let out of the kennel, though only on his hands and knees. Lord Ramsey was off, he'd sent a letter down to his father to tell him that the road lay clear.

And yet, in spite his success, what little sense of happiness Reek had managed to scrape together lay in ruins. All around him his men were dead. They had been flayed, tortured by night. Now they lay scattered, missing heads and hands and eyes and long flaps of skin. They had been the screams he'd heard. Reek counted the bodies and mourned them quietly. Sixty-three. Seeing their corpses brought about in him a wave of rage he struggled to squash. They had surrendered. They had surrendered. They had surrendered to a worm, and the worm couldn't keep them safe.

Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek was led forth after only a little while. Ramsey greeted them on the road, and together they watched Lord Roose's van come in, a thousand scruffy peasants, a hundred mounted knights to keep them orderly. A dozen wagons stuffed with provisions. And a man in smoky grey plate at the head. When he removed his helm it was not a face Reek knew, though when Lord Ramsey knelt it was obvious who he was.

"Father," Lord Ramsey greeted him. Lord Roose did not much resemble his bastard son. He was smooth-shaven, pale, with lips so thin that when he pressed them together they seemed to disappear altogether. Reek got the impression that Roose Bolton was not one for rage. He shared only Ramsey's eyes, but those eyes were ice, whereas Ramsey's were fire.

"Rise," he simply commanded. "Walk with me."

Reek stood still, till Ramsey tugged on his collar at his father's beckoning. And so the three of them set off away from the van.

"How are things here?"

"The North is ours," Ramsey boasted. "Winterfell is a ruin. Stark's little wolflings are dead. I saw to it myself."

"Surely you misremember," Roose shook his head. "You did no such thing." He glanced back at Reek. "Theon Turncloak, now dead, did that. You never laid a hand on their sweet little heads. Because if you had, how many friends do you think we'd have?"

Reek's head pounded. He felt suddenly sick. We dipped their heads in tar...

Lord Ramsey scowled. "We are lords of the North now. By the Iron Throne's decree. They are not our friends."

Lord Roose stopped in his tracks, cast his gaze over his son. "Sometimes I wonder whether you truly are my seed. Boltons have been many things over the years, but never before have we been fools." He started walking again. "We appear strong for the moment, yes. We have powerful friends in the Lannisters and the Freys. For now, at least."

"For now?"

"The king agreed to name me Warden of the North, but he has thus far failed to approve my request that you be named a Bolton."

Ramsey stood shocked. Shock turned to seething anger. "What?"

Lord Roose's lips parted to reveal a row of white teeth in what some might have called a smile. "Oh, it gets worse," he said. "Lord Stannis has left the Wall. Lord Arnolf tells me he marches west, though he knows not why. Karstark says he laid the perfect bait in the Dreadfort, yet Lord Stannis did not bite."

"Perhaps Karstark is more Stark than he lets on," Ramsey said. "But this is an opportunity. We ought to treat with Lord Stannis. If one king will not grant me my rights then perhaps another might."

"No, you fool," Roose said, emotionless yet exasperated. "Lord Stannis will do no such thing. Grant the North to the man who partook in the Red Wedding? Legitimise the baseborn son of the man who betrayed his liege lord? Do you know nothing? Our power rests in the image of Lannister power and the absence of a Stark for the lords to rally around. Those two things alone are all we have."

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Ramsey asked.

"You are supposed to wait," Roose replied. "Our hold is weak for now, but it can be strengthened. Slay Stannis and the Iron Throne will have no choice but to legitimise you."

"Then give me leave to lead the men and I will bring you his head," Ramsey almost begged.

"Stannis is with his army," Roose said. "Exhausted and depleted as my men are by a long campaign in the south, we would be fools to advance on him now. No. We must bring him to us. Build a trap, then lure him in."

"I thought we already tried that," Ramsey retorted.

"This time with bait he can't ignore. Winterfell."

Ramsey licked his lips, a sour look on his face. "I laid waste to that place. It's a ruin now."

"No, the ironmen laid waste to it," Roose insisted. "And in ruins it may be, but it is still the heart of the North. We should move our seat there. If I am right, Stannis will seek to gather support from the northern lords. We cannot allow that to happen. So we have to hurry him. If it seems as though we are tightening our hold, he will have no choice but to march. After all, if we can properly entrench ourselves then Stannis will be forced into a full war to remove us. He cannot afford that, not if he has any intention of taking the throne. Thus, a speedy war will be in his interest, to be able to capture the North before winter comes and march south before the Lannisters can entrench. One decisive victory won with overwhelming force. That will be Lord Stannis's plan. When he marches he will call his allies to come with him. All of them. Our friend Lord Arnolf Karstark included. Understand?"

Ramsey nodded reluctantly, jaw tight with rage at being rebuffed.

"Now go," Roose said. "And leave your pet with me. I'll have him."

"You'll have him?" Ramsey asked, indignant. "He's mine!"

"All that's yours is yours at my behest, boy. You best remember that. Now go. If you have not ruined him, he may yet serve some use."

Ramsey shot Reek a poisonous look before he let go of his leash and went back to rejoin the van. Reek felt like crying. Pain, that look had promised him.

Roose watched Ramsey walk away. "Tell me, does he truly think he can ever rule the North?"

"He fights for you, my lord," Reek blurted out, panicked. "He's strong."

"A bull is strong," Roose said, "but that does not save it from slaughter. I have seen him fight in the yard. He's ferocious, I'll grant, but not fearsome. He swings his sword like he's hacking meat."

"He's not afraid of anyone, my lord."

"He should be. Fear keeps you alive. Forces you to think. You should tell him that, next time you see him."

"To... To be afraid?" Reek felt a bolt of terror shoot through him. "My lord... If I do that... He'll..."

"I know, I know," Roose said dismissively. "His blood is bad. He has no temper. This rage, it is unbecoming of him. But I have no other choice. I had another boy, once. Domeric. A quiet boy, but most accomplished. A deft hand in the yard. Alas, he thought himself a man, desired a brother, and disobeyed me when I warned him against seeking out my bastard. A sickness of the bowels, the maester said. I say poison. And I don't think I have to tell you who I suspect for the crime."

"Lord Ramsey..." This felt dangerous, this discussion. As though Lord Roose was about to ask him to betray Lord Ramsey.

Roose nodded. "I have a new wife, now. A fat Frey one. Young, too. She has a fertile stench. I'm fond of it. But I expect Ramsey will see to any babes I sire upon her before long. My new wife may well weep to see them die, but I will not. I couldn't stop him even if I tried. Legitimised or not, he is my heir. My only heir. And I'd sooner leave my house to a bastard than a babe. Boy lords have been the bane of many a house in the past. It leaves them weak."

Reek nodded, his throat dry. He could hear the wind blustering off the leaves of the wood nearby. "My lord..." Reek licked his lips. "Why did you ask for me to stay?"

"Theon, yes?"

Reek felt his eyes widen, bowed his head, trembling with terror. "No, my lord. I'm Reek, just Reek."

"Yet you address me as my lord. Your betray your highborn heritage with your tongue. A peasant might say m'lord, as though it were one word."

