The wank continues…
]|||[
The sun was up, shining brighter than it ever had. The courtyard of the Red Keep was bustling with activity, soldiers going this way and that way, somehow not running into one another. Margaery could see them from the window of her solar, high above them. The men carried banners of all kinds, billowing bolts of cloth that proudly displayed bears, giants in broken chains, moons and falcons, black stags, even what Lady Tyrell believed to be an onion.
But the banner that flew above them all, high in the air against the bluest sky Margaery had ever seen, was a fierce direwolf, snarling.
Robb Stark had taken Kings Landing, rather swiftly in fact.
The Manderlys had swept in from the east by surprise, right through the blackwater. No one thought the Young Wolf to have any sort of fleet. But the Lord of White Harbor, Sir Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse as they called him, had sailed to Braavos and convinced a good amount of unsavory sell-sword captains to come to their aid, undoubtedly promising them riches beyond measure from the capitol of Westeros. That, and the northern fleet knew better than to fall for the dwarf's wildfire trick as Stannis had.
Meanwhile, The King in the North charged the walls of the city alongside his army, attacking several of the gates at once. The Knights of the Vale, the Remnants of Stannis' Army, and the combined remnants of the North and the Riverlands, all at once. A shrewd man was Tywin Lannister, but even the Great Lion of Casterly Rock could not withstand such an assault. Especially when his precious Rock was sacked by the Wolf King.
Some said that Lord Tywin fell on the field of battle along with those who chose to gallantly meet the Young Wolf outside the city gates. Others said he was captured and was now being held in the dungeons with his daughter and grandson.
His grandson… Joffrey… Margaery snorted contemptuously at the thought of the boy king.
Joffrey Baratheon – or was it "Hill" now? – had been caught attempting to flee the capitol in women's clothes! "If that is not enough to prove that he's not a true Baratheon, I don't know what is", one bold maid had said. Margaery was well to agree with her. King Robert would rather have been drawn and quartered than flee, and Stannis… Stannis was not known for surrendering Storm's End when it came under siege. Even Renly at least followed his host wherever they went.
Joffrey… Joffrey was probably whimpering in the dark right then, or mayhaps he was screaming to be released from his chains. As if demanding like he always does will save him.
Margaery turned from her window, retreating back into her solar. The Rose of Highgarden had been fortunate, for the Young Wolf had simply confined her to her apartment while he went about settling issues around the capitol – and possibly the Realm as well – in the aftermath of his victory. A battle for the songs it was, truly…
Even as she sat on the losing side of a civil war, imprisoned in her own room, Margaery could not feel quite so unhappy. The previous night, she had prayed and prayed, to the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, Maiden, Stranger, Crone, the whole lot of them. She prayed for merciful conquerors, for the safety of her family, for anything but execution for being "traitors" to this Wolf King who could turn into a snaring beast whenever he liked and drank the blood of the slain and worshipped trees that had faces.
To her joy, her prayers were answered well. Her brother Loras, ever the knight, had chosen to meet Robb Stark along with Lord Tywin and the Mountain. Where the brutish Ser Gregor had been slain – the most popular rumor being that he was ripped apart by a pack of wolves – The Knight of the Flowers had simply been knocked from his horse by one of the Stark bannermen. Lord Jon Umber had taken him captive, for which Margaery was beyond grateful. Apparently, the northmen had more sense than the Southron lords gave them credit for. A Tyrell son was a valuable prisoner for certain, more so than Lannister Lord who refused to surrender. Her father and grandmother, Lady Redwyne, her brothers Willas and Garlan, they shared similar circumstances with Margaery herself, confined to their chambers.
Despite it all, Margaery felt at least something in the way of comfort. Loras' pride was what faced the worst of Robb Stark's wrath. Her family was safe, alive. At least at the moment. And that was enough for her.
Her room was a nice enough prison, Margaery believed, certainly better than whatever dungeon they kept the enemies of Stark in. They let her handmaidens stay with her at least. Myranda and Bethany were gossiping as if the siege hadn't just occurred the previous night. Margaery ignored them, her thoughts elsewhere.
