A New World- Chp- 22 (Patreon)

Robb eyed the scroll clutched in his hand. Every fiber of his being screamed caution and distrust, yet he could recognize his father's writing anywhere.

He had scrutinized it often since he had left, finding solace and direction in his father's journals and letters, which always showed him the true path.

"When did this come?" he asked, his red hair flowing in the cold wind that billowed the tent flap.

Winter had finally come for the North, and heavy snowstorms were already gathering on the horizon.

"This morning, My Lord," Dacey Mormont said. Her voice was calm as ever, and he liked that quality in her.

She could be as fierce as a snow bear in a melee, and yet as calm as the small red bears found around the eastern coast of the North when the situation demanded it.

"You mean now," he clarified. Without turning back, he knew she was nodding her agreement.

"Who else knows about this?" he asked, a frown creasing his brow.

"Nobody, My Lord. It was named specifically for you, and brought directly to you by the fastest bird," she said calmly, assuring him the contents were secret.

"Good... Good," he replied, but inside his mind, a storm was brewing.

A duel? His father proven innocent? An attack on the King? Rescued by Prince Haridon?

It seemed a vast amount had happened in the South, and instead of the dread he had carried—that his father was either a prisoner of the Lannisters or, worse, dead—he was alive, albeit injured, and would return north in a few weeks.

Robb breathed out slowly, a great weight lifting from his chest.

Even Sansa's disastrous marriage to the King was canceled. She was now set to marry the Prince who had defended his father.

The North was officially indebted to Haridon Baratheon, for he had saved the Liege Lord of the North from certain death and false treason charges.

Robb realized he had no true reason to continue marching south now, except for the lingering, grave insult against his family and the North as a whole.

But his father's letter explicitly restricted him. Winter was upon them, and the North desperately needed its able men back to prepare for the long winter that was promised.

He frowned, considering the fate of the Riverlands. They had risen in rebellion with the North, and their western borders had been brutally ravaged by the Westerlands forces in retaliation.

To simply pull back now felt like a betrayal.

Just then, a man wearing the Stark banner, mud-spattered and clearly exhausted, entered his tent.

"Pardon me, Lord Stark, but the news is immediate, so I couldn't wait to be announced." The man knelt swiftly in front of him.

Sword were drawn, and a morningstar was pointed at the man's face.

Robb scowled, impatient. "Out with it then."

"The Lannister forces, My Lord. They have marched back to the West." The implication that they were abandoning the Riverlands to their fate, and ending the engagement, was left unspoken, but hung heavy in the air.

It seemed the war was over before he could even see a proper battle.

The relief of his father's safety was immediately complicated by the political necessity of protecting the allies he had just abandoned. Robb rubbed the back of his neck, the confusion of war's end feeling almost as heavy as its beginning.

"Call my banners, Darcy." He said, the woman nodded and exited the tent and he rubbed his forehead.

Asha's voluptuous bosom bounced as she rode him like a stallion, her long black hair was untied, and his hand clutched her firm, pink tush. Reddish-pink, actually, because he had slapped them hard just moments before.

Her hands were on his chest, hardened by long hours spent handling the tiller and helm of a longship. Her mouth was slightly open in ecstasy, breathing raggedly into the heated air of his chamber.

It had taken him a full moon of carefully calculated maneuvering, veiled challenges, and taunts, but he had finally achieved what he desired, or rather, whom he desired.

He raised his waist slightly, deliberately thrusting harder and deeper into her. She moaned, a low, sweet sound that made him smirk with satisfaction.

"Fuck me! Hard!" she groaned, falling forward upon him and seeking purchase.

Her teeth found a place at his neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin of his shoulder and collarbone.

He winced slightly as she bit harder than was purely pleasurable, a mark of her own savage hunger, and he held her tighter, adjusting her hips.

"It's been long since I've enjoyed it this much," she whispered, her voice rough, unlatching from his neck and leaving behind a slick, red mark that would surely bruise later.

She pulled back just enough to look into his yellow eyes with those dark, intent pupils of hers.

Vickon considered her in the dim light of his chamber. She was attractive, damn attractive. She had a lightly hooked nose, the profile of a predator, and hair that currently reached her ears from being ridden loose.

But her smile, often seen as wicked and calculating in the company of her reavers, now only looked seductive to him, entirely focused on the moment.

