Author's Note: Sorry y'all, I know it's been a while. This chapter is short and a few parts were written more for fun than any deep foreshadowing and/or plot value, but I hope it'll help get me back on track. Check out the second a/n for more!
Anyhow, we broke 500 reviews and 1200 follows! Huzzah! Thanks for all the love and loyalty guys, and I'm sorry that my schedule keeps me from getting this out to you more often.
As always, I hope you enjoy and review the following update!
The Rose of Highgarden read the letter a dozen times, trying to make more appear than was there. She read it quickly, then slowly, then slower still, absorbing each and every word. She even let it lay for an hour, attempting without success to sleep briefly and let the words fully sink in, before barreling out of her bedchamber and back to the small table in her rooms, furiously reading the letter in an attempt to increase its contents.
Finally, after hours of trying and a headache settled firmly behind her eyes, Margaery accepted that more words were not going to appear on the parchment.
That son of a bitch.
For three reasons, Margaery's mind was on little else but Damon Baratheon these days. Firstly, he was the king, and since her ultimate goal was to be the queen, he was deserving of such attention. Secondly, he and she had spent hours—hours—in a very private sort of companionship. For all her experiences and flirtations, that had been a first for her, and she had no doubts that ever second of that (cursed, wonderful?) night would be with her for the rest of her life.
Lastly, he was a lying sack of shit whom she hated.
Okay, so the last bit is a slight exaggeration. Slight.
He wasn't a sack of shit from what she could tell. He actually seemed to be an honest, kind man with solid morals save for his love of women. Those three traits weren't necessarily ideal for a king, but she could certainly work with them. He hadn't lied to her either, unless you counted a few false excuses to try and avoid her in the early days. Margaery didn't.
And she didn't hate him. Far from it. She didn't love him either—far from that as well. But she'd left his chambers the night before he rode away with Sansa Stark almost convinced she did. It had been the rush and painful pleasure and intimacy of what had taken place earlier that had turned her mind that way, she now knew. She knew it then too, although she'd indulged the façade of being in love the rest of that early morning. Until he'd put on his crown, mounted his horse, and road away a few hours later.
Away from his city. Away from his family. Away from her.
And their newly conceived child.
Stop that foolishness. When her plan of seducing Damon into marrying her in a tizzy of passion hadn't fallen through—she'd gotten the 'seducing' part right (so bloody right), but the 'marrying' bit had left quite a bit to be desired—she'd clung to the mixture of hope and fear that their lovemaking had resulted in a child, baseborn though it would be. A fortnight later, when her moonblood had come upon her, that hope had been crushed as well. She could no more think herself pregnant as she could think more words onto the letter she'd been sent.
A letter. From the king.
In which he had absolutely nothing about what had occurred between them. Not one mention of the hours they'd tumbled over inch of that blessed, cursed bedchamber of his. Nothing.
That Son. Of. A. Bitch.
She'd never felt more foolish in all her life.
Margaery was of a pious turn more than not, whatever her struggles, and she now fully understood the danger in lust. It had clouded her thinking to such a degree that she truly thought Damon would marry her if she made it into his bed. Her 'plan' could have worked, in fairness, but its probability was so low that, in any other circumstance, she wouldn't have tried it. Thanks to her body, she'd let herself go through with this one.
And probably would again if the king were back, she had no doubt, but that was a separate issue.
Damon had made a fool of her. And then, he had had the gall to write her a letter full of nothing more than pleasantries and well wishes. He'd praised her bloody brother, speaking of the honor it was to fight beside him and how much he enjoyed sparring with Garlan, while making no mention of the very important sparring he'd done with her. The only even remotely personal touch he had given was the last line.
I hope to see you again soon, my lady. Yours, Damon Baratheon
He'd best hope he bloody didn't see her again soon. For when Margaery got her hands on Damon again, he'd find out how right he had been to fear her.
