Chapter notes: Some sexual themes in Kingdom of the Isles and Rivers. Long memory scene in italics in Kingdom of the Stormlands. Just to be aware.
Kingdom of the Westerlands: Fit for a Queen
It didn't happen often, but Cerelle Lannister was wearing black. It was quiet as well, one could've heard even the most careful thief skulking around. Candles flickered with their flames licking upwards in the air, held in their golden chambers aloft to give light to the long hall. Tomb upon tomb lay there, old Kings with swords in their grasp, their sons and grandsons who may have done some valiant deed. Every now and again, their wives, but only on very special circumstances - mostly, they were Lannisport Lannisters.
The Hall of Heroes was not a place that the princess visited frequently. For most that visited, it was a heartening uplift to their spirits - a sort of call to their own abilities. Her father was one who enjoyed the Hall. Cerelle did not.
Her arms were folded across her chest, the black material tight against her skin. Her golden blonde hair fell down her back in waves, down to her mid-back. Cerelle's lips were pursed, forming a tight line across her face. The Hall of Heroes gave many hope. It only reminded Cerelle of something she would never have.
Pale fingers brushed against the foot of one of the tombs. Engraved lines splintered from the man's sword like rays of sunlight, and the stonecutter had clearly done a good job of it. Cerelle could nearly see the exact lines of the jaw, the whiskers on the ancient King's cheeks. A tear slipped down her cheek and landed on the dusty stone.
The princess took a seat on the steps below, putting her arms around her knees. She knew it was foolish to get upset about something she, nor anyone had control over. It was here, in the area of Casterly Rock most foreign to her, that the longing was at its worst. Some day, some day soon perhaps, she would be married to a man, a lord or a king, far away from her home. This was her home. Leaving it felt as though ripping a part of her soul from her.
Cerelle understood her duty, to make allies and make friends for House Lannister. She would do it, without complaint. She simply felt as though she had more to offer her house than a marriage to a man she may not love. Her parents were different, they truly enjoyed one another. But she knew she had seen others, who either acted like their spouse didn't exist, or disliked them for being there.
There was no place she could think of to be by herself besides the Hall of Heroes. Even in her own chambers, a maid or one of her siblings was always near. She swiped at her eyes, looking down at her feet, bare of shoes she'd long since discarded.
"Why do you weep, daughter?" The question was loud, but not unkind.
Cerelle hiccupped, wiping her eyes as her father made his way to her. King Tybolt II Lannister was an imposing figure, still holding the flame of his youth. Long, flaxen blonde hair made its way to his shoulders, as though it were the mane of a lion's. Which, in a way, it was. No surprise, her father was wearing a similar black, with red trim. Years ago, he'd indulged her with a secret that he detested the gold color of their house. At least, as a primary color. He would wear it as a trim, but not on its own. Cerelle was quite the opposite, and often wore golden dresses.
"I-it's nothing, father, truly." Cerelle composed herself, but her face was splotchy with the tears that had already fallen down her face.
"It's not nothing if it's bothering my darling daughter." Tybolt leaned down and helped her to her feet, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and bringing her in for an embrace.
Out of all of the family, Tybolt and Cerelle were the most alike. For some reason, the gods had made it that way. Strong-willed, intelligent creatures, but with a heart most certainly made of gold. The king kept an arm around his daughter as he steered her towards the landing and the stairs that led up to the more proper area of Casterly Rock, where their chambers and dining halls were located.
"I…" Cerelle let the silence hang for a moment, before her father's emerald eyes met her own. "I don't want to leave." She let it out as a gasp, the last word echoing in the dim stairway.
Pity filled the eyes of the older man. Pity may not have been the right word, but perhaps more importantly he understood. Cerelle held onto his arm as they walked together through the halls, and after a few minutes the princess knew where they were going. Her father's solar.
The solar was located a ways away from the rooms of the princes and princesses, but next to the chambers of her father's. He was used to getting up in the middle of the night to write a quick note or jot down something that should be remembered for the next morning. Tybolt was a busy man, an important one.
