And now for some more Stark-Wank…
Also, I'd like to make it known that some characters have been aged up, such as Myrcella Baratheon (Hill?). Robb is too good a man to bed little girls… that's just sick.
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The banners that flew the golden lion had been torn down. A northerner sat upon the Iron Throne and there was no one else left to challenge him. The Kingslayer had been executed not long after he had been brought down to Kings Landing from Riverrun. Margaery heard that some had advised Stark to send Jaime Lannister to the Wall as punishment, but the Wolf King would have none of it.
"That was a mercy not given to my father," Was his heated reply. "And to be a brother of the Night's Watch is not a duty to take lightly. Why should the man who threw my brother from a tower be sent there? Why should I trust him to keep his word? Why should I trust him to fight at my brother's side and not put a dagger in his back out of spite?"
Robb Stark took Jaime Lannister's head himself, like he had with all the others. Then he let the head sit on a pike above the castle walls for a single day before sending the man's remains west to Casterly Rock.
The following week was when the Stark King dealt with the rest of them, those who fought against him, those who fought with him, and those who took no side at all.
The Son of Winterfell was seventeen, perhaps eighteen. Margaery was not quite sure, but she knew that the Wolf King was barely a man grown. And yet she rested her eyes upon him, sitting high up on the mangled mess of blackened swords, and saw someone who was more of a man than many who sat alongside her to hear his royal decrees.
Dark red hair, almost brown, fell over hard Tully blue eyes in a wild mane of curls. His beard was full, yet trimmed, cut close to his stern face. A hard man he was, that Margaery Tyrell knew for certain. Hard, yes, but handsome as well, handsome in some queer way. The men of the southron kingdoms wore elegant clothing, garbed in silken and velvet cloaks and doublets, some perfuming themselves with exotic scents from across the Narrow Sea. They kept neatly trimmed moustaches, waxed and dyed like her father, Lord Mace.
Robb Stark was not at all like them. Robb wore dark leathers, a dark cloak, his shoulders lined with the pelt of a wolf. Ice, the massive greatsword of his ancestors, was laid across his lap, held in its wolfskin sheath. From his throne, he looked out over his subjects with watchful eyes. Every inch a king.
Tyrion Lannister, who fought for the defense of Kings Landing during Stannis' siege, was ultimately pardoned when Robb discovered it was he, along with Sandor Clegane, who defended his Lady sister's honor against the cruelty of Joffrey and the Queen Regent. As Tywin's last living son, The Rock fell to him. However, the lordship and wardenship of the Westerlands shifted to House Westerling.
Tommen and Myrcella were recognized as innocent of any wrongdoing, guilty of nothing but having Lannister blood. Many expected him to have them shipped off the Wall and to the Sept, respectively. So it came as quite the surprise, to Margaery especially, when King Robb legitimized them both as Lannisters. Shocked murmurs filled the throne room when the declaration left Robb's lips.
The Rose of Highgarden was surprised, yes… but not blind. She saw across the throne room, her eyes quickly finding the Kingslayer's bastards. She saw beautiful Myrcella, slender and golden-haired, wearing a red silk dress that exposed the upper slopes of her apple-sized breasts – much like Margaery's own garb. She saw how the Lannister girl gazed up at King Robb with her emerald doe-eyes. And suddenly the Young Wolf's choice was no longer so surprising.
He was no Mad King, Lady Tyrell knew that for certain. Nor was he cruel and twisted on the inside like Joffrey. Margaery could see it in his eyes, however hard and cold they were. But… there was a madness in him. That was something she could also see in his eyes. It was not a madness of the mind, that much she could tell.
No, what Margaery saw in the Young Wolf was a madness of the heart, a madness that made Robb's blood seethe and boil and made his bones ache. A man's madness, one that gripped his entire being whenever his eyes fell upon a comely girl like Myrcella Lannister.
