Disclaimer: I do not own the Mortal Instruments saga or the Lightwoods.
What if the Lightwoods had been less accepting of their sentence and kept their loyalty to Valentine?
Prologue: Banished Nobility
The silence in the Institute was deafening and unbearable. Hodge Starkweather had taken one look at his fellow exiles and ran up the stairs, presumably to the library. Robert Lightwood turned to stare at his wife, desperation at their situation almost plain in his dark eyes, a desperation she felt echo in her heart. What were they supposed to do? The Circle was dissolved and the Uprising had failed horrifically. Valentine Morgenstern was dead.
Valentine, their savior and leader had gone up in flames along with his son and Jocelyn's parents. The Clave said he had fled the fighting but Maryse could not blame him. She had retreated too, hadn't she? At least he would not have to see the pathetic results of the Clave's mandate. They had been merciful, they insisted, and the Lightwoods were now in their debt. As if. Maryse had wanted to scream when she saw that Lucian Graymark was still alive. And a werewolf. How degrading for the purity of their race for which they once pledged. He paraded around with the deserters that had managed to cling to their high positions in the Council. He was always weak as a Shadowhunter, and now he was an authority figure for the Children of the Moon? The idea was like a badly written cliché. He, a filthy Downworlder, was free to wander and rediscover himself while she, Maryse Trueblood-Lightwood was trapped in a musty building with only a mildly useful, minor member of the Circle and her husband for company. The Clave had taken almost everything from them.
They had gotten lucky though. She would begrudgingly admit that. If it had been up to Imogen Herondale, they would have been executed for "treason". Instead, she found herself exiled like a disgraced noble, shunted to some two-bit warlock as a prisoner and then given the Institute of what had to be the dirtiest city in America. Still, how could the Clave punish them when within their own ranks sat former members of the Circle? Hypocritical bastards.
She caught her lower lip within her teeth and bit savagely. Maryse felt a trickle of blood go down her chin and wondered morbidly if she resembled a vampire. Robert frowned. He leaned forward, raising an olive-tinted hand to wipe the scarlet liquid of her face. He shook his hand and they watched the red drops splatter on the white marble floor. The floor was longer pristine, but she liked it better this way. White was for mourning and Valentine would not have wanted them to waste energy grieving for him. So they wouldn't, she thought as she stroked her son's raven-black head.
They would bide their time until opportunity arose.