Over the years, he had gathered a reputation for one of the quickest thinkers in all of Westeros. He'd thwarted ironborn attempts to trespass into Westerland regions. He'd navigated a tricky situation with the Gardener Kings to the south, creating a position in which Casterly Rock and Highgarden were no longer licked to the hip like they had once been. Tybolt had seen a long time ago what Garth Gardener could ruin, and he hadn't liked the idea of Lannisters being caught up in it.
The solar was impeccable, with a neat small stack of papers set up on the ornate desk. A black carving of a lion was made in the wood, and red rugs decorated the floors. Cerelle couldn't help but chuckle a bit when she saw the deformed lion's head - a monstrosity of a sculpture, in her own mind.
"That was a gift," Tybolt told her, taking a seat at his desk and gesturing for her to sit across from him in a nicely finished chair - presumably from Myr. "From our friends of Reyne."
Cerelle remembered well enough, and had remembered the giggles that had sounded around Casterly Rock when it had been shown. Lord Reyne had meant well enough by it, but somewhere it had been miskept and warped. Tybolt kept it to keep the Reynes placated and happy, which was the better way to keep them than angry and cruel, which they had a predisposition to doing.
"I know how difficult it is to be staring down an uncertain future, my daughter." Tybolt leaned forward at his desk, his elbows on the wood. His green eyes were serious and looking at Cerelle. "It may not seem so, but I know. Would that the world be different, and you would be my successor. That is not the world we live in."
Cerelle was surprised, biting her lower lip. Her fingers played with the edges of the fraying black dress. "I know." She whispered back. "I just...this is my home."
Her father was more sympathetic than many other men would've been in the same situation. The Lannister King reached across and took one of her hands into his. He gave it a slight squeeze and gave her a thin smile. "It is." He let out a dry chuckle. "You are a Lannister." Tybolt got to his feet. "This is not something to be ashamed of, Cerelle, but to be proud of. Wanting to stay here and help the family is something to be proud of." He impressed upon her, putting a hand on her shoulder.
"Thank you." Cerelle whispered, brushing away a stray tear with the back of her hand. She took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Would that you could," Tybolt said, partially to his daughter and partially to himself. "Would that you could be my successor. You would make a splendid Queen of the Rock." He turned to her, a true smile brightening his features this time. "But that, you cannot be." He put his finger upon a small map that laid on the desk. "A Western Queen, you will not be. But a River Queen, that I will give you."
Cerelle leaned forward to look, glancing up to her father. "What do you mean?" She asked curiously.
Tybolt smiled wryly, the most open with his daughter than any of his children. "The time has come. The Hoares have sat too long with far too little strife atop their domain. The riverlords are angry, the region is discontent. One final shove will send those ironborn back to sea."
"What do we do, then?" Cerelle asked, glancing up at her father.
"First?" Tybolt gazed out the window and thought hard, before putting his hand on his daughter's shoulder. "We find you a King."
Kingdom of Isles and Rivers: Salt and Water
A light mist had settled over the Riverlands, coating the beleaguered people in a cold, wet sort of environment. It was what Ravos was beginning to think of as the rivermen's revenge for the ironborn occupation. Cold as it was on the Iron Islands, it was home. Now, when a mist settled, soon followed by a fog...it was almost like clockwork that ironborn men would turn up missing, dead, or worse.
So when day turned to night, and the mist hadn't stopped, Ravos was taking a risk by going out on his horse. His black hair was stuck to his skin as though plastered on, and his gleaming near-black eyes were gazing about the stables. Not only was it raining, but two of their horses were gone.
"Fucking rivermen." Ravos cursed as he got onto a horse, already in a foul mood because of the weather and the visits with his father and their allies.
He tore off on the horse, the feeling more exhilarating than what he'd felt in days. The rush of wind and water hit his face, and for once, a smile broke across his features. His canines glinted, and his hold on the horse became tighter as they galloped into the dark wooded area around Harrenhal. Much of the trees to the east and west had been cleared, but to the north there was still some left. Beyond that was a little town, or, more wisely put, a collection of houses, a tavern, and most importantly - a brothel.
Ravos was no frequent visitor by any means, but he enjoyed it. Most times, he would prepare for weeks to go, setting aside a date long in advance where none would be troubling him. Today, it was a spur of the moment thing.