"I'm Reek, m'lord. Reek. Please. I'm not the Turncloak. He died at Winterfell. I'm no highborn. I am not even a man. I am a worm. Just a worm, a quiet little worm."

"I mean you no harm, you know," Roose said patiently. "I owe you much and more. The Starks were done and doomed the moment you took Winterfell. All the rest of this is just squabbling over spoils. But you did the deed, Reek."

Reek stood silent, head bowed, shivering, unsure of what to say.

Roose stopped walking, observed Reek. "You helped me once, by taking Winterfell. Now you will help me again. And if you do, then I will help you."

"M'lord?" This is a trick, he thought. Lord Roose plays with you. The son is the shadow of the father. Lord Ramsay toyed with his hopes all the time, giving him respite one moment only to rip it away the next.

"Lord Stannis thinks to flank me from the west. Lord Wyman plots in the east. The Lannisters threaten to break faith with me in the south. On all sides, my enemies rear their heads..." Lord Roose looked Reek up and down. "You're too thin, too weak for war. Yet I hear you broke the siege as envoy, convinced the Ironborn to come willingly to terms, to their deaths. Is this true?"

Reek nodded hesitantly. "It is, m'lord."

"Good." Roose's eyes shone. "Then I might well have a reason to keep you from Ramsey."
-------------
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. My work schedule is about to get busy for a little while, so apologies in advance if I don't upload as regularly as usual for the next few months.

 

[Spearow]

I had this scene in mind the entire time, as soon as Theon become the subject of the conversation

Spoiler

That was too epic to watch, i miss the good parts of the series, hope that theon will still play some part in this fanfic, besides being killed off to calm the people from the north a bit.

Thanks for the chapter.

 

[oscar e Sampedro Lopez]

Thank for the chapter. Great story

 

[daoistnextchapter]

Hope Theon doesn't fuck up Tommen's plans with Asha.

 

[Morph-Writing]

Chapter 42: Arianne II

He's killing himself, Arianne thought.

The king sat at the head of the table, leaned back in his seat, leading the small council. His eyes were red, ringed with dark circles that spoke of lost sleep. Bruises covered one half of his face, hard-won on the training yard. He looked dead, exhaustion seeping into his bones, bored beyond himself. I would be bored too, Arianne thought. She had intended to seduce him, to make him shed his scruples. But how does one lead astray a man so estranged from the very idea of pleasure? Neither boldness nor subtlety seemed suitable for such a task.

The queen had made a valiant effort, Arianne could admit. The court was slowly filled with jugglers, singers, minstrels, fools. The king had little patience for any of them. He much preferred the company of knights and maesters and septons - and always those of his own choosing. He seemed utterly repelled by the very notion of vice. Rarely did so much as a drop of wine touch the king's lips. And no matter how low the cut of Arianne's gown, the king's gaze was never cast her way. Neither lace nor sheer silk nor chiffon nor golden chains seemed to excite him. Not a single whore made her way to his bedchamber, nor a single coin to a brothel on his behalf. He had no mistresses, no midnight trysts or affairs. Nothing. If she hadn't known any better, she might even have thought him a sword-swallower.

And yet, if rumour was to be believed, the king and queen's private affairs had grown far less familiar, as of late. Did the boy feel no lust, no youthful urgings? It was one thing to be loyal, but quite another to be lustless. Was he not a man?

Tommen takes more after his Uncle Stannis than anyone else, Arianne mused. He even seemed to incite some of the same resentments. The king spends too much time counting coppers, the king is too pious, too stiff, too sanctimonious. Not that Tommen was dour in his dutifulness. He was easy to a smile, easy to a jape, and normally the Imp could be found plying him with one. Pleasantness suffused his manner. A fine pretence, Arianne had learned. A useful tool. One of the many in his arsenal.

"A thousand ships!" Lord Mace huffed. His fat face was red with outrage. "Your Grace, this must be answered fiercely!"

The king seemed unaffected by the news. "And so it will be, my lord. Rest assured, the ironmen will be forced back from your shores in due course."

"A thousand ships?" Queen Cersei asked, no doubt struggling to hide a smile behind her stern expression. It was not much of a secret, her loathing for the Tyrells. And with the Old Lion absent, she seemed more comfortable giving voice to her disdain. "Surely not. No lord commands a thousand ships. Some frightened fool must have doubled the number. Or else Lord Tyrell's bannermen are lying to us, puffing up the numbers so they don't look lax in their duties."

"It is not a word of a lie," the king interjected, before Lord Mathis could object to Cersei's words. "The Iron Fleet is a thousand strong."

"And how do you suppose we dispose of them, Your Grace?" the Imp asked.

"We do nothing," the king answered.

Lord Mace sat stunned, his jaw slackening. "Your Grace-"

Tommen held up a hand to silence the protests of Lord Tyrell. "Peace, my lord, peace. Rest assured that I understand full well the importance of the Shields. I have been preparing for such a eventuality for a long time. Or did you fail to note Asha Greyjoy's visit, Lord Tarly's departure from this council?"

Lord Mace seemed to struggle to swallow his tongue, even as he forced himself calm. "Still. A thousand ships. Only the Arbor has the strength to repel such numbers."

The king nodded his acknowledgement. "The kraken may well be mighty with it's many arms, but caught unawares it is naught more than an animal."

The Imp, as ever, caught on quickly. "A trap?"

"The Shields will serve well as a distraction, my lords," the king explained. "Bait. Lord Hewett is safe - at my behest, I might remind you - and so are his wife and daughters. Lord Tarly readies his men for a potential assault on the Shields as we speak - working in tandem with young Willas at Highgarden. The reserve fleet left at the Arbor by Lord Redwyne is being prepared by Ser Horas. The ironmen may be fearsome foes at sea, but on land they are lambs to the slaughter. And Lord Tarly was the only man who ever managed to hand my father a defeat in battle. Rest assured he will make quick work of them, and once he does we can push on to Pyke with ease, and stamp out the Ironborn threat from our shores once and for all."

"And what of Stannis?" Cersei asked. "Balon Greyjoy once offered my father an alliance. Mayhap his son turned his eye upon Stannis."

The king scowled. "Euron and Stannis? An alliance? Use your head, mother. Even if my uncle could stomach working with a pirate, what would Euron stand to gain? Stannis lacks the men needed to support the Crow's Eye in his endeavours. Not to mention that my uncle has his eye set on the throne. Most the realm loathes the ironmen. Stannis may be stubborn, but he's not stupid. He won't risk angering what few lords may still be thinking of lending him their support."

Cersei Lannister pursed her lips and flushed red at being rebuked, but fall silent she did. Her son has her house-trained, Arianne though amusedly. Like a disobedient cat. It was almost disappointing. Despite worming her way into the Lannister queen's confidences, Nymeria had not had much of anything to report. At least for the moment, it seemed as though Tommen had his spiteful bitch of a mother on a tight leash. "I see," she finally said, a sour look on her face.