Grandmother was furious with her. Margaery hadn't even had the chance to try and keep her activities a secret from Olenna Redwyne. The Queen of Thorns had taken one look at her when they'd been preparing to attend the king's coronation, instantly dismissed Elinor, Megga and the guards, and proceeded to berate her up one side and down the other for her foolishness. Margaery had taken the tongue lashing in repentant silence, all the while planning on how smug she'd be when Damon announced his intention to wed her before he left for the front.
She'd been wrong about that as well, of course. She'd been wrong about quite a bit of late.
Mind still pouring over the words and her predicament, she opened her chamber door and stepped out, Loras stepping to her side at once. "Any word?"
As far as Margaery knew, only she, Loras, Damon and Olenna knew of her fling with the king. All of them, sans Damon of course, were ready to send Damon to his brother, Loras most of all. It brought Margaery comfort and pleasure that Loras, Kingsguard or not, was very much loyal to her, vows be damned. "He sent a letter."
"And?" He demanded, eyes like hers fierce.
"Nothing beyond pleasantries."
"That son of a bitch."
My thoughts exactly. Outwardly, however, she came to Damon's defense because—well, she just did. "He promised me nothing."
"The act was promise enough. He didn't deny that."
"He's a man above all else.
"I'm a man."
"Yes, but you're a different sort of man."
Loras snorted in irritation, which meant he conceded the point. Together, the two of them began working their way towards the gardens, where she was bound to undergo the seven hundredth lecture from her grandmother.
Oh yes, Damon had best hope he didn't see her again anytime soon. For when he does…
Walder Frey will be heartbroken.
The lustful old man had gone from valuable asset to potential thorn in the side with a simple pen stroke, but the political landscape of Westeros had always been thus. Mid to minor houses of related power could prove invaluable with their support or actions if in the hands of someone intelligent or brazen enough, just as the great houses could be as useless as tits on a breastplate if they had weak rulers at their head. Many strong houses had fallen and weak ones risen by the actions or inactions of a single member.
House Stark had been on the precipice of falling by the actions of Robb, while Houses Frey and Bolton had been on the verge of rising by the responses of Walder and Roose respectfully. Now, none of them would change in station, due to the actions of another individual entirely.
Sometimes, houses rise and fall due to the actions of other houses.
Robb Stark would likely never know how close he and his mother had been to death. Tywin strongly doubted either Roose Bolton or Walder Frey would tell them, and he knew Damon would not, for his grandson was as clueless as the former King of the North had been to what was being planned. Part of Tywin wanted to let the plot continue out as revenge for the humiliation at the Green Fork, and if it weren't for Damon's sake he would. But there were too many variables for not enough potential gain, and Tywin only played when he had complete control of the table.
The Lord of the Westerlands was the true power behind Damon's young reign and both of them knew it, and with that power the Lion of the West intended to keep Damon firmly on the Throne. For a time that had meant eliminating the North through assassination, a ploy he had secured several allies in, but now that meant backing Damon's success at bringing Robb Stark back into the fold.
"Your son has succeeded," the Hand of the King said to the only other occupant of his chambers, seated across from him at the oakwood dining table in his chambers. He rarely took meals with…well, with anyone really, but Cersei had started taking at least one meal a day with him under the pretense of being a dutiful daughter. Both of them knew it was truly in hopes of hearing news from the King or plans from Tywin, for Damon wrote of strategy and troop movements with his grandfather whereas he forewent those topics in letters to his mother, and Tywin of course had strategies in motion of his own. Cersei hated many things, and being left out of the decisions her father and son were making was one of her most reviled. Still, she had overreached and over-mothered Joffrey during his reign, and it had led to nothing but stupidity and shame. Tywin refused to let her do the same with her second son.
