Warning: This is Game of Thrones Inspired and involves Incest. If that's likely to offend your sensibilities, please stop reading now. For the rest, I promise I'll do a happier one for Eleanor Boleyn again some other time...Please review!

Spend all your time waiting
For that second chance,
For a break that would make it okay.There's always some reason
To feel not good enough,
And it's hard, at the end of the day.

"I can't do this. George, I can't do it!" I was in floods, choking on my own sobs as my older brother rocked me back and forth in his arms.

"Do what?"

"Be Henry's wife! He doesn't love me, I don't love him!"

"Hush, you mustn't say that. He's your husband. He'll be Duke of Suffolk one day. Anne's secured you the most glittering match she could. Our sister, the Queen, has secured you the most glittering match she could. You'll be Duchess of Suffolk, aunt to King Robert of England, godmother to Princess Anne, the future Queen of Scotland. You'll be the second most powerful woman in England. What more could you want?"

"You! I want you, George. I've only ever wanted you."

There, the words, the damning, poisonous words, were out at last. There was no taking them back now. I, Lady Eleanor Rochford, Countess of Lincoln, the 17-year old sister to King Henry's Queen of three years, Anne Boleyn, was in love with her own brother.

"Why can't you be my husband rather than my brother?" I sobbed, letting the memories seep over me as I wept in his arms. The first time we had danced together after Anne became Queen. The masque after her coronation. The first time he, George, had kissed me.

I need some distraction,
Oh, beautiful release.
Memories seep from my veins.

I was on the top of the castle, beside my sister, the Queen of Honour and Beauty. I played her handmaiden, the Princess of Truth and Virtue. We were being held captive by the Vices and their leader, the Sorceress of Evil, Santana. Suddenly, to a blare of trumpets, the knights stormed the castle and two of them scaled the painted wooden walls to where Anne and I were standing.

The taller of the two held out his hand to Anne, saying "My Queen, allow me to free you from this terrible place."

The other held out his hand to me, "Princess, you are my captive now."

I was fourteen then, fourteen and drunk on my family's new-found power. I was in love with the world that night, and more than happy to fall in love with any handsome man I laid eyes on.

Laughing, I gave him my hand, "With pleasure, Sir Fidelity."

We danced that night, danced more than we ever had before. I twirled in my partner's arms, wondering who it could be whose arms felt so familiar, and so right around my waist. At the end of the first dance, he made to kiss my hand and leave me, but I reached out, tipped his chin up and let our lips meet. We kissed, not chastely, but with all the passion of the night; the night of the new Queen's coronation.

As luck would have it, we were dancing together again when the cry came to unmask.

I tore mine off; my partner did the same, and I found myself staring into eyes that were an exact dozen shades darker than mine, the eyes that were the twin of my older sister's; the eyes that had comforted me time and time again throughout childhood.

George's eyes.

The whole room around us gasped, he staggered backwards in shock, I flushed and fled; fled the whispers that were already breaking out all around us.

But even physical distance couldn't check the way I felt that night. If anything, it only made my emotions stronger.

Let me be empty,
Oh, and weightless, and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight.In the arms of the angel,
Fly away from here,
From this dark, cold hotel room,
And the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage,
Of your silent reverie.
You're in the arms of the angel,
May you find some comfort here.

"Nora, we can't," George knew what I was thinking; he always knew, "We can't. If we were found out, it would be death for the both of us. Even Anne couldn't save us."

I knew his words were the voice of caution, but I was past caution. I gripped him like a vice, eyes burning.

"I don't care, George. I don't care! Three years I've been Henry's wife. Three years I've tried to make our marriage work, tried to prove that I am a worthy Countess of Lincoln; a worthy future Duchess of Suffolk. But no, he has to deny me my rights. He shares a bed with me only on odd occasions when he wants to prove he can; to see if he can get an heir off me. The rest of the time, he's always got that Irish harlot on his arm. The one he calls kissed by fire because of her red hair."

"Lady Honour Fitzgerald."

"Honour! Dishonour would suit her better!" I snorted. "He thinks she'd be a better wife for him because she's got older ancestry. He resents Anne's meddling, claims he could have been betrothed to Lady Fitzgerald had it not been for her attempts to secure her favourite sister a glittering match. Has he forgotten he only owes his title to his father's friendship with the King? The title's only a decade older than Anne's marriage to the King – than our marriage! Why am I any worse than he is?"

"Because you haven't given him an heir," George answered, his voice heavy.

"And how am I meant to do that if he shuns me and retreats into Miss Dishonour's arms?"

"Why are you being like this, Nora? You were always the sweet one; the one who always reminded Anne that jealousy wouldn't work. Can't you follow your own advice?" My brother looked stunned, stunned that his sweet little sister had changed so much. But I had changed. The last six years had changed us all. I had changed and I was desperate.

"Not without a son. Not without a son to secure the Brandon line."

"And how are we meant to get you one of those?"

"You know, George. You know what I want, what I've always wanted. Please! Please!"

Blue into Brown. Horrified shock into pleading desperation. Anger and pent up frustration into ever-weakening resolve and then finally, acceptance.

"Just once then. Just to get you with child."

So tired of the straight line,
And everywhere you turn,
There's vultures and thieves at your back.

But it never was just the once. I knew it wouldn't be. I had never meant for it to be just the once. I was a Boleyn and the Boleyns got whatever they wanted. I was to be no different.

