A/N: Enjoy :)

Pronunciation – Genavyn (Jen-a-vin)

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Wildfire Heart

Prologue

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When Genavyn Baratheon was angry, she would always try to calm herself down first.

Usually, those were the few seconds before the storm. The silent, foreboding moment before the tempest hit full-force and destroyed everything in its path, leaving behind little unscathed.

It never worked. One minute, she would be taking deep, settling breaths, and the next – with no notion of how it came to be – she would be blinded with fury as she was swept along by the heated anger coursing through her body. She got her temper from her father, so really, it was his fault. He, of all people, knew how she would react, and yet he incurred her wrath anyway.

Baratheon's were known for their mercurial tempers. Their House words made that clear. Ours is the Fury. But she was unlucky on both sides. She may get her stubborn temper from her father, but after a few hours, he would usually diffuse and calm down, the heat from the situation dying. It was from her mother, Queen Cersei, where she got her cold fury, and that was what kept her in a state of irritation and seeking vengeance for days, nay, weeks, afterwards.

They had arrived at Winterfell mere hours ago, for her father the king to ask Ned Stark of Winterfell to be the King's Hand; pleasantries had been exchanged, and as guests, they had been welcomed. She had been led to a room to bathe, and now it was dark and she had changed into a clean dress for the welcoming feast. She was on her way there, walking through the confusing corridors with her swornshield, Ser Lucan Swann, close behind her, when she had been summoned to a room to see her father. She could scarcely believe what it was he had to tell her, scarcely form words in response. "You…did…what?"

"Calm yourself, girl," he warned dangerously at her borderline-disrespectful tone. Then he answered her question, repeating what he had said only moments ago that had left her breathing heavily, incensed. "I betrothed you to Ned Stark's oldest son."

Yes, that was what she thought he'd said. She'd fervently wished she'd heard wrong, but luck was not on her side. She could see in his eyes no traces of humour or that this was a joke, and she slammed her hands down on the desk he sat behind, "You did WHAT?"

She wasn't particularly beautiful, not in the way her mother was. Not in the classical, traditional sense. But there was a spark in her emerald eyes that completely made up for it. A passionate light that was striking to look at, and when they were heated with emotion, they changed her from maybe pretty to remarkable. Those eyes burned like green fire, and could be the death of any man.

"Dammit girl, you heard me!"

"No," Genavyn shook her head. "I refuse. I will not."

"You don't have a choice!" He roared at her, irritation rising up. His exasperation at her stubbornness was quickly changing into anger as well, and he gave up on remaining calm. Robert Baratheon clashed with his daughter, because her fiery temper and stubborn streak never failed to infuriate him. He'd once decided it was because she was too much like himself, and when they did fight, they were not quiet about it. None of his Kingsguard rushed in to his aid, for they knew too well the way in which the King and his daughter fought. "You will unite our houses!"

"I will not marry him!" She screamed, her cheeks flushing and her eyes flashing. He felt those eyes scorch his skin. She paced the room, that Genavyn realized must be a library, for the walls were lined with leather bound books and rolls of parchment.

She knew one day she would be wed to a man her father chose. She was even surprised she was still not married. But his utter disregard for her opinion on the matter of whom it was made her furious. She had no desire to live in the North, where it was so cold and barren and grey. She had only been there for a few hours, and already she missed the heat of the South. She missed the sun and the way the air could seem almost suffocating with its warmth. "I am your daughter and I will not be used as a political tool."

He stood then, towering over her, and he forgot that she was a rather small girl. Her anger made her seem bigger – it gave her extra height and weight to throw around, to take up more space in the room.

"You could do worse, girl," he thundered, his whole face red by then. There was something about his eldest daughter that instantly exasperated him. "I could wed you to a fat, old, balding man, who stinks of rot!"

It was true.