Not that the matter was settled. Not by any stretch. The Tyrells would cause their own trouble in court, seeking to pressure the king to do more than he had promised, just as Cersei would wreak her own havoc to spite and frustrate their attempts. Trouble would be caused, rumours spread and tensions stoked, plots hatched and executed. Not for the first time, Arianne lamented being left out of the fray. Even here, as Dorne's voice on the council, I am an afterthought.

The king turned away from his mother. "Grandmaester, is there aught else?"

Pycelle cleared his throat. "There was a letter, Your Grace. From the Vale. The Lords Declarant have arrested Lord Baelish."

The king nodded and took a sip of water from his glass, hiding his mouth, but Arianne could swear she saw the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. His gaze turned meaningfully in his mother's direction, and she inclined her head and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Another secret? Arianne thought. Even now, in the king's most inner circle, mystery shrouded every look. It was as intriguing as it was irritating. The king had a deft hand for secrets, she knew, yet after months of work Arianne was privy to precious few. So many secrets. How did he manage to keep them all straight in his head? "Do they have any more demands?" the king asked.

"Not as such, Your Grace," the Grandmaester said. "They merely demand justice for the murder of the Lady Lysa Arryn, for which they hold Lord Baelish responsible. They declare they have taken the Eyrie. I expect they are - in a subtle fashion - asking permission to execute him."

"Hmm."

"Is there anything you'd like done, Your Grace?" the Imp asked.

"The Vale is mountainous and readily defensible," the king said. "Any campaign in it would quickly become a bloody one. And I'm not keen to start a quarrel with these Lords Declarant over one such as Lord Baelish, to throw away the lives of honourable knights so carelessly. We'll make overtures to them for now. See if we can't usher the Vale back into the fold without violence." The king reached out into his doublet and drew out a letter. "Here, Grandmaester. To the Eyrie."

Pycelle accepted the letter with gnarled hands. "Of course, Your Grace." What use are these councils, Arianne thought, if the king has his mind made up already? Perhaps that was the problem. She had been approaching the king in the expected ways, trying to catch his attention. But even here, the king was akin to a mummer. With his guard raised, the pleasant look plastered on his face, she was doomed to fail, just as the new queen had. Working her way into Margaery's confidences had yielded little of any worth, though at least Arianne could comfort herself with the fact that it had not cost her much.

But if she could somehow catch him unawares, without any pretence to slow her way...

"If that is all, my lords, I would put an end to this meeting of the small council." The king rose from his seat when nobody objected. "You are all dismissed."

All around, the lords stood from their seats and shuffled away. Arianne stood when they did, then lingered. Thus far she had been little more than an observer in small council sessions, swallowing her instincts. Watching, learning, waiting - just as Oberyn had instructed. But her patience had withered as the weeks had passed.

"Is there anything you'd like to discuss, princess?" the king asked, quirking a lone eyebrow. "Given you have decided to stay in spite my dismissal?"

"I merely wished to inquire after your health, Your Grace," Arianne tactfully answered.

The king gestured to his young face, forcing a smile. "Just a little accident in the yard is all. I got a tad too enthusiastic. Worry not, princess, I've been chastised aplenty for my carelessness already."

Arianne shook her head, affecting sincerity and letting the seductive pretence drop, judging it the best path forwards. "Besides the bloody lips and bruises, I mean. Surely I can't be the only one to notice your eyes." A sudden surge of curiosity forced the question to her lips. "Is it truly such a burden? Ruling?"

The king snorted. "I imagine governing just one loyal kingdom would be easier than governing seven unruly ones. Don't worry, princess. It likely won't be so bad for you when you inherit. Though I can't help but think that a man like Doran makes it look easy."

"My father spends most his days doing nothing," Arianne complained, sighting an opportunity to arouse sympathy. "Consumed by gout. And that's assuming I inherit at all. If he meant to make me Princess of Dorne he would not have sent me here."

Tommen laughed. "Don't mistake his patience for indolence, princess. It is an easy mistake to make. But your father is less a cripple and more a coiled serpent, waiting to strike. And you shouldn't worry about your inheritance. Though I have it on good authority that your father means for you to be heir, it is best not to contemplate one's entitlements overmuch. The gods are fickle and play with us like toys. A simple turn of fate can rip your rights away from you without so much as a parting farewell."

"Then why work so much? Why not enjoy your time here whilst you can? Before the gods take you?"

Tommen seemed at first puzzled by the question, as though the answer was so obvious it did not need explanation, then assented to her inquiry with a shrug. "My father neglected his duties, and I don't think I have to tell you what happened next. A resentful wife, a mad child, a shattered realm, thousands dead with millions more threatened by famine and strife. I will have my share of enjoyment when I am dead and gone up to the heavens. Till then, duty will be my lot."

"You can cater to your duties and care for yourself at the same time," Arianne argued. "It will do the realm no good if you work yourself into an early grave, or else drive yourself mad. Even Jaehaerys had mistresses, fancies, entertainments."

"I have my books, my fishing, my martial training, my wife's company, and Tyrion's wit to keep me light," the king rebuffed her, waving away her concerns dismissively as he gathered up a sheaf of papers in his arm and turned to leave. "My enjoyments are different to yours; that does not make them any less enjoyable. This," he gestured to his face, "is merely temporary. The sleeplessness, the stress - it will all slowly pass as the realm settles."

"And if it doesn't?"

The king sighed, furrowed his brow even as his eyes met hers. "Then I will know I have failed, and that all my efforts were for naught. That I failed to save the lives and livelihoods of my subjects... That I failed to bring justice, peace, security, prosperity... I will die in painful disgrace of that knowledge, no doubt, my legacy torn to shreds and left to decay, my loved ones murdered and exiled and raped and enslaved, my body tortured into oblivion first by my enemies and then by the Seven Hells as well. A worse fate I could scarcely imagine." The king met her gaze unwaveringly. "Can you see, now, why I work the way I do?"

Arianne nodded silently, struck dumb, suddenly without witty retort or reply, disquieted by the king's description. So long as I have known him, His Grace has always had an artful way with words. But these were more than mere words, Arianne could tell, and they could hardly be called artful. Blunt was the better term. Blunt and brutal.

The king is being more honest with me now than he has ever been before, Arianne knew.

And then he was gone.

Arianne let free a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. How had he done that? Held her in thrall like that?

She shook off her uncertainties, her doubts, reassured herself even as she struggled to quell the vague sensation of unease rolling around her stomach. She left the small council chambers no more than a minute after the king, and wandered through the halls and passages of the keep in no particular direction for a while, almost in a daze, her mind still struggling with Tommen's words. Gods, she thought. To think he's no older than Trystane. At that age she had just stopped playing with her dolls and started growing real teats. Yet here was this boy, bearing what he thought was the weight of the world on his shoulders without complaint.

She walked and walked, and wound her way to the Tyrell queen, knowing that beyond the small council she was the only one who might have some insight into the Boy King's mind. And, perhaps, in the queen she sought the comfort of the company of one she had come to think of as a friend.

