Time seemed to slow down as he brought the battle axe swinging down. It connected with the black armor with and almighty clang that seemed to resonate within his soul. He knew that it would be a sound that would be with him the rest of his life.
But it was all worth it. If it meant getting her back then he would tear the seven kingdoms apart a thousand times over just to save her. The image of her face was all that kept him going through it all. He could not bare to think on the idea that if he lost, the implications would be catastrophic.
And Ned. Ned who had fought so hard with him and lost so much. Defeat would mean the worst for him.
The battle axe had cut open Rhaegars armour with ease, blood as red as fire poured out in with the surrounding waters, staining them an eerie crimson. Rhaegar dropped to his knees, seemingly defeated, but Robert could not stop.
He swung the battle axe down again, and again. Every stroke he repeated the same name is his head; ‘Lyanna. Lyanna.’ With every stroke Rhaegars face became more unrecognisable and Lyanna’s shone more clearly in his eyes.
Robert did not know when the battle around him had ceased, of for how long he stood there, swinging his weapon at the man before him. All he knew was that it took four men to hold him back and wrench the weapon out of his hands before he realised that they had won.
He didn’t know who, but someone took Rhaegars body before Robert could claim the head, leaving him nothing to do but make his way back to Kings landing in the hope that Ned had found Lyanna.
Word soon reached him that Jaime Lannister had slit the mad Kings throat when he had issued the order for Lord Tywins head.
Robert had managed a joyless laugh at that. The kings own guard was what had caused his downfall. He deserved it.
Robert reached the city surrounding Red Keep to find it sacked and mostly destroyed, but he did not stop for he wanted to her. He had only recieved a single letter from Ned stating that he should ‘Come to the Red Keep. Have haste’.
He had hoped that it had meant that Lyanna was there, waiting for him. Ned was too clever to reveal such a delicacy over raven incase of interception. The suspense was killing him. When he reached the Red Keeps gates, he did not wait for his fellow men, but broke into a fast canter through the courtyard into the Red Keep, stopping only to dismount as the entrance to the throne room.
His legs could not take him fast enough as he raced in, coming to a halt when he spotted Ned.
“Ned… please…” Robert croaked, his voice thick with longing. To see her. To hold her. To kiss her.
Ned rose from the base of the steps, his face grave. He needn’t say a word. The silence spoke volumes. Robert felts his knees give way beneath him and the ground rush up to meet him. His head dropped into his hands as the icy feeling in his chest spread through out his body.
“No, no, no…” he sobbed, “We were supposed to save her. This was all for her, all of it!”
Ned said nothing and did not move to comfort his friend. Roberts distraught cries echoed around the room, intensifying the grief behind them. His heart ached with a longing for her that he knew would no never be satisfied. No matter how many whores beds he could stumble into, they would not be Lyanna.
The dreams of seeing their black haired child running around shattered into a million pieces. Lyanna had unknowingly taken a piece of Robert with her when she had died.
And he knew that seven Kingdoms would not fill the hole that she left.
She had not always been like this. Bitterness and hatred were not feelings that she had ever been accustom to. Never had she felt it before. With her golden curls and delectable charm Cersei Lannister had most people eating out of the palm of her hand.
On her wedding day, for the first time that she could remember, her eyes did not stray towards her beautiful brother standing to the side of the alter and she did not wish that she was with him on her own. And for the first time she was happy where she was. Hers eyes focussed on the tall, dark and handsome man stood at the alter waiting for her. Girls all over Westeros wanted him, but he was hers by oath.
She had no doubt that she stood before him in her dazzling white dress and crimson cloak, he would look then. Modesty had never been Cersei’s strong suit, but there was no way that anyone could argue that she looked anything less of radiant.
Her hair fell over her shoulders like a golden waterfall in such a way that even the sun would be jealous. And above all, her smile was what compelled people to look at her, and make it impossible to look away. It was a smile that radiated happiness and utter contentment.
But Robert had not spared a glance her way the whole time. He seemed to find more comfort in the bottom of the wine glass than with his new wife.