The Young Wolf, they call him. A hungry wolf as well…
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The Capitol was still being swarmed, more so than when it had been under siege. High Lords from all over the Seven Kingdoms were still pouring in through the city gates, coming to swear fealty to King Robb Stark.
He had come for justice, for the North and the Trident, for his sisters, Sansa and Arya. He came for vengeance, for Joffrey's head on a spike, for spilled blood in return for Lord Eddard and Jory and Septa Mordane and all the rest who had perished during the Whore Queen's coup.
Now he had seven kingdoms.
Robb did not know how to feel about that. He never wanted seven kingdoms, never wanted to sit upon a chair that pricked him in the arse more often than he could stand. Winterfell and the North, that was his home, where he belonged. It was where he was meant to be, what he was born for.
But the Iron Throne?
It was his now. No one else was laying claim to it. No Lannisters were capable of standing against him, the whereabouts of Selyse and Shireen Baratheon were unknown, and the Dragon Queen was halfway around the world in Qarth.
Lannister, Tully, Arryn, Celtigar, Umber, Tyrell, they all bent the knee. Baratheon should have been a dead house, extinct due to the war, but Robb knew deep in his mind that he would never allow that. King Robert was one of his father's closest friends and from what Robb had been told, Robert Baratheon fathered many, many bastards all over the kingdoms. Mya Stone, Edric Storm, Arya's blacksmith protector, Robb thought to legitimize them, bestow upon the eldest male the rights to Storm's End, and the next would receive Dragonstone. Of course, they would need castellans and maesters, loyal men to help them rule, to give them counsel in their new position.
The throne, however, Robb kept. He was a hungry wolf, after all.
The next few weeks were a series of busy days, all going by in a blur. Lords swearing fealty, Lords coming to beg forgiveness, Lords coming to demand compensation for damage done to their lands, for the blood spilled during the war, for justice to be dealt to this house and that house.
The Frey host arrived first bringing the news of the Late Lord Walder's passing. Unfortunate, but Robb found that could not find it in himself to mourn the man who attempted to extort favor from his Liege Lord.
There was one good thing about the Frey's visit to the Capitol, though. Young Roslin, with her soft brown hair, wide hips and supple bosom, proved to be a delight.
The King stared more than he should have, something he later cursed himself for, but he had never seen a more beautiful Frey.
Roslin, Myrcella, and the Tyrell rose, Margaery. Kings Landing was not without its attractions, Robb pleasantly discovered. As much of a viper pit the Capitol was, it had turned out to be quite the hunting ground.
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"The Young Wolf needs a queen," Her father said. "And a Tyrell of Highgarden would suit someone of his stature far better than a Frey."
And so came to light Margaery's new purpose. She was to lure the new king away from the Frey girl. Joffrey had been easy to lure along, for while he was a sadistic and cruel boy, he was also a simple-minded one. Gods, he could not even count past seven!
Robb, on the other hand…
The King of Winter was a difficult man to read, all cold and solemn and bearded like men of the North were ought to be. Gentle Mother, save us from that hard northern conviction. And yet… Robb Stark proved to be quite the sight, sitting there on the Iron Throne as if it were made for him with his dark cloak lined with fur and his… beast sitting beside him, waiting… watching with hungry eyes for any who dared to move against the King.
Margaery had not spoken to him then, not while he was before his court. That was too bold for a proper noble lady. But perhaps he appreciates bold, she thought. It's no secret that he takes women to bed and that she-bear of his, Dacey Mormont, is certainly not the ideal of what a lady should be. And yet he spends some nights with her anyway. Myrcella as well, if the rumors are true.
But then Margaery thought of the teachings from her mother and grandmother. She remembered the words, "A woman should know when to strike, as well as when not to."
So Margaery hadn't spoken to him then, in front of all those people. No, the Rose of Highgarden found herself waiting patiently for the opportunity to sink her thorns deep. Her chance came much later, in the hour of sunset. King Robb retreated into the godswood as he often did, all alone save for his dutiful wolf. Margaery followed.