Cersei looked up, face a calm mask but interest and anger plain in her eyes. His daughter was smart and cunning in her own way, but she thirsted greatly for power and sought more of it through her sons than either of her twins had given her. Neither of her first two children had proven to be malleable; Joffrey had been insane, and while he'd listened to Cersei more than he should have he still had moments of spontaneity that caused more trouble than good, such as killing Ned Stark. Damon on the other hand, while a sharp word could cut him down like a tree, also seemed to have a mind entirely his own. And, unlike Joffrey, it was driven by a modicum of intelligence. Even Tywin himself, who normally got his way by merely cocking a brow, had found it difficult to control the new king and his knack for the unexpected.
His grandchildren had proven to be vexing, to say the least.
"Succeeded in what, father?" Cersei asked at last, tone neutral. Tywin handed her the parchment, rushed to him by a servant who had profusely apologized for interrupting his lordship's lunch. His daughter scanned it quickly, face a mask, then reread it. Tywin watched for a moment, then returned to his food as she did so.
Eventually, she spoke, tone still neutral. "He speaks of going North with Robb Stark. Surely you intend to write him and recall him to the capitol."
"And why would I do that?"
Cersei's face darkened. "He is in danger."
Tywin nodded and continued eating, speaking only when his mouth wasn't full. "He is securing his place on the throne."
"By risking death?"
"Yes, by risking death. You called Joffrey from the walls when Stannis attacked this city, and when the coward left, the spirit left the men. That nearly resulted in all of you being killed."
She bristled. "Do not speak of him as a coward. He would have done no good on the walls."
"As a fighter, no. As a king, giving spirit to the men, he would have been invaluable. Your other son just so happens to be help as both, which is why I intend to send Lord Marbrand and three thousand reinforcement from the Westerlands to join them. Damon and Stark are already marching, as the letter states."
At least her composure is enviable. "Father, please."
"Please nothing. Damon will remain at the front, where he is best suited."
His daughter stood, turned, and left without another word.
Tywin finished his meal, then turned to the other letter, the one he hadn't let Cersei see.
One of Robert's brothers is dead. Now it is time to track and kill the other.
And the lion stalked the stag.
Two loud thwacks on the canvas of his tent had Damon on his feet in an instant.
"Your Grace," came the call from Ser Borros Blount, the Kingsguard he had assigned to night duty.
Damon Baratheon straightened from the crouch he had rolled off of the bed and into, lamenting how every time he awoke now he expected to be under attack. In one of life's little ironies, the king of the Iron Throne had the men now encamped around him to thank for that.
Damon returned the dagger to its place on his bedside, unaware of when he had grabbed it in the first place. "Yes?"
"Lord Stark to see you."
Judging by the dim candlelight and lack of light creeping under the edges of his tent, Damon figured it to still be the middle of the night. Odd. Damon glanced down at the sleeping woman in his bed, her bare shoulders peeking out from under a wave of dark hair. Bella had become so accustomed to his starts and reactions that they hardly ever woke her these days. Damon cleared his throat and answered his Kingsguard. "I'll be out in a moment."
He dressed quickly in his black breeches and black shirt, running a hand through his freshly-shorn golden hair before stepping out into the night. Robb Stark stood on the other side, dressed in similar fashion to Damon in his own black breeches and a plain gray shirt. He had two things that Damon noted immediately, and that froze the blood in the king's veins.
One was a message in his bare hand. The other was fear in his Tully blue eyes.
"A letter from my brother at Castle Black."
A/N: *tease* I've had it with these motherfuckin wildlins on this motherfuckin wall!
So how many of you were already planning your hate messages after the 'and their newly conceived child' before you even read the next couple of lines? I guarantee I'll still get a few "you ruined this with a classic troupe you moron" comments. Silly? Maybe. Worth it? Absolutely. :D
I know this was sort and scattered, but hopefully it'll help get me back into updating more regularly. I had a breakthrough on how I want to go forward last week, and while work kept me from posting until now, I hope I can thank you all for your support with more frequent chapters. I'd love to hear your thoughts!
Also, the mystery of ice will be answered net chapter. Maybe. ;)
Cheers!
-Kerjack