Vickon wasn't a virgin, by no means. And although he had been a pirate and raider from a young age, operating in the lawless chaos pirate battles, he had never forcefully taken someone.

No, all his paramours had actively chosen him, drawn by his personality and his looks.

He was often said to be too good-looking to be a pirate, his features too defined, his skin too clear.

Only his slightly hunched, broad-shouldered form—an oddity of his build—was something unattractive in him. Being a high-born of good pedigree and possessing the physical strength of the Ironborn had its advantages, it seemed.

Asha leaned in, pushing their lips together. His tongue found hers, circling and conquering it, a duel of wet flesh.

His thrusts became faster, driven by the desire to consume the moment, and he could feel her groan deeply inside his mouth, the sound vibrating against his own tongue.

Without any effort, due to her lean, long-limbed body, he placed a hand on her abdomen and with a swift move, turned her onto her back. He mounted her, pressing her into the bedding.

He thrust deeper, harder, maintaining their frantic rhythm as their mouths remained interlocked. The shift in position only intensified the raw, brutal intimacy.

It was she who finished first. Her body shuddered violently, hips bucking beneath him, and she sealed it with a deep, consuming kiss. He felt her release wash over him, and he continued for a few more powerful, satisfying strokes before pulling out, spilling himself outside her body.

He didn't intend to impregnate her, not this early, not with his purpose still unfulfilled. She was his now.

"T'was mighty good sex," she said between deep, ragged breaths, her legs still wrapped loosely around his waist.

He breathed out, his own muscles finally relaxing. "Good enough to go a second round?" he teased, running a hand through her sweat-slicked hair.

Asha pushed a lock of hair from her face, her eyes still clouded with the afterglow of their shared climax. "It was good enough to make me regret not having you sooner, Vickon. If I had known what you were hiding beneath that silver tongue and those yellow eyes, I might have given you less trouble." She smiled—that wicked, full smile that he knew was deadly.

He rolled off her, lying on his back beside her. "I wouldn't have you any other way, Asha. Trouble suits you." He stretched, feeling the deep ache of exertion.

The conquest of her body felt almost as satisfying as the conquest of Lannisport, though the stakes were entirely different.

With Asha, he felt he was not just taking a woman, but an equally formidable force. Their alliance, cemented in this brutal, honest heat, would be necessary for the political battles to come.

Soon, Balon Greyjoys days were numbered.

Bran eyed the weirwood with narrowed, sincere eyes. He shivered slightly in the growing chill of the Northern air. "You want me to build a network, a connection with the Heart Tree?"

His ancestor, the ghost of the Breaker, nodded slowly, his transparent form shimmering faintly in the twilight. His grey eyes were fixed on the ancient, carved weirwood tree before finally turning back to Bran. "The draconian has gathered too much power. If he tried to enter your mind, the network of the heart trees—which spans the realm—is now controlled by him."

"Which, I reckon, is not good for us?" The little boy with curious red eyes asked, already knowing the answer.

Brandon shook his head, a gesture of profound ancient regret. "It's never good news, young wolf. Only a Stark, an ancestor of the First Men and the Singers, is allowed access to a heart tree network. That too, never permanently. The power is too great, too wild."

His mother, Catelyn, was currently overseeing the administration of Winterfell, managing the day-to-day affairs. A letter this morning had made her happy, almost elated, for some reason Bran knew not, but the good mood meant he was allowed outside, so he wasn't going to press her with questions.

The full weight of winter was coming; he could feel it deep in his bones, young as they were, and his ancestor's near-continuous, soft chants of 'it's here' followed him even when he slept.

His ancestor, being a ghost, had no need for sleep, food, water, or anything a living thing desired.

No, he was dead.

So, when Bran slept, Brandon remained awake, his eyes closed, chanting a soft, silent mantra of it's here. It was erratic, unnerving, and a bit disturbing, but he ignored it most nights, having grown accustomed to the spectral presence.

When asked, his ancestor said the mantra was all about the winter, warning that this time, it would be a very long winter. And with this winter will come the Night King.

"The draconian raven is immobile, for if he was active and able, he could have used the trees to navigate freely across the realm," The Breaker said, returning to the immediate threat.

"Instantaneous travel?" He asked, worried by the sheer scale of the power described. "That much power should never be in someone's hand."