His father had informed him of the incoming lords, ladies, kings and queens that were about to flock onto Harrenhal. It seemed Ravos was the only one who thought it a poor idea. The Hoares had made enemies - powerful ones, up and down the coasts of Westeros. None more fearsome than King Tybolt II Lannister to the west, and Queen Melessa Gardener and her thorns pricked from the south. Even that was not enough to trouble him so much to send him for a night of comfort.
It was the other thing his father had impressed upon him. A bride. An ironborn bride. Ravos, living in Harrenhal his entire life, had gotten used to the finer things about the Riverlands. Namely, through the brothel nearby, riverland women. Ironborn brides were just as likely to cut your balls off as to touch them in a way that you were supposed to. Ravos had hoped he would get a bride from somewhere in the Riverlands, where he could shore up allies. Instead, no house in the Riverlands wanted to marry their daughters to an ironborn brute, as truthful or untruthful as it was.
He saddled his horse up to a post as he came upon the blinking lights of the brothel. Only a horse or two were already there, signalling a quiet night. Good. Ravos pushed open the door, the wood slapping against the stone walls. There were two steps down to the desk where the owner stood - unlike many brothels, it was a woman, a portly one with her hands always on her hips.
"Aye," She grinned, wiping a bit of dirt off her face with a bit of her dress. "A pleasure to be servin' the prince, I do say." Old Brynna could tell Ravos by sight - her highest paying customer by far.
"Good evening," Ravos muttered, slapping down a handful of coins that would've easily paid for six or seven wenches - he wanted but one. "You know." He gave a jerk of his head to gesture for her to go get the one he wished to see.
The woman pushed the iron and gold coins into one of the many pockets she adorned. "Sarisa is ready for you, Ravos." Brynna said proudly, pointing him to a door at the end of the hall.
Only two candles lit the way down the hall, and several of the doors were shut with no light peeking beneath. Business was bad, Ravos knew. Few ventured to Harrenhal anymore. No deals were to be made, and only locals were frequenting poor Brynna's brothel. The candles looked old, yellowing and nearly burnt out. The walls were sagging into the mud beneath them, and rugs were filthy. Good thing that his ironborn thought the place was a dump, otherwise they'd enjoy it too much.
He slipped his boots off outside the room, and set his coat on a rusting hook. He pushed open the door. Ravos was handsome, with slicked wet dark hair, a trimmed black beard, and pale, muscular skin. A lady would be lucky to call themselves his bride, but he no longer had freedom of choice on that front.
"Ravos," Sarisa greeted, with a little mischievous smile playing on her face. A slip of a girl she was, but a fiery one. He'd met her years ago, on his first trip to the brothel. He'd never had different but once.
Ravos sunk into the chair, unbuckling his belt and gesturing for her to come closer. Her already loose gown was slipping off her shoulders, allowing the ironborn prince a good view, but he didn't relish in it. His shoulders were tense, and the young Riverland woman could see it well enough. Her slim fingers slid under his shirt and tugged it loose, feeling up his chest.
"You're worried." Sarisa noted as she got him to strip for her before she settled onto his lap. "You came without an appointment and everything."
The prince didn't reply, laying his head back as she mounted him, the rush of pleasure coursing through him not even gaining but a grunt from the mouth of the ironborn. The girl pouted and playfully slapped his cheek. "Ravos." She said warningly.
His eyes flashed as he looked up to her, reminding any other woman what danger striking a prince, particularly a Hoare prince, could cause. But Sarisa knew him too well, and her hands were already sliding around him to squeeze the tense flesh on his back.
"You have to tell me." The brown-haired vixen pouted, placing a kiss over his heart. "Remember what I told you?" She stifled a groan as he shifted beneath her. "Be honest with me. It's the only place you can, remember?"
Ravos sighed, his heart not in the action tonight, but still desiring the soft fingers that were moving on his back, and the gentle brush of hair on his chest. He didn't know it, but all he wanted was a companion. Sarisa would do for now, but a true bride would need to fill her place one day. His hand placed upon her back and rubbed quietly, thinking that even that question would be something his eventual wife would never ask.