And before long, George didn't want it to be just the once either. He might have known about the tricks Anne had used to enrapture King Henry, but knowing about them didn't make him any the less susceptible to them.

Before long, the only woman he could think about was me. Just as he was the only man I could think about.

I saw it in the hunger in his eyes across the dinner table in our family apartments; in the tightness of his grip as we danced, in the way his bedding of me shifted from being furtive and functional to hungry, passionate and possessive.

"I'm so tired," he admitted to me once. "Tired of seeing Anne be the only Boleyn that shines, tired of knowing I only rise because my sister is mother to the Prince of Wales. I want to be known as George Boleyn, not Anne Boleyn's brother."

"You are George Boleyn. You are to me," I promised him, rolling over so that I was on top of him, staring down into his deep dark eyes, "I would never think of you simply as Anne's brother. Or mine, for that matter. You are more than a brother to me. You always will be more than a brother."

"Truly?" He sounded surprisingly insecure and I leaned down and kissed him hungrily.

"Truly, brother. You'd better be. Or am I supposed to let this child grow up thinking Henry Brandon is its true father? Never knowing its Uncle George?"

He stared at me, mouth gaping open. I smiled.

"Well done, George. You're going to be a father."

The storm keeps on twisting.
Keep on building the lies
That you make up for all that you lack.

Had we stopped there, we might have got away with it. After all, my son, named Charles after his supposed grandfather, had hair no darker than you might have expected for someone whose aunt and uncle were both almost raven-black in hair colour. And I wasn't utterly stupid. I did still welcome Henry into my bed on the rare occasions he decided he wanted to share it with me. He could still theoretically have been my son's father. But then the summer came. The golden Boleyn summer, the summer when Anne's son turned three and was sent away to Ludlow, when she rode triumphantly at the head of the progress with the King, showing off yet another gently swelling belly; the summer when I thought no one would be watching me because everyone was watching her. When I thought I could get away with having George in my bed just that bit more often than before.

It don't make no difference,

One mistake was all it took. One mistake, one momentary lapse of judgement and my world came crashing down around me.

We were lying in bed, deliciously entwined, when there were hoof beats in the yard below. George froze, made to get up, but I stretched and pulled him back into me, "Leave it," I murmured carelessly, "It won't be Henry. He's not due back from Edinburgh for ages."

"Oh I don't know. Diplomatic work is notoriously fickle with the length of time it takes," George whispered. Nevertheless, he didn't attempt to untangle himself again.

Not until Henry, hungry, tired and determined to take his frustrations at the futility of the peace treaty negotiations out on me, came storming through my bedroom door. And by then, it was too late. There was no hiding it.

Escape one last time.
It's easier to believe in this sweet madness,
Oh, this glorious sadness,
That brings me to my knees.

"Why, Nora? Why?"

That was the only thing Anne asked me when she visited me in the Tower, my fifteen month old son nestled close in her arms. I looked at her, then at him, then back at her.

"Because I had to," I said simply, "I had to have him."

"Had to have him? Had to have him so badly that you would risk everything? Everything we'd worked for, everything I'd given you, secured for you, just for a few nights in his arms?"

"More than a few," I chuckled, "Almost two years George and I have been doing this. Almost two years."

"Two years? Two years? And no one knew?" Anne almost dropped little Charlie in her shock. I met her eye coolly, "I am a Boleyn, sister. I can keep a secret, you know."

There was a heartbeat of silence. Anne reached out a hand to me, "I can't save you, you know. Either of you."

"I don't want you to."

"Nora!" Anne gasped. "Are you mad? Do you care nothing for this family? For your son? Could you not have tried to make your marriage work? For Charlie's sake, if not for mine. He's a bastard now, a bastard that none of us can have anything to do with once you're dead. Do you understand that? Do you understand what you've done? You and George? You've ruined everything!"

"Not quite everything," I rejoined, "You've still got the King's love. You're still Queen. Your son Robert made sure of that. His Majesty knows you had nothing to do with any of this. And Henry's happier now anyway. He can marry that Irish harlot of his and no one will ever be any the wiser that their child was conceived out of wedlock, just as much as Charlie was."

I paused for a moment, touched my son's soft, rosy cheek, "I am sorry for him. He didn't ask for this. But that doesn't mean I'd change anything."

"None of it?" Anne's voice was heavy.

"Not a single second of it."

Anne sighed, "I don't know why they call me the stubborn one."

She shifted Charlie in her arms, then leaned in to kiss me on the forehead, as she had done countless times before, "May God have mercy on you both."

She turned for the door, but I called her back.

"Anne?"

"Yes?"

"Will you do me one last favour?"

"What?"

"Can I spend the night with George tonight?"

Anne stiffened.

"Please," I begged, "What difference will it make now? What's done is done. At least let us spend one last night together."

She didn't say anything, didn't even turn around, but in the last second before the door swung shut behind her, I saw her nod, ever so slightly.

In the arms of the angel,
Fly away from here,
From this dark, cold hotel room,
And the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage,
Of your silent reverie.
You're in the arms of the angel,
May you find some comfort here.

And so George and I were together, whispering words of comfort, when they came to take us to the scaffold. When they led us out in front of the crowd, we were hand in hand. When I started the old familiar prayer, the Miserere Me, it was his voice that joined in with mine, finishing it off.

And when we knelt at the block, I felt his hand squeeze mine. In that instant, I knew for certain. We had been together in life and we would be together in death.

You're in the arms of the angel,
May you find some comfort here.