Brandon nodded. "It will allow you to travel like a doorway, the magic weaving the threads of the realm together for a moment."

"Then why didn't you let me help my father?" Bran demanded, his voice rising, betraying a flash of frustrated grief and rage. "I could have used the network to rescue him from the capital!"

His ancestor shook his head, the transparent image momentarily wavering. "You don't need to, pup. Your father had a savior in the South. And besides, it takes moons, perhaps a year or two, before you can make a safe connection with the Heart Tree network, and even longer before you could travel without fainting, or losing yourself completely."

"The magic in the heart tree is immense; don't underestimate it. Starks have been known to go mad by being just connected to the sight, and a few had been never found once they entered the network," he said with a solemn expression, a profound sorrow clouding his ancient gaze.

"Who?" Bran asked, seeing the genuine sadness on the Breaker's face.

"My second son and nephew," Brandon answered, shaking his head slowly. "They were wee lads, quite bright, aye. I still feel guilty teaching them this, sending them into that endless green darkness."

Bran had never known that. He just nodded, and instinctively tried to pat the ghost on his arm, a gesture of comfort, but his hand slipped straight through the transparent form.

Losing his balance, he found his face full of cold, white snow.

He heard his ancestor chuckle softly at his misfortune, and Bran stood up quickly against the bole of the tree, brushing the snow off his clothes lest they become wet.

"And your father's time isn't up," The Breaker called out, his voice recovering its authoritative tone. "The Silent Wolf will return north, be assured about that. Will he live to be called another old wolf? That's the question we cannot answer."

"Now, for your own immediate safety, your wolf must remain with you. If you are about to be attacked by the raven, Summer will shield you," Brandon instructed.

Bran looked at his direwolf at the mention of his name. Summer whined softly before sitting attentively on his hind legs, the cold ground not affecting him at all.

"The attack would not be physical, though," Bran observed, looking up at his floating ancestor.

His ancestor shook his head. "A warg makes a connection with a few animals. He can walk into the fur of many—the weaker-willed creatures—but a few remain truly loyal to him, creatures that accept him in their mind without struggle, recognizing him as a kindred soul."

"Like our wolves," He said, understanding the underlying connection.

The Breaker nodded emphatically. "Yes, and these creatures can help protect your mind. Their minds are not as complex as ours, but magic still flows through them. And that wild, primal magic recognizes psychic hostility, and instinctively defends against it."

The little boy frowned again, pondering the risk. "But wouldn't that require me to allow him inside my mind completely?"

His ancestor smiled, amused. "And why do you think they are not already there, pup? Command him to come near you without speaking, just look at his eyes."

Bran did as told. He focused his will and his intention toward the direwolf.

Summer stood up and sauntered near him, sitting obediently beside him as Bran reached up and rubbed him behind the ears, a low growl of contentment rumbling in the wolf's chest.

"You both share a bond now, young wolf. Stronger than you would or could form with any other creature," Brandon observed, the tone shifting back to caution. "It's a risk too, remember. If your companion dies, there's a very high chance of you going irrevocably mad."

Bran nodded solemnly, looking at his large, loyal companion.

Tyrion placed the cup carefully on the edge of the table, his stubby leg making it unnecessarily hard for him to climb onto the high chair used by the taller council members.

"Should I bring a stool for you?" His favorite nephew asked, his voice containing an obvious, amused tilt.

The dwarf looked up sullenly at the young Hand. "How original of you, Haridon." He ignored the jest, pushed off the floor, and managed to clamber onto the chair, settling down with a breath that was perhaps more dramatic than necessary.

He took a slow sip from the sweet Arbor gold. Dornish Red was fine too, and often preferred by those with a taste for spice, but it was far too sharp for his tongue this morning.

"I can genuinely have a proper stool made for you to climb, if that's what you require," Harry repeated, a genuine smile now playing on his lips, though his own flagon of wine remained untouched.

"I require nothing like that, nephew. I've spent years of my life without your generosity, and I can continue to do so," Tyrion's words were cutting, sharp as shattered glass, but the smile lurking on his own lips told another tale.

He was fond of the young man, a fact he would never admit aloud.

Harry nodded, finally taking a small sip from his own flagon of wine. He liked his wine heavily watered down, because he had seen through two lives what a creeping dependence on alcohol did to a man of substance.