Arianne found Margaery Tyrell alone on an isolated balcony of the Red Keep, gazing out at a glittering ocean. That alone was strange enough. The young queen could almost always be found surrounded by a sizeable flock of ladies-in-waiting. Not even a single guard could be seen, the nearest having admitted her entry a door away. The little queen is not often keen to be alone. She wore a yellow gown, silk and lace, light and airy in spite the bracing evening breeze. Her hair was done up into elaborate waves that fell down her shoulders like water, topped with her crown. She nursed a cup of wine in her hands, deep in thought, occasionally eyeing the half-empty pitcher on the table.

"Your Grace," Arianne announced herself with a shallow curtsy.

"Princess," Margaery greeted her. "Please, sit. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Arianne accepted the seat. "I wished to ask what is troubling you, Your Grace."

The queen offered her a pleasant smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Nothing is troubling me."

Another secret. Arianne changed course. "I am gladdened to hear it, Your Grace. Though it is a lie, I am still gladdened to hear it."

Margaery shot her a look. "It is merely the Shields," she finally confessed. Another lie? "It pains me to hear my home is under attack, though I have full faith His Grace will help see the ironmen off before long, of course."

"Of course," Arianne agreed. "Though - and forgive me for saying so - I cannot help but notice His Grace seems a little more..."

Margaery nodded, averting her gaze, pulling at the hem of her sleeves. "The burdens of the throne are many."

Arianne shifted closer to Margaery, tentatively lifting a hand to her shoulder in comfort. The young queen seemed to tense at the touch, though she did not object. "So I hear. Yet as my own mother's fate taught me, so few seem to ask what happens to the wife when the husband suffers." Silence. "My mother and father fought fiercely," Arianne continued, "when they were together. About all manner of things. Small disputes festered and grew. Then my mother left."

"His Grace and I are not fighting," the little queen assured her.

Arianne softened her expression, rubbing the girl's shoulder soothingly. "I never said you were, Your Grace."

Margaery shook her head, relaxed with a sigh. "No, of course not."

"Yet something is bothering you," Arianne observed, pressing for an answer. She reached down and freshened the queen's cup from the pitcher, knowing the extra wine would help loosen her tongue. "Something besides the Shields."

Margaery lifted her gaze from the newly-refilled cup in her hands and met Arianne's eyes, brown irises staring deep. "How can you tell?"

Arianne shrugged, slid her arm around the young queen's shoulder, subtly pulling the pair closer together. "Call it instinct. I have grown fond of you, Your Grace. I don't like to see you sad."

A genuine smile graced her Tyrell features as she drank. "As I have grown fond of you, princess." She snorted, the slightest spark of playful mirth alighting in her eyes. "Your advances on my husband besides."

Perhaps all this effort has not been wasted after all, Arianne mused, letting the thought distract her from her own recently-felt unease. "I may have made advances on your husband, Your Grace, but only because I knew he would not accept them. Truthfully, he was not the one who caught my eye."

"Oh?" the queen asked, taking a sip of her wine to hide the slight blush in her cheeks. How many cups had she had? "Then who?"

The little rose begs to be plucked, Arianne thought. To be seduced, distracted, swept away from her worries, if only for a moment. "During your wedding men gave toasts to your beauty," Arianne said. "The greatest in all Seven Kingdoms, they said. Is it any wonder I find myself bewitched by your charms?"

"I am wed," she said, though the smile did not leave her face.

"King Robert took lovers, did he not?" Arianne asked. "I would be more than happy to share you with His Grace. To play the wanton. To play any character you would like, so long as I can have you."

Margaery's face adopted a mischievous look, her gaze drifting down Arianne's body. "His Grace would be most pleased, I expect," she said, pale fingers tracing the curve of Arianne's breasts over the thin fabric of her dress. "Though your charms are somewhat less subtle than mine." Arianne felt her heart inflame with desire. She leaned forwards, and the queen succumbed. Lips met lips, and Arianne took the offensive. The kiss was tender, patient, almost prudish. Hesitancy laced the little queen's manner, but Arianne swept her doubts aside, leading the relentless forward march.

Soon enough, the queen was flushed, giggling, biting her lip. Arianne kissed her shoulders, her nose, her cheeks, her neck. All the while, she kept an eye to the entrance of the terrace, careful not to be caught in her daring. Yet something was suspicious about this. The queen's blushes were too obvious, her hesitance too fragile, her manner just a tad too eager once the dam had broken. 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.

Or maybe she is just a slut, Arianne thought, and kissed the queen again, fingers slipping down to the neck of the queen's gown and pulling it down to reveal the curve of her shoulders and breast, a health pair the size of apples resting upon a rib-lined chest. The queen returned the gesture, tugging at Arianne's gown to let free her teats. Arianne smiled and worked her way down, leaving a trail of kisses down the queen's neck to the valley between her breasts, gently caressing the little queen's curves, lifting the queen's skirt and sliding her palm up Margaery's slender legs, her efforts rewarded by little moans and shudders.

And then, under the weight of her ministrations, the queen stiffened. Arianne quickened her motions, anticipating an oncoming release, only for the little queen to reach down and hurriedly push her away. Arianne retreated, puzzled, looked up and saw the queen with her head turned. Arianne turned her gaze to where Margaery looked, and saw the king standing silently, watching them.

"No, please," he said, tone utterly flat, dangerously unimpressed, eyes locked on his wife, "don't let me stop you."

"Your Grace," the queen pleaded, pulling up her dress with trembling hands. "I went too far into my cups, we both had-"

"Don't," he interrupted her. "Just don't. Drunkenness is no excuse, not for a queen. Did you tell her anything?"

Margaery shook her head insistently. "Nothing, I swear it."

"I can't honestly say I'm surprised by this. Very little seems to surprise me these days..." His face took on a contemplative quality. "But I am disappointed. Your grandmother extolled your virtues to me. I expected better. I thought..." He shook his head in dismay. "My father strayed so often from my mother's bed that it turned her bitter. She was not always the way she is today. I swore when we wed that I would never do the same."

"There is a difference between straying and sharing, Your Grace," Arianne interjected, letting go of her restraint. She knew part of her breasts were brazenly exposed, that her hair was tousled in a torrid way. This was her chance, the best she was likely to get. "And I doubt Her Grace would mind much if you took a paramour. I could give you both much pleasure if you'd allow me. You might think it strange, but in Dorne it is perfectly natural."

The king turned his gaze to her, his eyes alight, lingering for the first time she could remember, considering her with his head cocked. "I can see that," he finally said.

"I wouldn't mind at all," Margaery chimed in. "The princess is a... talented woman."

The king's gaze drifted back to his wife. "I am sure she is," he tepidly agreed. "Yet I won't sire a bastard, and I'm not eager to catch some pox. What of our vows? I don't know about you, but I swore mine not only before the realm but before the gods as well. Such oaths are not so easily broken. And then there's the political risk. How do I know this isn't what Doran wanted to begin with? To place a spy in that most private of places - my bed? Why do you think I ignored her advances for so long? Do you think I simply didn't notice her manner? Do you think I had no urges or indecent thoughts? No desires of my own I knew better than to indulge?"

"I'm not a spy," Arianne said, feigning offense at the accusation. "You don't have to share your secrets to share your bed. Nor am I some whore. I don't have a pox. And, if it'll please Your Grace, I am more than happy to partake in moon tea."