Cersei knew why Robert acted so but she did not speak of it. The girl that he wanted was dead. And she was here, eventually she was sure he would come to love her and Lyanna Stark would become nothing but a distant memory.
But she was wrong.
When Robert crawled into their bed on the eve of their wedding, pressing his large drunken self against her, he brushed his lips against her ear and for a second Cersei thought he would whisper some comfort. But no. He whispered a single word.
And that word was enough to make her despise every part of the man she had married. When they had finished their duty, she pulled the furs up to her shoulders and turned away from her new husband, wiping away the tears that had finally spilt over.
It was later that night that she found comfort in the arms of her brother.
From the months that followed their marriage the word was not mentioned again and Cersei began to hope that Robert had perhaps come to feel something for her. Jaime was at her side constantly, but she did not feel the need to go to him as she had on her wedding night.
But then came news of Roberts infidelity. It was not unusual for men to have mistresses, but Robert made no effort to hide it from her, and openly discussed the fact that he had got the wench pregnant.
Bitterness began to fester.
Cersei did not need to ask Jaime to do what needed to be done. He already knew. By the next day the wench and her unborn babe were dead. And Cersei felt nothing.
Cersei continued her life, trying to forget that Robert had strayed and made more of an attempt to engage him.
When she fell pregnant, it was a sign from the Gods that she and Robert were going to be alright, and perhaps when she bore him a son, then he would grow to feel some sort of affection towards her. Desperation told her it was so.
But Robert barely noticed her growing bump, and frequented hunting trips rather than be with her. Jaime was the one who sat by her side when she discussed the baby, and its growth.
A part of her wished it was Jaime’s baby that grew inside of her.
When she lost the baby at just 6 months, Robert did not say a word, but rode off into the woods again, alone. Jaime sat and held her as she cried into his arms, mourning the child that she had hoped would bring her and Robert together.
That night Cersei found that it was Jaime’s soothing hands and words that helped her to sleep, and it was Jaime’s warm embrace that she woke up to.
But despite the Kings lack of attention towards her, or the loss of their child Cersei found herself trying harder than ever to be what he wanted her to be. She attended every court session, and meeting that she were permitted and dined by Roberts side every night.
She spoke of having another child despite how it pained her to talk of it. Her enthusiasm to her queenly duty’s was unrivaled and she cheered the loudest for Robert at every tourney he attended.
Cersei even found herself agreeing to travel North with the King in order to see his long time friend Eddard Stark and their young child.
In her desperate state to please the King, Cersei did not register what going north meant for Robert.
It was not until she expressed a desire to go riding with her beloved upon the arrival at Winterfell did she realise.
Robert ignored her request and greeted Lord Stark, leaving her with the entourage to go down into some underground tunnel. Cersei remained utterly perplexed at the behaviour. It was not until that evening, when everyone else had retired and Robert was drinking with Lord Stark did Cersei venture down into the underground vault to see what it was that had demanded Roberts immediate interest.
Angry and fury built up in her when she saw what the vault held. The girl was not even alive and still he loved her more than Cersei. She was living and breathing but he would rather see the face of a dead woman than his own wife. Tears rolled furiously down her face as she stood immobile in front of the stone carving.
Hatred curled in her blood, boiling through her veins until she could not longer breath. She dropped to her knees, at the mercy of the statue. Bitterness eating away at her insides. Her heart ached for the one she could never have. She had fooled herself for so long, convinced that he would someday wake up and see her properly.
But his vision was tainted with this black haired beauty. Robert did not want Cersei. Lyanna Stark was the only thing he had ever wanted.
She had not heard anyone enter until she felt the hand on her shoulder. She did not jump, recognizing the touch.
“Rise sister. She can only do harm that you allow her to.” Her brother said, grasping her arm and pulling her to her feet. Cersei furiously wiped away the tears from her face and turned her back on the dead Lyanna Stark.
“He will never love me” She said, her voice broken. Jaime shook his head.
“But I will.”