Padfoot, the man he had once known, had been a brilliant man, funny, charming, and an aspiring Auror-trainee. The death of the Potters had unjustly sent him to Azkaban, and his escape and subsequent life in hiding had turned him into a reckless drunkard. And that old folly had been the ultimate reason for his death.

His own biological father, Robert Baratheon, was a legendary warrior, a military commander who was only truly defeated once. He had been handsome, charming, and an able man until the wine drowned his ambition and his wit.

Harry had no desire to follow either of their leads into that bitter, watery grave.

"Your decisions regarding the Tyrells are a bit concerning, nephew," the dwarf said, bringing the conversation back to the politics. "I know you perceive the danger, but I must again warn you. The Tyrells and the Hightowers are only loyal to their family, and to their cause. And their cause has always been to see one of their own sit on the throne."

Harry nodded, his expression grave. He knew what he was doing. The Tyrells would be his source of leverage, his source of military strength. He knew they desperately wanted a queen, and Margaery would become one, but only through Joffrey.

If the Tyrells were left free of commitment, Renly would inevitably rise with their massive support, crown himself king, and immediately create a devastating three-way struggle for the throne that the Crown could not possibly win.

He had fought tooth and nail to remove the North and the Riverlands from the war by freeing Ned Stark.

He knew the Crown would have to compensate the Riverlands somehow—perhaps through land or titles—but that would be an issue to deal with when the Tully lord came to the Capital.

The Iron Islands had revolted and brazenly attacked the Westerlands. Uncle Stannis was actively on the move, sailing his fleet and army to gain more land and footing before he attacked, he will directly aim the King's Landing.

Harry had almost no army at his hand except the forces of the Crownlands. The direct royal vassals could perhaps muster fifteen thousand levies at once; the rest would have to remain back to garrison the numerous castles in case of a siege.

And Uncle Stannis commanded an army nearing nineteen thousand, or above if luck were in his pocket.

Additionally, the Velaryons and the Celtigars—houses with significant naval power—had chosen to support his claim.

This meant Stannis had a large, powerful fleet at his back.

Only the Redwyne fleet from the Reach could potentially counter Stannis's naval advantage, plus the ever-present issue of the Ironborn raiders.

The decisive battle would be fought more on water than land, though Harry knew the Ironborn would send small raiding parties on land to loot and reave; their real prowess was naval combat.

He was just relieved that gunpowder was an unknown material to Westeros; else, the British naval forces he remembered from his previous life had ravaged a good part of the world through Navy alone.

If the Tyrells could be tied irrevocably to Joffrey, then their vast army would be duty-bound to see to Stannis.

After all, the Reach had one of the largest fighting forces in the Seven Kingdoms, and after he married Sansa, he could even call on the North to support the Crown against his wayward uncle.

He didn't know what had truly gotten into Stannis; there were rumors of a Red Priestess, a foreign religious preacher, driving his campaign.

Could Stannis be stupid enough to wage war on the advice of a religious preacher?

Well, if a brilliant wizard like Tom—evil, but no less brilliant—could fall for a vague prophecy, then his honorable, rigid uncle could certainly fall for a fanatical priestess.

"The Tyrells have the army, uncle. Stannis is moving toward us, we need their army to defend against him," Harry said.

Tyrion smirked knowingly, "I doubt that is the only reason, nephew. You love Sansa, and you want her for yourself."

Harry nodded readily; he had already told the Dwarf as much, so there was no point in hiding the desire.

He wanted Sansa, perhaps as much as he had once wanted Ginny. She reminded him physically of his late wife, with her red hair and bright, earnest eyes.

He blamed his Baratheon lust for the fixation; it could be that only. While his father had fixated on one Stark woman, he had found himself fixated on another. It must run in the blood, he reasoned internally.

Or maybe his Potter instinct was to be blamed for that, for he knew for a fact that James had been fixated on Lily for seven years before she finally softened toward him.

He knew what the desire was, and he knew he was fixated on her. Despite seeing all of her foolish, romantic notions, he wanted her; that was final.

"I want us married before the Tyrells come," he stated, his mind already working out the immediate logistics.

"Why?" Tyrion asked, taking a sip of the Arbor gold.

"I want Lord Stark back in the North," Harry said. "And I don't want the Tyrells to get into the matter of my own betrothal more than the current rumors already suggest."