"Quiet, girl," he bit out, though the look in his eyes and the growing bulge in his breeches betrayed him as he advanced. Arianne felt elated. After all this time, she finally had him! "You have overstepped your bounds. Just be glad you're a woman, and a princess at that. If you were a man I'd have you flogged and gelded for your gall. Remember the Baratheon words."

"You can punish me another way, if you'd like," Arianne said with a wanton leer, her confidence slowly growing. "If it'd satisfy your fury." This king is all roar and no rage, she reckoned. He fancies himself too honourable to do me any real harm.

The king slapped her. Arianne maintained her leer, letting it curl into a daring smirk as she met the king's gaze. Tommen seemed to contemplate hitting her again, ardour and anger briefly making war on his face. Instead he retreated a step, let out a long-suffering breath and loosened himself.

Cold emerald callouses flanked the king's nose in place of the furious green of wildfire that had marked his features just a few moments ago. Only the slight unease in his stance hinted at any underlying emotion. The king's guard had been raised, his true feelings pushed down. His gaze locked on his wife, firmly ignoring Arianne. "I have more important issues to tend to than this. For the next week you will sleep alone. Should anyone ask, I will say I am too sore from the yard for love. I trust in that time you will be able to stay decent?"

Margaery nodded.

"Good," the king said. "This... incident, will not be forgotten, but if you can stop yourself from similar transgressions in future, then perhaps it can be forgiven." His gaze then swung over to Arianne, uncertain. "As for you... You best count yourself lucky I am not eager for scandal. I'll even allow you to continue meeting with my wife, if only to spare myself from the rumours. I warn you now that my patience for these antics wears thin. I mislike having to waste my time working against those meant to be my allies. You might well be an alluring woman, princess, a tempting prospect, but I'm afraid a prospect is all you'll ever be to me."

"Of course, Your Grace," Arianne acquiesced, bowing her head and making a show of reluctantly lifting up the front of her gown, hiding a small smile at the king's confession as he turned and stiffly strode away.

I'll haunt his thoughts tonight, she knew. No need to rush. Tommen won't soon forget the sight of me. Of us.

Arianne turned to offer Margaery a reassuring smile.

Just like his queen, the king wants to succumb.
-------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

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

 

[DKottar]

Come on man - just do it!

 

[Zaheed551g]

Honeslty at this point just get rid of her and her house it would be much easier that way plus Dorne itself is a shithole.

 

[Error29]

I really hope his revenge is served to the bitch. The amount of stupid is amazing, and the Queen is even more stupid than I thought possible, if she can do it with a woman, why wouldn't she do it with a man?

 

[apg666]

Once again, Arianne lives down to the expectations of dornish stereotypes. Seriously, you'd think some whose parents had one of the rare love matchs in westeros, only for it to fail, would realize the answer to every issue isnt sex

 

[Lord vivec]

Chapter 42: Arianne II

He's killing himself, Arianne thought.

The king sat at the head of the table, leaned back in his seat, leading the small council. His eyes were red, ringed with dark circles that spoke of lost sleep. Bruises covered one half of his face, hard-won on the training yard. He looked dead, exhaustion seeping into his bones, bored beyond himself. I would be bored too, Arianne thought. She had intended to seduce him, to make him shed his scruples. But how does one lead astray a man so estranged from the very idea of pleasure? Neither boldness nor subtlety seemed suitable for such a task.

The queen had made a valiant effort, Arianne could admit. The court was slowly filled with jugglers, singers, minstrels, fools. The king had little patience for any of them. He much preferred the company of knights and maesters and septons - and always those of his own choosing. He seemed utterly repelled by the very notion of vice. Rarely did so much as a drop of wine touch the king's lips. And no matter how low the cut of Arianne's gown, the king's gaze was never cast her way. Neither lace nor sheer silk nor chiffon nor golden chains seemed to excite him. Not a single whore made her way to his bedchamber, nor a single coin to a brothel on his behalf. He had no mistresses, no midnight trysts or affairs. Nothing. If she hadn't known any better, she might even have thought him a sword-swallower.

And yet, if rumour was to be believed, the king and queen's private affairs had grown far less familiar, as of late. Did the boy feel no lust, no youthful urgings? It was one thing to be loyal, but quite another to be lustless. Was he not a man?

Tommen takes more after his Uncle Stannis than anyone else, Arianne mused. He even seemed to incite some of the same resentments. The king spends too much time counting coppers, the king is too pious, too stiff, too sanctimonious. Not that Tommen was dour in his dutifulness. He was easy to a smile, easy to a jape, and normally the Imp could be found plying him with one. Pleasantness suffused his manner. A fine pretence, Arianne had learned. A useful tool. One of the many in his arsenal.

"A thousand ships!" Lord Mace huffed. His fat face was red with outrage. "Your Grace, this must be answered fiercely!"

The king seemed unaffected by the news. "And so it will be, my lord. Rest assured, the ironmen will be forced back from your shores in due course."

"A thousand ships?" Queen Cersei asked, no doubt struggling to hide a smile behind her stern expression. It was not much of a secret, her loathing for the Tyrells. And with the Old Lion absent, she seemed more comfortable giving voice to her disdain. "Surely not. No lord commands a thousand ships. Some frightened fool must have doubled the number. Or else Lord Tyrell's bannermen are lying to us, puffing up the numbers so they don't look lax in their duties."

"It is not a word of a lie," the king interjected, before Lord Mathis could object to Cersei's words. "The Iron Fleet is a thousand strong."

"And how do you suppose we dispose of them, Your Grace?" the Imp asked.

"We do nothing," the king answered.

Lord Mace sat stunned, his jaw slackening. "Your Grace-"

Tommen held up a hand to silence the protests of Lord Tyrell. "Peace, my lord, peace. Rest assured that I understand full well the importance of the Shields. I have been preparing for such a eventuality for a long time. Or did you fail to note Asha Greyjoy's visit, Lord Tarly's departure from this council?"

Lord Mace seemed to struggle to swallow his tongue, even as he forced himself calm. "Still. A thousand ships. Only the Arbor has the strength to repel such numbers."

The king nodded his acknowledgement. "The kraken may well be mighty with it's many arms, but caught unawares it is naught more than an animal."

The Imp, as ever, caught on quickly. "A trap?"

"The Shields will serve well as a distraction, my lords," the king explained. "Bait. Lord Hewett is safe - at my behest, I might remind you - and so are his wife and daughters. Lord Tarly readies his men for a potential assault on the Shields as we speak - working in tandem with young Willas at Highgarden. The reserve fleet left at the Arbor by Lord Redwyne is being prepared by Ser Horas. The ironmen may be fearsome foes at sea, but on land they are lambs to the slaughter. And Lord Tarly was the only man who ever managed to hand my father a defeat in battle. Rest assured he will make quick work of them, and once he does we can push on to Pyke with ease, and stamp out the Ironborn threat from our shores once and for all."

"And what of Stannis?" Cersei asked. "Balon Greyjoy once offered my father an alliance. Mayhap his son turned his eye upon Stannis."