She had dressed herself for the occasion, taking measures to ensure that the king would most definitely remember her. Blue and grey silk, the colors of House Stark, wrapped snug around her soft form, exposing her shoulders as well as the top of her breasts, which were held up even higher by her tight bodice. She could breathe. Barely.
Her soft brown hair had been done up into a style that supposedly drew inspiration from both northern and southron styles. Her curls fell along both of her bare shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face well enough. Margaery hoped her ensemble was enough to vex the Stark boy.
She found him sitting on a bench, head bowed. He was murmuring a prayer while his wolf slept a short distance away. Above them, the stars had just started to emerge, twinkling bright. A breeze came then, sending faint whispers through the leaves and branches, echoes of the dead. The sun had set, but the Rose that stood before the King needed no such thing in order to blossom.
She took her chance.
"Forgive the intrusion, your grace." She spoke softly and sweetly, smiling with bright, warm eyes. He looked up at her then, his own eyes cold and blue. At first he was simply surprised to see her. Then he saw her. The madness she saw in him some days past, it had returned, she could tell. She smiled wider, knowing her hold on him would grow strong. "I did not expect to find you here at this hour." She lied, gracefully moving closer, years of teaching working within her mind, remembering poise, posture, voice inflection.
Robb stood then, nodding at her, suddenly the King once more and not the young man she saw praying. "There's nothing to forgive, my lady. The godswood is yours as much as it is mine. I did not expect anyone else to be here, myself."
They began to walk together, under the stars. And soon after, they began to talk together.
"You worship the Old Gods, your grace? Through the weirwood trees, correct?"
"Indeed I do, my lady. There are no such trees south of the neck, I'm afraid. The Andals chopped them all down." Robb frowned, looking to the stars. "But I hope they can hear my prayers all the same."
"I'm sure they do, your grace. They must be. It seems your gods have never left your side since the Whispering Wood," Margaery hummed thoughtfully, slowly, slowly inching herself closer to the King as they walked until their arms grazed each other. Robb did not seem to mind, she noted with no small amount of satisfaction. She was a Tyrell. Her family was nothing if not adept at understanding the workings of the minds of men.
"That it would seem," The King replied, shooting her a look that she hoped was something more than just mild interest. "It appears that while I left my home behind, it refuses to leave me."
"Do you miss Winterfell, your grace?"
Robb slowed his pace near to a halt. "Aye, I miss Winterfell," He answered, as if suddenly tired. "I miss my home and my brothers, though I believe Baby Rickon misses me more, Gods protect him. I miss the snow and the cold, if you can believe that. I miss the grey walls and the brown dirt and the all-white skies. I miss my father…"
Margaery did not want to be the one to remind him of what he had lost.
"Your sisters are safe." She quickly reminded him, drawing him back from painful memories. She reached out, gently touching his arm. Bold, yes, but it was a woman's kind of bold. "Joffrey is gone, your grace. Lady Sansa will not have to fear him any longer. And I believe your younger sister is with your Lady mother at Riverrun."
Robb met her gaze then, smiling. Despite herself, Margaery felt a heat spread across her cheeks.
They spoke for a short time as the King escorted her to her solar, departing for his own shortly after.
It had not been much, but Margaery took comfort in that she had the King's attention.
A single seed is all it takes, for the tiniest drop of water can make it grow strong.
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Thank you for reading, folks! Much appreciated!
I'd also like you all to know that I've got a Mass Effect story in the works that's somewhat in the same vein as this fic. It features OCs of mine, a human male and his two asari companions, in my little exploration of a polygamous relationship and how a man from the latest species to arrive on the galactic scene deals with the affections of two adventurous – and amorous – blue alien women.
So basically: humans are introduced with First Contact War, everyone is excited and afraid, new species looks like male asari, actual asari are intrigued by dangerous aliens, asari explore new alien culture, discover odd thing called human masculinity, asari are aroused.
Should be fun. Keep an eye out if you're interested. If not, then oh well.