Tyrion nodded, the strategy making perfect sense.

The snake-like scale of the creature beneath his fingers made Euron smirk. Power—it made his remaining eye roll back, and pure ecstasy run through his body like a potent wine.

The Crow's eye had never felt such strength, not when he took his brother, not when he raped Victarion's wife, and not when he made a hundred widows burn to pay the iron price for this very gift.

The black shadow, which served as his master and his source of power, had initially wanted his brother's blood to awaken this primordial strength, but he had bargained relentlessly until the shadow accepted the sacrifice of one hundred widows, made specifically by Euron's own hand.

Killing that many people one by one, with the precise ritual the shadow demanded, had taken time and effort, but at the end, he had power.

Power that none could counter, power that he would use to take over the Seastone Chair from his traitorous brother, Balon.

He would kill Balon, for that craven had punished him for following the Old Way.

The Crwo's eye had desired Vic's wife; what wrong had he done if he had merely paid the iron price to possess her? Victarion could easily get a fourth wife. Killing his third wife in vain out of wounded pride—that utter fool.

No, Euron would punish that idiot, Victarion, too.

But first he would take Balon's daughter. Yes, that was an appropriate and fitting punishment for his elder brother.

And perhaps he would geld Victarion the next time they met.

His single smiling blue eye, sharp as a dagger point, latched onto the dark blue scale of the creature beneath his finger.

It swam effortlessly beside his ship, Silence, and despite being a mere youngling, it was large enough that its head could easily reach the side of his vessel.

It was an oceanic miracle.

It would grow to be a behemoth, large enough to capsize the largest warships the continent could build.

But he still had time. Balon had foolishly revolted again, if the Sea's wind could truly be believed and heard, as Euron claimed. It would take him a year, maybe, or perhaps quite a few moons if the sea-dragon helped him sail faster, to reach Pyke and enforce his claim.

His blue lips were drawn back into a chilling, anticipatory smirk as he sailed on, guided by the silent, predatory presence that swam alongside his ship.

The Old Lion of Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister, shook his head as he finished reading the scroll in his hand. The contents bordered on the unbelievable, talking utter nonsense—or so his rigid sense of order dictated.

According to Grand Maester Pycelle's detailed report, it had all started with Ned Stark's trial. His second grandson, Haridon, had seemingly stood up for the "traitor lord" even before the official proceedings began, publicly questioning the New king's motives.

But at the trial itself, while Joffrey, his eldest grandson, had been bloodthirsty and wanted Lord Stark's head, Haridon had instead support Lord Starks' demand of Trial by Combat. The king had apparently agreed, and so the duel had been set.

And, surprisingly, the Secon prince had stood as the champion for the Northern Lord. A foolish move, Tywin saw it as.

Family divided was family weak, and a family pitted against each other in such a public, violent manner was truly doomed.

Cersei had, unsurprisingly, declared Jaime as her champion. Jaime was Tywin's pride, his golden heir.

The boy was one of the greatest Lannister knights to ever wield a sword; he had become a Kingsguard at the impossibly young age of fifteen. There has never been a greater Lannister knight in Tywin's lifetime, or perhaps ever.

His secon grandson had been a clever but deeply impulsive boy, as Tywin remembered from his grandson's brief visit to Casterly Rock. Even then, the boy had been stubbornly adamant that Joffrey was an unfit Heir, and declared his regime would bring nothing but chaos to the realm.

Yet, even then he had shown the instincts of a warrior. The Old lion had seen him practice in the yard with a longsword, and then switch to a massive hammer. He had been exceptional with the latter, matching his father's sheer efficiency and brute force with the blunt weapon.

As such, Tywin had sent a large, finely crafted war-hammer for the boy, and a greatsword, as a gift.

According to Pycelle's frantic missive, He had used the war-hammer to defeat Gregor Clegane, with some aid from the Stark's bastard, Ser Jon. And the greatsword he had used to defeat his own son, Jaime, in the trial by combat.

With Jaime chosen as Champion, Tywin saw no way around it. He knew killing Lord Stark was a bad move, the man was, after all, a far better hostage alive than both his daughters, and certainly better than his bastard.

But surprisingly, Haridon had defeated his Kingsguard uncle, a mighty feat, and surely something he knew songs would be made about for decades to come.