Come tomorrow, the Young Wolf would begin his distribution of justice.
]|||[
This is where Father died. This is where he was murdered.
Robb Stark stood tall at the top of the steps that led to the Great Sept of Baelor. It was a warm day, such as the South was, the sun shining bright with nary a cloud in sight. It was a holy place where he stood, supposedly. Where the seven dwelled beside man, where their presence could be felt by those who followed them.
Joffrey the pretender was nearby on his knees. He was still wearing the dress he tried to flee in, his sister's if the rumors were true.
Below him, the people gathered, smallfolk and highborn alike, all coming to witness justice be given. A bead of sweat slid down the back of Robb's neck. He wore dark leathers and a billowing grey cloak, fastened with a silver wolfs-head pin. They were the lightest clothes he could find. It was either that or to drape silks and velvets about himself like some perfumed Southron Lord.
Robb never felt more like a stranger. These are not my people, nor are these seven my gods. This is not my home.
And yet the commoners who came to see the Son of Winterfell avenge his kin, the same people who had been starving under the reign of the Bastard Joffrey, they welcomed him with open arms.
"Robb! Robb! King Robb!" They cheered. "King in the North!" The Greatjon bellowed, the smallfolk happily joining him.
Why cheer for me? I've brought no food, only justice.
On his trip from the Red Keep to the Sept, Robb had witnessed a lanky man shouting before a small crowd, proclaiming the Young Wolf a liberator, a savior come to save their beloved Margaery Tyrell from the clutched of the Rotten King, come to save the smallfolk from the cruel Lioness who bedded her own brother.
Before, when he was but Robb Stark the boy, he would have smiled at that. But in truth, Robb came south to kill Joffrey. Robb Stark the boy was dead. The war killed him. The Whispering Wood killed him, as did the Crag and Casterly Rock. Gods, he may have died the moment he left behind Winterfell and Bran and baby Rickon. Now, he was King Robb, the Young Wolf who ruled the North and the Riverlands… as well as the South now, apparently.
Robb stood over Joffrey the pretender then, stone-faced as his father was when Lord Eddard brought justice to deserters and oathbreakers. He turned away from the boy who was more weasel than lion, facing the crowd. He said some words, in a voice that thundered out over the people below, a strong voice, his voice. But he was beyond himself, somehow. He could feel his heart beating, hammering against his chest, his blood singing to him like it had last night and it was the sweetest song there ever was.
Vengeance.
The whispers had returned, faint voices at the back of his mind that seemed to be carried off by the wind as quickly as they came. The crowd was both cheering and booing, some throwing rocks at Joffrey. The bastard of Lannister seemed to be whimpering.
Justice.
Olyvar Frey came forward, holding a familiar wolfskin Scabbard out towards him.
Ice…
Robb gripped the handle of his Family's ancestral greatsword and pulled it free. It gleamed in the light, valyrian steel thirsty for blood. It was lighter than Robb remembered, not at all cumbersome to hold despite being a five-foot blade as wide as his hand.
…and Blood.
Joffrey was screaming now. At the crowd. At Robb, cursing him.
Shut him up, a voice urged in Robb's head. His own thought, mayhaps…
Robb did so. He brought Ice up, the blade shimmering as the sun danced upon it, humming low and sweet as it sliced through the air, arcing down. A flash of steel and a spray of red. Nothing held an edge quite like valyrian steel.
A head rolled by the feet of Robb's Bannermen. Theon Greyjoy kicked it away, smiling.
Robb smiled then. It was a small grin that was easy to hide, but it was still a smile. He felt good, satisfied, fulfilled. Grey Wind howled, yet there was no moon in the sky. Only the sun, shining.
But just as he felt satisfied, the Young Wolf felt a hunger. A thirst for justice, for more blood.
The Lion queen was next.
When she was brought before him, she was deathly quiet. No fear, nor remorse. Even the sight of her son's blood staining the sept brought nothing out.
That made Robb angry.
Steel. Red. Cheering.