And it is not romantically entailed at all. Whoops.
Ask baelish is not going to like thisss!
Anonymous asked: Sam! I think I may have a bit of a crush on you.
A crush? What is this thing you speak of? I am not familiar with it?
“Theon Turncloak! That’s what they will call you!” The boy taunted, his auburn hair glinting in the light, like a crown upon his curls. His Tully blue eyes glinted with the feelings of betrayal.
Theon raised the wooden sword up higher in defense to the meaningless words, letting them wash over him. Theon’s partner shifted at his side moving to his attack position.
Robb took another step upwards, his back to the rising stair, looking down on Theon and Jon.
“Robb, I apologies, but I know a losing cause when I see one, and it was in my better interest to move over to Snow here, despite our differences. You are still my brother have no doubt, I just am seeking higher ambitions for the time being.” Theon replied, raising his eyebrows at the younger boy.
Theon and Jon simultaneously took a step upwards closing the gap between them and Robb.
“Family are supposed to stick together Theon! How can you be my brother if you chose to go onto Jon’s side rather than mine!” Robb threw back, his face folding into a frown.
Theon stepped closer again, smirking. He extended his sword arm poking Robb in the belly, making his tip back over the stair and land of his bum, looking down at Theon.
At this Theon leapt up the stairs, going behind Robb, leaving Jon in front of him.
“Aha, trapped are we Stark?” Theon taunted, holding the sword loosely as a sign of his growing confidence in the situation. It felt good to be looking down on the two eldest sons of Ned Stark. A positions the ward – no, hostage – of Winterfell never expected to be in.
“No! That’s not fair! I thought you were on my side, you were supposed to help me, not turn against me Theon!” Robb complained scrambling to his feet and turning to face Theon, fumbling with his wooden sword. But the golden kraken was too quick. With a rapid whip of his wrist he caught Robb’s hand sending the Wooden sword sailing out of his hand and down the staircase.
“It would seem that Winterfell is mine!” Theon declared smugly. He looked over at Jon, “I suppose I can give you command of the Wall to do with what you like.” Jon just glared at him.
“No way! Winterfell is mine! I am the heir!” Robb said lunging forward to Theon unarmed with the ferocity of a wolf defending its pack. But Theon anticipated it, flicking his sword out catching Robb in the chest.
Perhaps the blow was far more powerful that Theon intended, or perhaps Robb was not as balanced as he thought. Either way, the contact sent the young Stark tumbling dangerously down the stairs with no way to stop. Jon was knocked out the way as Robb descended in a swift fashion, coming to a crumpled heap at the bottom.
He did not move.
The young Greyjoy and Snow froze, the smirk slipping from his face.
“Robb? Robb?! Brother!” Theon cried, pushing past Jon down the stairs to where Robb lay.
“What did you do Greyjoy?!” Jon cursed, dropping down to his knees with Theon by Robb’s head.
“I didn’t mean to! I promise! I just wanted Winterfell, just for a little bit! I would have given it back!” Theon stuttered, leaning over Robb, trying to shake him awake. “Wake up Robb! I promise I won’t betray you again!”
Those words were all it took, for Robbs mouth to form into his usual playful grin and his bright eyes to open.
“Got you!” He laughed jumping to his feet.
The laughter faded, as did the light and the happiness that the memory brought Theon as he ascended the stairs to his room. It seemed such a time ago that they had played on these stairs and Theon had false hopes of holding Winterfell, just for a few moments.
But now it was actually his.
Turncloak. That is what they will call you. Only this time it will hurt so much more.
She sat as cold and hard and the iron throne that lay beneath her. Unblinking, unmoving. Her back was poker straight as regal as a queen should be. Her ever faithful knight knelt at her knees, his head bend. The iron was hard beneath her hands as she gripped the throne tightly.
“Your Grace,” Her knight uttered, raising his head to meet her eyes, but she did not look at him, or acknowledge that he had spoken. Her cold, unyielding blue eyes remained staring out across the vast room. “Your Grace?” Ser Jaime tried again, rising to his feet. He took an uncertain step forwards, but that was all.