"My father is seeking to marry me to a house from the homeland. Greyjoy, Botley, or Harlaw, he's been saying." Ravos spat the names as though it were a curse.
Sarisa had heard it all before, and her hand traced patterns on his broad shoulder. "Oh my Prince of Streams." She had teased him about it once when he'd had to take his leave to piss during his appointment once. Now, she thought it was more true than ever. "You've got a foot in the sea, and a foot in the river. You'd best be careful, or you'll drown."
Ravos sighed, throwing his hands above his head. Seeing that it was leading nowhere, Sarisa climbed off and settled into his side. The riverland girl fit snug into his arm, and it always filled the prince with a warm feeling in his chest. "You're smarter than you seem." Ravos gazed down at her.
"Then maybe you should take me as your wife." Sarisa teased, but her eyes were already closing, and her heart wasn't in it.
If I could, I would. Ravos thought, and once her eyes had drifted off to sleep, he sat there for better than an hour just enjoying the feeling of holding her. His duty demanded him to get up, and to ride back to Harrenhal before dawn. Instead, he curled up beside her and let his mind wander.
Kingdom of the Stormlands: Swords and Sun
Was it betrayal if you had no other choice? Rogar had always wrestled with that question. In his mind, he said no, but his heart said yes. The Durrandon Crown Prince shrugged off the thought that morning, unable to keep his mind on such terrible things with the sun beating down on him.
The Dornish Marches were a dreadful area for a man like Rogar, used to storm and rain around Storm's End. Hot, miserable, and dry, the ground was always nearly brown, red, or orange. He missed green. It was no matter, for he had good reason to be there.
That particular morning he was set up near the wash basin, his heavy hammer set in the water. Red leaked from it, and he grabbed a rag to wash the blood from it. The Dornish had been getting more adventurous the last few days, but they haven't managed to gain any ground. Bloody Martells, bloody business, the saying went. Rogar was nearly always sweating, with the heavy mail that he wore over his yellow clothes beneath. Long ago he had learned to keep his hair close-cropped while in the field, even if he preferred to have it longer.
As he sat perched over the basin, he heard the flap of the tent open behind him and a rush of warm air filled it.
"Yes?" Rogar asked without looking behind him, figuring it was just a soldier wondering where they would go next. The day before they'd lost twelve Stormlanders, and picked up twenty dead Dornishmen. It would only get bloodier.
"Your father has summoned you back to Storm's End." It was a messenger, clearly out of breath and out of his element in the Dornish Marches. Rogar would've almost laughed at that were it not for the message he received.
"What for?" Rogar grunted as he hoisted the hammer up, letting the water drip onto the sand and rocks beneath. He hadn't been back to Storm's End in nearly a year, when his brother was knighted.
"Problems to the north." The messenger said crisply. "A horse waits for you outside." Without anything further, the man was gone as quick as he had come.
Rogar sighed and rubbed his face with the dirty cloth. Problems to the north, problems to the south. It seems all we have are problems. He supposed the Martells would have to wait then, and he and his hammer would have to go deal with Hoares and Gardeners. His father's father lost them the Blackwater Rush, and his father before him lost the Riverlands. It was all his own father, Erich IV, and Rogar could do to keep the kingdom from falling in on itself.
Everyone wanted a piece of the Stormlands. The Reach valued its proximity to the better lands near the Rush, the Iron Islands wanted a total victory over their 'Storm God', and Dorne wanted the Marches. It was all Rogar could do to stop the vultures from coming in and taking it all at once.
His father was a good man, and his brother was too. But they were different men than Rogar was. His father preferred trade, setting up deals with Essosi merchants and building ships. Arthur, his younger brother, was nearly indoctrinated into the Faith, and was nearly always at a sept. Rogar...he preferred fighting in the field, a sword and hammer in hand, spraying blood across the hot sand. He had learned he preferred something else too, a while ago.
He was on a campaign in the Marches, as he was now. But this time, the Stormlands were actually winning. They had taken parts of Dorne's controlled territory, even taking Kingsgrave - the seat of House Manwoody. Rogar had ruled over the house for that night, letting his men delight in wine and women, while he met in the solar with Lord Manwoody. The conversation had been pleasant, the lord wasn't too angry with him, and he had spared his sons and daughters from anything ill coming to them.