There was the satisfaction again, now along with pride as the cheering crowd ignited something inside Robb. But the hunger remained. He needed more… something that made him yearn…
The Imp and some of the others that were captured, Ser Loras and Ser Kevan along with his boys Martyn and Willem, Robb was reluctant to kill them. They had surrendered when the city fell. The Kingslayer remained at Riverrun with Lord Edmure and until he arrived for his sentencing, there was little left for Robb to do. Robb knew in his mind that he would not let himself become another Aerys, executing everyone he deemed a threat.
Myrcella and Tommen were bastards like Joffrey, but Robb knew them to be innocent. Tommen was only a boy and Myrcella… when Robb took the Rock, he found that Cersei had sent her daughter there for her own safety. The girl had been especially sweet to him even after he had conquered her keep. In a way, she had been much like Lady Jeyne Westerling, doe-eyed with soft golden hair falling over bare shoulders in a dress that was in no way practical for a prisoner to be wearing…
Later that evening, Robb had supper and still retired to bed hungry. He had a thirst, an unnatural thirst, as Grey Wind did. Restless. Tense. The whispers were there again, but these were not the voices of his ancestors or the old gods. No, they were the words of Robb himself, from a side of him that had been kept deep in his heart, dormant until recently, unleashed when he whet his blade with Lannister blood.
He heard his father speak of things like this. His Uncle Brandon had it, as did many Starks that came before.
The true Stark blood. The wolfsblood.
Robb slept that night, if only barely. But when he did, he dreamt of Dacey Mormont. Of Jeyne Westerling and Myrcella Baratheon – or was it "Hill"? He dreamt of soft, warm skin that shuddered beneath his hands, of sweet voices that graced his ears, their moans and whimpers. He dreamt of golden hair and brown hair and black hair, tumbling down their backs, a wild mane or soft curls. He dreamt of their gentle touch, their hands on his chest, his shoulders, their nails at his back. He dreamt of small yet supple breasts that fit his hand perfectly.
But most of all, Robb dreamt of their warm, wet cunts and how they felt around his cock.
The following morning, The Young Wolf found that he was even hungrier than before. Grew Wind, however, was found in the kennels, looking particularly satisfied and sated. As were the bitches, despite how unkempt they now appeared to be.
Robb decided he was both proud and jealous. Certainly, it would never be so simple for him to just walk into a room and bed every woman in it.
]|||[
Sorry that it took so long to update. By now I'm sure you understand me when I said that this was unashamed Stark!wank. I'm sure you picked up on the little details of how swimmingly well things went for our King in the North. No Theon in the Iron Island. No marrying Jeyne Westerling. No letting Jaime Lannister go (his victory at Casterly Rock convinces Catelyn that he has a good chance of winning the war).
Also, here are people you should lend your readership to:
Eterna1Solder – Doesn't write ASOIAF fanfiction, but is adept at Mass Effect AUs. He likes the asari and is one of the few who doesn't exclusively write femslash with them. Asari Het for the win!
MB18932 – Writes both ASOIAF and Mass Effect! And pretty good at both. Go read the stuff he/she writes. Go do it. You'll be happy.
Spectre4hire – His writing is good. I like what he writes. The literary work he produces is what I consider to be exceptional and beyond. I am redundant. Now go visit his page.
CobaltAC – Going to be completely honest here, basically all he (she?) writes is Mass Effect smut. On the other hand, it is very very well written Mass Effect smut. The stuff that isn't smut is pretty good, too. Be warned though, he does have a (self-admitted) perverted mind for that kind of thing. If you have a problem with asari wincest, then perhaps you should not peruse his works.
Starkworth – Again, Mass Effect writer with an interest in asari. Above average in my opinion, and seems to enjoy ASOIAF since his current story (a First Contact AU) seems to be inspired by it. If you like Knights and ladies and blue-skinned, all-female bisexual aliens, he might be the guy for you. Go read his stuff.
Silver Phantom 2 – He/She wrote the "Parliament of Fowls" story where they have a kingsmoot to determine the next king of Westeros. It has not been updated since 2013, but it's still worth a read.