And Robb Stark was most definitely pleasant to look at – she had found him to have a form that was appealing, when his family waited for their arrival. A stocky build, piercing blue eyes and thick red-brown hair. His body seemed hard and lean rather than soft and fat. She couldn't deny he was attractive, but in that moment, she despised him. She didn't spurn him as a person – she hardly knew him – so much as she did his existence, because it was his very existence that had her in this situation.

She did not want to marry a Northernman, especially a Stark. She had heard stories, told in bits and in fleeting moments, where the Stark's would be mentioned. So tense and uptight and honour-bound all the time, she didn't think she'd be able to stand it. Just the thought of it was stifling, smothering. She wanted a playful lover, who could ignite her passion, a warm husband, who would not be distant from her because he was so focused on his duty.

Duty. She loathed that word. It was her duty to wed, to bear children. Would it be so horrible for her to choose who she would do that with? Would it be so wrong if she could just marry for love rather than for political gain? When she was younger, she made a fervent vow to herself, when she finally recognized how unhappy her parents were together, that she would marry for love, or not at all.

She did not love Robb Stark.

Thus, she could not marry him.

"Do you respect me so little that you would not even consult me first? Before you offered my hand to a Stark? Before you condemned me to a dreary existence in the North?" She was fuming, angry. But in that anger were the threads of fear, woven through and holding it together to stop her ire from dissipating. Fear that she really would be forced into something she truly did not want. As a Princess, she had rarely had to do anything that she really did not want. And right then, she was afraid she would have no control over this.

Her father stared at her, his black expression absolutely livid and she realized her mistake. She had insulted the Starks, of whom one was his closest friend. She had lost her head in the heat of the moment, and rude, insulting words had slipped out without her permission. "Get out!" He bellowed at her. "GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

She was too angry with him to care that her condemnation of the Starks hurt him. He knew of the animosity between the Stark's and Lannisters, and so knew his wife did not like Ned Stark, but he had hoped that feeling would not transfer to their children as well.

"You will have to bear my sight a little longer, father," She shouted, mocking him. "What does mother think of this? Did you even consult her?"

Cersei was not overly fond of her eldest daughter, in the way she was of her other children. She favoured Joffrey, her eldest son. But Genavyn knew her mother would fight for her; the woman was protective of her children. Even if, at times, she seemed to track Genavyn with bitter eyes.

Genavyn suspected it had to do with the fact that she was a vivid reminder of the man she married and hated. Ebony hair, a tempestuous manner. She knew her mother held no love for her husband, and at times Genavyn had felt her green eyes watch her with a kind of impatience when she said something or did something reminiscent of Robert Baratheon.

But she knew her mother would not stand by and let her eldest daughter be forced to live in the North, particularly when it concerned the Starks, a house Cersei did not like.

"Your mother has no say, either. It is decided! It will be announced tonight." His face had twisted up, a dangerous shade of red. "Now leave!"

"I will not say my vows," she warned him. A Septon could not marry them if she was unwilling. Before he could yell at her some more, she flung the door open to storm out, the wood of it cracking against the brick wall from the force.

And her eyes landed on him.

Him. Her betrothed, standing next to that Greyjoy boy, like they were walking past, towards the hall where the welcoming feast was to be held, and had stopped to listen to her shouting. Further down the hall, the youngest Stark girl, Arya, scampered around a corner.

From the expression on his face, he had heard every word exchanged between father and daughter. But she didn't care. She didn't care if she'd insulted him, or had been too harsh, or ungrateful – he wasn't ugly, and she could do worse – and nor did she care what he thought of her.

Her raging eyes glared at him, burning a hole through his skin and igniting a heat in his body, a sudden throbbing ache in his groin. For just a moment, while her eyes dared him, baited him, he forgot he had decided on not liking her. He forgot the way she'd insulted him, rejected him. In fact, those eyes removed any thought from his mind and instead sent wildfire coursing through his body with a swift want.

She jerked her chin up sharply, her fury almost tangible as it swirled around her. She passed him, stomping down the stone steps and heading in the direction of the large hall for the welcoming feast.

She left him to consider the power of her eyes.

So…What do you think?

Thanks so much for reading!