It was that night that things had actually happened. Rogar had been so focused on the war effort that he took the night to relax. That was when two bastards of the Manwoody lord (or he came to know later), came into his chambers. Morsan and Nysah Sand, their names were. They showed him how to have a good time that night, ending the young Durrandon prince's virgin nature.
After that night, he never expected to see them again. Rogar had taken it in a fairly good stride, or he thought so himself. He would see them again, though.
The memories were coming back too vivid for him, and rushed out to the horse that was waiting for him. The sky was a crystal cerulean blue, with no puffy white clouds in the sky to see. Only an overbearing, hot yellow sun. Rogar swung onto the horse, taking with him only what he needed - he was sure he could catch a deer or two on the way to Storm's End. He had to be careful with the pace that he went, for the rocks were jagged and unruly.
"Do you know this man?" The words echoed like a verdict in his mind. The voice was his father's.
Rogar shook his head, gripping the horse tightly as they made their way from the camp. Not today, Rogar begged to himself. Not today. But the past was inevitable, especially when it came to Rogar Durrandon.
He was laying in bed in Storm's End - it was just a week he had been back from Dorne. Rogar had been relishing the winds and rain and everything that came with the castle that would one day be his. The previous night, he had been surprised while bathing in his chambers - Morsan Sand was standing in the doorway, naked as the day he was born. How he had gotten into Storm's End was a mystery - how he'd gotten into Rogar's chambers of all places, was a bigger one.
Rogar didn't ask questions, he didn't want to. The only night he had ever been intimate with anyone had been with the Sands in Kingsgrave. That night, he learned the man inside and out, quite literally. The next morning, Morsan was gone (as he had expected) and Rogar had set out to do odd jobs for his father in the woods, having quite forgotten about Morsan Sand.
That was until his brother came up to him, running and grabbing him by the arm. "The guards found a spy!" He had said, making Rogar run with him back to Storm's End.
When he came back, Morsan's face was bloodied, black and blue, guards holding him tight and in place. King Erich IV was glancing back at Rogar, his eyes not suspicious, per se, but questioning. "Do you know this man?"
Those green eyes pleaded with him, the Dornishman letting out a little whimper as he twisted against the guards. Blood thudded in Rogar's ears, and his voice came out as a hoarse, "No".
Everything after that was a blur. Rogar was so shell-shocked by what had happened he didn't even notice the headsmen that had come for Morsan. All they'd had was a bit of fun, and now his head was cut from his body. A Dornish spy, he would be buried as. Why he came all the way to Storm's End, Rogar didn't know. Years later, he still told himself maybe he was a spy and he didn't know why he had left his room that morning. He still ached.
The Marches had been good for him after that. The emotional tie to Morsan (or his sister in fact) had never been particularly strong until his head had rolled. Rogar had buried himself in work, fighting the war they needed to fight. Now, he was returning to court. He didn't want to mess it up this time.
Author's Note:
Thank you for reading! I wrote the first two parts of this chapter first, then came and wrote the last one this morning. In the end, I actually liked the last part most, even though it was the one I was most unsure about. Let me know what you think!
Thank you to Lawrence Cartwright for King Tybolt II Lannister, who featured with Cerelle. More characters will be introduced later, but King Erich IV Durrandon, created by TheShadowofZama was mentioned in the Durrandon chapter, as was Rogar's brother Arthur Durrandon created by KeepMeRunning. Thanks to you three and everyone else who has submitted.
Right now, as a bit of a character update, we are doing really well, so for that I would like to thank everybody. As a whole, we are lacking a bit on female characters if I had to say one thing we need. I can create some of my own, but if I had a person or two who wanted to make 1-3 of them, it could make it a bit easier and more fun for everyone.
Outside of that, House Gardener is the first to be ready to be closed. I just need a princess from there, and I'll close the house. House Lannister and maybe House Durrandon won't be far behind. (Daughters from Durrandon, Crown Prince from Lannister). What I do really need is Riverlanders now, so if you're interested in that, talk to me.
Thank you all and have a good day.