"Ser Haridon of the Whitesword," the small-folk called him now. For his sword had allegedly glowed hot and white as he had defeated Jaime.

Some called it Sorcery, a dangerous claim, but Tywin, ever the logical, knew it was likely a parlor trick, just as Thoros of Myr's burning sword was.

But that wasn't what truly surprised him; it was what happened after the duel.

According to the Grand Maester, the King had been wrought with rage and childish spite at the result of the combat. Even Cersei and Haridon had tried to make him see sense, but Joffrey had decided to play God, and punish a man who had been declared innocent by the gods in a duel.

His second grandson had snapped then, allegedly, killing a Kingsguard, Ser Boros Blount, and brutally beating Joffrey, the King, in front of the whole court before taking over the reign of his brother's regime as the new Hand of the King.

A position that Tywin had sent Tyrion to keep for him, but he couldn't fault the boy's effective, decisive action, could he?

His saving of Ned Stark had allowed the Old Lion to immediately return to the Westerlands to defend his own lands, an action he would have been forced to take regardless of the King's will.

Now, he knew, the messy war with the North and the Riverlands was effectively over—a ceasefire declared as Ned Stark was free to return North and put the rebellion down fully, consolidating his forces and pulling them out of the field.

The boy had also swiftly annulled the marital agreement between Joffrey and Sansa Stark, recognizing the folly of marrying a king to a traitor's daughter while her kin were in rebellion.

Instead, he had immediately reached out to the Tyrells for their granddaughter, Margaery.

He knew Cersei would be worried sick over the influence the Queen of Thorns would have once she set foot in the capital, and her granddaughter became the new Queen.

But Tywin knew the old lady well, and knew enough of her tactics to counter them, or more accurately, to harness them for the benefit of the Crown and House Lannister.

Yet, his immediate tactical worry was the Westerlands.

Why the Ironborn had decided to attack his fleet now, during a civil war, he knew not. But they had decimated his fleet stationed at Lannisport—twenty ships lost. The only reprieve was that none of his powerful dromonds or scorpion-laden galleys were there.

His big warships were still harbored safely in Casterly Rock, and they had not been touched.

The Reavers had declined his total fleet by exactly one-third; out of sixty ships in his fleet, twenty had been lost.

Forty ships were not nearly enough to launch an invasion on the Iron Islands, a naval power. The other naval options were the Dragonstone fleet, but the Velaryons and the Celtigars had decidedly chosen to aid Stannis Baratheon. The only remaining, substantial option was the massive Redwyne fleet.

And here, Tywin was truly thankful to his grandson.

The boy had been smart enough to immediately secure the Redwyne fleet's loyalty by proposing the marriage between Margaery Tyrell and Joffrey.

No, the boy was an astute politician, surprisingly effective where his mother and brother were merely impulsive.

He had also successfully tied the North to the Crown by proposing to marry Sansa Stark himself, after the annulment with Joffrey.

It was a good move, executed with a speed and calculation that made Tywin feel a familiar, familial sense of pride. It was a strategy he himself would have planned.

But Stannis was still collecting forces, and he knew his grandson didn't have enough men to counter both his uncle's massive army and his large fleet simultaneously.

Tywin had already sent Kevan with direction to garrison all the forts along the coast of the Westerlands with archers and spearmen. They could, for a time, defend against the smaller Ironborn raiding parties easily.

He had also allowed his large, remaining ships to spread out to cover the coast, but not too far enough from one another to prevent mutual aid in case of attack.

But his principal worries were now fixated on Stannis. The dour Baratheon was said to have nearly twenty thousand men, and a large fleet to support them.

Tywin knew from his years as the Hand of Aerys that the Crownlands could only raise twelve to fifteen thousand men, not much more.

Until the final marriage agreement was finalized with the Tyrells, they wouldn't send their vast army to defend the capital—maybe a token force, but nothing substantial.

No, he will have to divert his own forces to defend the Crown's seat. At least six thousand men out of his best—that would be enough to hold the capital for now.

Tomorrow morning, he would send those elite troops to the South, while he himself would remain in the Westerlands to defend his ravaged homeland and command the counterattack against the Greyjoys.

Sansa eyed the marriage cloak being prepared, the rich Stark grey and Baratheon gold threads already woven together.