The king scowled. "Euron and Stannis? An alliance? Use your head, mother. Even if my uncle could stomach working with a pirate, what would Euron stand to gain? Stannis lacks the men needed to support the Crow's Eye in his endeavours. Not to mention that my uncle has his eye set on the throne. Most the realm loathes the ironmen. Stannis may be stubborn, but he's not stupid. He won't risk angering what few lords may still be thinking of lending him their support."

Cersei Lannister pursed her lips and flushed red at being rebuked, but fall silent she did. Her son has her house-trained, Arianne though amusedly. Like a disobedient cat. It was almost disappointing. Despite worming her way into the Lannister queen's confidences, Nymeria had not had much of anything to report. At least for the moment, it seemed as though Tommen had his spiteful bitch of a mother on a tight leash. "I see," she finally said, a sour look on her face.

Not that the matter was settled. Not by any stretch. The Tyrells would cause their own trouble in court, seeking to pressure the king to do more than he had promised, just as Cersei would wreak her own havoc to spite and frustrate their attempts. Trouble would be caused, rumours spread and tensions stoked, plots hatched and executed. Not for the first time, Arianne lamented being left out of the fray. Even here, as Dorne's voice on the council, I am an afterthought.

The king turned away from his mother. "Grandmaester, is there aught else?"

Pycelle cleared his throat. "There was a letter, Your Grace. From the Vale. The Lords Declarant have arrested Lord Baelish."

The king nodded and took a sip of water from his glass, hiding his mouth, but Arianne could swear she saw the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. His gaze turned meaningfully in his mother's direction, and she inclined her head and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Another secret? Arianne thought. Even now, in the king's most inner circle, mystery shrouded every look. It was as intriguing as it was irritating. The king had a deft hand for secrets, she knew, yet after months of work Arianne was privy to precious few. So many secrets. How did he manage to keep them all straight in his head? "Do they have any more demands?" the king asked.

"Not as such, Your Grace," the Grandmaester said. "They merely demand justice for the murder of the Lady Lysa Arryn, for which they hold Lord Baelish responsible. They declare they have taken the Eyrie. I expect they are - in a subtle fashion - asking permission to execute him."

"Hmm."

"Is there anything you'd like done, Your Grace?" the Imp asked.

"The Vale is mountainous and readily defensible," the king said. "Any campaign in it would quickly become a bloody one. And I'm not keen to start a quarrel with these Lords Declarant over one such as Lord Baelish, to throw away the lives of honourable knights so carelessly. We'll make overtures to them for now. See if we can't usher the Vale back into the fold without violence." The king reached out into his doublet and drew out a letter. "Here, Grandmaester. To the Eyrie."

Pycelle accepted the letter with gnarled hands. "Of course, Your Grace." What use are these councils, Arianne thought, if the king has his mind made up already? Perhaps that was the problem. She had been approaching the king in the expected ways, trying to catch his attention. But even here, the king was akin to a mummer. With his guard raised, the pleasant look plastered on his face, she was doomed to fail, just as the new queen had. Working her way into Margaery's confidences had yielded little of any worth, though at least Arianne could comfort herself with the fact that it had not cost her much.

But if she could somehow catch him unawares, without any pretence to slow her way...

"If that is all, my lords, I would put an end to this meeting of the small council." The king rose from his seat when nobody objected. "You are all dismissed."

All around, the lords stood from their seats and shuffled away. Arianne stood when they did, then lingered. Thus far she had been little more than an observer in small council sessions, swallowing her instincts. Watching, learning, waiting - just as Oberyn had instructed. But her patience had withered as the weeks had passed.

"Is there anything you'd like to discuss, princess?" the king asked, quirking a lone eyebrow. "Given you have decided to stay in spite my dismissal?"

"I merely wished to inquire after your health, Your Grace," Arianne tactfully answered.

The king gestured to his young face, forcing a smile. "Just a little accident in the yard is all. I got a tad too enthusiastic. Worry not, princess, I've been chastised aplenty for my carelessness already."

Arianne shook her head, affecting sincerity and letting the seductive pretence drop, judging it the best path forwards. "Besides the bloody lips and bruises, I mean. Surely I can't be the only one to notice your eyes." A sudden surge of curiosity forced the question to her lips. "Is it truly such a burden? Ruling?"

The king snorted. "I imagine governing just one loyal kingdom would be easier than governing seven unruly ones. Don't worry, princess. It likely won't be so bad for you when you inherit. Though I can't help but think that a man like Doran makes it look easy."

"My father spends most his days doing nothing," Arianne complained, sighting an opportunity to arouse sympathy. "Consumed by gout. And that's assuming I inherit at all. If he meant to make me Princess of Dorne he would not have sent me here."

Tommen laughed. "Don't mistake his patience for indolence, princess. It is an easy mistake to make. But your father is less a cripple and more a coiled serpent, waiting to strike. And you shouldn't worry about your inheritance. Though I have it on good authority that your father means for you to be heir, it is best not to contemplate one's entitlements overmuch. The gods are fickle and play with us like toys. A simple turn of fate can rip your rights away from you without so much as a parting farewell."

"Then why work so much? Why not enjoy your time here whilst you can? Before the gods take you?"

Tommen seemed at first puzzled by the question, as though the answer was so obvious it did not need explanation, then assented to her inquiry with a shrug. "My father neglected his duties, and I don't think I have to tell you what happened next. A resentful wife, a mad child, a shattered realm, thousands dead with millions more threatened by famine and strife. I will have my share of enjoyment when I am dead and gone up to the heavens. Till then, duty will be my lot."

"You can cater to your duties and care for yourself at the same time," Arianne argued. "It will do the realm no good if you work yourself into an early grave, or else drive yourself mad. Even Jaehaerys had mistresses, fancies, entertainments."

"I have my books, my fishing, my martial training, my wife's company, and Tyrion's wit to keep me light," the king rebuffed her, waving away her concerns dismissively as he gathered up a sheaf of papers in his arm and turned to leave. "My enjoyments are different to yours; that does not make them any less enjoyable. This," he gestured to his face, "is merely temporary. The sleeplessness, the stress - it will all slowly pass as the realm settles."

"And if it doesn't?"

The king sighed, furrowed his brow even as his eyes met hers. "Then I will know I have failed, and that all my efforts were for naught. That I failed to save the lives and livelihoods of my subjects... That I failed to bring justice, peace, security, prosperity... I will die in painful disgrace of that knowledge, no doubt, my legacy torn to shreds and left to decay, my loved ones murdered and exiled and raped and enslaved, my body tortured into oblivion first by my enemies and then by the Seven Hells as well. A worse fate I could scarcely imagine." The king met her gaze unwaveringly. "Can you see, now, why I work the way I do?"

Arianne nodded silently, struck dumb, suddenly without witty retort or reply, disquieted by the king's description. So long as I have known him, His Grace has always had an artful way with words. But these were more than mere words, Arianne could tell, and they could hardly be called artful. Blunt was the better term. Blunt and brutal.

The king is being more honest with me now than he has ever been before, Arianne knew.

And then he was gone.

Arianne let free a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. How had he done that? Held her in thrall like that?