Sansa’s eyes flittered down to his briefly, her deeps blues void of an emotion. Kingslayer. No. Golden-hand the just, they called him now. They lingered on him for only a moment before going back to the room.
“What do you see Ser Jaime Lannister?” She asked, her voice doing nothing to betray the thoughts that were going on inside her head. Ser Jaime turned to look at the room, searching for the right answer. When he could not find it he turned back to Sansa.
“I see a grand throne room, your Grace.” He said, bowing his head slightly to her. Sansa gave a small shake of the head.
“I supposed I should re-phrase. Who do you see Ser Jaime?” Sansa saw a flash of confusion shot across Jaimes’ face before he replied, not needing to look round this time to answer his queens question.
“There is no one in here.” He said, “Might I enquire as to whom you see, my lady Sansa?” At his question Sansa felt her hands tighten on their hold on the iron throne, the whites of her ligaments showing through her knuckles.
“I see a kingdom of ghosts.” Her eyes swept around the room, seeing it all, “My mother and father stand in this room, with my brothers Robb, Ricken, Brandon … and Jon. My sister Arya is with them too. My Grandfather Rickon is in here also, over in that corner,” She swept a hand to her left, where her grandfather had supposedly been burned alive, “And there, Uncle Brandon. He is trying to reach Grandfather Rickon, but the room is too crowded.” Jaime turned to look at the room. Sansa continued.
“And there is Vayon Poole and his daughter Jeyne, Theon Greyjoy stands there with his brother and sister. His father is here too. There is Jory Cassell. All those who were with my brother Robb in the Whispering Wood and the Red wedding they are here…” Her voice began to crack, but she continued on, “I see Samwell Tarley and Maester Aemon and- The Hound, Ser Loras and his brothers. His sister Margery” And she could say no more, her face crumpled in a flurry of tears.
Jaime rushed up the stairs in a bid to comfort his queen, but she stood up and pushed him away. She brushed away the tears furiously from her eyes. A wolf did not cry. A wolf was strong and as cold and relentless as winter. If it were Arya up here, she would not be crying. Arya would be strong and stand tall and proud.
Sansa pulled back her shoulders and lifted her head up high. She slowly turned to face the iron throne, a look of contempt on her face. She snatched the golden crown off of her head and chucked it onto the icy seat where it landed with a resonating clang.
“You Grace?” Ser Jaime questioned, resting a re-assuring hand on her arm. She did not push him away this time, but let him comfort her.
“Such an ugly thing to have fought so hard over, don’t you think Ser Jaime?” Sansa asked, looking at the chair in a curious manner, any indication of her earlier crying completely gone. The chair was exceedingly uncomfortable, with razor sharp edges. It never cut Sansa, but she always worried it would. The back was talk and straight and made her own back ache. The golden crown was plain, and heavy.
“It is rather. But it was the power they fought over my lady. It is a hard thing to resist, as I myself know.” Sansa slipped her hand down into his. Ser Jaime turned to her, with sadness in his eyes, “I can get rid of it for you is you wish it My Grace.” He offered.
Sansa turned from him back to the iron throne. She imagined it gone, and when she did, her kingdom of ghosts emptied. Not mother, father, or brothers.
“No.” She dropped Ser Jaime’s hand and reached for the golden crown, placing it back atop her auburn curls. She turned back to face the crowded hall looking out amongst the lost and dead. If the iron throne was melted down, then it was have all been for nothing. All of those people would have died for nothing.
“No” She repeated, sitting herself in the throne. “The iron throne is mine. I do not want it, but I shall have it. I will use its power to make things right again. I will give the people their peace and Justice.” She would rule over her Kingdom of Ghosts with the justness it deserved.
“Then you shall sit down as Sansa, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and rise as Sansa the Saviour.”
Anonymous asked: There'll be lots and lots of women who are willing to, erm, "let you put it", in, um... Well, you get the point.