She had never expected that her marriage would be planned with such frantic haste. The Prince had issued the command only yesterday: he would be married by the week's end.

None of her immediate family would be able to participate in the wedding. Not her mother, nor Robb, Bran, or Rickon. Oh, how she missed them, especially her mother.

As far back as she could remember, she had been her mother's favorite. It wasn't that she loved her siblings less, but the pride and love she held for Sansa, her eldest daughter who embodied the feminine virtues of the South, just like her, felt special and unique.

Sansa had always desired to wear her mother's marriage cloak—a beautiful piece of needlework Catelyn had shown her on occasion, detailing the Tully trout and the Stark wolf entwined.

But neither could her mother attend the marriage in this treacherous capital, nor could she wear the sacred cloak.

Out of the people killed or injured in what the court later termed the "Massacre of the Tower," most were guards and servants. The only people who were safe immediately were her Septa and Jory Cassel, who was later killed by the disgraced knight Ser Boros Blount.

Truthfully, she knew now she had been stupid, hopelessly naive.

She should have never trusted Joffrey, and should have certainly never seen him as a desirable match, despite his crown. The King was a brute, cruel, and vicious, a spoiled monster in a shiny cloak.

Sansa had been absolutely terrified when he had stormed the Tower of the Hand. Ser Meryn and Ser Boros were behind him, alongside a group of Lannister guards.

Jon had been attending to their father, who was still recovering from his stay in prison. She had been working on her embroidery, practicing stitches, while Arya was conveniently out in her dance lesson.

Ser Meryn and Ser Boros had immediately tried to subdue Jon, but her brother had defied them easily, exhibiting a fierce skill she had only seen once in the Tourney in respect of his father.

It wasn't until four of the surrounding Lannister guards had him surrounded and pinned that he had finally been captured.

Joffrey himself had grasped her hair—pulled so tightly it felt like her scalp would tear—and dragged her brutally to the court.

There, he had first turned his malice on her father, fully intending on killing him, boasting as such to the court.

To her immense relief, Arya had not been found, neither she nor her dance master, Syrio Forel.

Later, Arya had told her, with typical smugness, that she knew a secret passage from the chamber they were training in, and as soon as the Lannister guards had come knocking and demanding entrance, she had vanished through them.

She only returned to the Tower once Haridon had taken over as Hand and the situation had calmed.

Her sister had clearly decided the situation was safe enough with Haridon in power—a fact that spoke volumes about the trust her little sister, who trusted no one, placed in her about-to-be husband.

After torturing their father, Joffrey had turned his attention to Sansa, tearing off the shoulder strap of her gown with a vicious tug. He had ordered the Hound to whip her.

Clegane had hesitated, clearly struggling, before reluctantly doing as commanded.

She knew he didn't want to do it; the man might be a vicious brute in battle, but it seemed he hated hurting her.

It had been then that the Prince had made his entry, war hammer in hand and a few loyal knights beside him.

She had been ready for a confrontation then, because by now, she knew he held some kind of feeling for her. After their single kiss in his chambers, he had always greeted her with teasing smiles and soft, deferential words.

But she was not ready for the sheer, brutal violence he laid down, carving a path in blood to reach Joffrey.

He had thrown the King off the throne as if he were a ragdoll, a thing with no weight, an embarrassing puppet.

She had thought, in that moment, that he would kill the King, and she wouldn't have been truly unhappy if that happened. If he did such a terrible thing for her and her family, then she would have readily accepted him, even if he became a Kinslayer.

But he stopped, a display of restraint that her own father or brother might not have shown in that situation. Her father was known as the Quiet wolf of the North, but she had seen what his fury was like, what he could do when pushed to his limit.

She had even seen what the late King Robert's fury had been like.

The Prince showed all the Baratheon qualities—the strength, the size, the deep, visceral anger—on top of an unnerving, magical power.

Yes, he was neither a drunk nor a whoremonger, but when he got angry, a path of violence and immediate action was what he chose.

Still, she adored him, for he had protected her and her family when no one else would or could.

This marriage, she knew, was going to be good for her. The Prince was neither unkind nor the sort of man who would beat his wife.

And he was handsome—bloody handsome, to be truly honest.

Yes, she was marrying a man who had chosen her and protected her, a truth that glittered brighter than any crown Joffrey could have offered.