She shook off her uncertainties, her doubts, reassured herself even as she struggled to quell the vague sensation of unease rolling around her stomach. She left the small council chambers no more than a minute after the king, and wandered through the halls and passages of the keep in no particular direction for a while, almost in a daze, her mind still struggling with Tommen's words. Gods, she thought. To think he's no older than Trystane. At that age she had just stopped playing with her dolls and started growing real teats. Yet here was this boy, bearing what he thought was the weight of the world on his shoulders without complaint.

She walked and walked, and wound her way to the Tyrell queen, knowing that beyond the small council she was the only one who might have some insight into the Boy King's mind. And, perhaps, in the queen she sought the comfort of the company of one she had come to think of as a friend.

Arianne found Margaery Tyrell alone on an isolated balcony of the Red Keep, gazing out at a glittering ocean. That alone was strange enough. The young queen could almost always be found surrounded by a sizeable flock of ladies-in-waiting. Not even a single guard could be seen, the nearest having admitted her entry a door away. The little queen is not often keen to be alone. She wore a yellow gown, silk and lace, light and airy in spite the bracing evening breeze. Her hair was done up into elaborate waves that fell down her shoulders like water, topped with her crown. She nursed a cup of wine in her hands, deep in thought, occasionally eyeing the half-empty pitcher on the table.

"Your Grace," Arianne announced herself with a shallow curtsy.

"Princess," Margaery greeted her. "Please, sit. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Arianne accepted the seat. "I wished to ask what is troubling you, Your Grace."

The queen offered her a pleasant smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Nothing is troubling me."

Another secret. Arianne changed course. "I am gladdened to hear it, Your Grace. Though it is a lie, I am still gladdened to hear it."

Margaery shot her a look. "It is merely the Shields," she finally confessed. Another lie? "It pains me to hear my home is under attack, though I have full faith His Grace will help see the ironmen off before long, of course."

"Of course," Arianne agreed. "Though - and forgive me for saying so - I cannot help but notice His Grace seems a little more..."

Margaery nodded, averting her gaze, pulling at the hem of her sleeves. "The burdens of the throne are many."

Arianne shifted closer to Margaery, tentatively lifting a hand to her shoulder in comfort. The young queen seemed to tense at the touch, though she did not object. "So I hear. Yet as my own mother's fate taught me, so few seem to ask what happens to the wife when the husband suffers." Silence. "My mother and father fought fiercely," Arianne continued, "when they were together. About all manner of things. Small disputes festered and grew. Then my mother left."

"His Grace and I are not fighting," the little queen assured her.

Arianne softened her expression, rubbing the girl's shoulder soothingly. "I never said you were, Your Grace."

Margaery shook her head, relaxed with a sigh. "No, of course not."

"Yet something is bothering you," Arianne observed, pressing for an answer. She reached down and freshened the queen's cup from the pitcher, knowing the extra wine would help loosen her tongue. "Something besides the Shields."

Margaery lifted her gaze from the newly-refilled cup in her hands and met Arianne's eyes, brown irises staring deep. "How can you tell?"

Arianne shrugged, slid her arm around the young queen's shoulder, subtly pulling the pair closer together. "Call it instinct. I have grown fond of you, Your Grace. I don't like to see you sad."

A genuine smile graced her Tyrell features as she drank. "As I have grown fond of you, princess." She snorted, the slightest spark of playful mirth alighting in her eyes. "Your advances on my husband besides."

Perhaps all this effort has not been wasted after all, Arianne mused, letting the thought distract her from her own recently-felt unease. "I may have made advances on your husband, Your Grace, but only because I knew he would not accept them. Truthfully, he was not the one who caught my eye."

"Oh?" the queen asked, taking a sip of her wine to hide the slight blush in her cheeks. How many cups had she had? "Then who?"

The little rose begs to be plucked, Arianne thought. To be seduced, distracted, swept away from her worries, if only for a moment. "During your wedding men gave toasts to your beauty," Arianne said. "The greatest in all Seven Kingdoms, they said. Is it any wonder I find myself bewitched by your charms?"

"I am wed," she said, though the smile did not leave her face.

"King Robert took lovers, did he not?" Arianne asked. "I would be more than happy to share you with His Grace. To play the wanton. To play any character you would like, so long as I can have you."

Margaery's face adopted a mischievous look, her gaze drifting down Arianne's body. "His Grace would be most pleased, I expect," she said, pale fingers tracing the curve of Arianne's breasts over the thin fabric of her dress. "Though your charms are somewhat less subtle than mine." Arianne felt her heart inflame with desire. She leaned forwards, and the queen succumbed. Lips met lips, and Arianne took the offensive. The kiss was tender, patient, almost prudish. Hesitancy laced the little queen's manner, but Arianne swept her doubts aside, leading the relentless forward march.

Soon enough, the queen was flushed, giggling, biting her lip. Arianne kissed her shoulders, her nose, her cheeks, her neck. All the while, she kept an eye to the entrance of the terrace, careful not to be caught in her daring. Yet something was suspicious about this. The queen's blushes were too obvious, her hesitance too fragile, her manner just a tad too eager once the dam had broken. 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.

Or maybe she is just a slut, Arianne thought, and kissed the queen again, fingers slipping down to the neck of the queen's gown and pulling it down to reveal the curve of her shoulders and breast, a health pair the size of apples resting upon a rib-lined chest. The queen returned the gesture, tugging at Arianne's gown to let free her teats. Arianne smiled and worked her way down, leaving a trail of kisses down the queen's neck to the valley between her breasts, gently caressing the little queen's curves, lifting the queen's skirt and sliding her palm up Margaery's slender legs, her efforts rewarded by little moans and shudders.

And then, under the weight of her ministrations, the queen stiffened. Arianne quickened her motions, anticipating an oncoming release, only for the little queen to reach down and hurriedly push her away. Arianne retreated, puzzled, looked up and saw the queen with her head turned. Arianne turned her gaze to where Margaery looked, and saw the king standing silently, watching them.

"No, please," he said, tone utterly flat, dangerously unimpressed, eyes locked on his wife, "don't let me stop you."

"Your Grace," the queen pleaded, pulling up her dress with trembling hands. "I went too far into my cups, we both had-"

"Don't," he interrupted her. "Just don't. Drunkenness is no excuse, not for a queen. Did you tell her anything?"

Margaery shook her head insistently. "Nothing, I swear it."

"I can't honestly say I'm surprised by this. Very little seems to surprise me these days..." His face took on a contemplative quality. "But I am disappointed. Your grandmother extolled your virtues to me. I expected better. I thought..." He shook his head in dismay. "My father strayed so often from my mother's bed that it turned her bitter. She was not always the way she is today. I swore when we wed that I would never do the same."

"There is a difference between straying and sharing, Your Grace," Arianne interjected, letting go of her restraint. She knew part of her breasts were brazenly exposed, that her hair was tousled in a torrid way. This was her chance, the best she was likely to get. "And I doubt Her Grace would mind much if you took a paramour. I could give you both much pleasure if you'd allow me. You might think it strange, but in Dorne it is perfectly natural."

The king turned his gaze to her, his eyes alight, lingering for the first time she could remember, considering her with his head cocked. "I can see that," he finally said.