Willing to? I think you may be mistake there Ser Greyface. No woman would want me. Thank God the Nw makes me forsake woman. it would be embarrassing.
Anonymous asked: Do you know where to put it?
I-I fear I do but the commander would not like to hear so.
And no woman would let me do so.
He cannot tell if the goose bumps that have raised over his body are from the chill of the room or from something else. The several layers of fur do not seem to be holding the heat in as they had once done.
But the cold would not stop him. It had been too long since he had been here to see them. He would do well not to forget what they had given up for him. Brandon and Rickon the most. They had sacrificed their lives for the sake of Lyanna.
The Tully words may be “Family. Duty. Honour”, but Eddard ever felt that Brandon and his father had lived up to these words in their final journey to Kings Landing.
He suppressed another shiver as he reached the end of darkened basement and came to a holt in front of them. They had barely changed, age had not reached them down in the dank underground.
Wind had not withered them, like it had Lord Starks face. He felt a thousand years old stood in front of them, painfully reminded of how long it had been since he had been to visit them.
His brother, the rightful heir, his stone carving carrying the arrogance that he breathed in life. He had everything Ned did not. The easy ability to rule and make decisions without feeling the weight of them.
“It should have been me…” He whispered dropping his eyes from the stony gaze of his brother. “I should have gone to Kings Landing with father like he had suggesting, and y-you should have married Catelyn, and become lord of Winterfell.”
Eddard dropped to his knees pressing his head to Brandon Starks’ cold feet holding back the pain of a century. He wished in that moment that their places were reversed. Catelyn deserved a man like Brandon, not the second choice because of default.
He loved her with all of his heart, but she deserved a man that did not keep his greatest secret from her.
After a moment he raised his head again to meet his fathers gaze, who’s strong and sturdy statue seemed to loom above him, as large and intimidating in stone as he was in life.
“F-father. I pray for your strength every day, I hope to hold the North strong like you once did. I do not wish to fail you.”
Doubt at his abilities gnawed away at his bones and mind each night, making it harder to rise in the morning and be the leader he was expected to be. Catelyn was his crutch and the exhaustion of 10 years of leading was beginning to take its toll on him.
His father had been a great man, that most people held in great esteem, and Ned feared that he would never been seen as that. His shoulders ached from the weight of it all.
If two great men such as his father and brother could die for such a thing, then what would become of Eddard?
“You told Brandon he would be great, but what of I father? What of I?”
And finally he turned to his sister. The stone carver had captured her beauty, but stone could not hold in the wildness that had hummed in the air around her. Her will to live and desire for adventure could never be pinned down in such a cold dark place.
He saw her every day in Jon and Arya. They were both Starks to the bone.
“Arya, my second daughter. She is still young, but so much like you. I fear I will not be able to tame her into a lady like her sister Sansa. She has the north in her and holds your dear beauty.”
Arya, just yesterday had declared that she was going to join the knights and fight in a tourney. Ned did not have the heart to tell her that she would not be permitted to do so. Jon had smiled and carved out a wooden stick for her to fight with. He knew if Lyanna were there she would have decked the girl out in armour and had her jousting within the hour.
The similarities between mother and son were overwhelming.
“I wish you could meet him Lyanna…” Ned started, “Robb loves him like a brother a-as I p-promised… He is growing into a fine young man, greater than I. I-I am so proud of him and I know you would be too.” He bowed his head thinking of the black haired boy that ran around with his children and called him father.
And he thought of the ice in Catelyn’s eyes every time Jon’s name was mentioned or she saw him in the yard playing with her children. It pained him so to see her treat her own kin as such, but she could not know the truth. He had promised.
Lyanna had known the danger as much as he did, but still it was an ever growing struggle to keep such a burden from his family and the ones he loved. His only consolidation was the Godswood. But he no longer found the answers there.
The Godswood became silent the day they decided to take his father and brother from him, and they had not uttered a word in consolidation when Lyanna had so unrightfully slipped from the world.
But still he whispered his secret into their leaves in the hope that some God, somewhere would be listening and understand, and perhaps help share the load.