"I wouldn't mind at all," Margaery chimed in. "The princess is a... talented woman."

The king's gaze drifted back to his wife. "I am sure she is," he tepidly agreed. "Yet I won't sire a bastard, and I'm not eager to catch some pox. What of our vows? I don't know about you, but I swore mine not only before the realm but before the gods as well. Such oaths are not so easily broken. And then there's the political risk. How do I know this isn't what Doran wanted to begin with? To place a spy in that most private of places - my bed? Why do you think I ignored her advances for so long? Do you think I simply didn't notice her manner? Do you think I had no urges or indecent thoughts? No desires of my own I knew better than to indulge?"

"I'm not a spy," Arianne said, feigning offense at the accusation. "You don't have to share your secrets to share your bed. Nor am I some whore. I don't have a pox. And, if it'll please Your Grace, I am more than happy to partake in moon tea."

"Quiet, girl," he bit out, though the look in his eyes and the growing bulge in his breeches betrayed him as he advanced. Arianne felt elated. After all this time, she finally had him! "You have overstepped your bounds. Just be glad you're a woman, and a princess at that. If you were a man I'd have you flogged and gelded for your gall. Remember the Baratheon words."

"You can punish me another way, if you'd like," Arianne said with a wanton leer, her confidence slowly growing. "If it'd satisfy your fury." This king is all roar and no rage, she reckoned. He fancies himself too honourable to do me any real harm.

The king slapped her. Arianne maintained her leer, letting it curl into a daring smirk as she met the king's gaze. Tommen seemed to contemplate hitting her again, ardour and anger briefly making war on his face. Instead he retreated a step, let out a long-suffering breath and loosened himself.

Cold emerald callouses flanked the king's nose in place of the furious green of wildfire that had marked his features just a few moments ago. Only the slight unease in his stance hinted at any underlying emotion. The king's guard had been raised, his true feelings pushed down. His gaze locked on his wife, firmly ignoring Arianne. "I have more important issues to tend to than this. For the next week you will sleep alone. Should anyone ask, I will say I am too sore from the yard for love. I trust in that time you will be able to stay decent?"

Margaery nodded.

"Good," the king said. "This... incident, will not be forgotten, but if you can stop yourself from similar transgressions in future, then perhaps it can be forgiven." His gaze then swung over to Arianne, uncertain. "As for you... You best count yourself lucky I am not eager for scandal. I'll even allow you to continue meeting with my wife, if only to spare myself from the rumours. I warn you now that my patience for these antics wears thin. I mislike having to waste my time working against those meant to be my allies. You might well be an alluring woman, princess, a tempting prospect, but I'm afraid a prospect is all you'll ever be to me."

"Of course, Your Grace," Arianne acquiesced, bowing her head and making a show of reluctantly lifting up the front of her gown, hiding a small smile at the king's confession as he turned and stiffly strode away.

I'll haunt his thoughts tonight, she knew. No need to rush. Tommen won't soon forget the sight of me. Of us.

Arianne turned to offer Margaery a reassuring smile.

Just like his queen, the king wants to succumb.
-------------
Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
Hope you guys enjoy!

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

Click to shrink...

is there a place to read advanced chapters or something?

 

[Dawnwalking_Soldier]

I legitimately twitched in anger, something I haven't done I a long while really. Like, I get that seducing and seduction go hand in hand with blackmail, threats, manipulation, gladhanding, gossip, etc. that is common in high class politic.

But both Arianne, and the Queen, really should have noted that Tommen isn't like the rest of the more recent Kings. I mean, at minimum the Queen should have a come-to-Seven moment in a few days, or maybe a few hours if she's smart, where she realizes that this incident has lost her the confidence of the King.

He has made it clear that he doesn't want to be anything like his father, or his brother, and he's followed the Oaths made to the letter when it came to her. If she had just talked to him about her issues or difficulties he would have tried to fix or ameliorate it. Instead she let herself be swayed by an untrustworthy, know opponent, of her husband's family. Frankly speaking, If she doesn't realize that all the trust she had built up is gone I'd be disappointed at her lack of common sense.

Most powerful woman in the seven kingdoms, and she let it all slip away because of some alcohol and a pretty face saying lies.

On the other hand we have Arianne. Early in the Chapter she might have had a chance. She had an inroad, Tommen had let her get a slight smidge closer. But then she had to go and over extend, she got an inch and tried to take a mile. The King doesn't trust her, he believes, rightfully so, that she's a spy for her family. But he had still let her see just a bit below the surface.

But then she saw the Queen by herself, without the countless guards and Ladies-in-Waiting, and though to go further than confidant. She had the Queen's confidence, it was said in chapter that she was trusted enough with minor things. But then she had to push, and in the process screw both herself and the queen from finding out anything of importance in the future.

If she would have just stayed playing the long game, being a proper confidant and listening she might have slowly worked up to more important knowledge. Instead she got caught, with the f**king Queen, and then proceeded to talk like she knew exactly what was going through Tommen's head instead of making an apologetic retreat. Compounding her lack of trustworthiness in the process.

Barring all of that, she also thinks that she'll "haunt" him at night due to her actions, and thinks that in a good way. Forgetting something she herself noted earlier in the chapter. Tommen isn't like the other Kings. If she thinks he'll just fold and follow his lusts she clearly forgets this is the same man who told her earlier that "Duty" is what he's focusing on right now. He has noted her actions and clearly views her as a snake/spy trying to worm her way into a position that would be dangerous to the stability of the kingdom. He also now has to make certain that anything he says to the Queen is curated to prevent Arianne from finding out anything important, at least until the queen does something to regain his trust. A action that would probably be a lot more difficult than either the Queen, the Queen of Thorns, or Arianne probably think.

So yes, in a manner of speaking, Arianne succeeded in managing to "haunt" Tommen. Just not in the easily manipulated manner she desired before she embarked on this particular bout of immense stupidity.

Though this is all just my take. Could be completely different from where the author goes with it.

That's also not even getting into my own personal issues with her and the Queen's actions. But I don't think anybody wants to her my ranting regarding the more emotional harm this might have caused our protag.

Still, good chapter and I can't wait for the fallout. TYFTC

 

[Rin]

I'm really enjoying the complex intrigue that you have going on here. Obviously the QQ'er in me wants the lewds to flow, but honestly, I've gotten really invested in Arianne's plotting and seductions.

Obviously the ideal end-goal is a debauched harem of the beauties of Westeros, but how (or even *if*) we get there is something I'm looking forward to finding out!

 

[BlueBerryExtreme11Zero]

Tommen: Probably a peasant girl would be far more suitable as a queen, oh, wait... I am in Asoiaf, almost all women sleep behind their husband's back.

At this rate, winning against Young Griff and his band of obsessed Targaryen Lovers, Daenerys and her dragons, Euron and his Lovecraftian plans, Night King and his blue eyes white walkers would be far more easier than actually finding happiness in his wife.

Well, at the very least he is currently enjoying the food and gold that he got from marrying Margaery.

I guess debauchery and harem is the true answer lmao. Tommen could also build more Dames to protect his lovers and to prevent them from sleeping around other men.